Page 53 of Ambition (The Chaplain’s Legacy #6)
O ne of the ladies gave a low moan, but Eustace laughed.
“Bravo, Edgerton! A fine tale. But you have forgotten, I think, that I was in my own bed twelve miles away at the time, as my entire household will tell you… have already told you, I believe.”
“I have not forgotten that, sir. If his lordship will permit the indulgence, I should like to describe how I see the murder arising in the mind, and then taking place.”
The earl nodded his agreement. One or two of the gentlemen at the back exchanged wry glances, and Eustace was still smiling, quite sure of himself.
But Michael was very sure of himself, too, and had dealt with enough murderers over the years to understand how good a face they could put on impending disaster.
So he settled down to tell them just how the murder must have happened.
“It began, I believe, a week or ten days before Mr Nicholson’s murder,” he said.
“Perhaps there were earlier attempts on the life of Mr Walter Atherton, or Viscount Birtwell, as he was then. There were certainly a number of odd incidents — accidental or otherwise. Whatever the truth, there is no longer any hope of pursuing them, so let them be left in the past, if they existed. But certainly Mr Eustace must have been considering how his brother might be disposed of. A second son must always be a little envious of his elder brother, who has so much, when he has so little. Mr Eustace is better off than many a second son, for he has a modest independence, enough to enable him to live as a gentleman and not need a career, but that does not compare with his brother’s future prospects, of eight thousand a year and a great title, as well as Corland Castle and much other property. ”
Pettigrew pushed a glass of something into Michael’s hand. Gratefully, he took a sip. An excellent brandy, and French, no doubt. He knew, now, where that had come from. But that was not his concern.
“And now he has something else that Mr Eustace wanted, as well,” Michael went on.
“His future wife is Miss Beatrice Franklyn, whose personal attractions are enhanced by a dowry of forty thousand pounds. Mr Eustace had already offered for Miss Franklyn twice at this point, and been rejected both times. If only Walter were not there! Then both the inheritance and Miss Franklyn would be in Mr Eustace’s hands.
Yet time was running out, for surely Miss Franklyn would soon set a date for the wedding, and then all would be lost. If only there were a way to get rid of Walter.
So he must have thought, as he arranged the armoury display on the stairs on that day.
If only! But he could see no way it could be done, because he would be the first to be suspected. ”
The men were listening quietly now, thinking about it, and he could see the frowns on some faces, and the curious glances thrown Eustace’s way, as if they were beginning to wonder — could he truly have done this?
Could he have wanted to kill his own brother?
Someone was sobbing quietly — Lady Rennington, he thought.
Lady Alice looked ashen, but dry-eyed. The younger ladies were clearly shocked, but they listened in silence.
“But then, a strange mischance occurred. Mr Eustace was arranging the armoury display on the stairs one day, and the belt which was meant to hold the axe in place, broke. Or perhaps it was already broken, who can say? However it was, it could not serve its purpose and the axe could not be displayed. The broken belt is one of those niggling little points that always worried me. I assumed at first — we all assumed, I think — that the belt was broken by the murderer wrenching the axe from the display on the night of the murder. A weapon seized by chance, as he passed by. But my own experiments proved that the slightest touch would bring the entire display crashing down, as many of you will remember.”
There was a murmuring around the room, recalling the devastation at the time, when the armour and weapons had cascaded noisily down the stairs and scattered across the great hall.
“So it would have been impossible to remove the axe from the display on the night of the murder without waking the whole household. Where, then, was the axe, if not secured by the belt? The maid who cleaned the display never saw the axe at all, so it must have been hidden, and thanks to Lady Tarvin, we know precisely where — it was inside the urn overlooked by the balcony. Light shining through the roof windows on a sunny day illuminated it, and she realised what it was. So I suggest that Mr Eustace, when arranging his display and discovering that the belt was broken, tossed the axe into an urn. Perhaps he intended to come back and repair or replace the belt, but when he thought about it, he realised he now had the perfect opportunity to remove his brother. Mr Walter was not in his usual room, near to the rest of the family, but in the guest suite, surrounded by empty rooms with no one to overhear. There was a hidden weapon, ready to be retrieved at any time, and the murder would look as though a random stranger had simply walked in, picked up the axe from the display on the stairs and wandered into Mr Walter’s room by chance.
All Mr Eustace had to do was to arrange a rock solid alibi for himself. ”
“Yes, how do you explain that, Edgerton?” Lord Rennington said testily. “He was at home all night, his servants vouch for him.”
“Laudanum,” Michael said crisply. “He chose a day, and invited a lady to join him to dine and stay the night, as witness. To ensure his servants slept soundly, he gave them a bowl of punch, and sleep soundly they certainly did. I interviewed every one of them, and they all reported it. Let me read you some of their remarks. ‘Never overslept before.’ That was the head groom. ‘Don’t know what was in that punch but I went out like a light and woke ever so late.’ Or this one.
‘The master made the punch with his own hands, and it must have been strong because I fell asleep at the kitchen table.’ It has not been mentioned, but I would wager that Miss Wilkes was offered a bedtime glass of something, too. ”
She nodded. “It’s true, but it was just wine, and he poured it from the bottle, two glasses.”
“But did he drink any of it?”
“I… don’t remember,” she said, frowning. “I don’t remember much, to be honest, until I woke up next morning, and the sun was well up. I was ever so late getting back to—”
Eustace made a noise deep in his throat. “Rosamunde!”
“Oh!” She flushed, and subsided at once.
“It is quite all right, Miss Wilkes,” Michael said smoothly. “I believe I can finish the sentence for you. You were late getting back to Pickering, to Apstead House, a rather exclusive brothel. Miss Rochester, that was your name then, was it not?”
She turned terrified eyes on Eustace, who made a small shrug with one shoulder. “What of it? So she was once a light-skirt, and now she is my future wife.”
“I thought she looked familiar!” Tess cried. “I saw her when I worked there as a housemaid briefly.”
“A housemaid!” said Lady Alice and Lady Rennington in unison.
Izzy laughed. “Tess, you are the most outrageous girl!”
“Although she had black hair when I saw her,” Tess said.
“That is true,” Michael said. “I think with a black wig, as she used to wear when she visited Welwood, she looked somewhat like Miss Beatrice Franklyn. Your little fantasy, Mr Eustace. And perhaps, if you had succeeded in killing your brother, it would not have mattered that your alibi was a light-skirt, but when you realised you had killed Nicholson instead, the owner of the very house she lived in, you had to avoid any connection with Pickering. Hence the use of Daisy Marler, instead.”
“This is all very fanciful, Edgerton,” Eustace sneered. “So I drugged my entire household and rode here in the middle of the night, did I?”
“You did,” Michael said, with a swift grin.
“And how did I do that, without rousing the grooms who slept above the stables?”
“You rode one of the horses kept in the field across the road from your entrance gates. You keep a saddle in the shed there, for your various night-time activities, most of which do not interest me, but it was very convenient on that night in June.”
Eustace shook his head, but said nothing.
Michael went on, “You rode to Corland — I wonder how you chose the right direction? Did you check with the markings on your own gateposts, or does the horse know its way better than you? But that is of no consequence. You reached Corland, left your horse in the woods to the north of the lodge gates, climbed the wall — there is a very convenient point where the coping stone has fallen off — and entered the castle, probably by the garden door, where the bolt was broken. I wonder if you broke it yourself? Possibly you did. The rest we know. The dogs knew you, so even if you encountered them, they would not have barked. You came up the service stairs and out into the great hall, a clear route with no confusing turns, you retrieved the hidden axe and then… then, sir, you had to choose a stair. Left or right? And in the darkness, in a panic in case you encountered a servant up early, you went up the wrong stair, entered the wrong room and murdered the wrong man. I can only imagine your dismay when you discovered your error.”
“He was astonished,” Walter said. “He came over that afternoon, and was amazed to hear that Nicholson had been murdered.”
“He did not usually call in that casual way,” Kent said, frowning. “He must have expected to be summoned as soon as Walter’s body was discovered, and came to find out why he had not.”
“For heaven’s sake, Kent!” Eustace cried. “Anyone would think you believe this farrago of nonsense!”