“Martha can carve a roast piglet with the same dexterity as any cook. I’ve seen her do it at home in the nursery when I was little. And neither man would have suspected – not until suddenly she pulled out the knife. Or she could have asked – paid – someone else to go with her. I think she has a brother.”
“Still absurd. Who takes such risks, and tempts the executioner for simple dislike of one man for another?”
“A mad man. But I don’t know any mad men. And there’s no one really with an equal motive for killing both your brother and my father.”
“Myself?”
Emeline glared at him. “Oh, Nicholas, don’t tease me.”
Nicholas rolled over and sat up. “All right, my sweet. It’s a fine game to pass the time, choosing the assassin amongst our friends. So then there’s Adrian.”
“Yes, because of Sissy. And Avice thinks he had another reason, which now puts you in danger too. Inheritance.”
“So he needs to kill me now, in order to inherit title, castle and wealth on my father’s death.” His smile slowly lit his eyes like sunshine. “Indeed, I’d thought of that. Adrian has few advantages, and very few funds to support either his own way of life or his sister’s future. There’s Aunt Elizabeth, but she has only her own small portion to pass on.”
“You’ll laugh at me,” she looked momentarily into her lap. “But you know I thought you were in danger from Adrian. And that’s why I travelled all this way to find you, because I thought I had to warn you. So Adrian’s the favourite.”
“Especially now there’s the interesting possibility of him being in league with the French, and the Richmond exile.”
“Unless his friend Urswick is another man altogether, and quite innocent. And Adrian killing my father doesn’t seem to fit.”
Nicholas nodded. “Perhaps only I had motive for both killings.”
“Why would you kill my father?”
“We were talking of inheritance. The same applies. Once matters are finally unravelled, you and your sister will inherit almost all your father’s wealth. Your mother will retain her dower lands and her own portion I presume, but I will have married more than an heiress. You’re about to be a very wealthy woman, my dear.”
“But as an heiress, there wasn’t much difference. You just had to wait. And you’re rich yourself, besides being your father’s only heir. It’s not the same as Adrian.”
Nicholas smiled suddenly. “There were at least half a dozen occasions when I’d have cheerfully murdered your father.”
“That’s different too. So would I. So would Avice. So would Maman. But I know it wasn’t you.” Emeline sighed, clasping her hands. “But Sissy seems to think – and of course, she’d never suspect Adrian. We’ve all spoken about this together. And we all suspect different people.”
Nicholas sat abruptly and reached for his cup. “I’ve doubted Adrian, then denied it for months. But now I know he dabbles in treachery. On this coast, at this time, there’s only one Urswick, my dear. But I, on the other hand, now have a great urge to kill several people all at once.”
“Me? Adrian?”
“Most of the people I’d like to kill are dead already. Peter, and the motives are endless. Your Ralph Cole for putting you at such terrible risk. Sissy’s parents for leaving their daughter a shameless fool. And the one person still alive – my father – for every bastard thing he’s ever done, and in particular for how he misunderstood Peter.”
“He never judged Peter, did he? Why?”
“Because Peter was the heir. Perhaps because my father associated the death of his wife with me. Simply because he’s a blind fool. I have no real idea. I doubt my father knows now – or ever did.”
“Well,” Emeline looked back into her lap. “If I die, there’s no else for you to blame. Just my own stupidity.”
“I’m rather fond of your stupidity.” He laughed. “You’re an endearing little puss, my sweet. And by my reckoning you’d already be feeling tired and ill if the pestilence was taking hold.” He kissed her lightly, then moved his fingers to her chin, lifting it and smoothing his hands gently beneath her jaw. “No swelling, no soreness. I don’t believe there’s any danger. You’ll not escape from me that easily.”
She stared back at him. “You really mean what you’re saying?”
“That you’ve not caught the contagion – yes, of course.”
“No.” She blushed a little. “That you’re really growing – fond of me?”
“Must I write it down? Must I swear it on the bible?” His arm was around her now, and he kissed her again, his mouth warm and quick against her cheek. “My sweet, if you weren’t already my wife, I’d ask you to marry me.”
“I’d say yes please.”
“Since the wedding itself was as much a Chatwyn disaster as most of our family dealings seem to be, it’s as well we’re already wed. Now, my lady,” he shook his head. “Do we speak of romance, or of murder?”
“Since we have to be locked in here alone together for days to come, perhaps both in turn.” She paused. “How many days will it be, Nicholas – to be sure?”
“One – two – three – it’s all a guess, my love. But if you were going to succumb, I believe you’d have a headache by now at the least.” She began to answer but he raised one finger, interrupting her. “Hush a moment, my love. There’s someone on the steps outside.”
The creak of the stairs and the patter of footsteps seemed careful, almost surreptitious. Then Avice’s whisper, “Emma, is that you? Are you alright?” Pause. Then, “Nicholas?”
Nicholas strode to the door and swung it open. “There’s little point in your sister staying isolated if we greet visitors,” he told his sister-in-law.
“It was you I wanted.” Avice said, “Everyone is fighting downstairs. Your Papa says he’ll throw your Uncle Jerrid down the stairs if another word is spoken about Peter, and Sissy is having hysterics and screaming at everyone and says you’re a murderer. Maman is angry with everyone and has turned her back and says she’ll go home tomorrow, and your Aunt Elizabeth slapped Sissy’s face. Outside everyone is quarrelling too, with someone threatening old Bill saying he’s just pretending to be sick, and the landlord is wringing his hands and muttering under his breath.” She shook her head. “I thought perhaps you should come downstairs.”
Emeline decided she had a headache after all.
Chapter Forty-Five
The Earl of Chatwyn was roaring like a gale through castle turrets, standing central in the little parlour and sharing his fury between the various members of his immediate family. His brother Jerrid half sprawled, smiling placidly around as though delighted to be the cause of such entertainment. The Lady Elizabeth sat tight kneed in one corner. Sysabel, facing her uncle Jerrid, stamped her foot and screeched her fury. Near the little doorway, the baroness was placating the landlord.
“It is quite beyond my power,” said the baroness firmly, “and indeed beyond my interests, to make any attempt to quieten or appease his lordship. He is not a gentleman easily distracted.” The baroness smiled. “But I imagine a large flagon of best Burgundy might go some way towards pleasing everyone.”
“Yes, indeed, wine, your ladyship.” The landlord backed, wiping his hands on his apron.
“Always a welcome diversion,” nodded the baroness. “A large flagon. Perhaps two.”
“You’re just a horrid old man,” squealed Sysabel, drowning out the landlord’s acquiescence. “And I hate you.”
Jerrid yawned. “The boy’s gone. Why quarrel over him now, m’dear?”
“Because you said – you said –”
“Because I said he was a nasty little slime ball, and I’d have sooner coughed up phlegm and called that my nephew.” Jerrid clasped his hands over his stomach. “But no point listing the lad’s many sins. Not now he’s being judged by a higher authority than my own.”