‘Good,’ said Nicholas. ‘Mary Whetcombe will accept all of her husband’s properties, all of his capital and the ship that bears her name.’
‘Leave off this folly, sir.’
‘Then leave off yours. These are no deeds of gift. They are trifles to soften the blow. They are a device to entrap a helpless woman. Gideon Livermore will give nothing away that he does not expect to reclaim when he forces himself on this lady in marriage.’
Barnard Sweete resorted to a string of protests but Nicholas quelled them with a raised hand. Seeing the strategy that was being used, he cut straight through it.
‘There was an earlier will,’ he said.
‘Now invalid.’
‘With the estate more honestly distributed.’
‘Its terms were that of the later document.’
‘Then why draw it up?’
‘Because it contained some minor alterations.’
‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, ‘the crossing out of Mary Whetcombe’s name and the insertion of that of Gideon Livermore. Because of a minor alteration, a grieving widow faces complete ruin.’
‘Only if she remains stubborn.’
‘The first will left everything to her.’
‘I dispute that and so will the other witnesses. Your father among them.’ He saw Nicholas wince and pressed home his advantage. ‘I note that Robert Bracewell was unable to help. Your visit to his cottage was a waste of time. Even if he had been ready to lie on behalf of Mary Whetcombe, it would have been no use. What is the word of a drunken and disgraced old man against that of three respectable figures in the community? You have no case, sir.’
‘But I do. It is supported by the first will.’
‘Show me the document.’
‘I do not have it as yet,’ said Nicholas, deciding to bluff. ‘But I know where to find it.’
Barnard Sweete whitened. When Nicholas headed for the door, the lawyer rushed to intercept him. He gabbled his offer once again and insisted that the deeds of gift would take all the sting out of the nuncupative will.
‘Gideon Livermore is a most generous man,’ he insisted.
‘I know,’ said Nicholas, taking out the crossbow bolt from inside his jerkin and thrusting it into the lawyer’s hand. ‘He sent me this. By deed of gift.’
Lucy Whetcombe did not need to keep her dolls hidden away in Susan Deakin’s room any more. Her mother encouraged her to bring them out and play with them. The girl sat on the floor of the fore-chamber and unwrapped the binding in which they were kept. Her mother watched her with wan affection. Mary Whetcombe had been stunned when Nicholas Bracewell had come into the house unannounced, and she was still dazed by it all, but his visit had one important result. It unlocked her feelings for Lucy. Since her husband’s death, she had been unable to give the girl the love and reassurance that she so desperately needed.
The news of Susan Deakin’s murder was a devastating blow and Mary did not know how to cope with it. Matthew Whetcombe had died peacefully in his bed with his family close to him, but the servant had been struck down miles away from home while she was doing no more than summoning help for a beleaguered widow. Mary looked down at her daughter and sighed. The girl’s handicap kept her in a childlike state. Susan had not been much older, but she was infinitely more worldly and mature. She had been the real mother to Lucy. It was a role that Mary now had to take on again herself.
Lucy found the little replica of her father and tucked it out of sight beneath the material. He no longer had any place in her game. Mary saw her opportunity. Kneeling beside the child, she picked up the doll that had Susan’s plain features dropped onto it by a paintbrush. Lucy tried at first to stop her and clutched at the image of her friend, but Mary was firm. Gently detaching her daughter’s hand, she placed the doll beneath the cloth. Lucy gazed up at her and understanding slowly filled her eyes with tears. Her beloved friend would never come back. Mary took the girl in her arms and they wept a long requiem for Susan Deakin. They were still entwined when Nicholas Bracewell was shown in by the maidservant.
Mary got up and the girl rallied slightly. Nicholas soon realised the cause of their distress. He hugged the girl and let her tears soak into his shoulder, then he comforted Mary. For those few minutes, he felt as if he were part of a little family, and it reinforced his conviction that Lucy was his daughter. But he said nothing on the subject. That discussion needed to take place in a very different atmosphere. The rescue of Mary Whetcombe from the designs of Gideon Livermore was the main objective now, and that could only be achieved with a legal document.
‘Did you see your father?’ she asked.
‘Yes, Mary. I fear that it was a mistake.’
‘Was he not able to help?’
‘Able, perhaps. But very unwilling.’
‘Why?’
Even as she asked the question, Mary could supply the answer. The past was too great an encumbrance for father and son. There was so much accumulated bitterness between them that it was impossible for them to communicate with each other. Mary herself was hopelessly bound up in those distant events, and they had left her with her own share of acrimony.
‘So you learnt nothing from your father?’ she said.
‘No,’ he confessed, ‘but the visit yielded further proof of Livermore’s villainy.’
‘In what way?’
‘He set an ambush for me.’
Mary gasped in alarm. ‘You were attacked?’
‘Without success. Some hireling with a crossbow.’
‘Nick!’
She put an involuntary hand on his arm and her love was rekindled for an instant. The moment soon passed. He was risking his life to help her and she was eternally grateful, but that did not obliterate the memory of the pain he had once inflicted on her. Nicholas was trying to extricate her from a situation for which he was to some degree indirectly responsible. Mary withdrew her hand but listened attentively as he gave her details of the ambush in the wood.
‘I have frightened them, Mary,’ he said. ‘If Livermore had nothing to hide, he would not need to attack me. They will be even more unsettled now.’
‘Why?’
‘I told the lawyer that I know where to find the will.’
‘And do you?’
‘Not yet, but it is vital that they believe me. The more I can draw them into the open, the more chance I have of catching them out.’
‘Be careful, Nick. They are dangerous men.’
‘Dangerous and corrupt. That is why I must stop them.’
‘Not if it costs you your life.’
Her involuntary hand again brushed his arm. Lucy was looking up at him with a hopeful affection. Nicholas could not let the two of them down now. He turned to Mary.
‘Where did Matthew deal with his business affairs?’
‘In the counting-house.’
‘May I see it?’
‘They have already searched the room.’
‘A fresh pair of eyes may see something that was missed.’
‘Barnard Sweete was most thorough.’
‘I have to start somewhere — and immediately.’
Mary was pessimistic. ‘Follow me.’
She took him to the counting-house and showed him the table at which her husband worked. Satchels of documents and trading agreements lay everywhere and more were stuffed away into chests and drawers. It would take an age to sort through them all, and Nicholas did not have unlimited time. He had deliberately offered a lure to Barnard Sweete by telling him that he knew the whereabouts of the first will. That threat would force Livermore’s hand. Nicholas had to be ready for him but his position would be immensely strengthened if he really did locate the document.
When Mary left him, he sifted quickly through the papers on the table then opened one of the drawers to take out a sheaf of correspondence. Though he was searching for a will, he paused for a moment to take a look into the life of the man who had taken his appointed place at the altar. Matthew Whetcombe was not just a thriving merchant. He commanded enormous respect. The letters were from local and county dignitaries, all thanking him for benefactions and all praising his character for its goodness. Here was a very different portrait of his rival, and Nicholas was chastened.