“Captain Boyle,” he said, turning at the sound of my footsteps. “I was about to come and seek you out. Will you take a short walk with me? The air smells wonderful today, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” I said, falling in beside him and catching the aroma of lavender from the borders on either side of the gravel path. “How are you feeling, Sir Rupert?”
“Much better, Captain. I never know when that blasted fever will lay me low. The doctors say there’s nothing they can do. No cure, but at least most people don’t die of it. Some comfort, eh?”
“Is there anything I can do for you, Sir Rupert?” I knew he didn’t want to talk about breakbone fever.
“You seem like a decent man, Captain Boyle,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back. I waited. “And without connections to our family, which is important. You see, there’s something I need to know, but I can’t talk to anyone else about it. Do you understand?”
“An outsider provides perspective,” I said, guessing.
“Yes, exactly. That is what I need. Perspective. You see, ever since Peter Wiley walked into the room yesterday, I’ve been haunted by something I thought I’d never confront again. Do I have your confidence, Captain? Will you keep what I say between us?”
“Kaz-the baron-and I are partners. I don’t keep secrets from my partner. But otherwise, I’ll keep what you tell me in confidence.”
“Very well,” he said as the path descended to the river below. “I leave it up to you, but I ask that you do not repeat this to the baron unless you feel it absolutely necessary, and in that event, you caution him to keep it confidential.” I nodded my agreement, and we strolled, more slowly now, as I waited for him to continue.
“It was during the last war,” he finally said. “I served in France with the army and was wounded. Shrapnel in my legs and back. The doctors left some in. Too close to nerves to remove, they said. I was at home, recuperating. Meredith was a young child and Helen not yet born. Meredith’s birth was difficult, and Louise-my wife-took quite a while to recover. Physically and otherwise.” I could see his face redden, although he kept staring at the ground.
“I understand, sir.”
“Yes, well, the thing of it is, Julia Greenshaw, the maid who went to America. She and I became close.” Even with my cobwebbed mind, I understood. “Once I had recovered, I found work with the Foreign Office in London. Upon my return to Ashcroft, I found that Julia had been sent away, along with Ted Wiley, our groundskeeper. Louise said she knew all about my indiscretion, and had paid Julia to go to America. She claimed Ted had always cared for Julia, and had proposed as soon as he learned she was leaving. I was distraught, ashamed, and had no idea what to do next.”
“Did you try and get in touch with her?” I asked.
“I would have, but no one had an address. So I put her out of my mind, as best I could.”
“Until Peter Wiley walked into your house, wearing that ring,” I said.
“Yes! You can see now why it affected me so. I was shocked to see that ring, in particular.”
“Why?”
“It was Louise’s, of course, being from the Pemberton family.”
“Could Julia have stolen it? Or Ted Wiley?” I asked. “To get back at Louise, I mean, not for the value of it.”
“Oh, I doubt it,” Sir Rupert said. “Julia was not the type of woman to steal, especially not from the house that employed her. No.”
“What is it exactly you want me to do, Sir Rupert?”
He turned and faced me, this time looking straight into my eyes. “I want you to find out if Peter Wiley is my son.”
“How can I do that?” I asked. “Julia and Ted Wiley are both dead. Who would know?”
“I don’t know how, Captain. You’re the investigator. I assume General Eisenhower has you on staff because you know your business. Investigate, ask people. Please,” he added, changing his tone when he seemed to remember he was asking for a favor, not issuing orders.
“Have you thought about asking Peter directly?” I said.
“I have,” he said with a sigh, resuming our walk along the path. “But he might not know. And I would be accusing his mother of an affair, not to mention coming off as a cad myself, which is not far from the truth.”
“What would you have done if she hadn’t left?”
“Good God, that’s a question I’ve asked myself a thousand times.” He stopped again, looking across Bow Creek at the small stone cottages on the opposite shore. “Julia and I were happy. I know it was wrong, but it wasn’t a cheap, sordid affair, the landowner chasing the maid sort of thing.”
“Did you and she talk about a future together?” Until a moment ago, that would have been none of my business. But if I was going to look into the paternity of Peter Wiley, now it was my business.
“Yes, but it never amounted to anything. Louise was depressed, and I was worried about her. A divorce might have pushed her over the edge. Julia and I did speak of going off together, since divorce would have been such a scandal, but it was only a daydream. We cared about each other, which is why it was such a shock when I learned she’d left. Now I think I understand. Louise gave her a way out. Bearing a bastard child would have ruined her.”
“You think Louise bribed her to leave? And Ted Wiley?”
“Sadly, I think that might have been the case. Perhaps Wiley did have feelings for her, and took his chance at happiness, even knowing who the father was. It might not have been a bad match, at that. Please, Captain Boyle, I have to know. Will you do what you can?”
Sir Rupert looked as down as a grown man could without shedding tears. The past can rip you apart: the missed chances, the lost loves, the joys that never were-things that gleam like silver in comparison with the daily grind of today, the now in which this thickset, grey, middle-aged Rupert Sutcliffe found himself. Youthful daydreams are best forgotten, but his had just walked in on him, and he couldn’t give up hope that something was left of those magical days of secret love. A son.
“Okay,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t regret it. Or fail. “I’ll look into it and let you know if I come up with anything.”
“Thank you, Captain Boyle. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I feel better already knowing you’ve taken it on.” He smiled and clasped my arm for a moment, and then we turned around to walk back to the house.
“What do you think?” I asked. “Is he your son?”
“Look at Peter and Helen next time they are next to each other,” he said. “And tell me if you don’t see the resemblance.” I wondered if Helen had noticed it; that would explain why she’d been so attentive to Peter. Meredith had also given him her full attention at dinner, but perhaps she was simply being kind to an unexpected guest.
“Aren’t you giving Peter a tour of the estate?” I asked. “Perhaps you could ask him what his mother told him about Ashcroft. Give him an opening without letting on what you suspect.”
“I will, but later,” Sir Rupert said. “I have some business to attend to with my solicitor in Dartmouth, and it can’t wait. Please give my apologies to Peter and tell him he can set up his paints anywhere he wishes.”
We parted as he went off to see his lawyer. The scent of lavender now felt cloying and thick as I puzzled over what to do next. I decided it was time for a visit to the kitchen.
It was at the rear of the house, at the end of a wing that abutted vegetable gardens and the greenhouse. It was a long, narrow room with high ceilings and tall windows, along with two large stoves and a wooden table scarred by years of chopping and hot pans.
“Good morning,” I said to the grey-haired woman leaning over the stove, stirring a pot. “You must be Mrs. Dudley. I’m Billy Boyle.”
“Good morning, Captain,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel. “Can I get you anything?” She was in her sixties perhaps, her shoulders stooped from years bent over stoves and dishes, and her body rounded out from the bounty of her kitchen. Her smile was genuine, but I could see she was busy, eager to politely get me out of her hair.