Stranger at the Manor by Mary Kingswood

26: Lord Saxby's Honour

Peter stared at Willerton-Forbes, appalled. “But you do not believe this, surely?”

Willerton-Forbes sat down heavily and reached for his glass of Madeira. “No, no! Naturally not. One does not for one moment suppose Miss Beasley to be capable of pre-meditated murder. But you see, in order to build a case against the lady, there is one almost insuperable difficulty — that her reason for disliking Lord Saxby happened more than twenty years ago. If she resented his mistreatment so greatly, why not murder him when the grievance was fresh? Why harbour a grudge for all this time, so great a grudge as to consider murder? No matter how violent her wrath at the time, it must surely have softened with the years, and her actions then can be of no great moment now. Two decades of blameless living and good works are more than adequate to offset one youthful folly, one might have supposed. And so it has transpired. A few people are outraged by it, but most will shrug and say that it was, after all, a very long time ago. So there has to be some other reason for a respectable lady to turn to murder, something more serious than an illegitimate child. Something, in fact, that would be considered just as reprehensible twenty years on. And the only crime that seemed adequate was another murder.”

“So you would suggest that Lord Saxby threatened to expose her previous wrong-doing?” Edgerton said, frowning. “And why would he wait twenty years to do so?”

“Ah, a very good question, to which we can only guess the answer. Perhaps he has known of it all this time and Miss Beasley only recently discovered that. Or perhaps there has been an uneasy accord between them — perhaps she knows something detrimental about him, who knows? But something triggered her fear of exposure and she decided to put an end to the risk. She knew his habits as well as anyone, and it appears that his lordship went to Market Clunbury every Tuesday, returning at about the same time. Miss Beasley can easily find an excuse to be out and about — a charitable visit of some sort. She sets her trap, waits for the curricle to crash, drives a stake through Lord Saxby’s heart to make sure of him, removes the wire in haste and is home well before anyone realises what has happened. And who, after all, would suspect a mild-mannered lady in her middle years of murder?”

“Who indeed?” Edgerton murmured. “Only you, Pettigrew.”

“Not even I, my friend. But imagine if it were so. The threat is removed, she supposes, and all is well. She is safe. Along comes Mr Winslade here, who whisks the lady away to the north and returns triumphantly with his bride and her son. A happy future beckons. And lo and behold, that very son looks at the site of the accident and cries murder. The irony, Michael! Oh, the dreadful irony.”

“If it were true.”

“Indeed. But I have made my case to the best of my humble ability. It is now for you to find the weaknesses in it, and convince the imaginary jury to whom we speak of the lady’s innocence.”

“I am no lawyer, Pettigrew, but it seems to me that you have not a shred of evidence for all your suppositions. The murder of Thomas O’Riley is a facer, I accept that, but there is nothing to link him to Miss Beasley.”

“No, nothing at all,” Willerton-Forbes said equably.

“Furthermore, before he died Miles Saxby said he saw the simple fellow who sharpens knives drive the stake through his father’s heart. He was mistaken in that, as Miss Saxby proved, but it seems unlikely that he could see Miss Beasley and imagine her to be a man, even in the dusk.”

“That is a very good point,” Willerton-Forbes said.

“May I ask a question?” Peter said. When Willerton-Forbes signalled his assent, he went on, “I am curious as to why you introduce the Irishman as the seducer. Why not Lord Saxby? Phyllida names him and he admits it to his friends.”

“Because young Mr Barnaby does not resemble his lordship in the slightest, and also because I have it on good authority that, as a gentleman, he would not abandon a lady in such a situation, as a matter of honour.”

“Yet your version of events would have him lie to his friends regarding a wager,” Peter said. “That too is a matter of honour. He must be dishonourable one way or another, and for myself I am inclined to think he would regard the wager as the higher honour. Besides, he might well feel that Phyllida was not of sufficiently high rank as to oblige him to marry her. She certainly never expected it herself.”

“Those are… excellent points,” Willerton-Forbes said, with a sigh. “How disappointing.”

The chagrin on the lawyer’s face caused Edgerton to burst out laughing. “There you are, Pettigrew! That disposes neatly of the Irishman, and if there is no Irishman, there is no murder and no cause for Miss Beasley to skulk about with wire and sharpened branches on the Astley Cloverstone road at dusk.”

Willerton-Forbes smiled and raised his hands. “I surrender, gentlemen. Your logic is impeccable, Mr Winslade. Of course it must have been Lord Saxby, and then any attempt to slip poor Mr O’Riley into the story becomes too outlandish for words. Besides…” He pulled another fragment of the newspaper from a different pocket. “There is also this.”

‘A ditch-digger from Woollercott, William Harding, aged 33, appeared before Justice of the Peace Mr Henry Gurgen charged with bludgeoning to death Thomas O’Riley sometime in May of this year. Harding was committed to the Assizes for trial.’

Edgerton laughed. “Pettigrew, you devious scoundrel! You knew this was all moonshine! Never trust a lawyer, Mr Winslade.”

“And did I not say so? A story, Michael, nothing but a story, made up from the very few facts known to be true, with a few embellishments of my own. But I made you think about it, did I not? Not as much as I had hoped, for we had the estimable Mr Winslade here to point out the obvious flaws in my argument — and the less obvious, too. I congratulate you, sir. Have you ever considered a career in the law?”

“I could not compete with your imagination, sir,” Peter said politely. “That was quite a Banbury tale. Does this mean that my wife is free from the threat of imminent arrest?”

“Certainly,” Willerton-Forbes said. “Her reason for disliking Lord Saxby is far from sufficient to drive her to murder after so many years, and there is no evidence at all to connect her to the crime. It is true that she could have been in the vicinity that day, and could have tied wire between the trees, and could have driven a stake through Lord Saxby’s heart, but the same may be said of any number of other people.”

“That is exactly the problem,” Edgerton said gloomily. “We have interviewed everyone in the village, and have hardly found a soul whose whereabouts can be confirmed. The Saxby ladies were all together, apart from Miss Saxby who was involved in a great wash. The Rycroft brothers were with the gamekeepers. The Drinkwaters were away. Mr Truman was shut away in his study all afternoon writing letters. Tuesday is his day for correspondence.”

“He might have slipped out unnoticed,” Willerton-Forbes said.

“There are no bells fitted in the parsonage, so there was a manservant sitting outside his door the whole time. But apart from those few, it could be anyone. Mr Gage thinks he may have been walking the dogs. Miss Gage had been to call upon friends in Woollercott, but does not know when she returned. Dr Beasley had no patients, but thinks he was reading in his book room. Miss Cokely has no idea at all. All the Andersons can tell me is that their youngest had a croup attack the night before. Mr Edser may or may not have been calling upon two patients at Astley farm, but again, he has no idea of when. And these are just the upper levels of society. If we are to work our way through all the shopkeepers and farm labourers, it will take us for ever and a day. And who amongst them has been so injured by Lord Saxby that they would wish to see him dead?”

“Lord Saxby had some deep business dealings,” Peter said. “There might be some clues in his papers — an investment gone awry, perhaps, or a debt. He was very good at taking advantage of people.”

“An interesting observation,” Edgerton said. “We are summoned to town next week to meet the new Lord Saxby, so we can ask him to look out for anything unusual in his predecessor’s accounts. Mind you, he is only a bank clerk. Will he be able to understand what he sees?”

Peter laughed. “Bank clerks are very quick with numbers, Captain. He will spot anything amiss.”

“Excellent. But I do not think we can proceed further with this particular investigation until we know more of the late Lord Saxby’s affairs. It must wait until the bank clerk arrives.”

~~~~~

Phyllida was in the kitchen beating eggs for a cake Susannah was making when Mrs Haines came in, her face rueful.

“Beg pardon, madam, but Mrs Pibworth, Mrs Malling and Miss Gage are here to see you.”

With a clatter, Phyllida’s spoon fell into the bowl. “Miss Gage?”

“Yes, madam. Mrs Malling says she’s very sorry to disturb, but they’ll all be leaving in half an hour or so, and they have to say goodbye.”

“All leaving?”

“That’s what she said, madam.”

“Oh.”

“I shall come with you,” Susannah said firmly. “If she dares to—”

“She will not,” Phyllida said hastily, with a quick glance at the servants. “Not in my own house, and I shall be quite all right with Ursula and Selena there. Show them into the parlour, will you, Mrs Haines, and send up some tea and cake.”

By the time Phyllida had removed her apron, and scrubbed flour and stickiness from her face and hands, the visitors were already seated in the parlour, while Mrs Haines and Thomas laid out cups and saucers. Ursula and Selena had looks of determination, while Viola’s expression was mulishly defiant. Phyllida was calm. Surely there was nothing now with which Viola could hurt her?

After the greetings, and when the servants had withdrawn, Ursula said, “Vi is going to stay with me for a while until she… regains her equilibrium, but we could not leave without seeing you. There are things that need to be said. Not that you will get an apology from her, I regret to say.”

Viola’s chin lifted a little but she said nothing.

“There is no need for an apology,” Phyllida said. “Viola has always spoken her mind, and I would not wish her to act against her conscience. She feels it very strongly.”

“But you do not know what she has done!” Selena cried. “She makes me quite ashamed of her.”

“I have done nothing wrong,” Viola said, her eyes narrowed to slits. “It had to be said.”

Phyllida must have looked mystified, for Ursula raised her eyebrows. “Oh. Mr Winslade did not tell you?”

“Peter? What has he to do with this?”

“Let me tell it,” Selena said. “Phyllida, Viola told Captain Edgerton that you murdered Thomas Saxby.”

“What?” For a moment, Phyllida was bemused but then she burst out laughing. It was too ridiculous for words.

Ursula and Selena exchanged glances. “Well, that is not the reaction we expected,” Selena said. “Do you understand, Phyllida? Viola has accused you of murder and your husband is at this very moment talking to Captain Edgerton and Mr Willerton-Forbes about it. Are you not afraid?”

“Of course not! I know perfectly well that I did no such thing, and I trust the captain and Mr Willerton-Forbes to discover it, too. Good heavens, Vi, wherever did you get such an outlandish idea?”

“You lied,” she said. “You told everyone that Thomas Saxby fathered your bastard and that is not true!”

“But it is,” Phyllida said helplessly. “Why would you say such things?”

“You see?” Ursula said. “This is what we have been dealing with. As if it was not enough for Vi to publicly denounce you for something that happened decades ago, and was probably not your fault anyway—”

“It was!” Viola said. “She drew him in, like the Sirens enticing that Greek man to madness.”

“Odysseus,” Phyllida said, “and yes, it was at least partly my fault.” The three ladies’ eyes widened. “Not that I drew him in, for I would not have known how to do that, but when he drew me in, somehow I could not say no. It was a very strange afternoon.”

There was a long silence, then Ursula said, “You never did say no to anybody, Phyllida. People were always imposing on you. Besides, he was a very dominating sort of man.”

“Mesmerising,” Selena said. “Enthralling. You were out of your depth.”

“Nonsense!” Viola said robustly. “She is making it all up, can you not see that? Thomas Saxby never once looked at her, you may be sure. She is a common harlot who despoiled herself with some labourer or other.”

“Why do you say that, Viola?” Phyllida said gently.

“Because if he had… had done what you say, he would have married you. He was a baron, Phyllida, a nobleman. He would not have besmirched his honour by taking a gentlewoman’s virtue and then abandoning her. No gentleman would ever do so. It is impossible, and therefore he never touched you and the man with whom you… did this dreadful thing was no gentleman. I cannot guess who it might be, for most of us would not stoop so low, but that is what can be said with assurance, that he was not a gentleman.”

There was no point in trying to argue with such certainty, so Phyllida lapsed into silence. The tea things arrived, and for a few minutes there was activity and civilities that had nothing to do with Thomas Saxby.

When they were alone again, Ursula said pensively, “I never thought Thomas had a sense of honour at all. He treated Cass abominably, withholding her fortune and making no effort to find a husband for her, and he never did a thing for his stepsons beyond what had been agreed. Just a little help would have got them well established, but he would not exert himself in the slightest. He has always been a very selfish man. So it does not surprise me that he should amuse himself with Phyllida and then walk away as if nothing had happened.”

“Nothing did happen!” Viola cried. “He was not selfish in the least, or dishonourable, and he would never, ever have allowed himself to be… enticed like that, I know he would not.”

Phyllida went very still. Was it possible? Viola had always had a bit of a tendre for Lord Saxby. “How do you know, Viola? Did you try it?”

Viola flushed crimson to the roots of her hair. She opened her mouth but no words emerged, only a half-choked gargling sound.

“Oh, Vi!” Ursula and Selena cried in unison.

“I… it was not… Thomas had… I thought… but he would not,” she ended sadly.

“Of course he would not,” Phyllida said evenly. “If he had, he would certainly have married you. You were Miss Gage of Lower Maeswood Grove, one of the principal families in the parish, and he could not have taken your virtue without ending up at the altar. Whereas Miss Beasley the poor relation was fair game.”

Viola stared at her, and then burst into noisy sobs. “But it was not his fault! You made him do it! He cared nothing for you!”

Phyllida went to kneel at her feet, and took her hands. They were beginning to be wrinkled, she noticed. Viola had numerous little lines around her eyes, and the hair peeping out from beneath her cap was tinged with grey. They were all getting older, she supposed, but they had been friends for such a long time, and she was not prepared to surrender that friendship just yet.

“This has been a great trial to you, I know,” Phyllida said gently. “Have you been a little in love with him all these years? And when Henrietta died, you thought he would turn to you and were disappointed when he did not. To you he was kinder than to me. But he was never in love with me. I always knew that, and I knew, too, that he would never marry me. I was ashamed of what I had done, but not disappointed — only in myself. But Viola, it was his fault. He was thirty years old, not some callow youth. He was not in love with me, but he callously set out to take my virtue for his own amusement and as a wager with his friends. I was worth four thousand pounds to him, seemingly, and surely no one has ever valued me so highly before.”

The silence in the room seemed endless. From somewhere below stairs, muffled and indistinct, there was a crash followed by raised voices. Then silence again.

“A wager?” Ursula said, her face ashen.

Phyllida nodded. “You can ask the squire. He knows all about it.”

With infinite slowness, Viola’s expression changed. “Is that true?” she whispered. “A wager? He did… that to win a bet?”

“He would never have looked at me otherwise, would he?” Phyllida said, and the thought gave her no pain. Somehow the knowledge that it was naught but a wager made it easier to bear.

“Oh, Phyllida! That is… horrible!” Viola’s eyes were huge in her face. “I always thought he was so… so honourable, but that is… I cannot even… Four thousand pounds? Oh, my dear!” Wrapping her arms around Phyllida, she whispered into her lace cap, “You are worth far more than that.”

Then they both cried.

Viola would probably have stayed all day, weeping copiously over Phyllida, but Ursula’s carriage arrived just then to take the ladies on the first stage of their journeys home. There was a great bustle to get Viola into the hall, but there she seemed inclined to stay, clinging tearfully to Phyllida, until Ursula and Selena were forced almost to drag her away.

“You have reached a rapprochement, then?” Dr Broughton said after they had gone, drawn from his consulting room by the hubbub. Most of the servants had clustered in the hall, too, until Susannah chased them away.

“So it would seem,” Phyllida said, peering into the hall mirror as she tried ineffectually to straighten her cap. “Goodness, what a fright I look! I really should not cry at my age. When one is in full bloom, a few tears can look quite fetching, but I look positively haggard.”

“It is in a good cause,” Susannah said, smiling. “Whatever is that noise? Is that someone running up the drive?”

Running and yelling, “Winslade! Winslade!” and then hammering violently on the door.

“I shall give the impudent fellow a piece of my mind,” Dr Broughton said, opening the door.

Lord Silberry practically fell through it, waving a letter in his hand. He wore no greatcoat, hat or gloves. “Winslade! Oh, thank you, Broughton. Mrs Winslade, where is your husband?”

“The Dower House but—” He turned and would have run off again, but she cried, “Whatever has happened? Is someone ill? Lady Saxby?”

“No, no! My ship! Both ships! They have come in! We are all rich!”

And with that he was gone.

“Ships?” Dr Broughton said.

“Lord Silberry borrowed money from Peter’s bank to finance some shipments of treasures from India, which were lost at sea. He could not repay the loan and so the bank collapsed. Now, it seems, his ships have been found.”

“Better late than never, I suppose,” Dr Broughton said, “but it will not bring Winslade’s bank back.”

“I doubt he will mind very much,” Susannah said, beaming at Phyllida. “He has something far more precious than a bank, now.”