Chapter Twelve
The next afternoon, Bascombe received Jack in his warm, smoky library where a coal fire crackled and glowed orange in the hearth. No longer young, the gray-haired colonel still looked solid and strong, as if doubt had never touched his heart. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon after your father’s funeral.” He sat back with a cheroot dangling from long fingers. “Didn’t expect you to be in London. The duke considered it likely you’d take off somewhere or rejoin the army after he was gone.”
“Father knew me well.” Jack gave a half smile. “I did intend to head off on a ramble, but something occurred to tie me to London.” He explained about Lord Butterstone while the colonel listened in silence, drawing on his cheroot. “So, it appears that Bonaparte is not done with us. There are some raising merry hell over his death.” Jack waited for the colonel, a shrewd man of great experience, to digest the information.
“I’m aware of the rumor that Bonaparte was poisoned,” Bascombe said. “It was inevitable there’d be talk after the general said as much on his death bed. A commonplace death would not have appealed to him. Would have liked to carve his own epitaph if it were possible.” He drew on his cheroot. “The finger has been pointed at his jailor, Sir Hudson Lowe who perhaps didn’t handle the general’s incarceration well, but that doesn’t necessarily make him a ruthless murderer.
“Bonaparte was known for his exceedingly careful habits. He drank and ate sparingly. And he’d gathered a loyal staff around him at Longwood House.” He tapped his cheroot gently against the dish. “Those years of house arrest on St. Helena could have affected his health. The island was a barren windy place, and he suffered a paucity of luxury. But his father died of a stomach tumor and although he might not have admitted it, I suspect Bonaparte came to believe he suffered from the same malady. He just couldn’t resist a final jab at his enemies.” He grunted. “That’s not to say that he wasn’t helped along by arsenic.”
“What I want to know is why Butterstone was killed,” Jack mused. “He admitted to his wife before he died that he’d made a foolish mistake. And why was his brother-in-law, Lord Caindale—if he is to be believed, kidnapped and questioned at length concerning what he learned from Butterstone while he was in Paris?”
Bascombe blew a trail of aromatic smoke at the ceiling. “My estimation of Caindale is that he’s a man who tends to take the comfortable path in life. I can’t see him involving himself willingly in this. He’s not been given to heroics, so we must ask ourselves why he would choose to.”
Jack nodded. He’d formed the same opinion of Caindale. “A weak man, but is he a dishonest one? Weak men can be manipulated just like those with more ambitious aims.”
Bascombe’s eyes gleamed. “Quite so.”
“Butterstone’s valet claims his master’s luggage was searched before it left London.”
“He is certain?”
“Apparently, there was considerable disorder caused by a hasty search.”
“Worth looking into.”
“There’s something not right at Butterstone’s London mansion.” He told Bascombe about the maid’s death.
“Nasty business by the sound of it. Be careful how you go, Jack. I’ll read the autopsy report and ask my colleagues at Whitehall a few pertinent questions. If there’s any truth about an English involvement, I’ll ferret it out.” He stubbed out his cheroot. “You could leave it all with me and take off on your travels if you wish. Your father wouldn’t thank me for encouraging you to become involved in something like this. It’s not like fighting a war, Jack. This sort of business isn’t clear cut. You don’t know who your enemy is or when they will strike. Like dancing with shadows. And to what end? You can’t bring Butterstone back to life.”
Jack had no intention of dropping the matter but saw no reason to tell Bascombe. “I’m perfectly aware that we are dealing with a cold-blooded killer.” He grinned. “You should watch your back too, colonel.”
Bascombe chuckled. “I believe I can take care of myself.”
Jack stepped out from the warmth of Bascombe’s house, into the brisk fresh spring day and headed back to his rooms. He was so deep in thought, he didn’t notice the carriage until it was alongside him.
The carriage door swung open.
~~~
A hired carriage took Harry and Erina from the port. They crossed a bridge over the River Liffey. Dublin was a charming town with green parks and streets of elegant townhouses. In different circumstances she would love to explore further, but her thoughts remained on what awaited them tomorrow. In Sackville Street, they alighted outside Dublin’s Gresham Hotel, a large four-story stone building.
Harry explained to the hotel staff how he and his cousin were on their way to visit family. Her ladyship’s maid had been suddenly called home, a death in the family. He arranged two rooms for them, hired a carriage for the morning and ordered their dinner in the dining room. Erina was exhausted, and hungry. They enjoyed a tasty meal of Irish stew sopped up with soda bread, then she ate a delicious Irish apple cake with custard sauce, while Harry drank a glass of claret. Afterward, they retired to their respective rooms.
Erina bathed, changed into her nightgown, brushed her hair, and snuggled down gratefully in the comfortable bed to consider what tomorrow would bring. She did not consider it for long, falling asleep almost immediately after her head hit the pillow.
After a breakfast of oatmeal and cream, a boiled egg, toast, and a good strong cup of Irish tea, she and Harry set out in their hired hackney. The rain drummed down, the streets awash as they left Dublin and traveled west. Harry had inquired at the hotel concerning the distance to Naas, County Kildare. He was informed it could be easily reached within a matter of hours. “But that depends on the weather,” the hotel clerk had said. “You might well become bogged down on the muddy roads and take a day. And that’s supposing someone comes and digs you out.”
Harry chuckled. “That’s the Irish for you,” he said to Erina. “You seldom get the answer you might expect.”
So far, although the ride was bumpy, they rattled along at a good pace. Erin ran the tassel on her parasol through her fingers. “In one of her letters, Cathleen wrote that Naas was once called Nás na Ríogh. It means Meeting Place of the Kings.”
“Must read up on it sometime.” Harry reached across and stilled her busy fingers, his square hand in the French kid glove resting for a minute over hers. In his dark wool greatcoat and Hessian boots, he looked quite imposing. Even his cravat was perfection. How did he manage to be so well turned out without a valet? Slightly crumpled, she looked less than her best in the muslin dress she had to struggle to get into, and her pelisse now had a small stain on the front. Not to mention her thick red hair which was quite a challenge at the best of times.
“I gather Cathleen has agreed to accompany us to England?”
Erina twisted her fingers together. “Not exactly.”
He turned on the seat to better study her. “What does ‘not exactly’ mean?”
Her gaze fled to his. “I didn’t receive a reply to my last letter. The mails being what they are.” She waited for his reproachful reply.
“We’ll know soon enough,” Harry said in a mild tone.
“Yes.” She smiled at him gratefully. “I shall have to find a pawnbroker or jeweler in Dublin who will agree to buy my jewelry.”
“What jewels would those be?”
“This cameo and my pearls. They were my mother’s. I hate selling them, but it’s for a worthy cause. Mama would have approved.”
Harry said nothing.
An hour passed in relative silence as the rain pattered on the roof of the carriage, slowing them to a painful crawl and blanketing their view. The landscape wasn’t particularly exciting, just endless green fields where livestock huddled together in the misty rain.
Erina was in danger of revealing her frustration and declaring that at this rate they wouldn’t get there until dinner when they came to a river where swans gathered. They could see a stone castle half of it in ruins on the hill in the distance. Ahead, lay the town of Nass. She leaped up and opened the window, letting the cool moist air flood in. “Oh, we’re here! Driver! We are to go straight along the main street and take the right fork in the road. The lane is about a mile farther on.”
They turned where a sign in danger of toppling bore the name, Wigham House. The lane to the manor house was rutted with potholes. They could hear the jarvie cursing as he guided the horses along it. After a bend in the road, they cleared a dense copse of trees and a charming three-story stone house came into view, the walls covered in creeper, the arched front door flanked by stone columns. Smoke rose from one of the twin chimneys set side by side on the roof.
Erina turned from the window and seized Harry’s lapel. “We’re here, I can’t believe it!” She kissed his cheek breathing in his cologne, citrus with a hint of lavender. “Thank you so much, Harry!”
“Steady on.” Harry smoothed his coat. “Who knows what we’ll find.”
As they approached, chickens scratched the earth in gardens choked with weeds. Up close the house lost some of its charm. Several slates were missing from the roof, the front door and the windowsills bare of paint, and a creeper threatened to grow across some upstairs window panes.
While Harry saw to the driver, Erina picked up her skirts and half ran down the path to knock on the door.
Silence. She knocked again. Finally, footsteps sounded, and the door was flung open. The aroma of fresh baked bread wafted out. A plump woman stood in the stone-flagged passage wiping her hands on her apron. She looked at Erina and then at Harry, who stood behind her. “Who’d you be wanting then?”
“Miss Cathleen Sullivan.”
“Miss Cathleen didn’t say there’d be guests. Why come here? Are ye lost? I’m busy with the breakfast.”
Erina stared at her.
Harry stepped forward. “Where is Miss Sullivan, madam?”
“They’re at the church, o’course. Getting themselves wed. She and Mister Gormley.”
Erina spun around and stared at Harry.
“Where is the church?” he asked.
“In the village, o’course.”
“Good thing I asked the jarvie to wait.” Harry took Erina’s elbow and led her back to the carriage.
She felt as if she was wading through water. “What if we’re too late?”
“Let’s deal with that when we get there.” He helped her inside. “Back to the village, driver. The church, if you please.”
When they entered the small stone church, a slim girl in an ivory-colored dress with hair the exact same red as Erina’s, stood at the altar beside a big carroty-haired man. The priest in his robes was intoning the marriage vows, his voice echoing around the almost empty church. Her heart began to bang in her chest. Here, in this hallowed building, the enormity of what she was about to do struck her. What if she was wrong, and this had become a love match? She glanced at Harry tempted to ask for his support. Instead, she moved closer to the group gathered at the altar.
After a frowning glance, the priest continued. “If anyone can show just cause why this couple cannot lawfully be joined together in matrimony, let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”
Erina swallowed. “I do.”
The man and the woman seated in the front pew, the priest, the bride, and the groom all turned to stare at her.
“Cathleen, I’m Erina.”
The girl blinked. “Erina? Begorrah! Have I fallen through a fairy ring?”
“What is this!” The groom left the bride’s side, his homely face turning an ugly shade of red. He stopped when he drew close, her likeness to Cathleen must have struck him. “Who are ye?”
“I’m Cathleen’s cousin, Lady Erina Roundtree, sir. And you are?”
His mean eyes reflected his misgivings. “The name’s Gormley, yer ladyship.” He squared his shoulders. “Not that it’s any business of yourn. Ye are interruptin’ the ceremony.”
The bride hurried past him. “Erina?”
“Yes.” Erina’s voice wobbled. “It’s me.”
“I can’t believe my eyes!” Cathleen threw her arms around her. She was crying. “I never expected to set eyes on ye!”
The groom’s eyes narrowed. He held out his hand. “Come, Cathleen!”
“Is there a problem, Cathleen?” the priest called. “Is the ceremony to proceed?”
“It is, Father,” Mr. Gormley thundered.
“Father O’Brien, my cousin has come all the way from England. Could you wait a moment?” Cathleen took Erina’s arm and drew her away, while Gormley stood visibly seething.
“You want to marry this Mr. Gormley?” Erina asked, sotto voce.
“I have no choice, Erina. He owns my father’s house. I’ve nowhere else to go.”
“But you do have a choice. You can come home to England with me.”
Cathleen put her hands on her cheeks, her shoulders shaking. “Your father would agree?”
“Of course. You are kin. Papa will be delighted to have you.” Erina cast a quick glance at Harry, but he kept his eye on the groom who’d coiled his hands into fists.
“Cathleen!” Mr. Gormley called again. “The priest and the witnesses are waiting.”
“Come to England with Harry and me,” Erina said urgently. “Find a man you can love. Unless you love Mr. Gormley?”
“I hate him,” Cathleen said, her voice muffled behind her hand.
“Then it’s settled.” Erina turned around. “Harry, we are taking my cousin to her house to pack her things. She is to accompany us back to Dublin.”
“I’m sorry, Father O’Brien.” Cathleen straightened her shoulders. “Mr. Gormley, I shan’t marry you.”
Mr. Gormley growled and took a step closer.
Cathleen flinched as she backed away from him.
“Mind yer own business,” Gormley said eyeing them both.
Harry stepped forward. “Let’s not be hasty. We can discuss this outside,” he said in a pleasant tone. “And if you offer proof that you are now the owner of Miss Cathleen’s house, we shall deal with this business promptly.”
Gormley sullenly followed them from the church. In the forecourt, he grabbed hold of Cathleen’s shoulders and shook her so hard an auburn ringlet escaped and fell across her cheek. “You’re going nowhere. That would be breach of promise. You are legally bound to marry me.”
Cathleen winced under his grip.
“Then I suggest you pursue the matter with a solicitor, sir,” Harry said. “Please unhand the lady.”
Gormley turned to look Harry up and down. His mouth formed a sneer. “Yea’re nothing but a London dandy. Who do you think ye are, coming here and interferrin’? Cathleen will be me wife before the day is out. Go back to that heathen place ye came from.” He grasped Cathleen around the waist and almost pulled her off her feet.
Moving fast, Harry seized the man’s arm and spun him around. “Unhand her, I say!”
As Cathleen slipped from his grasp, Erina held her breath, horrified. A ham-fisted fellow, Gormley was twice as big as Harry.
“I’ll deal with you first.” Gormley bounced on his toes and took a wild swing which Harry blocked. A well-placed elbow to the side of Gormley’s head, and a punch to the solar plexus sent Gormley off his feet, gasping on his back in the mud. Harry poked his polished boot into the man’s chest. “We are leaving, and I advise you to let us go or you’ll find yourself in worse trouble.”
Gormley gaped, looking stunned. He sat up gingerly feeling his head.
“Come.” Harry shepherded them to the waiting hackney.
Erin looked back as their carriage trundled away down the street. The priest and the witnesses crowded around Gormley as he stood rubbing his head.
“Harry! You were marvelous,” Erina cried. “I didn’t think you could…. Well, it was quite satisfying to watch, I must say.”
“Taught by Gentleman Jackson, the best pugilist in England.” Harry frowned as he dusted dirt from his trousers. “I wonder if we might partake of that breakfast of yours, Miss Cathleen, before we leave for Dublin? The jarvie can put the feed bag on the horses and join us for a meal.”
“It’s not my house any longer, sir. Gormley won it from my father in a card game.”
Harry tilted his head. “Won it fair and square, did he? Let him produce the deed of sale then. Whether guilty or no, the man looked as sneaky as a rat in the palace kitchen. If he’s smart, he’ll wait for us to leave before he returns.”