by Corwin, Amy
“The doctor indicated there were several ribs broken. I don’t know the details.”
“But he‘ll recover?”
“I believe so, Miss. Now, if you'll oblige me—”
Chilton interrupted by ringing for Rose and asking for tea. She was grateful for the distraction, although she was less pleased when he commandeered the tea tray. He fixed her a cup of the most nauseatingly over-sweetened tea she had ever been obliged to consume. She nearly gagged on the first sip.
“Mr. Lyndel was found a mile from here, on the road to the village,” Mr. Allen said.
“Found?” she asked, “Precisely what do you mean, found?”
“Mr. Lyndel is dead.”
“Dead?”
“I take it you did know him, Miss Archer, to be so distressed by his death?”
“No—yes, not precisely. He came here, once. What happened to him? Was it his heart?”
“No. What makes you ask that?”
“I, uh, met him one time, as I mentioned. He was somewhat portly. I thought, well, he might have over-exerted himself while out walking—”
Mr. Allen thumbed his lower lip and then wrote something in his notebook. “That is certainly reasonable, Miss Archer. But the facts do not support your theory.” Then, in an extraordinarily prosaic movement, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a necklace, the Peckham necklace. The emeralds glimmered in the afternoon sunshine, shooting rainbow lights around the room.
A green spark danced upon Oriana’s hand, taunting her. “Where did you get our necklace?”
“Then you recognize it?”
“Yes. I found it the other day in the bottom of a wardrobe. The clasp is broken.”
Turning the necklace over in his hand, Mr. Allen studied the end and nodded. “So it is. Then, it is your necklace, Miss Archer? You had it in your possession?”
“Well, yes. I put it away in my drawer. It needed to be fixed. I thought since my sister is to come out this season that it would be beautiful for her. Or my mother. When they're in London next month—for the Season.” She felt as if she was gushing, but she couldn’t stop. “It is, perhaps, too much for Helen, but my mother—”
“So, you had this necklace,” Mr. Allen repeated gently. “Do you know how it came to be in Mr. Lyndel’s possession?”
“Mr. Lyndel had it?”
“Yes, Miss. It was in his pocket when he died.”
“How exactly did he die?” Chilton interrupted.
“He was shot. Clean through the heart. We believe it happened a few hours ago.”
“Oh, dear,” Oriana said.
Her mind whirled. She couldn't imagine who might have shot Mr. Lyndel. Then, she couldn’t help it. She glanced over at Chilton. They might have had an argument.
And he might have found and stolen the necklace. He could have handed it over to Mr. Lyndel, before getting into a disagreement. Her mind spun out strands of possibilities, each line darker than the last.
Then Mr. Allen gave them another surprise. He pulled out an ivory-gripped pistol from his pocket. “And this, Miss Archer? Do you recognize this?”
She stood. Chilton pulled her back down and placed his arm around her shoulders. In some subtle way, his presence reassured her despite her wild conjectures.
“It’s mine,” she said faintly.
“Yours?” Surprise filled Clinton’s face. “What would you be doing with a pistol?”
“It was my brother’s, actually—Andrew’s. He taught me to shoot because we were so troubled with rats. In the stables.” She laughed, though it caught in her throat. “They were bigger than the cats. Truly. I only used it once. It was small, so I could hold it more easily.”
“Yes,” Helen said breathlessly, standing suddenly. “But you gave it to the squire. Don’t you remember? It wasn’t shooting properly. He was going to look at it.” She took a deep breath, her hand resting at the base of her throat. “And you didn’t have the necklace. I took it!”
“You took it?” Oriana repeated before she almost yelled at her sister to sit and be quiet.
It wouldn’t do anyone any good for Helen to sacrifice herself in this deplorable way to save her. They needed her to sacrifice herself by marrying well, which she could hardly do when dangling from the end of the hangman’s noose.
“Yes,” Helen said as her voice steadied. “I found it in your drawer. I was looking for a handkerchief. And I found it.” She flashed a triumphant glance at Mr. Allen. “So, Oriana did not have either the pistol or the necklace. She is innocent.”
Mr. Allen’s gray brows rose. “I am merely pursuing an inquiry, Miss Helen. There is no question of guilt…yet.”
“But, why? Why did you take the necklace, Helen?” She ignored Mr. Allen.
“I wanted Grandmamma to have it. I thought she would be so pleased. And I was afraid you would pawn it, Oriana, to help Uncle John.”
“Helen!” She winced, her young sister nearly let too much slip in her babble of words. “Helen, really, do try not be ridiculous,” she continued, trying to cover her warning in front of the astute constable. How she disliked him with his watchful eyes and sharp ears. She frowned before trying to adopt a more natural tone. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I meant to, but I forgot. I am sorry, Oriana.”
“So you were the last one to have the necklace, Miss Helen?”
“Yes!” Helen’s answer was so emphatic that her blonde curls bounced around her face.
Mr. Allen seemed quite unmoved by her loveliness, however. He stared at her for a few minutes and then wrote some more lines in his book.
Oriana craned her neck, but she couldn’t see what those pudgy little fingers were writing. Apparently fine clothes, lace and ribbons were not always as effective as Helen believed.
“No,” Chilton interrupted. He squeezed Oriana’s shoulder.
She stiffened, afraid of what he would say.
Please don’t, she prayed. Please don’t tell us you killed him. Please, everyone in this room stay calm and quiet. No one say another word.
He ignored her silent plea. “Their uncle must have seen Miss Helen Archer take the necklace and removed it, himself. I came across him when he had the necklace in his possession.”
“Mr. Archer had the emeralds last?”
Chilton shook his head. “No. I removed them from Mr. Archer’s possession.”
Her mind reeled. “You took them from Uncle John?”
Her gaze strayed to the necklace. The green gems glinted evilly. For a moment, she could almost believe the legend that it was cursed. The jewels brought nothing but heartache and death. No wonder they had been hidden in the bottom of the wardrobe.
“I didn’t want them to get...lost.” The concerned look in his gray eyes made her grateful, until she wondered if she truly knew what he meant.
She knew the necklace would be pawned if Uncle John had it, but she wasn’t sure, yet, about Mr. Dacy. However, she had to remind herself that he was a friend of her Uncle’s and a gamester. He would be just as likely to pawn it as her uncle.
But her heart cried that she was wrong. He wouldn’t do such a thing, although her head knew better. She knew her Uncle and the sort of friends he attracted. It was Uncle John who had brought Mr. Lyndel to their house, after all. And now death stumbled in his wake.
“So you, Mr. Dacy, were the last one to have the necklace?”
“Yes.”
“And how well did you know Mr. Lyndel.”
“Not at all. I’ve never heard of him.” His cheerful tone made her feel slightly more confident. He was, at least, a very good liar. “Who was he?”
“We are trying to ascertain that. He appears to have come to the village a few days ago. Said he had business here at The Orchards. So, you were the last one with the necklace and have been staying here?”
“Yes, but I didn’t know him.”
“But, you’ve been staying here at The Orchards and had the necklace, correct?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Allen smiled and tapped his book with the pencil. “You’ve been in London, though, for a few days? And just returned?”
“It certainly appears that way, doesn’t it?” Chilton agreed. She had to admire his way of avoiding the issue of compound lies to the village constable.
“What were you doing in London, if I may ask?”
“Certainly. I wanted to talk to my father.”
“I see.” Mr. Allen’s eyes drifted back to Oriana and then rested on Chilton’s hand on her shoulder. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” Chilton replied.
His fingers stroked her neck while she tried not to shriek a denial. What was he doing? Surely, he didn’t intend to imply that they were engaged? He couldn’t be so foolish as to try to protect her with a false engagement. She couldn’t bear another broken engagement. And it would surely make her notorious.
How many other women could claim to have been thrown aside by two men?
Then her eyes flashed over to the necklace which Mr. Allen had placed on the table beside him. The necklace made a pretty motive for marriage. He clearly wanted it. He already admitted taking it from her uncle.
She wanted to cry.
“Mr. Dacy,” Mr. Allen said. He flipped to a clean page in his notebook. “Mr. Dacy, your name is familiar. You are not from this area?”
“No.”
“Who is your father?”
“Lord Chichester.”
“I thought I recognized your name. Are you the son who joined the Rifle Corps?”
Chilton straightened. The hand on her shoulder grew very still. “Yes.”
“A major, if I recall.”
“Yes.”
“So you're a sharp shooter, then.”
“Yes.” Chilton sighed. “And I'm capable of shooting a pistol with tolerable accuracy. Is that what you want to know?”
Mr. Allen grinned. “I imagine anyone in this room would have been able to shoot the little pistol we found on the road a few yards away from Mr. Lyndel.”
Oh, my, thought Oriana.
She was uncomfortably reminded that he could shoot very well and was apparently the son of a baron. He must be a younger son, she decided, in despair. A baron would never permit his eldest son and heir to risk his life in the military.
Only a younger son with no prospects would join the military, become a gamester, and be found in the company of her uncle on one of his adventures. Or work for a man such as Mr. Lyndel.
And she remembered very well that Mr. Lyndel had admitted that his tall associate broke her uncle’s arm. The scattered pieces were settling into a very ugly picture.
“So Major Dacy didn’t know Mr. Lyndel, but you did, Miss Archer?” Mr. Allen asked after writing for a few moments.
Her fingers curled, and she moved one hand to grip Chilton’s knee before she realized what she was doing. She released his leg reluctantly and locked her fingers together in her lap. She stared at the carpet and felt the overly sweet tea she had consumed sloshing uneasily in her stomach.
“Yes. I met him briefly. Once. Our butler, Mr. Brown, will confirm it,” Oriana admitted.
“Were you the one who had business with him?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Then why was he here?”
“He mentioned he wished to speak to my uncle.”
“And did he speak to your uncle?”
“No. Uncle John was indisposed at the time. I met with Mr. Lyndel to tell him this. Then he left. He couldn’t have been here above five minutes, and I never saw him again.” There was no reason to tell Mr. Allen that Mr. Lyndel had also proposed to her.
“I see,” Mr. Allen said, clearly not seeing—or believing her—at all. “So it was your uncle who knew the gentleman and had business with him?”
“Yes,” Oriana said miserably, until she remembered his broken arm. “But, it can’t have been Uncle John, you know. His right arm is broken, and he is right-handed. He couldn’t have shot Mr. Lyndel.”
“At close range, I daresay he could have managed with his left.”
“But I’m sure he didn’t. Have you spoken to him?”
“No. As you are aware, your uncle is indisposed.” Mr. Allen wrote a few last notes and stood up. “Well, that’s all for now. If you’ll permit me, I’ll return tomorrow to speak with Mr. Archer. He may have been a witness to the event. He was certainly present at the time.”
“But he didn’t shoot him. He’s never had my pistol. I don’t believe he even knew I owned it. Andrew gave it to me as a gift when I was twenty. So you’ll ask the squire about the pistol, won’t you?” she reminded Mr. Allen. She hated to involve the squire, who also acted as the local Magistrate, but it was, thankfully, the truth.
She didn’t want to think about her uncle’s possible involvement. She was only mildly reassured by the fact that despite past indiscretions, he had never, to her knowledge, killed anyone to whom he owed money.
“I’ll be conferring with Squire Winkle. If you remember anything, or your uncle awakens, please let me know. Now, this may be a trifle irregular, but I will leave you in possession of the necklace—it is too valuable. It is your property. However, you must sign for it.” He flipped to a page near the end of his notebook and then laid it on the table in front of them.
The heading on the paper was ‘Receipt’ and it listed the emerald necklace. She picked up the pencil he offered her and carefully signed her name on the page, noting the date and time.
“Thank you and good day, Ladies. And Major Dacy.” Mr. Allen carefully tucked his notebook into his waistcoat pocket and thrust his hat onto his head. “Mr. Brown,” he said at the door. “I’d like to see your boy, Joshua, if he’s here.”
“Yes, Mr. Allen,” Brown replied in his heavy, lugubrious voice. He turned and escorted Mr. Allen down the hallway.
Oriana stared at the dreadful emerald necklace, loathe to touch it. The broken clasp caught her eye. At a minimum, she should take it to the village jeweler to have it repaired. With any luck, it would be stolen from the goldsmith, and they would never see it again.
Chapter Twenty-One
His Own Hand Is Foul
As soon as Mr. Allen stepped out of sight, Oriana tore her gaze from the necklace. She shook off Chilton’s heavy, but comforting arm.
“I must check on Uncle John,” she said when he seemed reluctant to let her go.
“I want to talk to you, after you’ve seen him.”
She nodded although she didn’t want to talk to him.
The less they said to one another, the better. Despite the desire to lean her head against his broad chest and listen to the deep thud of his heart for the rest of her life, she intended to resist. She couldn’t blame him for neglecting to mention his illustrious parent and the true extent of his military experiences. However, she could blame him for drawing her into this preposterous engagement and making her want it to be true.
No matter what her heart desired, she would never, under any circumstances, marry a gamester. Especially not a gamester who may have murdered his associate.
A mere hour ago, he had appeared on the road, coming to the house from the direction of the village. His clothing had been dusty and in disarray. He could easily have murdered Mr. Lyndel and been on his way back to The Orchards.
Carefully picking up the necklace, she returned it to the tattered velvet bag. Then she slipped it through the side seam in her walking dress and tucked it into the pocket dangling inside. The heavy lump banged into her leg when she walked, but she didn’t want anyone else to become a victim of the curse.
Certainly none of the servants deserved such a fate.
Nervous and unhappy, she went up to her uncle’s room and padded over to the bed. He was fast asleep. To her horror, she found she could hardly recognize him.
His face was a mass of swollen flesh and bruises. Although his eyes were closed, even if he had been awake, she doubted he could have opened them. The blackish-blue, distended skin
under his brows and around his eyelids nearly enveloped the lashes. Only a faint crease remained between the pillows of swollen flesh.
A cut on his left cheekbone was surrounded by a deep red area already turning a vicious purple. His lips were split, and she hoped he had not lost any teeth. He had always been so proud of his straight, white teeth. Only his arrogant beak of a nose remained untouched, like the prow of a ship rising above the bruise-purple and blue waves.
Listening to his labored breathing, she didn’t dare to lift the blankets to see the condition of his chest. Broken ribs—that was what Mr. Allen had reported. And other injuries. She gripped her arms trying not to imagine what had happened in that hour while she was out walking Hunter.
This couldn’t be the work of Chilton, her heart insisted. He wouldn’t do this. Not to her uncle. It couldn’t have been him, even if he was coming from that direction.
And yet Mr. Lyndel said that his associate was Mr. Chilton Dacy. And Mr. Lyndel insisted that Chilton had been the one who broke her uncle’s arm.
She laid a hand on Uncle John's brow and checked for signs of a developing fever. To her relief, the skin was cool and dry. The bedside carafe was full of water if he should awake. With nothing left to do, she straightened the covers and left, shutting the door gently behind her. She was so preoccupied with her concern over her uncle that she nearly ran into Chilton as he left his room.
“How is Mr. Archer?” he asked.
“Asleep.” She studied his face, but saw only concern and warmth sleeping in his gray eyes. “He doesn’t look well. His face is terribly bruised and swollen.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Archer. Is there anything I can do?”
“No, we’ll just have to wait until he wakes up.”
“May I talk to you? Now?”
She glanced around uncertainly. An intimate talk with him wasn’t what she needed at the moment. If anything, she required time to consider matters in private and harden her heart against him. Surely, he would leave soon, and she would never see him again.
The notion lowered her spirits further.
“Yes, I suppose,” she replied, betrayed by her heart.