Page 18 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle (Ashmore Castle #3)

‘Why not?’ No answer. ‘If there’s someone else involved, who can vouch for your whereabouts, why not say?

Are you protecting someone, is that it?’ Silence.

‘Is it something you’re ashamed of?’ William stared at the floor, but the tips of his ears reddened a little.

‘Whatever it was you were up to, it can’t be as bad as what you’re accused of.

Don’t you understand, old chap? This is murder. They could hang you.’

William looked up, and his lips whitened. He had evidently not got as far as this in his thoughts. ‘Hang me?’ he whispered. ‘No, sir! No, sir! They can’t! Not the rope! Not that! I didn’t do it, I swear!’

‘Then tell the truth. Where did you go that night?’

‘I can’t say,’ William said desperately. ‘But they can’t hang me. I’m innocent. If I didn’t do it, they can’t prove I did, can they?’

‘I’m afraid it doesn’t always work that way,’ Richard said.

‘Yes, yes, the scales of justice,’ William said eagerly. ‘The might of the law, like Mr Moss says. It’s the glory of England. They wouldn’t hang an innocent man. I didn’t kill him, so I’ve got nothing to fear. They can’t prove I did it when I didn’t.’

Richard left him, feeling thoughtful and rather depressed.

He was quite sure now – where before he’d only been largely sure – that William didn’t kill Speen.

But he didn’t have the footman’s complete trust in the workings of the law.

The blind goddess with the scales and the sword might be perfect in justice, but man was imperfect, and it was men who would judge the case.

It would be a horrible thing – horrible!

– if William were to hang. He could only hope that thinking about the noose in the solitude of the cell, he would come to the conclusion that the truth must be told.

Below stairs, the atmosphere was a mixture of horror and excitement. The excitement was forgivable – nobody actively wanted William to hang, but day-to-day life was very dull, and anything that broke the routine was welcome, more especially when it was something sensational.

Those girls to whom William had attached himself romantically over the years attested to his gentleness – though often they had called it something less complimentary.

It gave an extra frisson to the thought of the hood, the rope and the trapdoor.

They enjoyed a sort of celebrity, and set themselves up as experts on his character and proclivities.

They could never have believed it of William.

‘Now, if it had been that James ,’ they said, with knowing wags of the head.

James didn’t mind being regarded as tough enough to be capable of murder.

He had never sought to be popular, but he liked to stand out from the herd.

And while everyone’s mind was fully occupied with the fate of William and the prospect of hanging for one who had so lately walked among them, they were not watching him, which gave him a welcome latitude.

Mr Moss was completely overset by the whole business.

He had palpitations, and his hands shook so much he could not properly perform his duties.

For the first time in his life he relinquished his keys: he put them into James’s hands, grateful to him for being so sympathetic and helpful.

Well, William was hors de combat , and though Sam and Cyril technically outranked him, James was experienced as they were not.

To Mr Moss, James played the grave, honest and helpful underling, stepping competently into the breach.

Privately, he was making hay. This was the best chance he was ever likely to have.

Everyone was stoutly loyal to William in theory, and maintained his innocence; but there were tense, whispered conversations in corners about each person’s memories of that night, whether they knew anything or not.

Stories passed from mouth to mouth and accreted ever more spurious detail: William had gone out in a fury .

. . His face had been white and his eyes wild .

. . He had vowed to kill Mr Speen . . . He had carried a stout ashplant .

. . had said he would bash his head in .

. . had come back with his clothes torn to shreds .

. . the ashplant covered with blood . . .

Mrs Webster, Rose and Dory did their best to quell the more outrageous of the stories, but it made little difference, only further muddying the field, so that few of the servants any longer knew what was fact and what fiction.

If the police ever came to question them, it would be a poor look-out for William.

In all the talk, Speen was hardly mentioned.

He had never been one of them; no-one had much liked him; he was not missed.

His part in the current drama was confined to playing the ’orrible corpus: word had got about that the stoats and weasels had been at it, and the younger boys whispered highly imaginary and increasingly fevered descriptions to each other of what it had looked like, until the youngest stable boy went home in tears and told his mother.

She came up to the Castle to complain shrilly to Mr Giddins, the head man, who boxed a few ears and put a stop to it.

Josh, the groom who attended the young ladies, had finally decreed that the ground was dry enough for Alice to go out on Pharaoh.

It was not just a matter of horses coming back muddy and giving him extra work: they lived on a hill, and when the slopes were greasy with mud it was easy for a horse to come down, with dangerous consequences for rider and, in his view more particularly, horse.

But today with his sanction she had gone out for an early ride, and then had Biscuit put-to in the trap and said she was going out sketching.

She had established with Giles before he went away that, while she had to be attended by a groom when she rode, she could drive alone, as long as she stayed on the estate.

Josh might disagree – he did disagree – but he couldn’t go against his lordship’s decision, however much he grumbled about it.

So Alice flew, like a bird to its nest, to Castle Cottage in Motte Woods.

Biscuit knew the way by now, and trotted along, ears pricked, enjoying being out, requiring no rein to tell him when to turn off the main track.

It was a chilly day, rather grey, but the catkins were dancing in the breeze, the blackthorn was showing green tips, and the birds were singing again, unseen in the thickets.

Axe came out of his cottage to greet her with his usual quiet, steady look, as though assessing the situation before committing himself to anything.

Dolly, his terrier, was less reserved, bustling past him with the vibrating tail and motherly tongue that were Alice’s due.

Alice made much of her, to avoid immediately looking at Axe.

She felt suddenly shy. The last time she had seen him, she had thought for a moment that he was going to kiss her.

She had brooded over it so much during the long absence of the snowy months that she was no longer sure what was true and what was only her imagination.

He had come over to take hold of Biscuit’s rein – purely a courtesy, as Biscuit had no intention of going anywhere now he was here – and she could no longer crouch there petting the dog on a level with his boots.

She had to stand up and look at him. The first glance made a little gasp inside her chest. She had forgotten how beautiful he was; how very blue his eyes were; how he had such presence .

He had a sort of innate, unstated power that seemed the essence of being a man.

‘Hullo,’ she said at last, fiddling with the cuff of her glove as an excuse to look down again.

‘Hullo,’ he said. A pause. ‘Haven’t seen you for a long while.’

‘Well, there was Christmas. And then the snow,’ she said. She looked up again, and had a mad impulse to ask, Did you miss me? He was smiling – that small upward curve of the mouth corners that made him look like a big golden cat. ‘How’s Della? And Cobnut?’

‘They’re all right. How’s Pharaoh?’

‘I had him out this morning. He was very fresh, after so long with just paddock exercise. Josh thought he’d have me off, but he’s not unseating. I expect he could get me off if he really tried, but he never does.’

‘Josh has to worry about you. It’s his job.’

‘I know. It’s annoying, though. I brought you something.’ She reached back into the trap. ‘It’s not a present, I’m afraid, just to borrow. A book.’

He wiped his hands down the back of his trousers before taking it carefully, almost reverently, and read out the title and author from the cover. ‘ The War of the Worlds . H. G. Wells.’ He looked up, an inscrutable flash of blue. ‘I read his book The Time Machine . It was grand – exciting.’

‘This is too – about invaders from another planet.’

‘Well, now. I shall enjoy that. Thank you.’

There was an embarrassing silence as they each found it hard to meet the other’s eyes. Alice broke it by asking, ‘Have you got any new animals?’

He seemed glad of the change of subject. ‘Got some rabbit kittens. Found ’em in a hollow ’mong some tree roots. They were hungry. I reckon a fox must’ve got the mother.’

‘What will you do with them?’

‘Feed ’em till they’re bigger, then eat ’em.’

‘Oh, no! Not really?’

‘That’s what rabbits are for. Not much on a wild rabbit, but they make a nice stew.’

She examined his face and the little enigmatic smile at his mouth corners. ‘You’re teasing me. You won’t really eat them, will you? You didn’t mean it?’

He had meant it, but he knew how tender-hearted she was about animals. ‘Maybe I won’t, then,’ he said. ‘Though if I let ’em go, a fox’ll get ’em anyway.’

‘If I give them names, you won’t be able to eat them,’ Alice said. ‘Like the Red Queen said, it isn’t etiquette to cut anyone you’ve been introduced to.’

‘Which queen is that, then?’

‘It’s in a book, called Through the Looking-Glass .’