Page 25 of Loyalty (The Chaplain’s Legacy #5)

M ichael waited until Eustace Atherton had departed from Welwood in his carriage before examining the tower again. There was no particular reason for that, only that Eustace was the sort of person who would want to know just what he was doing there, and Michael was not minded to explain himself. He took Sandy and James Neate with him, because the more eyes, the better when a place was being searched. Michael no longer took his own infallibility for granted in his investigations. He had had a dismal record lately, and if Sandy or Neate could find something useful, he would be very pleased.

They found the key under the stone, exactly where it had been left. Michael rolled his eyes at the continuing lack of security, but it was certainly convenient for his own purposes. Everything downstairs was much as it had been on his previous visit, except that the cellar was now full of barrels. That was not surprising, and not of interest, so Michael locked up the cellar again and the three of them went upstairs. Sandy looked into every empty room on the way up, but Michael was tolerably sure he would find nothing, and so it proved.

In the top room, Michael said, “Tell me everything you see, anything you notice.”

“There’s a wonderful view of Welwood,” Sandy said at once. “Ye can see most of the drive, the front door, and that must be the stables on the far side. Ye’d see everyone coming and going, and someone’s been watching, look.” He gestured to the telescope, still pointing directly at the house. “Why would anyone want to know who’s been visiting Mr Eustace?”

“To do with the smuggling, presumably,” Neate said. “Michael, what are we looking for, precisely?”

“Anything that might suggest that Miss Peach was ever here.”

“But you are not convinced? Because of the green leather bag?”

“Which is not the bag that was found near the body, and it stretches credibility to suppose that she had two different bags.”

“Really, Michael,” Neate said in severe tones. “You used to be more suspicious than that. The bags are easy to explain. Kent Atherton discovered signs that someone was here when he visited with Katherine Parish. His brother being away, he took it upon himself to return the next day, where he encountered Miss Peach. Finding that she suspected him, he strangled her, took her body to Tonkins Farm, arranging the barn to look as if she had been living there. He knew that Miss Parish would confirm the green bag, so he put the contents into a different bag and disposed of the green leather one, to ensure there was no connection with this tower.”

“That is—” Michael began, then frowned. “Actually, that is very logical. And that dilapidated old cloth bag is not the sort of thing Miss Peach would use. But… Kent Atherton? Do you truly think he murdered Nicholson?”

“Well, he could have done,” Neate said with a shrug. “A great many people could have done.”

“Yes, but why?” Michael said. “Give me a single sensible reason and I will arrest him today.”

Neate sighed. “No idea.”

They both laughed.

Sandy, meanwhile, had been prowling round the room, moving furniture, looking behind and under things, even raking through the ashes in the brazier. Now he rattled the door to the outside. “Is there a key to this door?”

“No. Atherton said it is missing,” Michael said.

“Ye’ve two unexplained keys from Miss Peach’s pocket,” Sandy said.

“Oh, but that is—” Michael stopped. Impossible, surely, but it would not hurt to try them, would it?

The second key opened the door.

“There ye are,” Sandy said smugly. “Now ye’ve the proof that Miss Peach was here.”

“So we do,” Michael said wonderingly.

He stepped out onto the balcony. It was only narrow, with a low wall on the outer side, and steps leading up to a covered viewpoint on the very top of the tower.

“A fine view,” Sandy said, following him nimbly up the steps.

“A bit blowy up here,” Michael said.

“Aye, and nothing left for us to find,” Sandy said, looking around at the dusty, leaf-blown floor. “No green bag, for instance.”

“Yet she must have come up here,” Michael said thoughtfully. “She had the key in her pocket. Why else would she keep it except to use this vantage point?”

“When was the door locked and when was it unlocked?” Sandy said.

Michael frowned, considering. “It was locked when I was here before. It was unlocked when Kent Atherton was here with Miss Parish, but it was locked on his previous visit, and the key was missing the whole time.”

“Ah!” Sandy said. “And what do you make of that?”

“If we assume that Miss Peach had the key the whole time… on one occasion she forgot to lock that door.”

“And what was different about that one time? The time when Miss Parish was here?”

“Nothing… except that there were signs of someone living there. The bed, disordered… as if someone had just risen from it!” he cried excitedly. “They surprised her. She was sleeping, perhaps, woke in a panic hearing people coming up the stairs and rushed out onto the balcony to hide, but she forgot, or perhaps did not have time, to lock the door behind her. It was her hiding place, Sandy! At those times when the door was locked, she was out there, keeping out of sight. Probably she would have taken her bag with her, when she had sufficient notice of an arrival. And since she still had the key with her, that means she intended to return here.”

A cry from below sent them running down the steps again and into the top room, where James Neate was waving something triumphantly. “Her notebook, Michael! It was stitched into the mattress. Neatly done, but that is an old trick.”

“But what does it say? What was she up to? Why was she here?”

“Ah. It is all in code, sadly, but I shall work on it. It cannot be too complicated. I just need the book she used. There were some in her room, so I shall see what I can work out. It should not take long to decipher.”

“Excellent,” Michael said. “This has been a good day’s work, gentlemen. At least we know now that Miss Peach was here, although for what purpose we cannot tell.”

“She may have discovered some link between the smuggling and Nicholson,” Neate said.

“Possibly. Or she may simply have become distracted by the smuggling and assumed it had some relevance when in fact it did not. Whatever the case, we cannot know until the notebook is understood. There is nothing more we can do here. Let us leave everything as we found it.”

“And the key?” Neate said.

“I believe I shall keep it for now. Returning it will raise questions which I am not sure I wish to answer yet.”

“Ye could simply leave it in the lock,” Sandy said.

Michael laughed. “That will confuse everybody! Very well, but whenever this business is settled, if it ever is settled, I shall be obliged to confess.”

“Confession is good for the soul,” Sandy said with a grin.

“Ah, if only our murderer understood that,” Michael murmured. “Confession — a real confession, that is — would make my life so much easier.”

***

K ent left Branton within the hour, driven by a burning fear that Katy would be taken advantage of by a fraudster. Gray came to the inn with him, gave him the newspaper cutting to show the Cathcarts and talked to him while he packed. That is to say, Mitcham packed while Kent paced restlessly back and forth.

“It might not be as bad as you fear,” Gray said. “Whether this man is indeed Katy’s brother or not, he cannot seize control of her fortune by main force. He must go through the law, and you know how the law operates, Mr Atherton. There will be all manner of documents required, and he will have to prove that he is who he says he is. Lawyers are very reluctant to hand over money to unknown persons. Mr Humber at the bank has full control of every penny of Katy’s fortune, and he will not give it away until he and all her trustees are satisfied with this man’s claim.”

“But he is to take her away from her aunt and uncle,” Kent said despairingly. “She will then be completely in his power.”

“Then we must hope that you arrive in time to prevent her from leaving. I wish you God speed, Mr Atherton.”

Kent spent two slow, dreary, fretful days on the road, veering between hope that he would arrive before Katy had left and terror that he would be too late. And if this man was truly Harold Parish, and everyone laughed at him for his anxiety, what did that matter when set against Katy’s safety? He had to be sure!

It was dark when he arrived in Birchall, but he could not wait another second to know how matters stood, so he drove straight to Cathcart House, startling the butler by striding past him into the hall, his mud-stained boots leaving a trail of footprints on the tiles. The ladies had already gone up to change for dinner, but Cathcart was still in his study, and emerged to greet him.

“Mr Atherton?”

“Is she here? Miss Parish? Is she still here? It is imperative I see her at once.”

“Good heavens, whatever has happened, to bring you here with such urgency?”

“I must know that she is safe.”

“She is perfectly safe. A miracle has occurred, Mr Atherton, for her brother is returned from the dead. Her own brother! No one is better suited to take care of her.”

“But is she here? I must see her!”

“She has gone to York with Mr Harold Parish, where they will set up home together.”

“Then I am too late!” Kent cried in despair.

It took some time to explain his fears to the Cathcarts, who were filled with incredulity.

“Such a pleasant young man,” Mrs Cathcart said repeatedly. “So amiable and well-mannered. I am sure he must be exactly who he says he is, Mr Atherton.”

But James Cathcart frowned as he read the newspaper cutting. “Here is mention of the balloon ascension he recalled seeing as a boy… and the fire at Mr Parish’s mill, too! Everything he told us could have been obtained from the newspaper, for the entire history of Harold Parish is laid out here for anyone to read. It even mentions that Cousin Kate’s new home is in Birchall, and your names, too. This man came straight here, did he not? He never went to Branton, where any number of people might have said at once whether he was truly Harold Parish.”

By this time it was almost the dinner hour, and Kent’s postilions were still outside and growing restless. The Cathcarts offered Kent a room for the night, he gratefully accepted and after unloading the luggage, the carriage was sent on to the White Horse for the night.

Nothing else was talked of at the dinner table but Katherine and her supposed brother.

“He was so open in his manner, I was certain we could not be deceived in him,” Mrs Cathcart said distressfully. “Such a pleasant man! How could we have been so taken in? Surely he must be just what he claims to be!”

Kent said nothing, allowing Mrs Cathcart and her daughters to describe the many perfections of the supposed Mr Harold Parish, and how plausible he had been, and how no one could have guessed there was anything amiss. When the ladies had withdrawn, and Kent was alone with Mr Alan Cathcart and his three sons, he could speak more forthrightly.

“It may be that this man is just what he appears to be, and that all is well with Miss Parish, but I cannot be easy in my mind until I have seen them both. I intend, therefore, to go to York and find them, if they are indeed to be found there. If they are not, then I shall have to look further afield.

Cathcart raised his eyebrows. “I am by no means convinced that this man is a fraud, but I am decidedly of the opinion that if there is to be any intervention, it should come from her relations.”

“You think I take too much upon myself, is that it?” Kent said hotly, too irate to be diplomatic. “I should simply stand aside and do nothing, because you , sir, have decided that there is nothing to worry about?”

“I say only that it is for her relations to protect her, if protection is needed.”

Before Kent could answer, James Cathcart said, “But you have done nothing to protect her, Father. You have made no checks on this man. You simply accepted his own assertion that he is Harold Parish.”

Cathcart reddened. “As Katherine herself did, if you recall. What, then, would you have had me do, James?”

“If nothing else, you could have asked him for his naval discharge papers, or information about his pension. You could have written to the Admiralty to enquire about him. Perhaps you could have insisted he go to Branton to be formally identified. Instead, you have allowed Cousin Kate to go off alone with this man, who is a complete stranger, not just to us but to her, too. Atherton is right, someone needs to look into this man, and it should be for us to undertake the task.”

His father sighed. “You think me neglectful, James, but some of this I have already done. I did not think of discharge papers, but I enquired as to his pension and other income, and his answers were satisfactory. I have written to the Admiralty, but have not yet had a reply. As for sending him to Branton, that might have been sensible but since Katherine was happy to accept him as her brother I did not wish to offend her by disbelieving him. I told her in the strongest terms to write to us as soon as she arrives in York. Perhaps I have been remiss, but I am not entirely heedless of her welfare and if it will satisfy you I shall certainly go chasing around the countryside to find her at the earliest opportunity.”

“It does not satisfy me, no,” James said. “You may wait here for any letters that arrive. I shall go to York myself. As Kate’s cousin, I have the right, I believe. May I have the carriage?”

“Well… your mother needs it tomorrow, but perhaps the day after—”

“Never mind. I shall ride, then.”

“You may join me in my carriage,” Kent said. “It is hardly riding weather, and I have room for both you and your man.”

“You still mean to go to York?” James said sharply.

“Certainly I do. Did I not say so?”

“Father is right. It is for her relations to protect Kate.”

Kent’s anxiety was such that he had no intention of ceding the point. He would go to York to find Katy with or without her relations’ approval. But he had no wish to antagonise them, so he said mildly, “One does not need to be a relation to feel concern for a young lady taken to a strange town by an unknown man. Any gentleman would do as much. With two of us, we shall be able to discover them more quickly.”

“If they are in York at all,” James said.

“Wherever they have gone, I intend to discover them,” Kent said grimly.

***

B efore anything could be done about Miss Peach’s notebook, Michael received a brief note from Eustace Atherton.

‘Miss Rosamunde Wilkes, my future wife, is presently staying at Corland Castle. You may speak to her whenever convenient. E. Atherton’

“Future wife?” Sandy said. “Aye, he’d better wed the lassie, since he’s already bedded her.”

“And she will no doubt confirm everything he says,” Michael said gloomily. “If only we could find one discrepancy in all these stories!”

“He’s not likely to have murdered Nicholson, though, is he?” Sandy said. “Not when his entire household swears he never stirred from his bed, so it hardly matters.”

“It always matters when people lie to us,” Michael said tersely. “Perhaps the whole lot of them are lying. He could have murdered Nicholson, and that is what we must always bear in mind, but until we have a reason, we cannot narrow down our list of the scores of people who could have done it to the one who actually wielded that axe.”

When Michael arrived at Corland, the butler told him that Mr Eustace wished to speak to him in the gallery. Fearing some stratagem, Michael could not help laughing when he reached the gallery, for there was Mr Eustace, stripped to his shirtsleeves, testing out a very elegant sabre.

“Ah, there you are, Edgerton,” he called out cheerfully. “A new acquisition. What do you think?”

“Beautiful,” Michael said, in genuine appreciation. “Prussian?”

“I would say so. Lovely falchion blade. Try it. I have a Spanish broadsword for you to look at, too.”

Naturally, Michael could not resist, for although he was a connoisseur of weaponry, he had never had the leisure to become a collector, as Eustace was, and he never refused the chance to try out an interesting new sword. There was a peculiar satisfaction in the weight of it in his hand, the swordsmith’s art exerted to make a blade which is both light to wield and yet strong enough to do battle. To hold such a superbly crafted piece of art, to slash and thrust against an imaginary opponent, to imagine himself in the intensity of battle once more brought him the utmost satisfaction. He had never regretted leaving the East India Company Army, and he sincerely hoped he would never be called upon to endure the torments of war again, but oh, the joy of a sword in his hand!

He was in a mellow mood by the time he made his way upstairs to join Sandy, Neate and Pettigrew Willerton-Forbes for the interview with Miss Wilkes. It was strange to be back in the old schoolroom at Corland Castle after so many weeks when they had been focused on Pickering. All the notes were still there, the axe on a sideboard, and the plan of the castle drawn up by Winnie Strong, marked with the occupants of every bedroom. He smiled as he saw her neat handwriting and the correction she had made. She had initially placed Walter Atherton, the earl’s eldest son, in his usual bedroom, but as it was undergoing one of Lady Rennington’s redecoration crusades, he had actually slept in a guest bedroom. A young lady with a commendable devotion to accuracy.

To one side was the blackboard, still showing the last list of suspects. ‘Tess Nicholson, Tom Shapman, John Whyte’ it read, even though Michael was now convinced by the innocence of all three. Angrily, he scrubbed the board clean.

Miss Rosamunde Wilkes was an attractive young lady, elegantly dressed, her light brown hair piled high on her head, with just a few tendrils framing her face. She was accompanied both by Eustace Atherton, and by a severely featured lady’s maid. Michael made no protest. Miss Wilkes would certainly have been told precisely what story to offer, and was not likely to fumble the telling, so there was no point in insisting on seeing her alone.

“Your card, Miss Wilkes?” Michael said, after ushering her to a seat.

She produced a silver card case and extracted her card. ‘Miss Rosamunde Wilkes, Warriston Hall, Northumberland’ , he read.

“That is your father’s estate? His name?”

“Sir Reginald Wilkes. Baronet.” Her voice was pleasant and well-modulated, with a refined accent.

“Your mother’s maiden name?”

“Winfell. Maria Winfell.”

“Ah. Then she must be related to the Duke of Dunmorton.”

“A distant cousin. My mother has been dead these ten years, Captain.” Her voice wavered, as if she might cry, so Michael hurried on.

“Miss Wilkes, I must ask you some questions about a specific night in June… where you were, with whom, and what happened that night. Mr Atherton has taken steps to shield you from this, but I am investigating a murder and it is vital that everyone I talk to tells me the truth. I am not here to judge you and have no interest in the morality of your actions. I would also assure you that nothing you say will be repeated outside this room. It will not get back to your father through me, I give you my word on that. But you must tell me the absolute truth, do you understand? If I find out later that you have lied, I will certainly arrest you, and that cannot be concealed from your father.”

“I understand,” she said in a low voice.

She then told him exactly the same story that Daisy had told, although with a few more details. She remembered very well the dishes that had been served at dinner, unlike Daisy, who had guessed at mutton. She too said that she had slept late, only waking at around ten, to find Eustace still sleeping beside her.

There was only one odd point. “Miss Wilkes, Mr Atherton’s servants told me that his companion that night had black, curly hair, which is an appropriate description of Daisy Marler’s hair, but not of yours.”

“I always wear a wig when I visit Eustace, to avoid being recognised,” she said.

“Is there anyone at Welwood who might recognise you?”

“Not at Welwood,” she said, smiling slightly. “The servants do not know who I am, and they were never told my name. Eustace is very discreet. When I visit him, I come from my aunt’s house in Scarborough, where I am well known. I should not like anyone to recognise me in his carriage.”

There was not a single point at which Michael could quibble. Despite the uncomfortable feeling that Eustace Atherton was running rings around him, he could not find any flaws in Miss Wilkes’ tale. He spent a day at Welwood talking again to all the servants, who were relieved that the truth was now known. Eustace had told them the same story as Daisy, that he wanted to protect the lady’s reputation, and it was merely the substitution of one lady for another.

“It seemed reasonable to us,” Wallace, the head groom, said. “We knew he had someone in his bed, and it didn’t seem to matter which lady he brought forward to vouch for him. We never said it were Daisy, sir. We agreed we wouldn’t lie for him, no matter what, so we all agreed to say only what was true — that the lady was here for dinner and never left until late the next morning. And we know he couldn’t have gone off to Corland that night, not without one of us knowing. We’ll all swear on the Holy Book that no horse left the stable that night.”

“There are horses in the field across the road.”

“Which need a saddle,” Wallace said at once. “There are only four saddles at Welwood, they were all locked away, and the key was in my pocket. No one left Welwood that night, Captain Edgerton.”

“I believe you,” Michael said. “In fact, I never doubted it, but Mr Eustace lied to me and I had to address that problem.”

“Aye, you’ve a murderer to catch,” Wallace said, “that’s fair enough, but it weren’t Mr Eustace, sir.”

But if it could not have been Eustace, there was still the possibility that it was Kent Atherton. But how to prove it? And most of all — why?