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“But on the Wednesday, Coltrane says he needs to escape before that.”

“Yes, and we’ll never know whether Stanhope would have tried to kill his tormentor during an arranged escape or kill himself instead. He certainly knew that Coltrane was wilier and more ruthless than he, and might easily foil any attempt to shoot him in the back. And besides, the poor devil still did not know where the letter was or who might be prepared to use it against him.”

“So you’re saying he was still dithering when Almeda and Shad did Coltrane in?”

“Yes. I could never accept the notion that Stanhope would plant the poison the night before, risking the involvement of his daughter. It was one thing to have her infatuated with the monster but another to have her implicated in his murder. And even though he confessed to planting the empty packet, would he really have kept it in his tunic while sitting with the chief constable waiting for the poison to take effect downstairs? And if he did, he had little chance to plant it with the women screaming all about him and Cobb beside the hall tree.”

“But I still don’t see why he confessed in open court to a murder he didn’t commit.”

“It happened like this. On the stand this afternoon Stanhope learned that we had dug up the very coded letter he has spent five weeks trying to find and destroy. He also learned from Dougherty that Almeda’s involvement in its composition has been put on the record earlier that day when she admitted it was her handwriting. Suddenly the nightmare was real. He was compelled to read aloud what is tantamount to a confession and his own death warrant. His treason had been exposed in the most horrific way imaginable: before the very people who have bestowed upon him the honours he so relentlessly coveted. His life was effectively over. Taking it himself-before the state could-was the only route left to him, if he could just get to the Derringer in his study.

“But suddenly there was an even more overriding concern. Dougherty was accusing his wife of treason or complicity in treason. Stanhope knew that Dougherty and the judge had seen Caleb’s letter alluding to the proposal put to her husband, as if she already knew what it was, and to her putative sympathy with the Hunters’ cause. Therefore, Dougherty was not necessarily bluffing. Almeda Stanhope might well be in serious trouble, even mortal danger.”

“But you told me earlier that he seemed completely crushed when his own treason came out like that.”

“True, but then I watched Stanhope pause, stiffen his resolve, raise his head, and look about for someone in the courtroom. He found Almeda. I felt at the time that in that mutual gaze, something critical was exchanged between them. Perhaps, after hearing the testimony against Billy challenged by Dougherty on Friday and Saturday, he had begun to suspect that if it wasn’t Billy, that it had to be Almeda. Even if he didn’t, I believe he decided then and there that the only way to keep his wife from being part of a treason trial or herself charged after his suicide, was to confess to the more immediate crime. Even if he never got to the Derringer, he knew he would be convicted and hanged within a month-hence the quick and detailed confession-after which no one would care to pursue the treason charge with its principal malefactor dead. In addition, there was the matter of his protégé’s wrongful conviction, for he had certainly perjured himself and sealed Billy’s fate with his definitive statement about the lad’s hand in that coat pocket.”

Beth sighed against her husband. “All those people dead because of one man’s vanity: Lieutenant Muttlebury, Melvin Curry, three soldiers at the fort, Caleb Coltrane, and the colonel himself.”

“True. But he tried to make up for some of it in the end, didn’t he? In taking the blame for the murder, he performed a truly selfless and noble act.”

Beth smiled. “There’s still love in the world, isn’t there?”

EPILOGUE

The matched pair of Belgians from Frank’s livery stable stood patiently in the snow a few yards from Cobb’s residence, while Delia and Fabian reached down from the four-seater to help their mother hoist her considerable avoirdupois up onto the sleigh. Three suitcases and a small steamer trunk were already safely stowed in the luggage compartment under the driver’s bench. Dora landed with a sigh beside Delia, the sleigh rocked amiably, and the horses sensed it was almost time to go. Dora was as excited as the children, though her eight years as a midwife had led her to temper any extreme emotions, joyous or otherwise. Babies often came out kicking and squalling for their rights, only to expire an hour later of indeterminable causes.

“Are we really going to stay in an inn?” Fabian asked for the fourth time.

“It’s too far away fer us to get there in one day, luv.”

“I do hope they got my letter,” Delia said. “It’d be awful if we got there and they didn’t know we were coming.”

“I don’t suppose they’d mind either way, dear.”

At last the front door opened and closed, and Cobb trundled down the path towards the sleigh. Without saying a word, he put one boot on the footboard and pulled himself up onto the driver’s bench with his good right hand.

“Ya took yer time,” Dora said.

Cobb stared straight ahead, as Fabian clambered up beside him. “Time’s what I seem to have plenty of,” he complained. “But I’m here, ain’t I?”

“Can I drive the horses?” Fabian asked.

Cobb handed the reins to his son.

“Giddyup, you fiery-footed steeds!” the boy cried with unsuppressed delight.

And off they sped towards Woodstock, to see a dying man who loved Shakespeare.