Chapter 16
Four days after the John Knill ball, Alice was tiptoeing past her father’s door on her way out to visit with Harriet, when she stopped just outside his room. She could hear voices within, likely her father and his valet, and she slipped inside the door without knocking, for the thought that she would be turned away again was unbearable.
Indeed, it was Richard’s valet in the room, and he turned, a look of surprise on his face when he saw her standing there. Mr. Tisdale moved quickly toward her, making little shooing gestures with his hands, much to Alice’s annoyance, but was interrupted by her father. “Let her in, Mr. Tisdale,” he said, sounding weary.
The valet let out a small puff of air, so small Alice doubted her father even heard that tiny gesture of defiance, before nodding his head. “Good morning, Miss Hubbard,” he said before exiting the room.
Alice, her throat closing at the sight of her papa in bed even though he looked well and had good color, stepped to the edge of the bed and grabbed at the hand her father offered.
“I don’t want to speak of the ball, not yet. But I had to come and see you and tell you how very sorry I am that you are ill. And that I love you. And that no one should ever bar me from seeing you, no matter what I have done.” Richard opened his mouth to speak, his dear eyes full of forgiveness for his elder daughter, but she interrupted whatever it was he was going to say. “That is all I’m going to say, Papa. We’ll talk more another time and at much greater length, I assure you.” She smiled down at him impishly. “I fear what I have to say will not be what you want to hear, and I want to be certain you are much better.” Bending down to kiss his cheek, Alice saw her father’s eyes narrow in displeasure.
“I’m off, Papa. We’ll talk later.” She nearly ran from his room, not even stopping when he called her name, but simply waving a hand as if she could wave away whatever it was he wanted to say. Closing the door firmly behind her, Alice breathed a sigh of relief and smiled.
* * *
It was Harriet’s turn to host their small gathering, a weekly meeting during which the girls pretended to knit but often simply talked. The Anderson house was Alice’s least favorite of the three homes she visited as part of their little knitting group. Harriet’s home was even more formal than hers, an oppressive place where the sound of laughter was infrequent, the staff dour, and the overall mood oppressive. At all the other homes, the four girls could gather informally and chat and laugh and gossip. But Mrs. Anderson would frequently step into the room on one excuse or another to check up on them, stifling whatever fun they could have. She was an omnipresent specter of unease, and behind Harriet’s back, for the other girls didn’t want to hurt Harriet’s feelings, they called her the Termagant.
Which was why Alice was surprised when Harriet herself opened the door when she rang. “My family is not here,” she said, full of lightness and air. Alice was taken aback, but laughed at her friend’s obvious happiness. “Eliza and Rebecca are already here. How is your father?”
They began walking toward the parlor at a more subdued pace, for the housekeeper appeared, coming from the opposite direction, and Harriet had always believed she was a spy for her mother. With a cold look at the woman as they passed her, Alice gave Harriet a small encouraging nudge. They’d been best friends for as long as Alice could remember and she could read her well. “That is why I was a bit late. I stopped into his room to see how he was faring, and he is doing well,” she said as they entered the parlor.
“I’m so relieved to hear he is doing better.”
“Much better, thank you. It was quite the fright, but the physician says with bed rest and fewer rich foods, Papa will be with us for a long time,” Alice said.
They all sat, their knitting by their sides, and it was clear very little actual knitting was going to be done that day. So much had happened since they’d met, and Alice’s stomach felt a bit jumbled by it all.
“Had your father been ill prior to the attack? I’m always lecturing my father to take better care of himself but he hardly listens to me. Perhaps your father’s scare will knock some sense into my own father,” Rebecca said.
Alice thought back and couldn’t find anything in her memory that would hint of any illness except for some minor heartburn he’d complained of a few times at breakfast, hardly anything to be concerned about. “Nothing.” She looked at each of her friends, knowing she could trust them with her deepest secrets. After all, she knew all of their secrets.
Still, she pressed her lips together, uncertain whether this was the time to tell her friends about Henderson. Darting a look at Harriet, Alice said, “I have something to tell you all and it must go no further than this room.” She gave them all a level look, and nearly smiled at the rabid anticipation she saw in their eyes. Nothing piqued her friends’ interest more than gossip, even if it was gossip about one of them. On her walk over, Alice had debated with herself whether she should divulge her secret love of Henderson, particularly given Harriet’s girlhood crush. If she’d thought Harriet was truly in love with Henderson, she would have told her separately, but she knew Harriet would have confided in her if her feelings were deep.
“I am to blame for my father’s attack.”
After a rush of protest from her friends, Alice raised a hand to silence them. “I am. And this is why. Please don’t think ill of me, I beg you.” She bit her lip, and her friends, who had been rather gleeful to hear a bit of gossip, now looked concerned.
“What is it, Alice? No matter what it is, we are your friends and you can tell us,” Harriet said.
Closing her eyes, for that made it somehow easier to say aloud, Alice said, “I was with a man on the terrace, kissing, and my father caught us.” At the collective gasp she heard, Alice’s eyes flew open. “And that’s not the worst of it.”
“It’s worse?” Eliza asked, her expression one of pure shock.
Alice nodded and couldn’t stop the grin from blooming on her face, much to her friends’ collective dismay. “It was Henderson.”
The silence that followed was, to say the least, complete.
“I love him,” she said, looking at Harriet, who suddenly found the floor fascinating. “And he loves me and we hope to marry.”
“Of course your parents are opposed.” This from Eliza, and Alice had to suppress a small amount of anger at the certainty in her words.
“Yes, they are. But I shall change their minds.”
The other three girls looked at each other, as if trying to gauge how to feel about this announcement.
“How long have you felt this way?” Harriet ask softly, still unable to look at Alice, and she realized she had hurt Harriet more than she could have guessed.
“When I was young, I felt foolish for liking my brother’s best friend.”
“And I was making such a cake of myself over him,” Harriet said, a small smile on her face.
“I didn’t want to discourage you or compete with you, so I didn’t say a word even though I fancied myself in love with him when I was younger. I thought it was a silly girlhood crush, but since his return, my love has only grown. It seems almost impossible to believe, but Henderson felt the same way, all this time. Neither of us knew how the other felt.” From the expressions on her friends’ faces, she might have told them all she was gravely ill. The silence told her more than words: they were not only shocked, but, worse, opposed.
“Will someone please say something?”
“Why do you have to have all the men in St. Ives? In all of England?” This from Harriet, who was laughing aloud, but Alice thought she sensed a small bit of bitterness behind her words. “Can’t you leave any for us?” Harriet, she realized, was jesting and the other girls joined in her laughter, leaving Alice relieved.
“I know he is not the man my parents would have chosen given his lack of title and family, but one cannot help whom one falls in love with. It matters not that Henderson is not wealthy or titled. I love him anyway.”
“But he is wealthy,” Eliza said with nod.
Alice furrowed her brow. “He is?”
“You remember St. Claire. Nothing fascinates him more than strangers, and your Mr. Southwell intrigued him. As it turns out, his grandfather is quite well-to-do and Mr. Southwell has made a fortune for himself whilst in India. You didn’t know?”
“We never speak of such things,” Alice said, wondering what else she didn’t know about the man she loved. She’d learned in the last few days that he could play the violin like a master and that he was probably far wealthier than Lord Northrup. “I wonder if my parents know.”
“Do you think that would make a difference?” Harriet asked.
Shaking her head, Alice said, “I don’t believe so. They care far more that he is untitled and comes from a family without status.” The ugly word floating about the room—bastard—went unspoken, though Alice suspected everyone was thinking the same thing.
“However will you convince your parents if they are so opposed?” Rebecca asked.
Alice smiled. “I am confident I can convince them Mr. Southwell is more than worthy of my hand. And if I cannot, it’s off to Gretna Green.”
The three gasped, not as much horrified as excited by the prospect of Alice hieing off to Scotland to get married.
“You wouldn’t,” said Eliza, the most proper of the four of them—at least she was now that Alice had decided to thwart convention so thoroughly. Alice had always been the one to stay on that straight line of propriety. “You have to think about what such an action would mean for Christina.”
Alice made a face. “Of course you are right, Eliza. I hadn’t thought of that, which tells you how very muddled my mind is these days. I will simply have to convince my parents that Mr. Southwell is the perfect choice for me. Then I’ll have to convince my grandfather to attend the wedding and everyone will accept Henderson. I do wish my grandmother was still alive. I know she would have adored Mr. Southwell, if only to be contrary.”
A small commotion outside the parlor door told them Harriet’s parents and sister had returned home, and the women immediately took up their knitting, a shadow falling over the small group. Clara swept in looking fresh and pretty, wearing a gown that Alice knew must have cost a fortune. Her eyes went to Harriet, taking in her far simpler gown in a dull color that was completely unflattering, and she wondered if it was Harriet’s choice to look drab or if her mother had chosen it for her.
“I don’t know how you girls can sit and knit on such a glorious day,” Clara said, spreading her arms out as if to capture the sunshine streaming through a window. “Come on, let’s go visit Zennor Quoit.”
“I don’t know if I’m up for such a walk today,” Eliza said, looking down at shoes, which were definitely not created with long walks in mind.
Clara sat down with a huff, chin in hand, and Alice was amazed at how pretty she looked even when miffed. Seconds later, she sat up, smiling, her bad mood gone. “Would you like to play whist in the garden?” She looked outside. “It is not very breezy today, so I think we could. I cannot bear to be inside on such a lovely day. I’ve already been entombed at the Fosters’ all morning.” She turned to Harriet. “How did you escape that dreary invitation?”
“Mother neglected to tell me about it,” Harriet said simply, and Alice cringed inwardly. It was not the first time Harriet had been “forgotten” at home. This abandonment had hurt her when she was younger, but Alice suspected she quite liked the freedom it gave her now that she was older.
“Really, I’m beginning to suspect she does it on purpose to punish me,” Clara said, wonderfully oblivious to the reality that she was the favored child.
Harriet gave her sister a long look tinged with disbelief and fondness. “I don’t think Mother would bring you anywhere as punishment,” she said, and Alice could hear the irony in her voice even if Clara could not.
Clara let out an inelegant snort. “Then why am I always forced to go and you are allowed to remain home?”
“Perhaps she hopes there will be a bachelor in attendance who can catch your eye,” Eliza said, at which Clara rolled her eyes.
“I have no interest in marriage. Why should I when I’m perfectly content as I am?”
“What if you met the man of your dreams?” Eliza asked, then her eyes widened. “Who is the man of your dreams?”
“He doesn’t exist,” Clara said, and all the ladies laughed.
“The man of my dreams is tall and handsome and witty and adores children,” Eliza said. “And he has to be rich and be fashionable. And a title would be nice, but not necessary. Oh, and he must love to read and have a dog, but not like to hunt because I think hunting is rather cruel when we can just go to the butcher for our meat.”
“And have a clever little mustache above his upper lip. You’ve just described St. Claire, you ninny,” Rebecca said, laughing.
“Have I?” Eliza asked with an exaggerated tone. “He is rather perfect, isn’t he?”
“If you say so,” Rebecca said, wrinkling her nose. “I could never marry anyone who dresses better than I. That’s why he’s perfect for you, Eliza.”
She grinned. “He is, isn’t he? Alas, he is leaving in just two weeks to head back to London. Perhaps I will see him during the little season. He has hinted as much.”
All the knitting and pretense was put away, and the women carried on with their gossip for several long, wonderful minutes, until Mrs. Anderson entered. Her daughters must have sensed her presence long before the others, for they immediately straightened and schooled their features. Giving the group an assessing look, one that reminded Alice of the way a teacher will survey a roomful of naughty children, Mrs. Anderson walked to the mantel on the far side of the room and picked up a vase. It was such an obvious ploy that Alice nearly laughed.
“Rearranging, Mrs. Anderson?” she asked, pressing her lips together when Rebecca gave her an amused look that acknowledged her courage.
“I am, Miss Hubbard,” she said. “Harriet, have you inquired for refreshments for your guests?”
“No, Mother. I didn’t think so soon after luncheon—”
“Really, Harriet,” she said, looking about the room for approval. “How many times have I told you that you must always offer your guests refreshment. How many?” She shook her head as the women sat silent, embarrassed for their friend.
“Too numerous to count,” Harriet said with just a hint of rebellion in her tone, just enough to make Alice tense. It never worked out well when Harriet showed even the smallest bit of backbone, and she had long since stopped trying. Part of Alice wanted to applaud Harriet, but she knew her friend would suffer her mother’s wrath unless she was in an unusually forgiving mood.
Mrs. Anderson gave Harriet a long stare, but Clara saved the day with her bright smile. “Mother, we were talking about who our perfect husband would be. When you were a girl, what did you believe you wanted in a husband?”
Fortunately, Mrs. Anderson was distracted by Clara’s question and her face softened. “I married him.”
If anyone else had said that, Alice might have sighed at the romance of it all. But Alice knew Mr. Anderson and disliked him nearly as much as she disliked The Termagant.
“Let’s all go to the garden, shall we?” Rebecca asked. “I’m heartily sick of knitting at any rate.”
Alice looked down at her scarf, realizing with a start that she’d neglected to complete even a single row.
* * *
Robert Bennet made up the entire constabulary of St. Ives. His office was in the town hall, a tiny space tucked next to the clerk, where he would spend most of his long days either reading or napping. St. Ives was not a hive of criminals, and it was often weeks between arrests. Most of his time was spent, if not reading or napping, trying to solve disputes between fishermen or sending someone who over-imbibed safely home. St. Ives had two small holding cells for the more serious criminals or those too drunk to make it safely home, and on most days, the cells remained empty. Indeed, one had become a bit of a storage room for the town hall, a fact that didn’t bother Constable Bennet in the least.
But this last week had been trying. Bodies didn’t turn up every day in St. Ives, and this particular one had caused a bit of indigestion, especially when he heard the rumor that the gentleman had been stabbed in the back before floating off into St. Ives Bay. Thankfully, that rumor was completely false. The wound in the gentleman’s back had been a deep scrape, no doubt caused by one of the many jagged rocks along the bay.
It had been an especially trying week, so Bennet had resorted to long naps to relieve the stress of it all, and that was how Henderson and Lord Berkley found him the day they went to visit him with their theory that St. Ives was harboring a man they suspected of murdering as many as five victims.
A soft snore sounded from the office, and Henderson gave Berkley an amused look before knocking, loudly, on the door. From the sounds of a small commotion behind the door, Henderson suspected the knock had startled the constable nearly out of his seat. When the door was flung open, St. Ives’ sole police officer stood there, all five feet of him, eyes bloodshot, hair askew, looking about as irritable as a man can look. Henderson suspected Bennet’s day was about to get much worse.
After they’d carefully detailed what they knew of events, from the time the five boys were building that tree fort to the day Sebastian’s body was found, Bennet sat back, looking rather ill. And then he swore, loudly. “That’s a fine kettle of fish, gentleman, a fine kettle of fish. I knew I should have retired two years ago when we got that recommendation the department should be disbanded. Four men, you say?”
“Yes, sir. Five if you count Mr. Stewart.”
Bennet closed his eyes briefly. “Do you know where this…” He looked at his notes. “…Mr. Grant resides?”
“No, sir,” Henderson said. “When he was a lad, his parents lived on Trelawney Road, but I’ve no idea if he still resides there.”
“Easy enough to find out. Clerk’ll have that information. All right, then. Thank you both for coming in. I know how to reach you, Lord Berkley, but where are you residing, Mr. Southwell?”
“At the White Hart Inn at the moment, but I shall be leaving soon. I’m expected in London by the end of August, and after that, I plan to travel to India. I don’t expect I can be of more assistance as I have told you everything I know. Would you mind telling me what will happen next?”
Bennet shook his head. “Likely nothing.” At Henderson’s sound of outrage, Bennet held up a placating hand. “Please, you must understand how very difficult these cases are. Every man died of accidental causes, all clearly documented and dismissed. I suspect that some were not investigated at all by my predecessors, and these deaths happened years ago. Mr. Hubbard’s death, for instance. Witnesses saw him fall.”
“Only Gerald Grant saw him fall. I don’t know what the other lads saw, and now they are conveniently dead.”
“No one else came forward to dispute his claim at that time, did they? You must realize that other than the very real coincidence that all four of the men were present when Mr. Stewart died and the only one left is the man who caused that gentleman’s death, I have no evidence. I don’t know if the magistrates would even agree to hear the case.”
“They will hear it,” Berkley said with a smile. “I can guarantee it.”
Henderson looked over at Berkley and suspected his father must have something on at least one of the magistrates who would oversee such a case.
“Even so, there is scant evidence. I will pursue this, rest assured. Perhaps when Mr. Grant is confronted by the facts, he will confess. I can’t imagine it has been easy all these years living with the guilt of such crimes.”
Standing, Henderson said, “I have a feeling that a man capable of what Mr. Grant has done feels little guilt. I have come to realize over the years the depths of what a man can do to preserve himself.”
* * *
The two men left the constable feeling only slightly satisfied with their accomplishment.
“It’s in his hands now,” Lord Berkley said, looking out over the fishing fleet that remained in the harbor. “At least now you know that even had you been there that night Mr. Hubbard died, you likely could have done nothing to stop it. I have a feeling Mr. Grant would have killed him, if not that night, then another.”
Henderson came up short, his mind whirling at this possibility. For some reason, he’d silently counted Joseph’s death separately, as a suicide that could not be tied to the other men’s deaths. He’d kept the secret so long, it had become a part of him, a particular truth that he no longer even tried to dispute. Gerald had told him about that night—Gerald, who had likely killed Joseph.
“What’s wrong, Henderson?” And when tears filled Henderson’s eyes, Berkley clasped one shoulder. “What’s wrong?” he repeated.
“My God, all these years I felt to blame for Joseph’s death, not because he died, but because I thought it was suicide.”
“Suicide?”
“That night Joseph died, I came upon Gerald in the White Hart Inn. He was clearly upset and he told me Joseph had killed himself, that they all agreed never to speak of it to protect the Hubbards and Joseph’s memory.”
“Jesus, man.”
“I thought if I had been there that night, I could have stopped it or that Joseph never would have done it. And all this time, he’d been murdered and I likely wouldn’t have been able to stop it. Sebastian and Tristan were there that night and they saw nothing. I know they would have told me if they had.” Henderson gasped, in and out, as the enormity of what he realized hit him. “These last four years have been a living hell because of that man. By God, if they do not arrest him I do not know if I can stop myself from putting him in his grave.”
Berkley squeezed his shoulder and dropped his hand. “A foolish thought, but one I completely understand. I’m afraid I cannot allow you to commit murder, but I swear I will do everything in my power to make certain Gerald Grant hangs for his crimes.”