Page 16 of The Elusive Earl (The Bad Heir Day Tales #3)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Brodie’s slouch against the barn doorway shifted to an upright stance. He’d taken the tactically superior position, with the strong afternoon sunlight at his back, so Graham assumed the place across the wide doorway from him.
“Do you accuse me of mistreating Lanie?” Brodie asked.
“I accuse you of kidnapping her, putting her at very great risk of harm, exposing her to the harsh night weather, and upsetting her sorely, and you did this while you wore my new cloak. I haven’t decided if you were trying to mislead any staff who saw you getting up to your tricks, or you were clever enough to try to deceive Lanie’s nose.”
“Lanie’s nose is very frequently stuck in the air, and you clearly left half your wits in Australia. Why would I seek to harm a blind girl whom I regard as family?”
Not a denial, and some part of Graham had been hoping for a denial. “Two reasons. First, you are trying to banish me again, and second, because Lanie was in the room when you gave your sister a fatal dose of laudanum. Even if you could not frighten me all the way back to the Antipodes, you could certainly throw a bad scare into Lanie.” And, by extension, Morna and Peter.
“You accuse me of murder now? How droll. A bit late for that, isn’t it? The culprit of record—who stands before me, I might add—has been caught and punished, subsequent to his own confession.”
Again, not quite a denial. More in the way of a deflection. Graham was abruptly weary of the discussion.
“Lanie detected the stink of your cigars in the countess’s sickroom,” Graham said. “As best I can piece together the facts, you poisoned the whole teapot—the blue one, always the blue one, which Mrs. Gibson probably told you—and thus when Lanie had a mere half a cup, she soon dozed off. The countess would have drunk the rest of the pot, finishing the last of it when I came along to administer one final dose of medicine. She was already drowsy and drugged, but I never thought to question her state. Your sister died because you saw to it that she was liberally overdosed with a powerful patent remedy.”
“You can’t verify any of that.”
“Mrs. Gibson is thriving in Massachusetts. I suspect she also noted you tampering with the teapot, or making an unusual offer to carry the tray abovestairs, and you threatened to see her blamed for your crime.”
Brodie stalked away from the barn door and down the aisle. “My sister was suffering terribly. Ask that quack Ramsey if you don’t believe me. He’s something of an expert on rheumatism. The countess would never have recovered. She would get worse and worse, lingering for years. The real question is how you lot could tolerate to see her enduring such agonies.”
Graham turned away from the sun, mindful of St. Didier’s warning to never give Brodie his back. “You stayed away from the sickroom generally to ensure suspicion would not fall on you, but you couldn’t resist checking on the progress of your crime. That’s why Lanie detected your signature cigar reek in Grandmama’s bedroom. Lanie will testify to that, too, though I’d rather spare her such an ordeal.”
Brodie pivoted and smiled. “Very gracious of you. If Lanie isn’t determined to see me in chains for being my sister’s angel of mercy, then what is the point of this discussion?”
The smile was genial, while the eyes remained watchful. St. Didier had been correct: Brodie had more plans in train.
“You admit to hastening the countess’s death?”
“Nobody else had the stomach for it, so yes. I ended her suffering. Purely as a concerned brother, I interviewed Ramsey regarding her prognosis. His own mother expired of the disease, and that was not a fact he wanted publicized when the countess went to her reward.”
“Which is how you’ve been able to blackmail him all these years.”
“My, my, my. You have been a busy little lad, haven’t you? The trick to blackmail—you do not want to know how I come by this knowledge—is to demand a modest sum to be paid at regular intervals, like a mortgage. The victim will always reason that the price of silence is easily borne, while the truth if aired could be disastrous. An easy choice, and Ramsey is a sensible fellow.”
A sensible fellow who, like Mrs. Gibson, would have made a logical suspect, except that Ramsey had been shrewd enough to sound an early, loud alarm on behalf of the expired countess.
“I thought of nearly everything,” Brodie said, shaking his head. “I did not think of Ramsey getting the bit between his teeth, and God’s judgment upon him for that recklessness. There was no need for any rubbishing inquiry.”
“He is supporting a large family, and he’s Scottish. You left him no choice but to guard his own reputation.”
“Got back a bit of my own, though, didn’t I? His little infusions of cash have come in handy. You have no idea what it’s like to be told that the family’s entire wealth, every spare groat, went into your older sister’s dowry. Dunhaven would have wed her if she hadn’t a pair of shoes to her name, but her settlements had to be worthy of her station. I was barely breeched when she wed, and nobody spared a thought for me or my prospects.”
The afternoon was so pretty and peaceful, but inside Graham’s heart, grief, rage, and sadness engaged in a roaring battle.
Brodie had been educated, clothed, fed, introduced to polite society, and given a haven to last him all his days, and yet, he saw himself as the injured party.
“I suppose you ran through the competence Grandmama left you?”
Brodie approached, letting his fingers trail against the iron railings that allowed horses to see out of their stalls and air to circulate.
“She left me a competence, true, but she also tied it up in a damned trust. I get a quarterly pittance. Can’t touch the principal until I’ve reached my three-score-and-ten. Bedamned Dunhaven made her do that, but she could have warned me.”
“Then Grandmama died for nothing.” The worst possible outcome for a story that might have ended in a remorseful explanation of an accident. That Brodie wasn’t dissembling, that he was nearly boasting of his wicked deeds, offered further proof that he had more trouble up his sleeve.
“Your grandmother died because her life was reduced to endless suffering. Then too, had I not been able to satisfy the worst of my creditors with regular sums, however modest, I might have been the one cut down.”
“Because you borrowed from the wrong people, and they might have made an example of the pretentious swell who had neither means nor title. You chose to commit murder rather than ask for help.”
Carriage wheels rattled in the stable yard. A damned inconvenient time for a neighbor to call. When Graham perused the conveyance, he recognized it as the venerable equipage available at the village livery. Sturdy enough to withstand a trip to Glasgow or Edinburgh and pulled by an unprepossessing team of chestnuts.
“I had asked for help,” Brodie snapped. “Dunhaven lent me sums here and there, but he had no idea of the cost of maintaining the sort of style that would entice an heiress to the altar. I all but begged him for a bit more generosity, but he could not be bothered.”
Nobody was getting out of the coach. “Did you kill Grandpapa too?”
“I didn’t have to. Grief did that for me, but he still foiled me for a time. I could have managed John, but those solicitors were impossible. I bided my time. I excel at biding my time. You should have remembered that.”
Graham asked the next question, despite not wanting to hear the answer. “What of John? Was he another of your victims?”
“Not as such,” Brodie replied with a monstrous sort of modesty. “I did make sure his flask was full at all times, though, and that he had an ample supply of flasks. Nature took its course. Speaking of flasks, how are you feeling, my boy?”
“Furious.” Also betrayed and bereft. How many people had suffered or died because Brodie hadn’t been able to entice an heiress into matrimony?
“You should be a bit dizzy by now. I adjusted the dose to suit your dimensions, and brandy is a first-rate medium for enhancing the properties of all manner of soporifics.”
Soporifics caused sleep rather than death. “You expect me to get into that coach, Uncle?” One driven by a skinny coachman in a black greatcoat.
“Indeed, I do, and when you are peacefully embraced by the arms of Morpheus, I will bundle you along to an East India Company vessel getting ready to set sail from Glasgow. I have a head for details, despite what you might think, and I’ve been setting matters in train since you failed to accommodate my efforts in London and Edinburgh.”
The coachman tipped his hat. Edinburgh. The runaway team of bays. Of course.
When Graham’s gaze returned to Brodie, a pistol had appeared in Uncle’s hand.
“Into the coach, my lord. You will find the door handles have been removed from the inside, but the roads down to Glasgow are reasonably smooth. We’ll have you there just in time for the midnight tide.”
Where was St. Didier? “I don’t care for sea voyages.”
“Can’t be helped, but you mustn’t fret about the castle. My associate there holding the ribbons put me in touch with a fellow who excels at copying wills and other tedious documents. Yours was easy to duplicate.”
Because a copy resided in the family safe, and Brodie had the combination. “You simply substituted your name for Morna’s.”
“When you make it that simple, one is helpless to resist. And then you obligingly took your own life at the Leap. Saw the tragedy myself from a distance. Could not believe my sorrowing old eyes, but of course, your ordeal in Australia robbed you of all sense. Now into the coach with you, and don’t expect your English lackey to come to the rescue. I was rather more liberal with the dose I added to his flask. The medicine has no taste, I’m told, much like the English themselves.”
Brodie grinned at his little slur while Graham calculated the distance between the pistol and his own heart. Too close. Morna would disapprove.
Fortunately, Brodie wasn’t the only person capable of making alternative plans.
“Uncle…” Graham pretended to steady himself on an oak pillar. “You can’t expect to get away with this.”
“I can and I do, and we must secure you in the coach before you nod off entirely. Come along.”
Graham stumbled, he reeled, he went down to one knee and braced himself on the dirt floor of the barn aisle.
“Not feeling quite the… Ruddy hell.”
The gun barrel dropped an inch.
Graham came up fast, throwing a handful of dirt straight into Brodie’s eyes. The older man staggered and shook his head, the pistol still in his hand.
“Get away, you idiot. Get back, or I’ll shoot.”
The horses stamped at the commotion, while the coachman tried to calm them.
“Nice try, my boy,” Brodie said, still blinking and wiping at his eyes. “But a failed try. Any more of that nonsense, and old John MacIver truly will find your corpse bobbing in the Tay, the self-inflicted wound to your temple explanation enough for any sheriff.”
Brodie had apparently lost his reason while biding in the middle of the beautiful Perthshire countryside. “I didn’t drink your damned poison,” Graham said. “I knew better.”
“You might wish you had. I certainly wish you had. Move.” Brodie waved the pistol in the direction of the coach, just as a shadow emerged from the stable’s overhang.
“Put the gun down, Uncle,” Morna said. “This is not a parasol I’m holding against your back.”
Thank heaven’s most vigilant angel. “Set your pistol on the ground, Uncle,” Graham said. “Gently. Morna, my thanks.”
Brodie complied.
“Move away from the lady. Five steps in the direction of the coach.”
The look in Brodie’s eye suggested he was hatching yet another plan—to retrieve the pistol, overpower Morna, take her gun from her grasp, or simply flee. His schemes were thwarted by the coachman whipping the team into a trot and disappearing in the direction of the main gates.
“Give it up,” Morna said as Graham retrieved Brodie’s pistol and emptied it of bullets. “You’ve committed your last swindle, and by God, you shall pay.”
“You heard?” Graham asked, accepting her pistol when she passed it over.
“Every word, as did Lanie and Peter. Now what’s to be done with him?”
Fair question. “Make sure St. Didier yet breathes.”
Morna ducked into the barn and returned a moment later. “No longer on his feet, but breathing and muttering curses.”
“Then Uncle is in luck, of a sort. Lanie, Peter, show yourselves and help St. Didier get to his feet. Even muddled, he’ll have useful counsel to offer.”
“I’ll leave,” Brodie said. “I am not safe anywhere but on the castle’s grounds, truth be told, and I will just damned leave.”
“Wrong.” Morna looked very severe as Peter and Lanie emerged from around the side of the stable.
“What does she mean?” Brodie asked. “If those damned fellows in Edinburgh get wind that I won’t inherit, they will begin by breaking my legs.”
“She means,” Graham said, “you are no longer safe on castle grounds, and one refrains from arguing with a lady, especially when she’s absolutely correct.”
Peter, ably assisted by two of the largest footmen, escorted Brodie up to the castle.
“He killed her,” Morna said, watching them go. “I cannot believe he killed her, all so he could play cards and bet on horse races and…”
Graham slipped an arm around Morna’s waist, which was fortunate when her knees had grown unreliable.
“By the time Grandmama died,” Graham said, “flirting and gaming were no longer the issue. Brodie had dug himself a hole as deep as a grave, and his creditors would have been only too happy to shove him into it. That sort depends on a reputation for ruthlessness, and Brodie really should have known better than to ever tangle with parties of that ilk.”
Lanie squeezed Morna’s hand with cool fingers. “We should have known better than to trust him. You were magnificent, Morna. ‘This is not a parasol I’m holding at your back…’ You promised him death. I heard that in your voice.”
“Not death. I want him to suffer for years, as Grandmama suffered. I want him to know real want and privation of the sort Grandmama spared him. I want him to miss Scotland ten times worse than Graham ever did. If I’d killed him…”
Words were growing difficult. Brodie had planned for Graham a fate worse than death, a return to Graham’s worst nightmares, another banishment by sea, and this one without any hope of a return. No resources, no way to let his family know his fate, at least not for a very long while.
“I should have killed him.” Morna sagged against Graham, anger and sorrow blending with physical and moral unsteadiness. “He was miserable to Peter, nasty to the staff, never satisfied no matter how much he was waited on… I am crying. I hate to cry.”
Graham wrapped her in a hug. “Saving my life entitles you to do as you ruddy well please, woman. Bawl so loudly they’ll hear you in Edinburgh.”
“St. Didier is coming,” Lanie said, two instants before that good soul emerged from the barn, shaded his eyes, and proceeded into the stable yard at a careful pace.
“I missed all the fun?”
“The old wretch tried to drug me too,” Graham said, arms still about Morna. “Peter is standing guard over the prisoner, whom my countess subdued easily. Lanie, if you would see St. Didier up to the castle, he’d probably appreciate a pot of stout black tea and some of Cook’s shortbread. We’ll be along soon.”
Morna felt an awkward pat to her shoulder. St. Didier, apologizing perhaps for having literally fallen asleep at his post. She tucked closer to Graham and wished the whole world to the Antipodes.
“They’re gone,” Graham murmured near her ear. “Lanie is right. You were magnificent. Shall we find a bench? Or maybe you’d like me to carry you?”
Morna drew back. “Carry me?”
“Steadies my nerves to have you in my arms. All of you. Brodie held a gun, Morna, and he would have shot you before he fired at me.”
Graham had seen Brodie’s face while Morna had not. “Is my lord having trouble staying upright?”
He nodded, his eyes desperately serious. “We had a plan, and you holding a gun on Brodie was not part of that plan.”
“You had a plan. You and St. Didier. I know I agreed to it, but then I thought about that coach in Edinburgh, and two heads are better than one, and Uncle would have never thought to consider me a threat.”
Graham gestured across the stable yard to the path that led to castle. “No forced marches, please. I want to bellow and pace and shake my fist, Morna, but you are right: Brodie did not consider you a threat. He might have shot Peter, but he wasn’t expecting you in any guise. Neither was I.”
“You thought I was safely at my embroidery up at the castle.”
“I thank you and all the benevolent powers that you were not.”
“You aren’t angry?”
They walked along, arms about each other’s waists, and Morna’s heart settled into a steadier tempo.
“I am ready to tear Brodie’s head from his neck with my bare hands. He is a rancid stain on the family escutcheon and a bird dropping on the honor of the Scottish race. If we turn him over to the authorities, he is very likely to hang for blackmail alone.”
“Because you are the earl, and you could ensure that outcome.”
“Because, according to the law, he deserves that fate. As far as I am concerned, his fate is in your hands, Morna.”
The castle came into view, a glorious sight on a gorgeous spring afternoon. Seeing it, Morna felt a little as Graham must have felt upon returning from exile. Home, safety, family, traditions, and a worthy future were all encompassed in one ageless edifice, but first, old troubles had to be resolved once and for all.
“I don’t want him to hang,” Morna said, a degree of certainty infusing her words. “Brodie is a killer, but I want no responsibility for his death.”
“And if he kills again?”
“I see the difficulty. The world must be warned against him. Can you have him transported?”
“I like that,” Graham said. “Has a certain symmetry to it. Transported for life, though, not a mere seven years. I don’t know how much time he has left, but I want the entirety of it spent someplace far, far away from me and mine.”
“As do I.”
She eased away, but kept hold of Graham’s hand. They made their way together to the castle, and when Morna had fortified herself with a nip from Graham’s personal flask, Graham summoned the accused to the library, along with Peter, St. Didier, and Lanie.
“They heard you,” Graham said, standing before the central hearth and looking all of a piece with the third countess’s portrait above. “They heard you admit to causing Grandmama’s death, admit to blackmailing Dr. Ramsey, and admit to leading Lanie into the night and certain danger. Have you anything more to add?”
Graham sounded so calm, while Morna’s heart was back to imitating a slow war drum.
Brodie looked amused. “Am I supposed to apologize? You cannot prove I had anything to do with my sister’s merciful demise. Lanie was perfectly safe, else how comes she to be here now? As for Ramsey, perhaps he sends small tokens of gratitude for all the kind words I put in various ears about his excellent services.”
St. Didier examined his fingernails. “And perhaps he’ll sign an affidavit to the effect that you threatened to disclose his mother’s terrible struggle with rheumatism and his thorough knowledge of patent remedies used to treat it. Perhaps he’ll also swear in writing that you further threatened him with false testimony to the effect that you saw him coming out of your sister’s room late on the night in question. Who knows what he’ll testify to in person, but we do know he’s willing to testify.”
If Morna was not mistaken, St. Didier had just engaged in a bit of fanciful embroidery himself.
Brodie’s smile faded. “You cannot seriously… This is preposterous. Graham confessed. I cannot be blamed for the fact that he confessed. I could have seen Ramsey arrested, but Graham had to interfere and take matters into his own hands.”
“Suspicion,” Peter said through clenched teeth, “would have also fallen on ‘poor, blind Lanie.’ You were counting on that.”
“And I would have had no alibi,” Lanie said. “I would have only a muddled recollection of the whole evening because I was drugged, too, but I know what I smelled, Uncle, and you deserve to hang.”
Her eyes glittered with tears, and Morna itched to throw something heavy and jagged at Brodie’s head.
“Nobody would hang a blind girl,” Brodie said. “This drama is all quite excessive and beyond tiresome.”
“You are fortunate,” Graham said, pacing before the hearth, “that Morna is not a great proponent of violence, else you’d already be dead, Uncle.”
“Listen to him,” Lanie said. “ Listen to his voice . He means it. You’d be dead if Graham’s wishes prevailed, and I’d rejoice to know you burned in hell. I could hear the River Tay, damn you, taunting me to set a single foot off that bench, hectoring me to take the smallest, shivering risk. I will never forgive you for that, for making me afraid in a place I love. Perhaps we should shove you off the Leap, Uncle. That might be justice.”
Brodie’s expression became uncertain.
“We have your attention,” Graham said. “And don’t think to bolt out the French doors, because we’ve posted footmen at all the exits who will be only too happy to catch you and thoroughly subdue you , with my blessing. You will stand trial on felony charges. If you plead guilty to blackmail, I will urge the court to show you the lenience of transportation for life. You may take one trunk and such cash as you can legally lay your hands on, but you will depart Scotland, never to return.”
“Or,” Peter said, “you could stand trial for murder, kidnapping, and blackmail. Graham deserves to be exonerated.”
Morna could have hugged him for that observation. “Bear in mind,” she said, “I am becoming more of a proponent of violence by the moment. Lanie’s suggestion has very strong appeal.”
Brodie looked about the room and must have seen that nobody would object to summary judgment at the Leap.
“I’ll take my snuffboxes. They are worth a great deal, and—”
“No,” Graham said. “You will take such snuff boxes as remain when enough have been sold to make Ramsey whole. Restitution is a vital part of justice and good for the conscience, assuming you acquire one. For every objection you make to this plan, we’ll send one of your snuffboxes to Vicar for the poor box. Is there more to be said?”
Lanie walked up to Brodie, drew back her arm, and delivered an unerring blow to his cheek. “‘Poor, blind Lanie’ has decent aim, Uncle. Who knew?”
She departed with the dignity of a queen.
“Lanie speaks for me,” Peter said. “If fate is just, you will never live to blight the shores of Australia. Consider yourself belatedly disowned on behalf of my grandparents.” He followed Lanie out the door, leaving Brodie to stare at the floor.
“St. Didier,” Graham said, “if you and the footmen would see to confining the accused in an empty pantry, I’d be obliged. My lady, a word with you, if you can spare me the time?”
Morna took one last look at the man who’d nearly shattered her family, the man who’d valued jeweled snuffboxes above love and honor.
Pathetic. Utterly, unredeemably, hopelessly pathetic. She said not a word of farewell, but took Graham’s offered arm and commended Brodie to a far kinder fate than he deserved.