“She wrote a note to Hugh and you found it, did you not? Just as you found Brook’s note to him? I doubt any piece of paper has crossed these halls without you taking a look at it since you arrived. Perhaps she tried to speak to Hugh, and you intervened. In any case you removed her, and for good measure you sent Hugh off with the arsenic to poor Joshua, to make sure that no news of Alexander’s whereabouts could be found, and to put his head in the noose for your crimes.” She gave a little laugh. “And while you are causing all this slaughter you are campaigning with the College of Arms to have your name and heritage recognized! Presumably you wish to marry Lady Thornleigh when she becomes a widow. I am sure if Lord Thornleigh survives to see Hugh hang, he will not live long thereafter. You have already carved a score of the bodies mounted up into his arms. No doubt the final mark will be for his own murder.”
Wicksteed colored a little at these last words. Then he walked across the room to where Lady Thornleigh still lounged against the trestle, took her hand and pressed it to his lips with great delicacy. She gazed into his eyes, and for a moment every other person in the room felt that strange exclusion in the presence of two people who see only each other. Harriet watched them; there was something perfect about them in that moment and part of her was jealous.
Then Wicksteed straightened, and turned back to them, his voice soft and even.
“You cannot prove anything. And no one will listen to the ravings of a madwoman who has deserted her family, and the brother of a patricide.” He sneered at Harriet. “You saw my arms during our interesting chat in your woods the other day. Where are the marks of Nurse Bray’s hands which you insisted would be there? You are storytellers, that is all.”
Michaels shifted out of the shadows behind Harriet’s chair.
“Oh, a fair amount of it can be proved, Claver.”
Wicksteed looked vaguely amused. “You dare call me by my Christian name?”
“I dare call you a murderous dog, Claver,” the big man told him.
Wicksteed laughed, and swung his hand in Lady Thornleigh’s; she smiled up at him warmly.
“I always liked you, Michaels,” Wicksteed said. “Why don’t you come and stand with us? I could make you a rich man. Why cast your lot in with them?” He nodded toward Crowther and Harriet. “They may be civil to you, but they will always expect you to stand while they sit, and never ask why that should be.”
“We shall see, Claver,” Michaels said calmly. “But for all your smarts-and I’m not saying you aren’t a sharp lad-I know something you do not.”
Crowther could see the tension appear in Wicksteed’s face; it pulsed just under his jawline. Michaels nodded to Crowther, who waited till he could feel the tension in the room like a beat on a distant drum.
“You have miscalculated. Lady Thornleigh’s son is not the only heir. Alexander had two children-a boy and a girl. Both legitimate and recorded under their true names. Both safe and under good supervision in London. Your murderer failed to cut off the line, and is dead himself.”
Hugh leaped to his feet and at once stumbled to his knees in front of Harriet.
“It is true? He had children? They live?”
He looked up at her, his face a pattern of confused joy. She put out her hand and touched his cheek.
“They live, and are well, and have precedence. The Hall will be theirs. And we can prove Wicksteed arranged for the murder of their father. He wrote a letter, and it will hang him.” Her tone was soft, comforting.
Crowther turned to Wicksteed. The latter had dropped Lady Thornleigh’s hand and looked at the flagstones in front of him. His hands closed into fists at his sides. There was a laugh, and Harriet twisted to see Lady Thornleigh, her body trembling. She put her hand up to the jewels in her hair and began to tear them out, throwing them to the stone floor of the hall.
“Then they should have this, and this!”
Wicksteed tried to grab hold of her wrists but she tore away from him and spun round the far end of the table. Her lazy humor had evaporated; her body seemed to thrill, lit within with rage.
“Poor old yellow-faced Moore!” she said. “Who killed him? God, there were enough times he was selling me on the streets when I wished I could have stuck a knife in him, but I was only twelve, and he seemed as indestructible as a god!” She laughed again. “Now he’s dead! Burning in hell, just as I always knew he would! Oh, I shall go down there now and pull his hair for playing us such a trick!”
Wicksteed seemed to startle awake and tried to reach her, his face white and sweating.
“My love! Dear God! Say nothing.”
Lady Thornleigh pulled the diamonds from around her throat and sent them skimming across the floor, where they came to rest at Crowther’s feet.
“Take ’em! Clever boy! Justice be done! Get away from me, Claver. It’s done and I will speak.”
She looked wild-eyed into Harriet’s pale face.
“What? You thought I just sat here and let Claver do my work for me?” Her loose hair curled over her bare shoulders. “It was old Moore, the bastard was a hundred even then, who sold me to my first old man before I could even bleed-though he made me, and others after. I knew who to turn to when Claver got that note out of Brook’s hand. And you think those wounds on Thornleigh are for his sad, pretty wife and his servant?” Her voice rose. “What do I care about them? No, they are for the little girls like me, younger even than I was, who he raped in London since I knew him. Almost every week he’d have some poor kid brought to him, always dark, always in a plain gray dress to remind him of his first love-just as I did once. I used to see them being bundled out of the back of my fancy house afterward, crying and stumbling-and I’d get pearls for my silence. I’ve worn that locket! Each of us did. Perhaps he even put it around his wife’s neck. She was a young one too when he got hold of her, I hear. He knew I’d be waiting to pay him back! But he never suspected I’d have the chance. It amused him to have a whore who hated him as a wife. He never dreamed he’d be cowering under my knife.”
She stared up at Crowther again; she had bitten her lip and the blood welled up in her mouth. Her voice dropped a little.
“Wonderful, isn’t it, Crowther, how the flesh gives and opens under a blade?”
Harriet looked at her. “You helped kill Nurse Bray.”
Lady Thornleigh lifted her hand to the shoulder of her dress and tore the sleeve open at the seam. Across the soft white of her upper arm were four deep scratches, just beginning to heal. Crowther thought of the paper in his pocket. He could tell they were a perfect match even at this distance.
“She came to me! To tell me she thought she might know where Alexander was-though she never mentioned the children, I’ll give her that. She said she thought it best to speak to the woman of the house. Lord knows, that has always been Hugh!” Lady Thornleigh groaned and spun around on her heel. “We burned all her papers! How did you know about the children?”
Harriet’s voice was trembling as she replied.
“She made a will. She left a cameo brooch to Alexander’s little girl.”
The groan became a laugh again, and my lady tore the jeweled bands from her wrists.
“All of this! All of this lost, for a cheap cameo!”
Wicksteed managed to reach her and seized her. “Stop! Stop! Jemima, why do you give yourself away? My love! Think of your son! Eustache! Please, my darling-stop.”
She seemed to grow suddenly calm at his touch. She lifted one hand to his face, and with her thumb wiped away the tear from his cheek.
“Oh, Claver. I have buried two children, given away another. What should I care for that runt of Thornleigh’s, unless he could do you good?”
Claver let his head drop to her shoulder. She rocked and shushed him, letting the fingers play at the back of his neck where his dark hair touched his collar.