Silent in the Sanctuary (40 page)

His expression did not change, but I noticed a sudden brilliance to his eyes, the shimmer of unshed tears. I had found his most vulnerable spot. And like Paris bringing down Achilles, my aim must be true.

“It is not right you should suffer. All you have to do is tell me, and it will be over.”

For an instant I thought I had pushed him too far. But then his body sagged and his other hand reached out to cover mine.

“Yes. That is what I want, for it to be over,” he murmured.

“Then tell me. I will not abandon you. I swear it.”

“I believe you,” he said simply.

And I settled in my chair and waited for Henry Ludlow to tell me everything he knew.

Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep,And in his simple show he harbours treason.

It was not his fault. He was Sir Cedric’s employee and cousin, poor relation to a monster who held the purse strings. Whatever crimes Sir Cedric had committed, Ludlow must fear being charged as an accomplice. I could well understand why he had kept silent. But as his kinsman he must know Sir Cedric better than most, witnessed the ferocity of his temper, his obstinance. And he must have drawn his own conclusion about the author of the murder in the chapel. Lucy’s claim to sanctuary must have cemented the conviction that Sir Cedric had murdered Lucian. A woman knows the heart of her beloved, and what she does not know, she intuits. Even if Lucy had not been privy to his plans, she had looked at the broken body on the floor of the chapel and known the handiwork of her beloved.

“His arrogance,” Henry began softly, “was deplorable. I have rarely ever encountered a man so replete with it, and for so little cause. I would have hated him on his own merit, even if she had not revealed to me exactly what he was.”

I felt the niggle of a question, but did not ask. Now that Henry was talking, I was reluctant to interrupt him.

“I have known other men like him—that bluff, hearty sort. Think they own the world, and they very often do. They stand astride the world like Colossus and they never see what they crush beneath their feet. I hated him from the moment I first made his acquaintance.”

I had no choice but to break in. “Why did you accept a position in his employ?” I ventured softly.

Henry blinked at me. “Employ? I was not speaking of Sir Cedric. I was talking about Lucian Snow.”

“Ah, yes, of course. I do apologise. Go on,” I said with an encouraging smile, but inwardly I was thinking feverishly.

“His inhumanity, his impiety, characteristics to be deplored in a clergyman. To listen to him expounding his plan to reform the Gypsies did not improve my opinion of him,” he said angrily. “And when I heard how he had left the army and taken a living so blithely, as a means of keeping himself with little effort and no care whatsoever for his parishioners, it made me quite physically ill.”

He looked intently at me, his eyes alight with passion. “Do you know what I would have given for a living of my own? My very heart’s blood. It was all I ever wanted. A small country parish where I could do some good. That was my entire life’s ambition. To shepherd a flock. To guide, to help, to protect, to inspire. That is all I wanted. It was my dearest dream, and it was taken from me. And given to a man like that—no, not a man. A child. He looked at it as if it were a plaything, to be picked up and cast aside when it suited him, with no care for the needs of his parishioners, no interest in them save whether they had pretty daughters,” he said, with real bitterness.

His hands were holding mine very tightly, and even if I had wanted to remove them, I doubt I could have done so.

“But I was cordial to him, because it is my job to be cordial to everyone with whom Sir Cedric chooses to associate. I told myself I should not have to bear him long. He would only be here until the wedding was celebrated. After that he would return to his lodgings in the village, and I would see him no more. I would think on him no more.”

Henry’s eyes slid away from mine then, and I knew he was seeing it all again in his mind’s eye.

“And then she came to me, in tears. He was blackmailing her, demanding payment for his silence over some youthful transgression he had discovered through mutual acquaintances. She would not tell me what it was, only that he had misunderstood something quite terribly, had twisted an innocent mistake into something ugly and untrue. She had no money, and she faced utter ruin if he was not silenced.”

The room was quite warm, I decided, or perhaps it was just that we were sitting too near the fire. But I dared not move and draw attention to myself. Henry seemed not to notice. A drop of perspiration trickled down his hairline, but he did not dash it away.

“You must not think we are friends. I would not presume such a thing—but we are confidants after a fashion. I told her of my disappointed hopes, and she told me of hers. She trusted me.” My mind raced on, piecing the snippets he dropped in my lap. I had never heard any scandal attached to Lucy’s name, but she had lived quietly. And if the youthful transgression was an innocent mistake as she claimed, it seemed reasonable we would not have heard talk of it. As for her relationship with Ludlow himself, it was entirely understandable. A young, romantic girl betrothed to a much older man of stern temperament—what other gentleman would serve so well as a confidant than her husband’s cousin, her own future kinsman?

I turned my attention back to Ludlow. He picked up the thread of his tale, his voice lower. The perspiration was beading freely on his brow now, but still he did not move.

“She came to me, that first night we were here in the Abbey, when we were introduced to Lucian Snow at dinner. She was in tears. I have never seen her so distraught. It was half an hour before she could speak and tell me what he had done.”

Here he broke off and, coming to himself a little, he wiped the sweat off of his brow. His other hand still clutched mine.

“What had he done?” I prompted softly.

“He threatened to reveal all to Cedric and the earl if she did not offer him payment. He said he would see her ruined if she failed.”

He leaned a little closer, his expressive eyes dark with anguish. “Can you imagine what that meant to her? To see that monster here? In polite company, received by his lordship as an honoured guest? Sitting at table and making polite conversation with her? She was shattered by it, wholly. I could not believe that a man of God could be so foul. But I heard with my own ears when that man would talk so lightly of worldly things. I realised the picture she painted of him was a true one. And I knew he must be prevented from ever hurting anyone else.”

I swallowed hard, sickeningly conscious of the fact that I was holding hands with a murderer. How had I gotten it so profoundly wrong?

“So you determined you must stop him,” I said evenly. It would not do to alarm him now. There was nothing else to do but encourage him calmly to tell his tale.

“You must see that I had no choice,” he said, a touch of anger sharpening his words.

“Of course,” I told him, my tone soothing. “It had to be done.”

His expression lightened at once. “Yes, that is it. It had to be done. You do understand. I did what must be done. And I am not repentant of it, save for the burden of guilt upon my immortal soul. It was no different than hunting a fox. He was predatory and destructive and he had to be stopped. So I took the jewels from Lady Hermia’s room and while he was turned with his back to me, gloating over them, as trusting as a lamb, I struck him down. It was an easy thing, so much easier than I thought to put my hand to his neck and finish it. He did not even struggle. He simply opened his mouth and gave one great sigh and his eyes rolled over white. I had a bad moment when he would not turn loose of the jewels,” he said, almost apologetically. “I thought I would have to force his hand open, but there was one last shudder and his fingers relaxed. I did not know the dead would do such a thing. I put them into my pocket, and later I left them with his things. I thought someone might find them there, and in death know him for what he was.”

He bowed his head, raising our clasped hands until they touched his damp brow. We were silent for a long while; he seemed spent, and yet somehow cleansed, as if talking of the deed had washed him free of the stain of it. For my part, I knew I should never be clean of it, but still questions lingered.

“I am curious about something,” I said softly. “When we entered the chapel and Lucy was discovered, standing over the body, why did you cry out and ask her what she had done? You as much as accused her of murdering Snow herself.”

He flushed painfully. “That grieves me more than taking the life of Lucian Snow. Snow was a devil, and devils must be cast out. But implicating Miss Lucy was a sin I cannot forgive in myself.” His expression was rueful. “I was tempted, my lady. I saw in that instant she might be blamed for it, just for a little while, and Cedric might break with her.”

“And if he did not marry, you might inherit his millions,” I finished.

He nodded, the flush ebbing to leave him white-lipped. “So much money, so much good might be done with it. But it was unworthy of me to covet what is not mine, and I am wholly repentant.”

“But why did you attack Miss Lucy and Miss Emma with the brandy?”

His eyes widened. “I would never—that is, I could not. Not a lady. Least of all so good, so deserving a lady, nor her sister. I could never raise my hand against an innocent. I promise you, I have confessed my sins. Do not lay that one at my door as well.”

His back drooped a little, and the spirit seemed to go out of him, but I was still wary. He was a changeable creature. His manner might be soft and gentle with me, but he had killed in cold blood, and I was deeply conscious of the fact that we were alone together.

“Lady Julia, you must believe I did what I did because it had to be done. And I have paid for it every moment since. I cannot close my eyes that I do not see his, staring up at me as I pressed the life out of him. I am not accustomed to such dark deeds. I am a clergyman’s son from Kent,” he said with a small, mirthless laugh. “What do I know of such things?”

Tears gathered in his eyes again. “My father was right, you know. He always told me that of the seven deadly sins, envy was the deadliest. I was envious of Lucian Snow. It was not just that he was a monster. It was that he had everything I had not. And he did not deserve it.”

“That was not for you to decide, Henry.”

“I wanted to believe I was an instrument of justice. At least that is what I told myself when I thought of taking his life. But when the moment came, there in the chapel, when my hand tightened at his throat, all I felt was that cursed envy. I knew I was taking away from him everything he had that I did not, and I delighted in it. Tell me, Lady Julia,” he said, his voice cracking on a sob, “who is the monster?”

He fell into me then, and I shied from him. But he meant me no harm. He was sobbing, the great, racking sobs of a child whose heart has been irreparably broken, and all he looked for in me was comfort. Without thinking, I put a hand on his back and petted him. He slid from the chair to his knees and stayed there, weeping into my lap for some time. Finally he recovered himself and drew back, wiping his face with a handkerchief.

“I am sorry. More than that, I am penitent. I know justice must be served, Lady Julia. I am content you should go and tell his lordship. I give you my word I will not try to escape,” he said, straightening his shoulders and looking me squarely in the eye.

I rose and edged my way to the door. I did not truly believe he would harm me, but I had been wrong about such things before. It seemed to me a little caution, even at this late juncture, would be prudent.

“Will you grant me one thing before you go?” he asked. He had command of himself now, but only lightly. His shoulders were trembling and his tone was plaintive.

“If I can,” I told him, my fingers wrapped about the doorknob.

He raised his chin, summoning his dignity. “Will you promise not to think too badly of me? I would not like to think that I was entirely friendless in this world, although God knows I do not deserve your regard.”

I paused a moment, my instincts warring. Then I released the doorknob, and with cool deliberation walked to where he stood. I put out my hand.

“You are not friendless, Henry. It is not in my power to forgive you, but neither is it in my power to condemn you.”

Solemnly as a judge, he shook my hand and the ghost of a smile touched his mouth.

“Thank you for that. Your kindness means more to me than you can possibly comprehend.”

I nodded and hurried out, stopping only when there was a stout door between us. I took a few deep breaths, not surprised to find my legs could barely hold me up. I was shaking, and cursing myself for a fool. But there was no time for recrimination. I hastened to Father’s room and banged upon the door. He must have returned to his room whilst I had been hearing Henry Ludlow’s confession, for he had already retired to bed; he was half-buried in a pile of mastiff pups, dear Crab snuffling in her sleep on the floor.

“What the devil is it now?” he growled, sitting up and straightening his nightcap.

“Father, you must come. Ludlow has just confessed to the murder of Lucian Snow.”

It took several minutes before I could make him understand what I had just learned, his expression growing more ominous by the minute.

“You mean to say you went to this man’s room alone to accuse him of murder?”

“Not precisely, no,” I temporised. “But he has confessed it, and you must come.”

It took three more tries to coax him out of bed, and by that time he was scolding me bitterly.

“For an intelligent woman, Julia, you are by far the most headstrong, reckless, thoughtless, feckless of my children. And that is quite saying something,” he grumbled, tumbling the puppies as he threw aside his bedclothes.

I retreated hastily to the corridor and paced, waiting for him to appear. He had dressed himself quickly, not bothering with collar and cuffs.

“You might want to remove, er—” I pointed to his nightcap. “It lacks a certain gravitas.”