by Anne Perry
* * *
Narraway, too, was renewed in the best way. Old ghosts had still to be laid to rest, but they no longer frightened him. Maybe the wounds were healing.
He knew that Cavendish was telling him about the rising river because he suspected that he had hidden the package there. He must have seen how cold Narraway was when he’d returned from hiding the package, noted how long he’d been gone, and made a very good guess. He was taunting him, seeing if he would take the bait. If he’d guessed wrongly, he would no doubt set his trap in another way. If Cavendish was speaking the truth, and the river rose even one foot, the package would be ruined, whether it was retrievable or not.
And perhaps it was a good thing to provoke a confrontation. At least he would deny Cavendish the advantage of complete surprise, though of course he would know every yard of his garden, and Narraway had only a rough idea of it.
The afternoon drew toward a close. Vespasia and Narraway had changed for dinner and were still in the bedroom, preparing to go down.
“I have to go…,” he said.
“I know,” she agreed quickly. “It’s dangerous, but worse to leave it.”
“You have to stay here. He knows what—”
“I’ll not allow myself to be alone,” she interrupted. “Better than that, I’ll stay with Dorian Brent. We’ve agreed he plays in this the role you played in Normandy.”
“Not a high recommendation,” he said sadly.
She felt Victor’s guilt rather than heard it. “Would you prefer that I stay with Iris? James will be there, and possibly a footman.”
“Yes, do. Then at least the two of you will be safe. He will follow me,” he pointed out.
“Don’t tell me comfortable lies, Victor. He could wait until you return, and then hold you hostage to hand the package over in exchange for Iris’s life, or more….”
“I don’t think so. That would make it impossible to deny his part in it, and that leaves very little room for negotiation,” he argued.
“But if you know, then it’s finished for him anyway.”
He met her soft, silver-gray eyes and knew he had explained too much. “I will be the one who comes back. Or escapes. As you reminded me, this is not a copy of the Normandy case. I’m looking for reflections that aren’t there, and Cavendish knows nothing about that.”
“But he smells blood in the water all the same,” she said. “Be careful.” It took all her nerve to say that steadily, as if he were doing no more than going for a walk in the fresh air. She forced out of her imagination’s grasp that this might be goodbye. In life that was always possible, and more so as the years added up. Never take a moment lightly.
She walked over and put her arms around him. He was quick to respond. He kissed her face, her brow, her cheek, her mouth. Then he turned and walked out of the bedroom without saying anything more, not even telling her again to be careful. All the words had been said.
He went across the landing and down the long, sweeping staircase into the hall, across the marble flagstones, and into the passage to the garden room. It was the obvious place to go outside because the coats and boots were there. If Cavendish was watching him, or requesting a servant to do so, he would see him, whichever door he used. And, of course, there was always the possibility that Cavendish had gone ahead of him. There was more than one way to approach the weir and the bridge, but in the end there was only a single path that finished beside the bank. Cavendish could be anywhere along the way.
Narraway fastened his coat and stepped outside. Cavendish had been right. It was warmer. The evening storm, already rattling and whining through the bare branches of the trees, was going to be rain, not snow. And everything farther upstream would run off into the river.
He walked swiftly, turning from side to side often to see any approaching figure, any extra density to a bush that could conceal a man behind it. He reached the arch of the pergola, the twisted stems of the climbing roses wound through its arches and crossbeams. In summer, they would all be hidden by leaves, and in June and July, smothered with a foam of roses.
The walks on the other side were empty, as far as he could see in a torch’s gleam. He did not want to use it: It made him visible from a hundred feet away. But to be without it, once a cloud swallowed light like this, was to invite not only getting lost but falling over a broken branch, a heavy stone misplaced, a brick out of a walkway, or one of the low walls.
His shoulders were tight, his whole body locked almost rigid. Sense told him that Cavendish would not attack him until he had possession of the package. Whatever he planned, Narraway had to have it with him.
A gust of wind blew the increasingly heavy rain into his face, along with a few last wet leaves. It was impossible to tell if the sounds were branches thrashing; small animals darting through the undergrowth; or a human being treading softly, moving alongside him, invisible in the darkness.
What did Cavendish intend to do? What was his plan, beyond getting this package from Narraway? Had this been his plan all the way through, from the first invitation to come for Christmas? Or had he changed it as events transpired? What was the purpose? Was it about the package? Getting it to the right people…or the wrong people? For that matter, did Cavendish know the plans had been doctored or not?
Or had it been about getting revenge on Narraway all along? And the package was incidental. No more than a suitable means.
He came to the end of the walkway, climbed the shallow steps, and turned along the avenue of beech trees. Their bare trunks gleamed wet in the faint light, really only a paler darkness.
Was Cavendish’s hatred of Narraway so deep that destroying him, his work, his life, his reputation was all that he really needed?
Narraway must put it out of his mind. It did not matter. Only survival mattered now!
Was Cavendish going to come after him, here along the riverbank? Narraway was safe until Cavendish could catch him with the package. His death was not enough. If Vespasia was correct, Cavendish wanted to ruin him as well. Then Narraway would not be able to explain anything. Once Cavendish took the package from him, he had simply to slip on the riverbank and fall into the flooding water, perhaps below the weir, where the current swirled white and sucked under and burst out again twenty yards down the river, wide and deep. Cavendish could say he tried to save him, but it was his own life or Narraway’s. Who was to argue?
It was definitely the water he could hear now. That wasn’t rain beating on what leaves remained. He was in an open space, but sheltered from the wind that was thrashing the saplings on the far side. The footbridge across the river creaked; the water tipping over the edge of the weir gleamed white.
Narraway turned slowly, searching the bank, first the near side, then the far. He could see nothing but the grass, and here and there a low bush of gorse.
Was he imagining it that Cavendish would follow him? Perhaps he would wait and attack him when he came back to the house. Red-handed, as it were, with the plans in his pocket.
No. That was far too risky. Cavendish could simply hide them somewhere else in this huge garden. If he did not have them, then there was nothing to tie them to him. He would come back into the house, and there would be nothing to defend, to explain.
Narraway was standing on the grass facing the bank and it was bitterly cold. The wind was rising and it was beginning to rain harder. Whether Cavendish was here or not, Narraway needed to get the package. Perhaps Cavendish was too clever to take the bait, and this was a double bluff. Maybe he would blame it all on Narraway? Say he had attacked Iris and stolen the package to give to someone quite different from whomever the Home Office had intended. If Iris had no memory of what had happened to her in the orangery, or if Cavendish still found a way to kill him, then Narraway had no proof of his own innocence.
Narraway walked across the open grass and down the bank, toward the
place where he had hidden the package within the struts of the bridge. Water was foaming almost to his feet. It had risen twelve inches since he and Vespasia had arrived. It was now fast and deep, and it would get deeper. He balanced very carefully. The ground was soggy, likely to give way beneath his weight. He felt for the hole. Extraordinary how loath he was to put his bare hand into the space he could not see. What if an animal had found shelter there? An animal with a strong jaw and razor teeth?
Don’t be so damned stupid! Get the package! He felt for it, and his finger closed on emptiness. He had not reached in far enough. His feet were sinking into the wet grass, below which was the deep river mud. He reached up with the other hand to hang on to the wooden struts. It was a ridiculous position, impossibly precarious. Why the hell was he doing this at his age? Because he wanted to be useful one last time! It was supposed to have been easy. And there was pride in it—at least, there had been. He wanted to prove that he could do it, and lay the ghost of Edith and Normandy to rest.
He felt something, inched a little farther, and caught the end of the wrapping. He got it between his fingers, then pulled at it until he could get his finger and thumb to it. It would serve him right if water rats had unwrapped it to use for nesting. Water rats! Urgh!
He pulled at it hard and almost lost it. He was sweating with relief under his heavy jacket, when he heard the voice above him, on the bridge across the weir.
“Excellent! Afraid there might have been something nasty in there? We get eels in the river, occasionally, and they have a hell of a bite, you know!” It was Cavendish, of course.
Narraway could feel his feet sliding in the mud. He was actually standing in the river, ice-cold and already up to his ankles. He could not get a purchase to reach up and catch hold of the wood of the bridge.
“Inconsiderate of you,” Cavendish went on. “How the hell are you going to explain to Vespasia what you were doing messing around in the water this time of night? It’s ridiculous. Here! Let me give you a hand.” He reached down with both his arms.
“If you didn’t know what I was doing, why are you here?” Narraway said a little breathlessly, trying to grasp a spar of wood just above him. The current was stronger than he had expected, the water growing deeper by the second as he slid farther into the mud.
“Followed you, old chap. Knew you’d have to come and get your precious package, before the river took it.”
Narraway had no hold on the bridge now. The water was over his knees and it was like liquid ice. He could not keep his footing much longer.
Cavendish laughed. It was an eerie, detached sound in the wind.
Narraway used all his strength to pull on both of Cavendish’s hands and Cavendish could not resist the weight. He was already leaning too far over the bridge to right himself. “Stop it, you damn fool!” he yelled. “You’ll drown us both!” He heaved at Narraway, trying now to pull him up.
Narraway completely lost his footing and was a deadweight on Cavendish’s arms, in the water right up to his waist. He could not stay conscious much longer, and he knew it. The cold would take him even before he drowned.
“Why?” Narraway gasped. “It’s a false document…to mislead them!”
“It’s not the package, you fool!” Cavendish said between his teeth. “I don’t give a damn what happens to it! It’s you! I want you to know you didn’t save Iris—just as you didn’t save Edith! You’re a failure, an arrogant, stupid failure—” His voice broke and became a sob.
Narraway was frozen and the water was growing deeper. But slowly in his mind it was making sense. Edith…How did Cavendish know about her?
“Philippe killed Edith,” Narraway said between clenched teeth. He did not know for sure, but he believed it. He was so cold and he was sinking farther into the water.
“I know!” Cavendish pulled him up a bit. “And you let him! It was your job to look after her!”
“How do you know? You weren’t…” His mind was becoming clouded with the cold penetrating his whole body.
“Special Branch?” Cavendish’s face seemed to be closer. He was hanging on to Narraway, determined now that he should know everything. “No, I wasn’t. Edith was my daughter—all I had left of my Genevieve. Edith trusted you, and you let her die! Philippe told me all about it. He knew, because he killed her! He boasted about it!”
“Philippe…I’ll…” Narraway wanted to say something about catching him, but he knew instead he was going to die. Cavendish had only to let go of him; it was as easy as that.
“You’ll what? Kill him? You haven’t the guts. And as usual, you’re too late. I’ve taken care of that. Now it’s your turn.”
With the last ounce of strength he had, Narraway leaned back, managed to brace his feet against the upright of the bridge, and pulled hard. The frail structure gave way, its guardrails smashed by Cavendish’s weight. There was a tremendous splash as he fell, pulling one of the rails with him, closer to the middle of the stream. Narraway watched him struggle, flailing in the water for long seconds, and then he was carried over the edge of the weir and disappeared into the white, swirling cauldron of the pool below.
Narraway was paralyzed with horror and, for an instant, even more with regret. With blinding clarity, it all made sense. Perhaps there was even justice in it. Iris for Edith.
He was so cold he could not feel his body. Was this what death was like? A slowly growing cold until you felt nothing at all, and then darkness?
Except that he could see lights, dancing lights.
And then there was shouting.
More lights along the bank. A hand on him, grasping, pulling.
Dorian Brent was shouting at him, but his words made no sense.
For a little while all was darkness. Then he opened his eyes and there was brandy in his mouth. He swallowed it. Lantern light swayed above him.
“All right! Pick him up. Gently! Don’t want to break his arms and legs now. Or drop him!” Brent’s voice again. They had come for him. Vespasia!
He thought he saw her beautiful, anxious face and he spoke her name, but the word was only in his head.
They carried him up to the house, and by the time he was there he was fully conscious.
“I’m all right,” he insisted. “Cavendish? Did you get him, too?”
“I’m sorry,” Brent answered. “He went over the weir; there was no chance. Have some more brandy.” The tone made it plain it was an order.
“What time is it?” Narraway asked.
“About eight o’clock. Why?”
“I want to go home for Christmas…”
“A bit late for that…”
“I don’t care.” Narraway struggled to get up. “We can still be there by midnight. It’s only a couple of hours. Have someone pack my things…please. Please, Brent. I’ll take a hot bath, and put on dry clothes, and I’ll be all right.”
“I’ll ask Lady Vespasia—”
“You will do as I ask you! Help me up!”
“As I said, I’ll ask Lady Vespasia.”
* * *
When they dragged Narraway out of the water, all Vespasia could think of was her overwhelming relief. He was alive. It was all that mattered. They would treat him, look after him. He would be back to himself, in time.
Then, as they carried him back to the house, she realized that Cavendish was gone. He could not have survived going over the falls in that bitter-cold water. In fact, Narraway had been rescued only just in time. Another few minutes and the cold would have stopped his heart and the water filled his lungs. The thought choked her.
There was no need for explanations. It was clear now that Cavendish had been behind it all. There was time for the other answers later. Now Amelia must be devastated, as numb with shock and grief as any river coldness could make her. Whether she had loved Cavendish or not was irrelevant. And whe
ther she and Vespasia were enemies, rivals, or friends was also beside the point. As she walked up the dark path, slowly, feeling her way, as they all were, she wondered how much Amelia knew. Some of the story could be pieced together by the fact that it was Cavendish who had followed Narraway to the river. Would anyone deny that? Surely he must be the one who had tried to kill Iris?
The lights of the house were ahead. They went the last few yards before the butler met them and guided them in to where Mrs. Pugh was waiting with hot water, brandy, and blankets.
Narraway was in a rough state. Vespasia waited only long enough to be certain he knew she was close, and then she went to do what she knew she must.
Amelia was standing alone in the hall, dazed and ashen. She was not aware of Vespasia until Vespasia stood beside her. She turned with fear in her face.
“It is all being taken care of,” Vespasia said quietly. “Come and sit down. The fire will still be good enough in the drawing room. Someone will bring us a cup of tea. It will warm you and give you strength.”
Amelia stood perfectly still.
Vespasia took her arm and steered her toward the withdrawing room. She was aware of a maid standing helplessly. “Tea, please,” she told the girl. “Strong. And bring sugar, or honey. Don’t forget it. Now go.”
The girl turned wordlessly and obeyed.
Vespasia took Amelia into the withdrawing room and made her sit down while she poked the fire and put a few more pieces of coal on it. Then she sat down opposite Amelia, took a deep breath, and began. “I’m so sorry….”
Amelia blinked, then looked at Vespasia as if focusing on her for the first time. “Sorry? Are you?”
“Yes, of course I am. You have lost your husband in the most distressing circumstances. Whether this is a shock to you, or you knew or guessed much of it, it is still a terrible blow.”