by Nicola Pryce
Rose slipped to my side. ‘Amelia, did you sense anything from his letters? Does the writing change after he gets onboard ship?’
The pain was so intense, I thought I would cry. ‘No . . . the writing doesn’t change – that’s what’s so awful. It looked like the same writing.’ A scream was rising within me, a terrible need to howl. Francis had written those letters from the ship. The exact same writing as on the letter Sir James held. The exact same curls and flourishes, the same elongated cross to his T.
I took the letter. ‘Francis must have studied his writing, as well as the way he walked and tapped his fingers. Read this bit . . . It’s as if he’s turning into me. Francis knew just what I’d look for – what we’d all look for. He used to watch us all the time, creeping up on us, staring at us from doorways, but he had to kill Lady Melville because a mother would know her son . . . and his beloved nurse, Mrs Alston, would know every mole and birthmark . . . so he had to kill her, too.’
Both Constance and Bethany had felt the evil. ‘Francis must have been waiting for Mrs Alston in the shadows and tripped her up as she passed. He must have stood over her, laughing like he had laughed at Edmund, before reaching forward and thrashing her forehead against the stones to crack her skull.’
The stove was too warm. The ship’s motion had calmed, but it was not that making me ill, it was the terrible realization I had held his letters to my lips, to my heart. I had slept with them under my pillow. I had kissed them, cried over them, cradled them. I wanted to vomit.
James Polcarrow’s voice was firm. ‘There’s no evidence in this letter to substantiate a claim of false identity – nor of murder. It’s just the rantings of a petrified youth. Show any court martial this letter and they’re very likely to acquit Edmund as being of unsound mind. I think Luke’s right. I think this would act in his favour and, what’s more, if we were to take him to court, you’d be under oath, Amelia – you’d have to say you thought the writing was the same.’
A gleam of hope made me look up. ‘What about the letter to the tailor? He didn’t even consider asking if he’d left the jacket. Surely that proves he didn’t know the letter and miniature were in the jacket?’
‘It’s not strong enough evidence. He’ll just say he forgot the letter was there . . . even the jacket. His records all show he’s being very forgetful.’
‘But surely a clever lawyer could trip him up?’ Even as I said it, I knew he was too clever. When questioned, he would tell it just as it was – that he was being tormented beyond endurance, that he was not in sound mind when he joined his ship. ‘What about the smell of almonds? What about poisoning Lady Melville?’
Luke shook his head. ‘That’s just your knowledge, Amelia. You smelled almonds, but there was almond oil in the salve. How can you be sure you smelled laurel water? Lady Melville’s heart was weak and Annie was frail. She could easily have caught her foot in her hem and tripped down the stairs. The doctor signed the deaths as natural causes. He’d no reason to think otherwise. There’s nothing we can pin on Francis.’
James Polcarrow drew a deep breath. ‘If Sir Alex speaks in defence of Midshipman Edmund Melville, he would either be defending Edmund’s murderer, or he might be defending a totally innocent man who’d been terrorized by his step-brother and lost his reason.’
Rose shook her head. ‘He’s Francis, James. Amelia knows that now.’ She picked up the miniature. ‘She loved this poor frightened boy and who wouldn’t? But the man who has returned repulses her. She feels no love for him – and he’s manipulating her emotions. He knows exactly what he’s doing . . . he’s relying on her natural goodness, her pity, and capacity for compassion. It’s all here, in Edmund’s letter – Francis was insanely jealous of Edmund. They were so similar – they shared all four grandparents. All he needed was time to change from the youth he was into the man they’d both have become.’
The lines hardened round James Polcarrow’s mouth. ‘We’ve got Captain de la Croix safe, who else needs to be warned?’
The band tightened round my throat. ‘George Halliday and Constance – George because he may refer to other conversations they had, and Connie because I have a terrible feeling he knows she suspects him. I think that’s why he wanted her to come to Truro. He has to kill her, but he can’t do it too soon or suspicions will be raised. He can’t use poison again or have her fall down the stairs – but he’ll think of something. She’ll have an accident – a coach will run her over or he’ll push her into the river and she’ll be sucked under the sluice gates.’
James glanced at the clock. ‘Three o’clock – it looks like the wind’s dropping. We’re losing speed. It’s going to be tight.’
Rose reached for my hand. ‘We need to be in Falmouth by five if we’re to catch the flood tide. If we miss it, one of us will have to ride to Truro.’
Luke nodded. ‘Put me ashore and I’ll hire a horse. We need to warn to them.’
Chapter Forty-eight
Falmouth 5 p.m.
Pendennis Castle loomed on the prow, the wide waters of Falmouth opening up. The tide was with us, the wind still behind us. We were nearly at Black Rock in the waters I knew so well. Ships crowded the harbour, some swinging to anchor, others moored against the wharfs. The sun was setting, twilight turning the sea a dark grey. Visibility was fading, soft pools of yellow lamplight just discernible on the land. We could navigate the Truro River with a good moon, a strong incoming tide, and enough wind to blow us round the bends.
They had left me to my grief – to the awful realization I had stood by Edmund’s grave that day in Pendowrick, not knowing I was burying the man I loved. We had followed his coffin just like we had followed Lady Melville’s, Sir Richard reading a lesson, Lady Melville tight-lipped and silent. I had stood and watched, thinking only of my hurt that Edmund had left so abruptly. Hurt and angry yet there he was, lying in the coffin in front of me.
Luke came to my side.
‘Edmund is dead. I know he is. And it feels just as raw as it did the first time I heard of his loss. Only this time it’s so brutal . . . I can’t bear to think what happened. The first time I was cross with him for leaving, hurt by his lack of letters, but now I feel such deep love for him. I feel I let him down. He needed me and I did nothing. He was struggling – desperately struggling – and all I could do was chide him for not writing.’
I wiped my tears. ‘Yet he had been writing, and Francis had been taking his letters out of spite . . . to keep control over him, interfering with our correspondence – a vicious pleasure to him. Yet all the time Edmund was in the coffin and I never knew it. All these years of heartache, he’s been in Pendowrick – lying in another man’s grave.’
‘He’s in his beloved Pendowrick, Amelia. He’s where he’d want to be – not buried in some unmarked grave, not heaped with other nameless soldiers beneath hot white sands. He’s not in the sea, or burnt because of the contagion he carried. He’s where he loved. He’s with the birds he used to watch – his spirit’s picking apples in the orchard, running on the moor. He’s home, in Pendowrick – the home he adored and you must take comfort from that.’
‘Just recently I saw him in a dream, Luke. For years I hadn’t seen his face and then I saw him so clearly. He looked so well – he was happy, his hair bouncing like it always did, but he was running from me. He was wearing this jacket, but he kept running away, looking over his shoulder, laughing that I couldn’t keep up with him. And I realize now he had come back to say goodbye. And that makes it even more unbearable. He’d been so tormented and I had no idea.’
‘Hold that dream in your heart, Amelia. You say he was well and laughing . . . then you must remember him like that. That’s what he’d want. Remember his laughter and his joy. Remember everything you planned and everything you loved about him. Remember the way it was, and never let it go.’
He stayed by my side, the tide drawing us closer to Trenwyn House. The sea was calmer, shouts echoing across the water. Dusk was falling, a misty haze hovering over the
darkening water. Rose was on the helm, Jago and James adjusting the sails, drawing them in. They heaved them to the left and we inched slowly upriver, to the bend I knew so well.
‘We’ll go on,’ shouted James. ‘The moon’s clear. The wind’s strong enough – it’s keeping south-easterly. We’ll just get clear of this sandbank, then we’ll keep to the middle of the river. If we lose the wind, we can row back to Trenwyn.’
Ships often lost the wind or ran aground by our house. As children we used to hear their shouts and rise early to row upriver to watch them float free on the incoming tide. Sometimes, they would attach ropes to rowing boats and try to row the boat forwards. Frederick and I used to climb trees and bet on who would get stuck on our sandbank. Once, I caught him moving the poles that marked the outer edge so he would win.
The façade of Trenwyn House stood silhouetted against the darkening sky. Lamps were lit against the coach house, lanterns burning outside the kitchen. Spring would see us return to the house we loved so much, Mother would build more treehouses for the boys, Papa would stride through his fields, picking up handfuls of earth to feel its quality. He would talk to his animals, scratch the head of his beloved black pig. We would play cricket and host concerts on the lawns. I would return to my beloved herb garden and sow new seeds.
L’Aigrette was being slowly pulled by the tide, her sails limp one moment, filling the next as they caught the wind. James stood on the deck, holding tight as he leaned over to watch the silent water. ‘We’re clear of the starboard pole. Ease out the sails.’
The wooded banks were lost to the darkness, owls hooting in the trees around us. Moonlight shimmered on the black river, the wind lessening, the same pattern as the sails flapped, then swelled again. The night sky was clear, a hazy ring around the moon, and I shivered but would not go below. We were all needed on deck, each of us poised to shout the moment we veered too close to the bank. Flotsam floated alongside us – a plank, an upturned wooden bucket, an empty crate. The river was silent, not a splash against the bow: L’Aigrette was gliding soundlessly, spreading her white sails wide, taking us home.
Jago stood at the prow. ‘There’s the lights of Malpas. The wind’s droppin’. I reckon we should cut our losses and anchor there.’
James came to Rose’s side. ‘Jago can stay with the ship. We’ll get someone to take us – two miles by cart will be quicker than two miles with no wind. Let’s gather our things.’
Woodsmoke was drifting on the air, lamps burning against the side of the Heron Inn. We had often rowed this far. The summer we got engaged, the four of us had piled into our boat and set off laughing, our baskets crammed with Cook’s raised ham pie and freshly baked bread – Frederick, Edmund and I, and Francis. Always Francis. Always watching, always five feet behind. We had run from him, hidden from him. We had dived beneath hay carts, raced along the long drive, holding our breath as we searched for the widest oak we could find. We would hide behind it, sitting at first, then sliding down to lie on our backs, watching the birds above us and imitating their sounds.
It was too painful to remember.
James Polcarrow lowered the rowing boat with hardly a splash. ‘We’ll make two journeys. Rose can row me over, then she’ll come back for you. In the meantime, I’ll get us a cart. There’s always someone ready with one.’ He smiled, though his face remained stern. ‘We’ll have you home within the hour.’
Moonlight shimmered on the black water alongside the road. James Polcarrow sat next to the driver, the rest of us bumping uncomfortably on the hard bench. Luke clasped the seat as we lurched over a rock.
‘We can’t be that far behind him. He might even be in Bodmin, still looking for Pierre.’ He reached for my hand, firm, secure, gripping my fingers tightly.
‘I know he’s Francis, Luke. So many things make sense now. When I was with him, I was waiting for him . . . hoping . . . thinking, he would say something, but he never mentioned our vows. I wanted him . . . to convince me they meant as much to him as they did to me, but not once did he refer to that day. Yet in his last letter, Edmund addressed me as wife. Edmund believed in those vows as much as I did . . .’
‘Yes, I saw that.’
‘Francis thought he knew everything there was to know about us, but we kept that to ourselves. Only my maid and her fiancé knew, and they were sworn to secrecy.’
‘A good lawyer may be able to use that . . .’
‘There’s something else. I’ve been going over a word he used. It hurt me at the time, but now it takes a darker meaning. He said I dabbled in herbs – that’s insulting, isn’t it? It implies I don’t know very much, doesn’t it? It implies he thought he knew more than me. Now I’m convinced he’s been studying poisons – and that’s what Edmund meant when he said he’ll use poison.’
The ruts were deep in places and difficult to avoid. Rose grabbed my arm to stop herself from slipping off the bench. ‘I agree. It does imply he knew more – it’s very useful to study poisons if you have murderous intent and plan to use belladonna and laurel water.’
The road was firmer now, widening out before the bridge. Ships were crowding against the wharf, not a breeze blowing, the rigging silent, hardly a creek from the timbers. Smoke rose in tall plumes from the chimneys, the pungent smell of roasted herrings wafting across the river. Fishing nets were hanging up to dry, shouts filtering from a nearby inn. We crossed the bridge as the church clock struck ten. We were almost home.
I threw myself through the door, hurtling across the hall and into Mother’s drawing room. Constance was sitting by the fire and I ran to her, reaching for her hands, tears stinging my eyes. Mother stood behind me.
‘You’ve made very good time.’ She turned to greet the others, her smile broadening as she saw Rose’s breeches. ‘Lady Polcarrow – how wonderful, you’re wearing men’s clothes! I must get some just like that. And Dr Bohenna – you’ve forgiven me, I hope?’
‘You received my letter, Mother?’
‘Seth came back with it this afternoon. How was Plymouth Dock?’
‘Terrible. Mother could we call for Seth?’ I turned to the footman. ‘Could you ask Seth to come – if he wouldn’t mind?’
Papa was already changed for bed. He stood in the doorway, his red silk dressing gown tied with gold braid, the jewels in his pointed Chinese slippers glinting, his beloved felt hat perched sideways on his head. ‘A bit cold to sail, but successful, I hope? You’re looking very well, Sir James. My dear Lady Polcarrow, is that what they wear in Fosse these days?’
Seth stood in the doorway. ‘Seth, could you check Sir Edmund’s horse? I’d like to know if he’s back or not.’
‘He’s not back, Miss Carew. First thing I did – an’ I’ll keep checking. Nor has he returned to his room in the inn, and noone answerin’ to his description has taken the coach back from Bodmin. I’ve asked the stable lads to tell me the moment he arrives in Truro. Is there anything else I can help you with?’
‘No, thank you. That’s very kind. Thank you.’ I had to sit down. Now I was home, I found I was shaking. All I wanted to do was lock the doors to keep my family safe.
Mother took my hand and drew me to her, reaching out her other hand for Constance. ‘Did you find out anything about the miniature, my love? Had he sent it to someone else?’
I took Edmund’s jacket from under my cloak and watched Constance’s face crumble. Her hands flew to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears as she stared at the jacket. ‘Yes . . . I did find it. And I found this letter . . . from Edmund.’
They stared at the miniature, passing the pages of the letter between them, waiting until each had finished before swapping to the next. Papa was last to finish. He put down the letter, his thick white eyebrows slicing in a frown. ‘It’s treacherous. It’s outrageous. It’s quite unpardonable, but it doesn’t account for your fear. What’s making you so fearful, my love?’
‘We believe . . . Sit down, Papa. And you, Constance. This will come as a shock. We believe . . . that night
in Plymouth . . . it wasn’t Francis they found, but Edmund.’
‘Edmund?’
‘Yes, Connie . . . We think Edmund is really Francis . . . we think Francis killed Edmund and took his place on the ship.’
‘Are you quite sure? This is a grave accusation? Alex’s letter tells us of his suspicion that Edmund deserted . . . in fact, his tone implies he thinks it’s the most likely explanation . . . but is he Francis?’ Papa handed the letter to Mother. ‘Can you think it possible?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, I believe it very possible. Francis was always a jealous, watchful child – there was something very unpleasant about him – and I saw a glimpse of that when he was here. I would not be surprised in the slightest if once he found out he was the elder brother, albeit illegitimate, his resentment knew no bounds.’
Constance’s voice sent a chill through me. ‘He is Francis, I know he is. I felt it right from the start. He didn’t love me like Edmund would have loved me. He watched me just like Francis always did. I begged him to let me marry Adam Kemp and he was horrible – there was such hatred in his eyes – yet Edmund had always thought so highly of Adam. He even joked he was jealous because he thought I loved Adam more than him.’
‘There’s more . . . I smelled almonds by your mother’s bed . . . on her lips the morning we found her. I thought it was the balm, but it’s the only trace the poison laurel water leaves. I believe Francis poisoned your mother . . . and pushed or tripped Mrs Alston down the stairs.’
Constance clutched her chest. ‘Yes. Absolutely . . . Absolutely I believe that . . . The morning Mama died, I felt such torment. I felt evil in the room – I felt unsafe. Mrs Alston knew those stairs like the back of her hand . . . she always took great care. Her death was no accident.’
Mother drew a deep breath. ‘Well, I must say that’s a shock I didn’t see coming. But what proof do you have that any of this might be true? Can you remember any birthmarks, Connie, my love?’ Constance shook her head. ‘No? And did you find the poison? No? Then is there sufficient evidence to bring about a prosecution, Sir James?’