True Story (The Deverells, Book One) Page 29

  "If I might have a word, sir. There are things you ought to know about that lady."

  He sighed, his mind forced back to less pleasant thoughts. "Say what you will." Although he knew already, of course, thanks to Charlotte.

  But he let the detective speak and he listened, curious to hear the story unedited by his wife's spite.

  "Captain Ollerenshaw was killed when his racing phaeton overturned. His young wife wasn't there at the time, but her stepbrother tells me that she did encourage her husband's wild ways and thought them amusing entertainment. Then the second husband choked on a fishbone in his pie, although the cook at the tavern where he ate every Saturday swore she took great care to remove the bones. Funny thing was, Sir Allardyce Pemberton always dined alone at the tavern, but on that night he must have had a companion for there were two ale-rings on the table where he was found— one smaller than the other. And one of the serving girls thought she saw someone with him, although she couldn't say who it was. Or if it was a lady. None of this would have raised an eyebrow, if not for the demise of a third husband. But I'm putting the pieces together and keeping an eye on that woman before she does away with another innocent man."

  "What could have been her motive? She has not gained financially from their deaths, obviously."

  "No, sir, but not all murderers need a motive beyond their own sick and twisted pleasure. Walk a mile in my shoes and you'd learn that. I'd advise you to take great care in your dealings with the woman. Who knows what she will do next, sir. She's hiding something, mark my words. I have made it my mission, Mr. Deverell, to bring that woman to justice, before she strikes again."

  O'Grady seemed certain and resolved upon his course, but True refused to believe any of it. Olivia Monday may be a woman with an impish gleam in her eye from time to time, and an eagerness to hide her natural beauty, but she was not capable of murder.

  "I thought I should warn you, sir, of the risk you take while she is under your roof."He smiled slowly. "Look around you. I'm no stranger to risk, Inspector O'Grady. I built my fortune on it. Don't worry on my account."

  "And don't you be fooled, sir. The woman may have donned the garb of a wallflower, but she has a sly talent for distracting men."

  That part was accurate, he mused.

  "She took off a little girl's finger once," the detective muttered gravely. "Shut it inside a pianoforte, so 'tis said. Always had a bloodthirsty way about her, even from childhood."

  "Is that so?"

  "Found her cleaning the floor the day her last husband was killed. Just as calm as you please, scrubbing the flagstones."

  "Yes, that sounds like the lady. She does have a dreary practical side, orderly to the point of obsession."

  But the Inspector didn't crack a smile. "The wound against the side of Parson Monday's head was sizeable, sir," O'Grady told him. "And in my opinion, whatever that coroner said, that nasty hole in his skull wasn't caused by a fall against a bit of rotting, wood bridge."

  * * * *

  "Christopher, you found your umbrella," she exclaimed, breath rushing out of her, one hand to her breast.

  He was holding the silver swan head in his gloved hand and frowning at her. "My umbrella, for pity's sake? What about it?"

  Olivia saw again her husband take that very same umbrella from the stand by the front door, in a hurry to get to church on his last day alive.

  Afraid to point it out to William, she had said nothing, fearing what he would think of her when she confessed that Christopher had been to visit two days before and that she had not told him about it. Guilt overcame her and she let him walk out of the house carrying the wrong umbrella. It was not only the last time she saw her husband alive; it was also the last time she'd seen that fancy silver swan's head. Until today.

  When she watched them fish William's body out of the river, there was no sign of any umbrella with his body. Later she had supposed it sank to the riverbed or was taken away by the police. It was an ugly, vulgar thing and she was glad not to see it again.

  But there it was, in the hands of its owner. As if it had never been anywhere else.

  "What is the matter with you?" Christopher snapped.

  "I thought you lost that umbrella."

  He sniffed. "Certainly not. I take more care of my belongings than you do. You never had any appreciation for the finer things. Now, make haste. I understand we can catch the mail coach at The Fisherman's Rest this afternoon."

  Sims did not come in answer to the bell, but Storm did. When he learned they were leaving he immediately protested, reminding Olivia that his father expected her there when he returned. She panicked then for she didn't want to make any trouble for the residents of Roscarrock and she could see that Storm was determined to keep her there, as his father had no doubt instructed. He stood guard over her like a sheepdog. But, not certain of what her stepbrother might do, she knew he had to be removed quickly from Roscarrock.

  "I am sorry, Mr. Deverell," she said, clasping her hands behind her back, "but a family emergency calls me back to Chiswick and I must go." Her mind was hard at work unraveling the ropes that had blinded her for years, gagged her and held her down.

  Christopher.

  Always there, popping up to smugly point out her shortcomings, not even feigning commiseration each time she lost a husband. Christopher complaining she was his future burden and yet making plans to keep her nearby, being angry each time she left. Now he came all this way to fetch her home again under the spurious excuse of his fiancée's family being appalled by the connection.

  Christopher.

  "Father won't like this," Storm muttered.

  "I shall return as soon as I can," she said, conjuring a final smile. "Please don't fret. Give my love to little Arthur."

  * * * *

  The club was busy that evening and he felt that old stirring of the blood again as he walked between the tables, greeting familiar faces, breathing in the rich scent of money. Deverell's was doing well with Ransom at the helm. Better, perhaps, than he'd expected. He should have given the boy more credit.

  It was pride he felt, he supposed, when he thought of his sons' successes. Was it love too, as Olivia would insist?

  That Olivia— a woman who had known such bad luck and was hounded by rumor— should still believe in love was incredible.

  Ransom wanted to know what Inspector O'Grady had wanted.

  "He tried to make me agree with him about a lady of my acquaintance. Sadly I could not do so. It seems I know her better than he does."

  "What lady?” Ransom frowned. "The one mother told me about? The black widow you hired?"

  Of course, Charlotte wasted no time spreading the vile gossip once she got back to London.

  "You should be careful with that woman, father. She's killed three men already."

  Amusing counsel coming from a son who, two years ago, shot him in the shoulder.

  "Ransom," he replied steadily, "Have you not learned by now that rumors are exactly that? Only that. Never believe until you know it for yourself. As a Deverell you ought to know that better than anybody. Always get the true story."

  His son looked skeptical. "Perhaps, in this woman's case, you don't want to believe the gossip."

  "Well, when you meet her, I'll let you decide for yourself." He smiled archly. "Hopefully you're a better at judging women and their motives these days."

  "Women!" Ransom's lip jerked in disdain, his handsome face stern. "As you used to say, father, the wretched creatures are always underfoot, waiting to trip a man." Then he added with a knowing look. "I hope you still heed your own advice."

  "Worry not about me, son." He clapped the boy on his wide shoulder. "I've had twenty or so years more than you. You're just beginning to learn that women aren't all bubbies and soft parts. I've known that a long time."

  His son's eyes were wary. "What's changed about you, father? There's something new."

  "I'm...maturing. Like a fine brandy."

  "Mother says you're writ
ing your memoirs." He folded his arms. "Are you ill?"

  "Me? Ill? Never." In fact, he'd seldom felt better. What did the doctors know anyway? "I'm writing my story for you. For all of you, but mostly I suppose for you." He laughed. "You're the one who prompted me into action when you put that bullet through me."

  Ransom's face turned gray and he uncrossed his clenched arms. "I didn't mean to—"

  "Oh, yes you did. We all make mistakes, son. We all act on impulses we will later regret. I realized then that I'd foolishly kept a great deal from my sons, thinking it would protect them. But I was wrong. Ignorance is not bliss. Every child needs to know the truth of where they came from and what they are. I hope my story will help you understand some of the choices I made— even the mistakes."

  For a long moment his son studied his face, then he said, "I've never heard you admit to a single error before."

  "See? I am maturing."

  * * * *

  When Lady Charlotte's first son was laid in his arms, he did not know what to do or feel or say. This tiny, squealing creature was made by him. He was responsible for it.

  Overwhelmed, he wanted to pass it back to the midwife, but she had already returned to his wife's chamber and shut the door. So he took the babe to the light of a window and examined it carefully to be sure it had all its parts. The eyes were dark, like Charlotte's, and they stared up at him, slowly opening wider as the wrinkled mouth continued making noise of a terrible, ear-piercing tenor.

  Well, he had brought this being to life. It was up to him now to teach the child how to live. Fortunately he knew something about survival.

  But he could not coddle the child when it cried. That he could not do, for he had no knowledge of how.

  As if the babe knew this, it's wailing petered out. Man and boy studied each other.

  "I'll do what I can," True muttered gruffly. "I make no promises."

  It was all new to him. To them both.

  The babe raised a fist toward his face and shook it.

  "Just like your mother," he sighed.

  It was some time before he realized it was trying to reach his nose, not blacken his eye.

  They would be at similar cross purposes for many years to come.

  Chapter Thirty

  They took the mail coach to Launceston, but learned it would be impossible to travel farther that evening. Christopher grumbled at having to pay for a room at the inn and, to save himself a few pennies, he rented a small chamber for one, sneaking Olivia in behind the busy landlord's back.

  "You have gone to great expense to fetch me home," she muttered sarcastically. "Was it really so urgent?"

  "Yes. I don't suppose you have given a thought to my engagement. I am only weeks away from the wedding, and I cannot afford to have your behavior spoiling things for me."

  "Me, spoil things for you?" The paradox was lost on him, however.

  A servant brought them supper, but Olivia had no appetite. She watched as her stepbrother fussed with his hat and gloves. The umbrella leaned against the arm of his chair, that thick silver neck and beak gleaming in the firelight. She remembered those beady little eyes made of jet. There was only one now. The other must have become dislodged and lost somehow. Perhaps from a hearty blow against...

  She closed her eyes, scrambling to pull herself back from this edge of suspicion.

  Surely not. It couldn't be. Why would he do such a thing? What had Christopher to gain from killing her husband? The two men did not like each other, but it was no more than a clash of personalities. Nothing more than that.

  It was simply her dark imagination at work again and that was all.

  Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes and said, "I suppose you and Lucinda will require a bigger house when you are married. For all those children you plan."

  Christopher looked annoyed. "I suppose so. Eventually." He poured ale from a large jug, and the foamy amber liquid splashed up the side of his tankard like waves at the base of Roscarrock island. A little pang of homesickness shyly made itself felt, as if it didn't feel fully entitled. She had only lived there four months, but yes it was home to her now.

  And her stepbrother had dragged her away from it, intent on moving her about like a chess piece, ordering the path of her life the way he always did. Or tried.

  "Perhaps you have got that out of your veins now, Livy, and you see the error of an impulsive choice."

  The news of Freddy Ollerenshaw's death had come to her from Christopher's lips, moments after the tragedy occurred. He had even known the details of the wager that enticed poor, reckless Freddy into that unstable phaeton. Knew it before anyone.

  When Sir Allardyce died, Christopher, in his usual superior fashion, had commented that he never entered that particular tavern as it was full of "low company", inferring that he was shocked Sir Allardyce would patronize the place— that it was, perhaps, inevitable, such a terrible event should happen there. Yet, some weeks later, a barmaid cleaning tables outside the same tavern had seemed to recognize Christopher as they passed on their way to market. She had called him by another name, however, and so it was easy for her stepbrother to dismiss the incident as a case of mistaken identity. Olivia had put it out of her mind.

  And then there was William and that swan-head umbrella.

  Carefully she said, "We should sell my father's house now then. And divide the profits equally."

  Christopher's head snapped up so violently she thought his neck would break. He cursed. "This again? Just like that skinflint Monday, always grinding on the same matter."

  He looked frayed, she thought. Usually so handsome and well put-together, her stepbrother was decidedly worse for wear this evening, his boots not so shiny. There was a little smudge of dirt on his high collar and stubble on his chin.

  "William only wanted what was best for me," she said.

  "Best for him, you mean. He wanted to get his hands on that money."

  She shook her head. "I think it's time you and I sold the house, collected what we are both due, and went our separate ways." Her father's house, as much as she once loved it, had begun to feel like a millstone around her neck, keeping her tied to Christopher.

  He glared through bloodshot eyes. "Is that what you think?" he sneered. "Well, you're wrong. You'll stay with me, as it is supposed to be."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I haven't gone through all this just to let you slip through my fingers at the last damned minute!"

  Olivia's mind fought to make sense of his cold words. "Last minute? I don't understand."

  "Of course you don't. You're a bloody stupid woman."

  There was silence then, while her stepbrother ate greedily and she sat frozen in anger. Eventually she had to speak. There was no holding anything back now. True Deverell had taught her that it wasn't always wise to hide her thoughts and feelings. That sometimes things simply had to be said before it was too late.

  "I remember the morning William died," she said.

  Christopher continued his supper, not looking up.

  "I remember he had your umbrella in his hand when he left the house. That one." She pointed to where the swan-neck rested against his chair.

  Her stepbrother huffed and licked his fingers.

  "You had left it there when you visited on Monday. I saw him take it in error, but he was so distracted and eager to get to the church, I don't think he realized it was yours."

  "What on earth are you getting at, Livy?"

  She took another breath of courage. "When they found William in the lake, the umbrella wasn't with him. Which means that you took it back from him that morning. Somehow. Between the time that he left the house and the time his drowned body was discovered."

  Christopher drank his ale, leaned back in the groaning chair and laughed tersely. "So you think I killed him?"

  She said nothing. Her palms, pressed together in her lap, were sticky with perspiration.

  Suddenly he got up. She had never seen him move so quickly. The slap
was hard enough that it almost knocked her sideways out of her chair.

  She gasped and gripped her smarting cheek. Tears sprang up to glaze her sight.

  "It wasn't my fault," he hissed down upon her head. "The fellow should not have picked another quarrel with me that day. I had endured my fill of his grasping!"

  Olivia choked on a sob, swallowed it down. She didn't want to look up at him and let him see her tears, so she kept her hand to her face.

  "I was on my way back to the parsonage that morning to collect my umbrella," he continued, now walking around her chair. "When I saw him on the bridge, he confronted me about the blasted house again. I merely wanted my umbrella. We struggled over it and he was struck about the head. Then he fell into the water and began to sink. I had my umbrella, so I walked on. Why should I help him? He did nothing for me but try to take away what was rightfully mine."

  He was struck about the head. As if it was not Christopher who wielded the weapon that struck. As if he was perfectly innocent of any crime.

  "You have nothing and no one who cares about you, except me." Her stepbrother returned to his chair. "Now I do not wish to discuss the matter again. It was an accident for which he was as much to blame as I. Are you not hungry? We have a long journey ahead of us, so you may as well eat."

  She was in the company of a mad man. Her cheek throbbed. "You can have the house, Christopher," she managed on a hoarse breath. "Let me go back to Roscarrock."

  "No. Certainly not. Why should I be satisfied with the house when there is so much more to be had? Did you think I could let another man come along again and get in my way?"

  Olivia had no idea what he meant. He was suffering some sort of delusion, that much was clear. And he was dangerous.

  * * * *

  Abraham Chalke was a small, bent man with two bushes of white hair sprouting above his prominent ears. His nose was broad and flat, his eyes two stale raisins peering out from behind smeared spectacles. His gait was like that of a crab, due in part to his wide curved legs which could not, as the saying went, stop a pig in a passage. All things considered, there were few men less prepossessing in appearance than poor Abraham Chalke. But he was valued for his trustworthiness, loyalty and honesty. There was not a bad bone in the man's broken body and his only vice was port.