In the Brief Eternal Silence

by Rebecca Melvin

  And she blinked, her grief overridden by the force of the dreadful savageness of his voice. And perhaps she had the sudden insight that he believed he had wronged her and her family, and that he very much disliked that feeling.

  Realizing that he had her complete attention, he asked her, “How did he get the message? Where did he go? Who did he see? Or did someone come to him?”

  And she answered him with sudden certainty. “Red's Pub. On t'banks of t'Thames' pool where t'dockworkers drink. He went tharn Tuesday eve, and when he returned, I ken somethin' diff'rent 'bout him then. It was a bad diff'rence, like he aged ten years in that couple hours. Someone approached him there about it then, I'm sure of it.”

  St. James nodded, said, “I owe you a great deal. And now you are a widow, and since I am the one that made you so, you are my responsibility. If I give you an address, can you go there tomorrow afternoon?”

  She nodded, a little hesitant, and he pulled back the flap of his great coat. If she saw the handles of the two pistols sticking up from his waistband, she did not flinch, just followed his movement of digging into his coat pocket with rather dead eyes, and he pulled out a small notepad and a lead pencil. He wrote down the address, folded it and handed it to her. “Now, will you be all right going home?

  Do you need me to take you?”

  But she shook her head. “Nay. Nay, m'lord,” and she sniffled. “T'wouldn't do for me to be seen. . . As I said, there are t'others, m'lord. At least four, I s'pect.” And with sudden fury, she added, “An' I hope's you get 'em. I hope's you get every one of 'em, and who's behind 'em, for they killed me husband just as sure as you did, m'lord. I don't ask that you do anythin' for me, other than find me son, and kill the bastards.”

  And St. James with a great deal of steadiness, told her, “You will have both. And more. I promise you,” and he hesitated.

  “Lucy Crockner, m'lord.”

  He nodded, repeated, “I promise you, Mrs. Crockner, that it shall be as I said, or I will die in the trying.”

  And then he moved from the bench before she could make any reply and disappeared into the surrounding fog and she was left quite alone.

  He made his way to his horse, still grazing, and slipped the bit back into its mouth, unloosed the reins and mounted. Then he circled around and watched as Steven's mother rose from the bench, looked around with the back of her hand to her thin cheek, and then walked the same path by which she had arrived. And like a ghost, he followed along behind her for a full hour as she headed east, met up with the northern loop of the Thames and continued down the mean streets of the waterfront until she at last turned aside and into a small shanty of a house along a long row of many such houses. The sudden glow of a lamp told him that she had arrived in her own home and appeared to be in fact safe.

  It was only then that he allowed himself to think of all that she had said, a particular point of interest her words that the assassins involved that night had been instructed to retrieve a case of paperwork from the coach for whomever had hired them. He turned his horse and went down the waterfront street. It was dirty and dark and stank of garbage and more than just horse urine and droppings, as well as the sultry smell of the river. It was a very rough section of town and it had its share of ribald laughter floating out from unsavory pubs. There were numerous drunks on the street and their glazed eyes watched him ride by as though he were some strange apparition produced by their gin soaked minds.

  He studied each door that looked as though it led into a bar as he passed, but there were virtually no placards to show what establishment was what, and he could not discern if any of them were 'Red's Pub', or if in fact, he were even in the correct neighborhood. But he could not think that the man he had killed the night before would have frequented an establishment very far from his own home, and as his wife had not hesitated on naming the Pub it indicated to him that he was a regular at the place.

  As he seemed to be making no progress, he at last directed his horse along a street away from the river. But instead of going, yet, back to his own home, he made his way once again to Hyde park by a circumspect route, and once there, he again dismounted and took the time to do what he would have done earlier if he had not been otherwise occupied on ensuring his informant's safe return to her home. He crept around in a similar circle as he had done upon first arriving for the mysterious meeting, again searching for any sign of someone else's presence. And he was not surprised when he found a set of footprints in the grass and the mud that were not his previously made ones. They led up to a little grouping of shrubbery within sight of where he and Lucy Crockner had sat upon the bench and talked. He judged it to be within earshot distance as well, and he was very disturbed to think that they had been overheard, but he dared not discount it.

  The one thing that did surprise him was the fact that the footprints were less than man-sized, indicating yet another woman watching them, or possibly. . . a lad. St. James' eyes glimmered out into the dark and he had a very strong feeling that his sought-for messenger boy had been very close at hand indeed.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  At about the same time as St. James was waiting in the fog of Hyde Park for his informant to appear, his cousin, Earl Andrew Larrimer, arrived home at the Dowager Duchess's house.

  He headed first toward the drawing room for a nightcap and with the expectation that his mother and grandmother should still be up and would be there. As he walked toward the room, he tried to prepare himself mentally for the interview with his grandmother. He had debated on waiting until morning, but with the lateness of the hour, he had hopes that if she were still awake, that she would be tired, and hence a little less sharp than usual.

  And, he had decided, the quicker it was made known that he had returned, the more obvious it would be to them that a disreputable trip to Gretna Green and back was quite beyond the time span that he had been gone. Indeed, he had every intention of riding through the park in the morning, for as most people he were likely to meet there had seen both he and Miss Murdock at Almacks only the night before, even they would see that it would be quite impossible to make the trip all the way to the Scotland border and return less than twenty-four hours later.

  That was all very easily taken care of. And his mother, he expected, as he hesitated at the door, would be as easily chastised for her silly indiscretion. But his grandmother was quite another story, and it was in anticipation of seeing that inquisitive and not to be denied old lady that had him going over the points of his story a final time with a fine-toothed comb in search of any loose particle that may trip him up.

  Feeling at last prepared, he turned the knob and entered the drawing room, was surprised to see the room empty and Ashton not in attendance. With a little shrug, he went to the sideboard, found the customary tray of evening snacks and glasses already removed. He checked his pocket watch a little perplexed; it was not overly late, for he and his mother at least. The Duchess did on occasion turn in earlier.

  A discreet cough came from the door, and he turned to find Ashton, his grandmother's butler, looking at him with some surprise and a little reproach. “Milord,” he said, “I apologize, but we were not aware that you had returned.”

  “Indeed, I apologize, Ashton. It is only that I should think my mother would still be up. Although it is close to grandmother's normal hour.”

  Ashton cleared his throat, a habit most unlike him, and said with a strained voice, “I fear your grandmother left early this afternoon. For Chestershire.”

  Andrew looked heavenward for a brief, muted curse of a second and then asked Ashton, “Indeed? Is my mother, perhaps, still in residence, or has she seen it necessary to make a sudden sojourn also?”

  “She's asked for a late tray in her room, milord,” Ashton told him, and then coughed again. “I imagine she will be most. . . surprised to see you.”

  “Thank you, Ashton,” Andrew said, and without further delay, left the room to go above stairs and tap upon his mother's sitting room door
.

  She bade entrance and he opened the door to find her sitting in her dressing gown upon the chaise lounge. The early edition of the next morning's London paper was raised in her hands and she was staring with such intensity at it that she did not look up as he entered, and he had a moment to see that she was not only intent upon reading it, but that her face had such a stark look of open fury that he was taken aback by it. “Mother?” he asked.

  At his voice, she dropped the paper to her lap. Her blue eyes, so much like his own, flew to his face. “Andrew! For heaven's sake, what ever are you doing here?” and she seemed beyond startled, she somehow seemed culpable to something.

  “What ever are you reading to make you look as though you had murder in your eye?” he asked in mild question. Then glancing and seeing that the paper was open to the social pages, he said, “Oh. Is St. James' announcement in there already, then?”

  “Indeed, it is!” she huffed. And for emphasis, she knocked the paper onto the floor in a pout. “And I could scarce believe it when I happen to know that you eloped with Miss Murdock just last night!”

  And it all became clear to him. His mother had developed an unexpected affection for Miss Murdock, and her silly conclusion had only been so much wishful thinking upon her part that the two of them had made a match of it. He smiled with indulgence down upon her as he stepped further into the room and closed the door behind him. “Oh, darling mother,” he said, and she glanced up at him with hurt in her eyes. “Did you really wish that I should marry her that badly then?”

  As though he had touched the very center of her ache, she began to cry, and he knelt to comfort her as she said between her delicate sobs, “Oh, I am such a foolish mother, Andrew. I thought that you had developed a tendress for the girl. I did see you kissing her in the drawing room, you know, so it is not all my fault!” she added in her defense.

  “Oh, I am so sorry, mama. That was just a bit of foolish fancy on my part and really did not. . . did not mean anything.” And he swallowed as he rubbed her back to soothe her. “But I never dreamed you would jump to such a conclusion. Oh, my poor dear. No wonder you thought we had eloped.”

  But instead of comforting her, his words only seemed to make her cry the harder. “Oh, but I wish you had married her,” she choked out.

  “Of course, you do, darling. But I really do have plenty of time, and there will be other young females that will catch my eye—”

  “No. No,” she choked. She drew her head back enough to let him see her watery eyes. “You don't understand. St. James is going to ruin her!”

  “Ruin—! Why, no, mama, it's right there in the paper, you see. You were just looking at it. He's posted the banns and—”

  But she would not listen. “I fear he already has ruined her, oh that poor, sweet child!” she wailed. “For do you know that he came and drove her in a hired carriage in the middle of the night? And if that is not enough to ruin her, I do not know what is!”

  And Andrew, despite himself, was a little intrigued by this notion. “Surely you are mistaken,” he said.

  “Indeed, I am not! For I saw him with my own eyes, returning her here in the dead of night, and her in nothing but her sleeping costume with a cloak thrown over it. Did you not wonder when he received that slap on his face, if it were from her, as he made it clear in Almacks that it certainly was?”

  He was feeling just a little bit flummoxed, for he had not even thought of the fact that to his knowledge, Miss Murdock had never (up until last night at least) spent two minutes alone with his cousin, let alone been driving about with him in the middle of the night. A little less surely, he said, “But it little matters, mama. The banns are posted and—”

  “Yes. Yes. Posted. But no date set! He will cry off and he will ruin her. I know he shall, for there is no reason for him to marry her now that he has so obviously already Had His Way With Her!”

  “Mother!” Andrew said a great deal shocked. “I am sure that St. James, even being St. James, would take into consid—”

  But his mother would not be mollified in the least, but began to shake her head. “Oh, it just goes to show how very young you still are. And you laugh at me behind my back for being so careful of your reputation, but I have seen how these things work. He will no more marry her than the next man now that he has compromised her, for why should he? And as bad as that may seem for me to believe it, I would rather believe that than to believe that he really is going to marry her for a far more terrible—” and she stopped and bit her lip and her eyes were wide, and blue, and terrified.

  “What, mother?” Andrew asked her with growing alarm. “What are you afraid of? What reason could he have to marry her that terrifies you as it does?”

  “Oh,” she cried. “Do not make me tell you for it is probably only a very foolish and I dare say paranoid notion upon my part,” and she hesitated. The way she looked up at Andrew with such helplessness made him realize that his mother was getting up in years, and that he was of age that he should be taking responsibility for all of her troubles instead of having her hiding them from him as if he were still a mere, helpless boy.

  “Tell me, mother,” he demanded. “Whatever it is, you must simply tell me, and I will tell you if you have reason to fear.”

  “It is just, oh, I am so ashamed to tell you this. Ashamed of your own father, my husband. Ashamed of St. James. Ashamed of myself for thinking. . . But, oh, the possibility is there, and what else am I to think if he suddenly is to marry in such an odd manner?”

  “What?” Andrew asked again in growing annoyance. “Whatever are you talking about?”

  And his mother gave a brave sniff, choked out, “Your father's will!” and she managed to point to the top drawer of her small writing desk in the corner before collapsing into uncontrollable tears.

  Andrew, feeling a good deal exasperated, but at the same time very concerned, jumped to his feet and went to the top drawer of the desk. He pulled it open, ruffled through the stationary and found a legal looking document that proclaimed it to be a copy of the last will and testament of his father, Earl Mortimer Larrimer. He flipped

  the pages, scanning, searching for something that would explain his mother's puzzling, bizarre behavior, and his eyes settled at last on a part of a paragraph, reading: . . . Until the date of son's marriage, and after date of Duke of St. James, Dante William Larrimer's marriage, all these assets will be in the possession and control of said Duke, and will be retained by said Duke in the event of premature death of son, Andrew.

  He looked at it in shock for a moment, and then let out an incredulous little laugh. “Rot, mother,” he pronounced. “Is this what has you beside yourself?” and he pointed to the paragraph he had come across.

  Her eyes searched his before glancing at the page of the will he held out for her. “Yes,” she said, but her voice quavered a little. “You think I am just over-reacting?”

  “Of course, you are,” he told her. “It is not uncommon to have an older male relative hold the estate in trust for an heir. My father held St. James', did he not? I trust St. James to handle it adequately until such time that I marry or he deems me of enough experience to handle my own affairs.”

  “Oh,” she said and gave a watery smile. “I suppose I was just letting my imagination run away with me.”

  And he knelt by her again, and half laughing asked her, “Did you suppose that St. James would bandy a pistol at me from beneath the cover of dark in order to kill me for my inheritance?” But even as he said the words, he realized that it was very odd that the will had been written in such a way as to seem to encourage such foul play in someone of less moral character than St. James. But he smiled for the sake of his mother, for of course, he had implicit trust in St. James.

  But his mother said with worry in her voice, “I have never wished to upset you, Andrew, but I do have my doubts about the manner in which your father died.”

  “It was a simple accident,” he reassured her. “A hunting accident.�
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  “Your father was always most careful. And I always thought it very strange that the same shotgun he had used for years and devotedly oiled and cleaned should suddenly become defective and back-fire on him.”

  “It is very strange,” Andrew agreed, “but these things do happen at times. And St. James was not even in the area at the time.”

  “But, still,” she insisted, weeping, “it is possible that he sabotaged it in some manner, and then went away with the knowledge that Morty would die the very next time—”

  “Oh, mother!” he exclaimed. “You are being quite ridiculous. For whatever reason would he do such a thing?”

  “Why,” she said, looking at him as if he were missing the entire point, “for your inheritance. Then there would only be you between he and it!”

  “Mother,” he told her with strained patience. “He doesn't need it! Why he could probably buy us out several times over.”

  “No, he couldn't,” she said and he looked at her with incredulity. “For I know for a fact that when I—your father invested quite heavily in the East India Company Stocks, that his own father judged it too risky, for it was before the war with China, you know. He already had, oh, perhaps ten percent of the company as did I—your father and I, also. But then your father decided to take the risk and where other people were getting nervous and dumping their holdings in the company, for there were rumors of, oh! I don't know. Something unsavory about the company. But your father bought it all up quite cheaply, and now your inheritance, among other holdings, is nearly thirty percent of the company. And St. James still owns only ten because his father was too conservative. And now of course, with the new treaties that came from the war, each share is worth a fortune, and quite difficult to come by. So you see, Andrew, just with those stocks alone, you own more than he does with his entire holdings.”