As Death Draws Near (24 page)

“I feel as if I should have known, or at least suspected,” Reverend Mother replied, shaking her head. “It is . . . troubling, to say the least.” Her thumbs tapped together in her lap. “I shall have to inform the bishop. He should be made aware.”

“What of you, Mother Mary Paul?” I inquired, turning to the other sister. “Did you have any idea what they were doing?”

She frowned. “No. Not really. But . . . I had misgivings. Unfounded, of course. Which is why I never said anything,” she told her mother superior.

“How long ago did you begin to suspect?”

She considered my question. “Perhaps a few weeks before Miss Lennox's death. I found Mother Mary Fidelis searching for something in your office. A paper of some kind. But I noticed your latest letter from the bishop was open on your desk. You had shared some of its contents with me earlier that day, and then folded it and put it in the drawer of your desk. It talked about O'Connell, and the tithes protests, and his worries that more clashes like the one in County Kilkenny
earlier that spring might occur. He asked for our prayers for the Lord's guidance.”

“Yes, I remember,” Reverend Mother murmured. “And I understand why you didn't say anything. But why did you suspect Miss Lennox was also involved?”

“I didn't. Not until she was caught outside the abbey wall. Then I began to wonder.”

Mother Superior lifted a weary hand to her forehead. “Yes. That makes sense.”

It did make sense. And if Mother Paul had noticed, she might not have been the only one.

•   •   •

G
age and I were mostly silent on our drive home from the abbey, the subject occupying our thoughts too sensitive to discuss while speaking loud enough to be heard over the clattering wheels. The men had said very little upon their return from the castle through the tunnel, but I noticed their clothes were rumpled, including Constable Casey's, and Anderley sported the beginnings of a black eye. He refused my attempts to examine it, mounting his horse and riding back toward what had become his customary post at the Yellow House.

I closed the door behind us as we reached our bedchamber, but Gage held up his hands, forestalling any questions. “Some of the men took exception to our visit, which resulted in a bit of a coat dusting. The worst of which you've seen. There's nothing more to say on the matter.”

I arched my eyebrows at his testiness. “Did you locate any weapons?”

“No. Or they would have used them,” he muttered under his breath, tugging at his cravat. “Everything else seemed just as Casey described. If they're planning a rebellion from that location, it will be a rather short-lived and slapdash one.” He winced as he shrugged his dirt-streaked coat over his left shoulder.

“You're injured,” I gasped, moving forward.

“No, I'm not,” he snapped, twisting away. “Just a bit sore. I don't need you to coddle me.”

I whirled toward the door. “Then I'll wait for you in the parlor, shall I? Seems someone needs to lick his wounds.” The sound of its slam was rather satisfactory, but I paused halfway down the stairs, annoyed I'd forgotten to remove my pelisse. I set to unbuttoning it, pulling it from my shoulders as I rounded the newel post to find Marsdale standing in our entry.

At times, the man truly was a nuisance, showing up where he was least wanted and least anticipated. Though, in this case, I supposed his presence might prove to be helpful. He deserved to know what we'd uncovered about his cousin, and I was curious to hear his reaction to our revelation.

He caught sight of me standing there watching him and flashed me his usual impish grin, but something of my thoughts must have been reflected in my expression, for his humor faded.

“M'lady . . .” the butler began.

“It's quite all right,” I assured him. “Could you have some tea sent up? Lord Marsdale, if you'll join me in the parlor.”

I dropped my soft emerald green pelisse onto the back of the chair closest to the door and crossed over toward the windows which looked out onto the carriage yard. I rolled my shoulders to adjust the neckline of my matching gown, smoothing out the bows at the collar and brushing a hand down the skirt toward the decorative twists of fabric.

“You are distressed,” Marsdale remarked with more gentleness than I'd yet heard him use.

I glanced back to find him still standing near the door, as if uncertain how to proceed. “Not unduly.” I offered him a weak smile. “Do not worry. There won't be any tears.”

He moved forward a few hesitant steps. “Is it about my cousin?”

I noticed then the pale cast of his skin. I didn't wish to lie, but I also thought Gage should be present when we told him. “Partly,” I hedged. “But I suspect it's more the weight of this inquiry vexing me.” I stared out the window at the
brilliant afternoon sunlight. “It's bound to happen at least once during every investigation.”

“Then why do you do it?”

I noticed he hadn't pressed me to tell him what I knew of his cousin. Perhaps he was in as little of a rush to hear whatever had alarmed me as I was to tell it.

“Because someone needs to. Because I'm good at it.” Those words sounded almost trite, and I wondered if they were enough. But he didn't press that either.

The tea tray arrived then, and I settled onto one of the armchairs, grateful for something to do. Marsdale seemed equally relieved.

When Gage entered the room a short time later, he found us both sitting quietly, sipping our tea like two of the most proper members of the ton rather than two of the most scandalous. We must have made quite an incongruous sight, for he stumbled to a halt after taking just a few steps into the room. His eyes traveled between us several times before advancing.

“Did you tell him?” he asked as I set my cup aside to pour his.

“I thought it best to wait for you,” I replied, dropping sugar into his cup and passing it to him.

He nodded, taking a seat in the chair next to mine. His hair at his forehead and around his ears and neck was still damp, and the collar of his jacket was folded up at the back. I reached over to brush it flat, and he gave me a quick smile.

“All right, out with it,” Marsdale declared, draping his arm over the back of the settee. “I'm riveted in suspense,” he drawled in a droll voice that did nothing to hide his nerves.

Gage took a sip of his tea. “It's not as bad as we have made it seem. But it is . . . worrying.” He explained what we'd learned earlier that morning about Miss Lennox's involvement with the tithe protest, her supposed information gathering, and even Mr. LaTouche's somewhat contradictory claim the evening before.

Marsdale listened without comment until he finished, and
then sank back into the cushions of the settee, his expression one of astonishment. “So someone is lying?” he finally muttered.

“It appears that way. Though I suppose it's possible that your cousin was playing both sides, so to speak. She might have provided information to Casey and the other members of the tithe protest and, in the process, stumbled on to something that made her think there would be an armed revolt, and so asked LaTouche to warn Anglesey about it.” I frowned even as I finished saying the words.

“Yes, but then why didn't she simply write to Wellington, or whatever family member was corresponding with her, and inform them of her fears? Why contact LaTouche at all?” Gage pointed out, and I could not answer him. He was right. It all sounded far too convoluted.

He looked across at Marsdale, who was scowling at the table before him. “Did anyone say anything pertinent after we left LaTouche's yesterday evening?”

“No. Though LaTouche was quieter than I've generally observed. Bowed out of a hand of piquet, when everyone knows he's mad for it. His son even seemed . . . puzzled by his behavior.”

“What of your cousin, Miss Lennox? Do any of her reported actions make any sense to you?”

He shook his head. “No. But then again, when you told me she'd converted and decided to become a nun, I was also completely shocked. Nothing I ever knew of her led me to believe she was particularly religious, or that she would ever defy her family in such a way.” He lifted his eyes toward the ceiling as if in remembrance. “Though as I've said before, she did often keep to herself, so perhaps I didn't know her well enough to tell.” His brow lowered. “But I do know one thing. Harriet was fiercely loyal. Had she thrown her lot in with these protesters, she would not have betrayed them.”

“Not even if they were planning some sort of violence that might see innocent people harmed?” Gage pressed.

“Even then,” he insisted. “And certainly not to LaTouche, who is likely one of those Orangemen dead set against them.”

With each new thing I learned, my understanding of Miss Lennox became less clear. She had been described as quiet, humble, and meek, yet she'd defied her family to convert to Catholicism and join a convent. Then she defied her religious order and joined in the efforts of the tithe war. There was something inconsistent, something unreliable, in all of this, though I couldn't put my finger on what it was. Her conversion seemed so precipitous, as did her decision to help the tithe protesters, and Miss Lennox struck me as a person who was far more considered than that. Mother Fidelis had hinted the same as well.

Marsdale sighed, suddenly sounding very weary. “But what do I know? I haven't spoken to Harriet in years. Not since my father tried to arrange a marriage between us.”

I looked up, pausing in my efforts to gather the tea items together and stack them on the tray. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Gage seemed just as startled by this pronouncement as I was.

He sat forward. “You were engaged to Miss Lennox?”

“Not officially.” He looked up from where he was plucking at the fabric of the settee, seeming to notice our watchful expressions for the first time. His scowl blackened. “What? I wasn't ready to stick my neck in the parson's mousetrap. And besides, I liked Harriet too much to wish to saddle her to my profligate ways. Being a duchess someday wouldn't have mattered a fig to her, and that's the only compensation our matrimony could have offered her.”

“It sounds as if you cared for her,” I said quietly.

“Of course I did. Harriet was a dashed fine girl.” His face tightened with some intense spasm of emotion before he could bring it back under control. He cleared his throat and rose abruptly to his feet. “Excuse me.”

Then before either of us could say another word, he disappeared from the room. His footsteps receded rapidly toward the entry and out the front door. We sat listening as he called for his horse and then followed the lad toward the stables.

“I think you broke him.”

I turned to Gage with a glower, unimpressed with his quip. “Marsdale may be a scoundrel, but even scoundrels have hearts.”

He smiled at me gently. “Ah. Even me.”

I arched a single eyebrow, assuming he referred to his reputation when we first met. “You were never a scoundrel. Just a very poorly disguised rake.”

Gage's smile broadened and then dimmed as he glanced toward the window, where the sound of horse's hooves riding off into the distance could be heard. “The question is, just how much of a scoundrel
is
Marsdale?”

I folded my hands in my lap, having no trouble following his line of thought, as the same thing had occurred to me. “His appearance in Whitehaven did seem far too coincidental.”

“Was he truly fleeing Lord Skipton and his daughter, or was he just returning from a visit to Ireland and seeing us ready to set off in that direction decided to tag along?”

“But what of his valet and luggage? They weren't with him. He said they were trailing behind him.”

Gage shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe that was a lie he told, thinking it would make his story more believable. Maybe they were already at the inn and the message he left instructed his valet to follow after us the next day.”

“And so what? He traveled to Ireland to see his cousin in a convent and then murdered her? Why? What motive could he possibly have? And don't say religion, because I do not for one minute believe Marsdale cares enough about that to kill someone over it.”

“No. But contrary to what he wants people to think, he does care about his family. You heard what he said on the boat about his brother, and you've heard the way his voice softens when he speaks of his cousins, especially Miss Lennox. Who, admittedly, it sounds as if he actually loved, whether or not he realizes it. Perhaps he only came to be certain she was well, but something set him off. Something to do with loyalty perhaps.”

“He does speak an awful lot about that, doesn't he?” I considered what he'd said. “But then why didn't any of the sisters recognize him?”

“Maybe he never came to the abbey proper. Maybe he wrote to her and met her by the pond, just as LaTouche claimed he did.”

“And Mother Mary Fidelis saw them together and confronted him, so he killed her, too?” I eyed him doubtfully.

His mouth flattened in chagrin. “It does seem rather far-fetched.”

“Everything about these murders seems far-fetched,” I remarked in discouragement, rising to my feet and crossing the room to stare out the window again. A squirrel sat in the middle of the carriage yard a few feet away, his red tail rolled up his back like a plume as he chomped away at some sort of nut he rotated in front of his mouth. Some sound made him still, glancing behind him, before he stuffed the rest of his meal in his cheeks and ran off into the forest.

A moment later I heard Gage rise to join me. His arms wrapped around me from behind. “I admit, when I joined my father in this private inquiry business, I never expected to be investigating the death of a nun, let alone two. But here we are.”

I tipped my head to the right, pressing it against his chin.