The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster (41 page)

A timid voice interjected, “I—I’m here, lieutenant Piers.”

“No!”
The housekeeper’s scream was piercing, and she flew to throw her arms around her tall son and demand in near hysteria that he say nothing, that he had done nothing, and that Piers Cranford was cruelly trying to make him the scapegoat to protect his murdering steward.

The General, at his sternest, said, “That… will… do, Eliza! Herbert, have the goodness to explain all this rigmarole.”

Herbert said, “’Tis of no use, Mother. They’ll find out anyhow.” He put her from him firmly, and said, “I’m the guilty one, my lord. I killed Sidney Grover!”

Mrs. Turner burst into a flood of weeping.

The General said softly, “Now did you, by God! I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you…”

“Because he so mercilessly tormented you?” asked Piers.

“No, sir! He was a bully and a beast, but I could have stood that. It was when he kept bragging and saying such evil things about Miss—Miss Laura. She is so beautiful and—and so pure. And the things he said… Vile, loathsome things about what he would do when she was his wife.”

“Sidney Grover?”
exploded the General incredulously. “Finchley’s groom fancied he would wed a lady of Quality? Fella must have been demented.”

“He claimed he knew things Major Finchley had done, sir. Bad things that could have ruined the Major, and very likely got him hung. He said the Major wouldn’t dare deny him. Miss Laura was as good as—as in his bed!”

“Pretty talk, and so much hot air, likely,” said the General
with a snort of disgust. Scowling, he added sombrely, “Blackmail must be the most vicious crime under the sun… Still, you’d have done well to laugh at him rather than ruin your life by beating him to death.”

“He didn’t, my lord,” declared the housekeeper between sobs. “My poor son knows not what he says. Don’t pay heed to—”

“Mother—stop,” said Herbert with surprising resolution. “I did indeed put an end to the filthy beast. I have no regrets. He wanted killing.”

Over the housekeeper’s distraught wails, Piers observed, “He was a strong and powerful man. What did you hit him with, Herbert?”

Turner held up a fist. It was large and muscular, and he said, “I can kill a bull with this, sir. I did once, when Farmer Milling’s bull tried to gore me in the meadow. I knew when Grover went down, I’d hit hard.”

“Straight to the jaw, eh?”

“That’s right, sir.”

“No,” said Piers intently. “That’s wrong, Bert. Sidney Grover was beaten to death from behind. His skull was crushed not by a fist but by some heavy object.”

Through a hushed moment they all stared at him.

Herbert said haltingly, “Then… is it possible I…”

“You
didn’t
murder that evil man,” cried the housekeeper, smiling through her tears as she hugged him. “You would never attack a man from behind!”

“No. Never. But—I did knock him down.”

“And someone else came along,” said Piers thoughtfully. “Someone wanting to be rid of him, who saw him, perhaps trying to get up, and finished the business.”

“Finchley!” The General drove a fist so hard at the desktop that his quill-pen leaped from the standish. “Grover was a threat and very likely blackmailing him, so as you said, Piers, the man saw a chance to end his persecution. And persecution it is!
Almost I can sanction his action. If ever I lay my hands on who is—” He broke off hurriedly, turned very red, and said, “Well, you may be at ease, Eliza. Your son has not a man’s blood on his hands. I’d thought we might have to smuggle him out of the country, but by what my clever grandnephew has found, we’ve but to take our case to Bow Street, and—”

“You’ll not have far to go, my lord.”

The new voice came from the doorway. Turning, Piers was touched by a chill apprehension.

Joshua “Pedlar,” clad in a dark brown coat and red waistcoat and distinguished by a neat powdered wig, advanced to show the General a small staff surmounted by a crown.

“Bow Street?” The General scowled. “How dare you march into my study unannounced, sir?”

The Runner handed him a card. “You may be glad I did come unannounced, Lord Cranford. I heard enough to convince me of young Turner’s innocence.”

Reading the card, the General muttered, “Joshua Swift. Hmm… I’ve heard that name, I think.”

Joshua Swift, who had other names and identities, smiled a tight smile. “‘Not always swift, but sure,’ perhaps, sir? I’ve been so called.”

“And with reason, by what I hear,” said Piers. “Does this solve your case, Swift? Or are we still to see you—er, peddling around my village?”

“Time alone will tell, Mr. Cranford. Although, actually, this was not the case I have been following. As I think you are aware.”

The General said sharply, “What’s this? More trouble?”

“Mr. Swift appears to believe that is the case,” said Piers with a bored smile. “What will be your next move, Swift?”

“In this particular case, Mr. Cranford?”

“Unless you are able tó prove another,” said Piers, his gaze challenging. For just an instant, frustration banished the Runner’s
bland and enigmatic smile. Recovering, he said that Herbert must accompany him to Bow Street, though he doubted the youth would be detained.

Piers said, “I’ll go with you, Bert.”

“You will do no such thing,” said the General vehemently. “You run along, Mr. Swift. I shall escort Turner to the Court.”

Piers put up his hand to hide a grin and the Runner looked considerably taken aback at having been told to “run along,” but after a momentary hesitation he bowed and followed Mrs. Turner to the door.

When they were gone Herbert moved very fast to take up Piers hand and before he could be prevented had pressed a kiss on it.

“Come now,” said Piers, red-faced with embarrassment. “There’s no call for that, lad.”

“For that and more, sir,” said Turner, his fine eyes shining with unshed tears. “Always, you have been so kind and—and stood between me and those who despised me. Now—you have saved my life! I really thought I had killed Sidney Grover and I was resigned to pay the penalty! If you
knew
what it meant to find I had not…! I shall never be able to thank you enough!”

Piers directed a steady look at his great-uncle. “Why, that’s what families are all about, eh, sir? We stand by our own.”

The General’s jaw sagged once again.

Turner said uncertainly, “Do you—do you really think of me as—as part of your family, Mr. Cranford?”

“I do, and so do we all. Now you had best go and comfort your poor mama; she has had a wrenching time of it, I make no doubt.”

Herbert nodded and walked quickly from the room, head up and step sprightly.

Lord Nugent, still staring glassy-eyed at Piers, mumbled, “You… know!”

“Gervaise told me.”

“My dear God! Then the whole
ton
will know!”

“Not so. He is an honourable man. He’ll keep a still tongue—if that’s what you wish.”

“Do you say Gervaise is… honourable?” Even more glassy-eyed, the General stammered, “But—I thought—you—and—he—Now, by Zeus and all his confounded thunders and lightnings! I demand to be told—Oh, Gad! I apologize, Eliza, but you should not come creeping in if you don’t want to hear me swear at my infuriatingly sly grandnephew. What do you have in that great box? Some of Herbert’s clothes, just in case?”

“No, sir. Something of your own, which I now return and can only pray you will forgive me.”

“Well, I won’t,” roared the General, waving the box away. “I’ll endure no more soul-bearings, and so I tell you! I am a poor gentle old soul, and—” His impassioned and questionable declaration was cut short as his housekeeper allowed Piers to take the box from her. It was heavier than he’d guessed and momentarily he had forgotten his wound. With a gasp he dropped the box and, falling, it burst open.

“Great… saints!” gasped Lord Nugent, his eyes goggling.

Scarcely less astonished, Piers stared down at the small fortune in golden guineas and hand-written bank notes that had tumbled from the box. “Why, Eliza,” he exclaimed, “you are a wealthy woman! But Herbert won’t need a tenth of this to his defence, even if he is bound over for trial, which I—”

His great-uncle, who had been gazing down at the pile, interrupted frowningly. “This is
my
signature! See here! My note for five hundred guineas… And this one for two hundred… These were amounts I paid to—”

“To your blackmailing housekeeper!” Sinking to her knees before him, Mrs. Turner said brokenly, “Yes, unlike my son, I am guilty, Nugent. But ’tis all here. I touched not a penny.”

Piers said quietly, “I’ll leave you alone, sir,” and started to the door.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” growled the General, throwing out an
arresting hand. “I want a witness to this chicanery!”

“I rather doubt Eliza intended the money for herself, Uncle.”

The General scowled from his grandnephew to his housekeeper. “What then? This woman has been blackmailing me for years!”

Mrs. Turner raised a woeful, tear-streaked face. “For our—son, Nugent.” She glanced at Piers. “There—now you know.”

“He already knew! Our guilty secret is doubtless being bruited about from Land’s End to John o’Groat’s by now! What has it to say to anything? You didn’t rob me on the grounds of our natural son—poor fellow.”

“No, sir. But—because of, and for—him. Yes, I know how you must despise me. It was only—only that… Well, I knew of your unhappy involvement with that treasonable League of Jewelled Men—No! Do not turn from me, I beg! I know you were unaware of their real purpose and had managed to conceal your connection with them. Only—you did so much for the Cranfords when their parents died. You sent the boys to University. You gave Dimity a generous dowry when she wed Sir Anthony Farrar. But—year after year, not a penny for poor Herbert. Oh, I know he was an embarrassment to you because of his accident—”

“No, no,” mumbled the General, avoiding his nephew’s eyes. “He is a good lad. I—I kept him here, did I not?”

“Yes. And out of sight as much as was possible. And would acknowledge to none that he is your own flesh and blood.” She held up her hands prayerfully and begged, “You are a proud man. I understood how you have felt. But—oh, Nugent, do pray forgive me! I never meant you harm. I was just so afraid that if—if anything should happen to me there would be no one to—to provide for my dearest boy.”

“Well, and there you misjudge me,” said the General, bending to take her hands and adding gruffly, “Come now, m’dear, get up, do. And there is no call for such censorious looks from
you, nephew! I had every intention to provide for Herbert He’s a fine-looking lad—do you deny that, sir?”

“No, indeed,” said Piers meekly.

“And but for the accident with that stupid nag would have turned into a son I’d be proud to acknowledge. What d’ye say to that, sir?”

“I say there is plenty to be proud of now, Uncle.”

“Then you may keep a civil tongue in your head if you expect me to use this great windfall to fund your purchase of the Quail Hill property—
and
to tow you comfortably out of the River Tick! Your church steeple and the flood and the cow and the whole blasted rest of it. And there I go—looking after you again! D’ye object, m’dear? Twould be curst lonely in this house if you were to go off and leave me! We shall see Herbert well secure for all his days. I swear it!”

Mrs. Turner buried her face in her hands, and he threw an affectionate arm about her even as he scowled defiantly át his grandnephew.

Piers said, “Sir—how can I thank you?”

“By relieving me of my Trusteeship and taking on all the burdens of your damned nuisance of an estate! I’m done with it as of this minute. Oh, curse and confound it, she’s at it again!
Why
must females always become watering-pots when they’re happy, I wonder…”

Cranford left them and walked slowly along the flagway. There was no sign of his coach and he deduced that Bobby must be walking the pair. Was little Mary weeping because she was happy? He thought wistfully that hers was a more sunny nature; she would most likely be smiling. Such a delightful smile with those pretty lips that curved so adorably… He shook himself mentally. It was stupid to scourge himself so. The die was cast. He must be happy—for her dear sake. At least, he had the satisfaction of knowing he had been of some small service to her. And she was fond of him. At least, she had seemed genuinely affected when she’d come to visit him. He
would have that memory, and eventually this crushing sense of loss and a grey lonely existence must fade and—

“Good day to you, Lieutenant Piers Cranford!”

The harsh accents told him who had spoken, and his heavy heart grew heavier. “Good day, Mrs. Stansbury,” he said, removing his tricorne and essaying a bow.

Mary’s mother was, as usual, clad in the height of fashion and had to bend her head to avoid displacing her high French wig as the footman handed her from the luxurious coach. They were some distance from the General’s house and she said with marked condescension, “You may escort me to Lord Nugent’s door. Oh dear. You carry your arm in a sling, I see. If you are notable…”

He assured her he was able, and was inwardly glad she did not lean on him as he offered his good arm and retraced his steps. “You are looking very well, ma’am,” he said.

“Oh, yes. It is expected of me, and so I contrive. I wish I could return the compliment, but you do not look well at all. Perhaps you will regain your looks in time. Some people do, you know, so do not be in despair. I am here to see your great-uncle so as to set his mind at rest. You will know that my daughter, bless her gentle heart, has received a most flattering offer?”

He acknowledged that he was aware.

“But you do not say you wish them happy,” she scolded, slapping his wrist with her gloved hand. “Very mean-spirited in you, sir!”

“I apologize, ma’am. Pray believe I wish them every happiness. Shall Mr. Stansbury return to England for the—the wedding?”

“But of course,” she said, halting her graceful progress along the flagway and opening her eyes at him. “What a foolish question. He will have to give the bride away. If he does not, I suppose…Hmm. Perchance Lord Nugent would accept that honour. Now
that
would serve very well… I must ask him.”