“Peter Wiley is dead,” I said. It was about time someone said it.
“I am sorry to hear that,” Farnsworth said. “But it does not matter in regard to the will. I am obligated to carry out the wishes of my client. Captain Boyle, have you any evidence to suggest that Sir Rupert Sutcliffe was the father of Peter Wiley?”
“No, I don’t,” I said. “There is a family resemblance, but I had no time to look into the matter or even speak to Peter about it. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t see how it matters, but I can give you some proof, if you like,” Meredith said. Every eye in the room swiveled in her direction. “I knew Peter Wiley was Father’s offspring with that maid. I have known for years. I shall be right back.”
The room went silent. The sound of Meredith’s heels clattering through the foyer and up the stairs echoed in the stunned silence. Helen looked to David as if he might be able to explain what was happening, but all he could do was shake his head. Only Edgar shook off the shock of Meredith’s announcement and stood to speak.
“I think, Williams, that you and the rest of the staff may return to your duties. Congratulations on your good fortune,” he said with a good deal of graciousness, which was noteworthy considering his own lack of good fortune. The four of them dutifully trooped out of the library as Meredith hurried down the stairs and back into the room. She sat and took a deep breath, composing herself.
“I dislike airing family issues like this, but it does seem necessary to clear this matter up, distasteful though it may be,” she began. “It’s no secret Father and I did not get along. The state of our relationship is obvious from his will alone. The source of our discord was his dalliance with Julia Greenshaw. I was only a young girl when Father came home from the last war, but I was not ignorant of the ways in which it had changed him. There was nothing of the carefree mother and father I remembered from before the war. Even though Helen was born within a year of his return, there was a sadness in the house. I have memories of laughter and gaiety before the war, although perhaps they are merely a child’s delusion.”
“Do you have some proof of the paternity in question?” Farnsworth asked, giving the clock on the mantel a quick glance.
“I’m getting to that, Mr. Farnsworth,” Meredith said. “This is quite difficult, you know.”
“My apologies,” he said. “Proceed.”
“I believe it began while Mother was carrying Helen,” she said. “I would see Father and Julia together at odd moments. He was never one to interfere with the running of the household, so it was puzzling to me, even as a small child. One day I followed them into the garden, my curiosity piqued. They kissed. I ran away before I witnessed any more. It was horrible, quite shattering.” She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. “Later he and Mother apparently had a major row. I can still hear them screaming at each other. Do you recall, Great Aunt Sylvia? I remember seeing you in the hall when I ran to find out what the matter was.”
“Yes, dear,” Lady Pemberton said. “I remember quite clearly. An unhappy time. Even when Helen was born, it did not bring them closer.”
“I know,” Meredith said. “In my childish way, I had thought it would. But a few months later, Mother said she needed a rest and went to stay with a friend in the Lake District. I begged her to take me, but she said it was peace and quiet she required. Father stayed in London for a while, I think.”
“He did,” Lady Pemberton said. “We hired a nursemaid for Helen and a tutor for Meredith. We felt it best that they did not witness their parents quarreling or bickering about each other. And Rupert began work with the Foreign Office in London at that time.” That jibed with what Sir Rupert had told me the day he died.
“Do you concur that this affair between the maid and Sir Rupert took place?” Farnsworth asked Lady Pemberton.
“Sadly, I must,” she said, and gestured to Meredith to continue.
“Mother returned at some point, though I cannot say when,” Meredith went on. “That is when Julia Greenshaw discovered that she was with child. Father must have arranged a rendezvous or two during Mother’s absence. As I understand it, the marriage between her and Ted Wiley was arranged with a substantial gift of money and on condition that they leave for America.”
“Why was the maid not simply sacked?” Edgar asked.
“We wished to avoid a scandal,” Great Aunt Sylvia said. “To work things out, discreetly.” I’d bet Lady Pemberton was very good at that, then and now.
Farnsworth leaned forward, waiting for Meredith to continue. He’d dropped his impatient demeanor and was caught up in the story Meredith was weaving, as were the others in the room. Kaz idly raised an eyebrow in my direction, which for him meant he was riveted as well.
“Several months later we were preparing for our voyage to India. It was all rather exciting, and I hoped that the adventure of it all would bring Mother and Father closer together. I had lost respect for him, but I still wanted a normal family life, if only for Helen. And I wanted Mother to be happy as well. I could see that she was distraught over the affair.”
“When was this?” Farnsworth asked.
“Early 1921,” Meredith answered. “I know because this letter came days before we were due to depart.” She held up the yellowing envelope with the three-cent stamp. “I was the first to see the post, and I noticed the letter from America, with the name Wiley on the return address. It looked like a woman’s writing, so I took it. I couldn’t bear the thought of that Greenshaw person writing to Father. Or worse, the possibility that he might answer.”
“You kept it all this time?” Edgar asked, leaving unsaid the fact that she had never told him the story.
“I don’t know why I did. I don’t even know if I should be telling you all about it. Once we arrived in India, I told Father that I had taken the letter and burned it. He was livid. He didn’t have their new address, and of course he couldn’t ask the servants for it. I taunted him about it, never letting on that I had kept it safe. We fought and of course grew distant. I suppose today I got my reward for being so horrible to him.”
“May I see the letter?” Farnsworth asked. Meredith nodded, the handkerchief now held to her face, and handed it to him. Farnsworth withdrew the flimsy airmail paper and scanned the two sheets. “I will not read it all. There is no need to disclose words of a highly intimate nature.” He shook his head, as if the mail had been meant for something other than personal messages. “It is from Julia Wiley to Sir Rupert, whom she addresses as ‘my dearest Rupert.’ There is a return address in New York City, and the postmark is visible. I would say that the critical statement for our purposes is, ‘Baby Peter will always remind me of our time together at Ashcroft House, brief as it was.’ She also refers to a sojourn in London, but I see no need to go into details.” He handed the letter back to Meredith.
“So what does this mean, exactly?” David asked, looking uncomfortable with such revelations.
“First, let me ask when Peter Wiley died,” Farnsworth said, turning to me.
“We are trying to determine exactly when,” I said. “It was during a training accident, and his death likely occurred in the early hours of the morning on April twenty-eighth.”
“After the death of Sir Rupert,” Farnsworth said.
“Yes,” I said. “The baron and I saw Peter after Sir Rupert died, in the hallway. And then briefly after we came back from the pub, later that night. That was the last time I saw him. Apparently he left early the following day.”
“Are there others who can attest to that?” Farnsworth asked, looking at the group. David, Kaz, Meredith, and Helen all concurred.
“I saw him later that evening,” Edgar said. “After Captain Boyle and the baron went off to the pub. He was in the library, looking for something to read. He was apologetic about being a houseguest under the circumstances. Perhaps that is why he left so suddenly.”