by Nicola Pryce
We will be happy, my darling. We’ll raise a brood of children and I shall hold you in my arms and never – never, ever – will I let you go. I will honour our vows, because I love you and I will always love you. I’m coming home, my darling. Watch out for me. I’m coming home.
Tears blurred my eyes, my sobs beginning to choke me. I must have cried out because Rose hurried down the gangway. ‘You’ve found his portrait? Goodness! Where was it? And a letter, too?’ She swayed towards me, holding the table as the deck plunged beneath her.
‘It was in the lining of his pocket. I think this letter will save him, Rose. It’s harrowing to read – but it shows Edmund wasn’t in sound mind when he joined the ship. They sent him instead of Francis – Captain Owen offered Francis the commission, but Edmund went instead. Captain Owen can testify he offered the position to Francis, but Edmund came instead.’ I was fighting the pain, the terrible sense of wrong. ‘Edmund was terrified – he was provoked beyond endurance. He wasn’t in sound mind when he joined the ship – Captain Owen should never have accepted him in the state he was in. Edmund should have come to me.’
She raced through his words, disgust mounting in her face, the same terrible anger. She put down the letter, yet the look in her eyes made me catch my breath.
‘Do you think Luke can use this to testify that Edmund wasn’t in sound mind when he joined the navy?’ I whispered.
She breathed deeply, staring at the letter, her mouth drawn tight, no sign of hope. I had a letter that could save Edmund from the gallows and yet she was frowning? ‘Amelia . . . Luke and James have just been talking about Francis’s death – how he was found dangling in the pigpen. Are you sure you want everyone to see this letter?’
She handed it back. ‘This last bit . . .’
I had not read the last two scribbled lines.
He accompanied me to Plymouth – he’s here! He’s taken rooms next door. Amelia – he says he wants to see me on to my ship. I hate him so much – I hate him. Hate him. I have to be rid of him.
I stared back at her, terrible dread churning my stomach. ‘No . . . no, Rose . . . no. He’s not a murderer. He was very weak – look at his face – he has no strength. He couldn’t have killed Francis.’
Her voice was kind but firm. ‘He had money, Amelia, and that’s all it takes in some places – and believe me, Plymouth Dock is one of those places.’
‘No. He wouldn’t even think of it.’
‘Amelia, I have to tell you . . . when he got home last night, Sir Alex sent Edmund’s file to us and we read the cuttings from the newspaper about the trial. The woman’s husband and brother denied everything – they swore their innocence – and some people were never called to witness. Many believed they should have been called and that someone with authority stopped them from taking the stand. What if the motive behind the murder wasn’t a wronged husband seeking revenge but a desperate man trying to rid himself of his tormentor?’
I stared back at her. ‘Edmund wouldn’t have known how to go about it.’
‘But a man like Sir Richard would. Read these lines again . . . these ones about what Sir Richard said – I’ll sort something. I can’t have him keeping this hold over me.’
She gripped my hand. ‘I may be wrong, but Francis was terrorizing both of them. He was blackmailing Sir Richard and ruining him. They both needed to be rid of him.’
Chapter Forty-seven
My mouth tasted of salt, a terrible nausea sweeping through me. The motion of the boat was building, the angle of the table deepening; through the hatch the white sails were arching and I knew we were well out to sea.
‘Come on deck,’ Rose whispered. ‘Put these away while you decide what to do.’
I steadied myself for a moment, grabbing the handrails as I swayed from side to side, and followed Rose up the gangway, wrapping my shawl tightly round me. It was bitterly cold, long thin clouds streaking across the blue sky, the sun reflecting on the sea, catching the white sails. Jago was on the tiller, Luke and James wedged against the bulwark on the high side. The bowsprit was plunging deep below the surface, spray covering the bow, white foam swirling along the lower deck, and I gripped the rail, trying to rid myself of my nausea.
To our right, the land was fast disappearing, nothing but a sea of vast, heaving waves breaking into crests. My cheeks stung with cold and I stood watching the sun glinting on the sea, like thousands of small mirrors. The ship’s motion seemed steadier now the sails were broader, and I breathed deeply, filling my lungs with the courage I so desperately needed. I felt bruised and shaken, yet I must stay strong. I was Edmund’s rock and I must stay his rock. My love was still there, I just needed more time.
Rose took the helm and I envied her her strength. I had sailed these waters all my life with Frederick and Uncle Alex, but never in such pain. The Dodman was straight ahead of us, the bay that swept round Fosse and St Austell now lost to sight. We were flying, the wind lessening, though strong enough to heel the boat and push us home. Luke came to my side and we sat, side by side, staring over the rolling waves.
At last, he spoke. ‘Clothing holds a person’s shape – it holds their scent, their perfume . . . the oil they use in their hair. It’s not surprising it brings such raw emotion back to the surface. Holding a loved one’s garment often unlocks pain, giving rise to intense sorrow.’
‘That’s just how I feel, Luke. It’s brought him so close again.’
His hand was almost touching mine and he pulled it away. He would never touch me again. I knew that now.
Rose handed the tiller back to Jago and called to us. ‘We better have something to eat. I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.’
We followed her down the hatchway, Luke’s hand fleetingly on my back before he whisked it away. He could not look at me, and I could not look at him. Rose and James were opening drawers, laying out plates, the huge ham carved again, fresh bread sliced, pickle retrieved from behind the glass-fronted cabinet, and we sat at the table with the black cat watching us. No one, it seemed, dared to move her.
I had loved Edmund so dearly, his jacket had brought back so much pain, yet why was I was struggling to love him? Why was it so hard? Was it because I could sense his lies? Luke ate sparingly, slowing drinking a cup of fresh mint tea. James Polcarrow had finished his meal and was leaning back, stretching out to stroke the cat.
Luke smiled as her loud purr filled the cabin. ‘Was your visit to the hospital useful, Sir James? I’ve been there many times. It’s a very impressive place. The wards are built to prevent spread of contagion – they’re large, with good space between the beds – and they have very fine operating rooms . . . a lot of circulating air . . . and I believe the food is very good.’ He was clearly trying to make conversation.
James laughed. ‘And the hugest wall to keep the impressed men in. The sailors get there under all sorts of medical pretences, the poor men believe that once there, they’re just going to stroll out, but it’s like a fortress – there’s no way out. The only way in is through the arch from the creek, and the only way out is through a heavily guarded gate. They row them directly from the ships and then the portcullis falls tightly shut.’
He lifted the cat on to his lap. ‘Rose and I were waiting outside the chief surgeon’s office – we must have looked like pressed sailors because along comes this janitor and offers us all sorts of potions and advice.’ He smiled as Rose took off her hat, shaking her luxurious chestnut hair around her shoulders. ‘Just as well they didn’t see you do that!’
Luke handed a small piece of ham to Purdue, who purred even louder. ‘They thought you were pressed men waiting to be seen? What did he offer you?’
‘He said he could give us lists of signs and symptoms for various illnesses – how to pretend you had a twitch – or a nervous tick, as he called it. For two shillings he could give us an emetic that would have us retching our guts out, and for a guinea, we could have a vial of belladonna – that’s a guinea each, not a guinea for tw
o! He said all we had to do was drop it in our eyes and pretend to be mad. We had to wave our limbs loosely – actually, he demonstrated it and he looked very convincing. We were to pretend not to remember things and stutter and stammer. But we weren’t to use it straight away or they’d know it had come from him. We were to wait two weeks and then pretend to bang our heads and we’d be discharged as insane.’
Luke was laughing. ‘Just as well you saved your money – it’s the first thing a physician would think to look for. And you’d have to keep the drops going – you’d be searched, and the effect would wear off, then, suddenly, you’d be sane again.’
My stomach wrenched, a sudden petrifying jolt. Edmund had kept his eyes shaded with dark glasses, hidden behind thick lenses, kept the rooms dark. I thought I might be sick. What if Edmund had not had a head injury? What if he was not forgetting things?
‘Belladonna – to make your pupils huge?’ I said, gripping the table. Huge, black, vulnerable eyes. How could I have missed it?
They were all laughing, discussing the chances of the bottle being found – how long the drops would last, and how often you would have to apply them. I could hardly hear them. Belladonna – what if Edmund had used belladonna?
My head reeled. What if he had not forgotten the miniature was in his jacket – what if he did not know it was there? The empty plates swam in front of me. He had written to the tailor asking if the miniature was there but he had not mentioned the jacket. If he had not had a head injury, and was using belladonna, then he would have remembered placing it in the lining. Why had he not asked if the jacket was there?
I fought for breath. Belladonna was a poison. He’ll use poison. Surely I had just read that in Edmund’s letter? He’ll use poison. I reached for the empty fruit bowl, trying not to vomit.
‘Amelia? Quick . . . Let’s get you on deck.’
‘No, it’s passing. I’m all right.’
Poison! My mind was whirling. Connie had sensed something was wrong the morning Lady Melville died and I had smelled the distinctive smell of almond oil on Lady Melville’s lips – but what if it was not almond oil at all? I could see the page in Luke’s father’s herbal.
Cherry laurel water is a dangerous, ineffective treatment that has been used for coughs, colds, insomnia and stomach cramps but I advise against all such treatment. The distilled leaves of the cherry laurel, once infused with water, are poisonous in all but the minutest quantities and will always lead to death. The smell of almonds on the breath is often the only sign that laurel water has been ingested. Do not keep laurel water in your cupboards and dispose of your bottles forthwith.
‘Poison,’ I whispered. ‘What if it was poison?’
They stopped talking, Luke immediately puzzled. ‘Belladonna is poisonous if used incorrectly but as eye drops it’s relatively harmless – but you know that.’ He stopped. ‘Amelia, what is it?’
Rose’s voice was firm. ‘Show them the letter, Amelia. Show them the miniature.’
I fumbled beneath my cloak, pushing the letter across the table, sliding the portrait into the centre. Edmund’s petrified eyes stared back at us as they read the contents.
Luke shook his head. ‘I’m not sure what you mean, Amelia. There’s definite provocation here – I’m not sufficiently knowledgeable about navy matters, but, medically, there’s enough in this letter to plead Edmund was not of sound mind . . . that he was following direct orders from his father, and that this undue strain would make a man incapable of knowing what he was doing. The poor man’s clearly scared out of his wits. But why do you think of poison? Are you saying Edmund poisoned Francis and left him in the pigpen?’
‘No . . . Luke . . . It’s Lady Melville . . . I smelled almonds on her breath just after she died . . . Laurel water lingers, doesn’t it? I smelled almonds, but she’d been using my salve and I thought it was the almond oil I’d used – we even put some on her lips. Oh, dear God!’ I clasped my hands over my mouth.
‘Lady Melville poisoned by laurel water? Who would possibly want to poison her?’
‘I think Edmund’s been using belladonna to make his pupils large. I didn’t suspect it at all but once you mentioned it, it seems very likely. What if he never had a head injury and he’s lying to us all?’
‘I’m not following you. Are you saying you think Edmund is somehow responsible for his mother’s death?’
I could hardly speak. I had felt such love for a jacket yet no love at all for the man who had worn it. Connie had sensed something was wrong that morning, with her blue flames and rushing water, her crows, her searching the shadows and looking for signs. She had sensed wrong – sensed the house had witnessed great evil.
‘I don’t know what I’m saying . . . it’s just something’s so wrong. Why can’t I love the man, when I loved the youth so dearly? It’s as if Edmund has come back another man.’
‘That’s hardly surprising, Amelia. He was gone a long time.’
I stared back at Rose, my heart thumping. Was it possible? Was it? ‘He’s been gone so long, I hardly recognize him . . . but what if he really has come back a different man? What if he didn’t kill his mother who he adored, but his aunt who he hated and who had always hated him?’
James Polcarrow blew out his cheeks. ‘Are you saying that you think Edmund is really Francis Bainbridge?’
‘Yes, I am . . . reading that letter makes me certain of it.’ An ice-cold grip had clamped my heart. ‘Edmund writes that Francis is turning into him . . . it’s obvious he was studying him, learning everything he could. He’d no reason to accompany Edmund to Plymouth. I think he killed him to take his rightful place. I think the man who calls himself Edmund is lying about his head injury. His memory is perfect – and he doesn’t know the miniature was in the lining of the jacket.’
‘Absolutely right! He’d have written asking if they still had the jacket – not whether the miniature was there.’ Luke turned the jacket over and examined the lining. ‘We need to think this through . . . Edmund obviously hid his letter and miniature very carefully. He was petrified Francis would grab the jacket and find it in the pocket. He needed to post it, yet his half-brother had accompanied him to Plymouth and Edmund was petrified he’d find it. So he sewed it into the lining of his jacket. And Francis didn’t find it.’
James Polcarrow took the jacket. ‘Only Edmund knew the miniature was in there – Francis didn’t, and he still doesn’t. But you need stronger evidence than just suspicion, Amelia. What if his head injury is real? What if he’s not using belladonna?’
‘He’s Francis . . . I know he is. I think he did follow Edmund to the outfitters. He was always listening at doors. I think Edmund’s fear was correct – Francis was listening when his father decided to write the new will. He overheard their plan and knew that he would never inherit the estate – even if Edmund and Constance both died childless. That’s the whole point. Francis was not going to inherit the estate – ever. Sir Richard has a brother and there are cousins who’d inherit. Francis had no proof he was an illegitimate son – only an inscription in a book that would hold no sway. He considered himself the eldest son and was driven insane by jealousy. He considers the estate his birthright.’
‘So Francis killed Edmund and took his place.’
‘Look at the back of Edmund’s jacket . . . Here, there are scuff marks – signs of a struggle and here’s a tear.’ I smoothed out the jacket. ‘He must have forced Edmund to the ground but he didn’t knife him because he needed to swap jackets and boots and there mustn’t be any blood. He must have strangled him and then had to hide the body.’
‘No . . . not hide the body.’ Luke’s voice was like steel. ‘The body needed to be found but not recognized as Edmund. His father must think Francis was dead – they must all think Francis was dead. The face had to be unrecognizable so he balanced Edmund over the pigpen to be eaten. He must have watched until the face and neck were unrecognizable and then rushed to collect his uniform. Then he went straight to his ship – Mi
dshipman Edmund Melville reporting for duty.’
James Polcarrow held the miniature in his hand. ‘No one knew him on the ship, and he’d make sure he stayed away for years. It’s very plausible – stolen identity is far more common than we think. He stepped into Edmund’s shoes – or uniform – but he had to leave the navy as soon as possible because old friends would recognize him.’
He put the cat to the floor. ‘If you’re right, this was a callous, well-planned murder. The landlord of the inn states Francis didn’t sleep in his room that night. He must have spent the night planning where to meet Edmund and how to dispose of him. In the morning, he must have sent him a note, asking to meet him – probably demanding money. And Edmund would have gone down that treacherous back alley hoping one last payment might suffice.’
Rose was searching the jacket, running her hands behind the lining. ‘We need to find that note. It would have been in his pocket.’
I shook my head. ‘No. Francis would have taken it. He killed Edmund, swapped jackets, and the first thing he’d do was check the pockets. But Edmund had made the hole at the top of the pocket – so a downward hand would not feel the gap and the letter and portrait remained safe.’
Luke’s eyes caught mine. ‘Francis rushed to the tailor, put on his uniform and ordered a trolley for his trunk. Fortunately for us, he was in a hurry and forgot the jacket in his haste.’