Darkwater (33 page)

Uncle Edgar’s brows rose in angry astonishment at Adam’s attack.

‘I assumed nothing of the kind.’

‘I think you did at first. And you made no statement to correct that impression when you made that rather momentous discovery.’

Aunt Louisa started forward.

‘Edgar, do you mean that bag of green stones, the things the childrens called their marbles, were emeralds! Why, you told me they were some sort of inferior jade.’

‘A fortune,’ said Adam softly. ‘Your wastrel brother, Mr Davenport, was making sure of his children’s future after all.’

Aunt Louisa pointed a trembling finger.

‘But you lied to me, Edgar! You must have stolen those jewels!’

Strangely, her words gave back to Uncle Edgar his poise. He thrust his fingers into the pockets of his elegant flowered waistcoat with an air of negligent ease.

‘Not stole, my dear wife. Merely invested. Mr Marsh, who seems to have a passion for secret investigation, may care to inspect my investments. I would remind him again that I am legally the children’s guardian, and perfectly within my rights to dispose of property. Mr Barlow would bear me out. We talked of this at length.’

‘But could it be,’ said Adam, in his deceptively soft voice, ‘that there was a conspiracy between you and Mr Barlow? Unlucky fellow that he was.’

‘Unlucky?’

‘I understand the bargaining point was your niece Fanny. He was to take her off to China, and nothing more would be said about the children’s assets. Am I right?’

‘Adam! Adam!’ Fanny cried, unable to be silent any longer. ‘Mr Barlow’s bags are still here. We found them today. I’m so afraid—’

Adam’s grip on her fingers was remarkably soothing. Almost in a moment her terror quietened. She could even think of that pile of autumn leaves without such great distress.

‘You think the poor fellow is still here? Perhaps he may be. Wild pigs can be destructive, can’t they, Mr Davenport?’

Uncle Edgar stared at him, his pale eyes expressionless. Adam went on, ‘A man buried not very skilfully, and in evening dress, could easily seem like a large black bird to a child, if a wild pig had previously investigated the grave and some part of the body, perhaps an arm, protruded. You followed the children that day, didn’t you, Mr Davenport? And made some quick repairs. I expect you made a much more thorough job later in the night. But I have taken the liberty of asking the police to investigate. They’re in the copse now, with lanterns.’

He looked at the horrified women, and said, ‘I apologise for the grisly nature of this conversation. But it isn’t really as distressing as a hunt for a live prisoner. A man, a human being, hunted like an animal. And conveniently at hand when the little Chinese woman, who knew too much about the wealth of her charges, was lured down to the lake looking for a doll that had already been safely secreted.’

‘And encountered a desperate man on the run,’ Uncle Edgar said, speaking at last his well-rehearsed statement. It had been said to the police and the coroner many times.

‘Did she?’

‘Of course. Oh, there’s recently some hearsay evidence against it, but—’

‘Papa!’ That was, surprisingly, Amelia. White-faced, with brilliantly shining eyes, she faced her father. ‘It isn’t true about the prisoner. You know it isn’t. And so do I!’

There was all the usual indulgence in Uncle Edgar’s voice as he answered his daughter.

‘Your kind heart does you credit, my dear, but you know nothing whatever of this. Kindly stay silent.’

Amelia’s head was up, her face strangely mature.

‘I do know something about it, Papa. I must speak. The prisoner was here the night after Ching Mei’s death. The next night! He told me he had come from Okehampton, miles away. I gave him food. Cook will tell you. She wonders’—Amelia’s voice trembled in a travesty of her light-hearted giggle—‘where’ my appetite has vanished to lately. I don’t want sandwiches and slices of fruit cake after dinner any more. But the prisoner wasn’t here the night Ching Mei died, Papa. I know.’

Uncle Edgar’s eyes went from one to another. He seemed to come, regretfully, to a long-expected decision.

‘Then I am afraid the police will have to interview my son.’

Aunt Louisa made a violent movement. ‘Edgar! How dare you! putting the blame on your innocent son!’

The eyes of husband and wife were locked. Twenty-five years of marriage culminated in that moment of Aunt Louisa’s bitter disillusionment, no longer hidden, and Uncle Edgar’s aggressive dislike.

Yet Uncle Edgar spoke quite quietly and gently.

‘It’s something we can no longer make a secret of, my dear. George isn’t safe. The police should also be told about his hatred for Hamish Barlow.’ He threw out his hands. ‘I hate to disappoint you, Marsh, but I myself am entirely innocent. Your assumptions are fantastic. I merely sold some jewels and invested the proceeds on behalf of my nephew and niece. And may I add I find your whole manner and actions extremely offensive.’

‘But there is another thing,’ said Adam insistently. ‘I didn’t travel alone from London. I persuaded a very old gentleman to travel with me. He’s staying at the inn in the village at present. He needed to rest. But he will be calling on Fanny tomorrow. He has some extremely interesting and vital information for her. His name, I scarcely need to tell you, is Timothy Craike.’

T
HAT WAS WHEN THE
disintegration of the man who, with his jokes, his whimsicalities, his naïve pleasure in himself, his vanity, his desire for public esteem, and his autocratic will, as befitted the master of the house, began.

He sat down very slowly in one of the carved hall chairs. His chubby hands were fiddling restlessly with his watch chain. His jowls had dropped, his face had grown thinner and lost its ruddy colour. His eyes were very tired.

‘What an extraordinarily interfering young man you are,’ he said to Adam, almost mildly. ‘So now you know everything, and I observe you are quick to have an eye for an heiress into the bargain. All the summer, it was my poor little Amelia, with her promise of a substantial dowry. But your affections seem to be easily transferable.’

‘My affections,’ Adam said quietly, ‘have always been with Fanny, as I think she knows. To my great regret I have had to hurt her and puzzle her occasionally. I also can’t apologise sufficiently to Amelia for misleading her so wilfully. But she was too useful to my purpose. She made me welcome here. She talked a great deal, and unwittingly gave me important information. It was she who told me about Fanny’s disappointment over not getting to London to see this Mr Craike who had written to her. It was my first real clue about Fanny’s affairs. I had waited all summer for it. But I am deeply sorry it had to be discovered at the risk of hurting Amelia.’ He turned to Amelia, holding out his hand. ‘Can you forgive me?’

Amelia promptly burst into tears, and ran to her mother. Aunt Louisa said in a strangled voice, ‘I don’t understand one word that has been said. Fanny can’t be an heiress! Why have I never been told? Is this another of my husband’s machinations?’

‘But it isn’t true!’ whispered Fanny incredulously.

Her eyes were caught by Lady Arabella’s expression. It was unreadable. Her eyelids drooped until her eyes were mere slits. But it seemed as if she might be hiding triumph. Almost, as if she might have been waiting for this hour.

‘Adam?’ said Fanny urgently. ‘What has Mr Craike to tell me? Have I got a fortune, also in jewels? Was the sapphire pendant really my own all the time?’

It was at that moment there was a flurry at the top of the stairs. Dora was crying helplessly, ‘Miss Nolly! Come back at once. Oh, I declare!’ But her words were useless, for Nolly was flying down the stairs in her nightgown.

‘Cousin Fanny! Cousin Fanny!’

Fanny started towards her. ‘What is it? Nothing’s happened to frighten you—’

But it was not fright, she saw at once, that possessed Nolly. The little face was illuminated with excitement, and had its moment of blazing prettiness.

‘Cousin Fanny, this dear little pincushion Great-aunt Arabella gave me opens! Look, the top comes off and makes the sweetest little box. I shall keep my jewels in it.’

‘Is that all?’ said Fanny. ‘Does it please you so much?’

‘Yes, it does. And I found this letter in it. I think it’s about you. See, here is your name. F-a-n-n-y.’

Suddenly and rather frighteningly Lady Arabella began to laugh.

Ah, Edgar! You searched so hard. And such a simple hiding place. I used to keep my love letters there and when I was very young. I baffled you, didn’t I? And I wasn’t bluffing about that letter. But it would never have been discovered if I hadn’t realised you would kill for it.’ Her mirth had left her. Her eyes were fully open now and full of implacable revenge. ‘Fanny, send that child upstairs!’

‘Yes, Nolly. Run up to Dora.’

‘But don’t you think the little pincushion is delightful?’

‘I do. And tomorrow we’ll find some treasures to keep in it. Run along.’

Nolly went reluctantly and Lady Arabella continued her conversation as if she hadn’t interrupted it.

‘I decided to dismiss that clumsy accident you arranged for me, Edgar. Just the threat of a schoolboy, I thought. Give her a fright and who knows, the old lady might have a stroke. But today, this evening, everything has changed. I would have had another accident down at the lake, wouldn’t I? Just a feeble old woman tripping in the dark. Fanny knew. I underestimated you, Edgar. I even despised you. Now I must admire your—how shall I put it—diabolical simplicity. But I don’t forgive it. You would have blamed your son. I share my daughter’s feelings for you at this moment. I hope, Edgar,’ she finished, slowly and distinctly, ‘that you hang.’

Uncle Edgar made no attempt to defend himself. He sat with his head slumped, his eyes far-off, almost as if he were in a dream.

Then he said, ‘I am very tired. It has all been a great strain for too long.’

Looking at him, Fanny had the impression of reading him as if his life were written in his face—the over-sensitive pompous young man laughed at by the girl he loved, looked down on by his wife and mother-in-law, scorned by his gay reckless brother as dull, given only the qualities of steadiness and reliability by relatives who found him useful—no wonder he had had to puff himself up into a turkeycock of importance, seeking and finding the wherewithal for his family, his household, his village and the whole community to revolve round him.

‘Uncle Edgar—’ she began.

Uncle Edgar lifted his extinguished eyes.

‘No, child. Don’t come near me. I would have killed you, too. Don’t you realise that? I could never have let you find out that I had spent your capital and taken possession of your property. Yes, you would have died. A fall off the train, I thought, on a journey to London. Or perhaps a skating accident on the lake. There were so many possibilities.’

‘Edgar!’ Aunt Louisa had difficulty in speaking. Her face was so alarmingly flushed that it seemed she would have a seizure. ‘Do you mean to say that Darkwater, everything, belongs to Fanny!’

‘Completely, my dear. It is a pity you were such an avaricious woman. Always wanting, wanting, wanting.’

‘I had to have something!’ Aunt Louisa cried thickly.

‘You had me. And I had never told you about Marianne—always there behind your eyelids. You didn’t know my private ghost. Fanny sometimes reminds me of Marianne. That long white throat.’ He curved his strong thick fingers thoughtfully. ‘It’s a matter of love and hate. You can kiss and kill—yes, almost simultaneously. But there it was. I comforted myself by marrying an earl’s granddaughter and acquiring property. I bought diamonds for my wife. My son had a commission in a famous regiment and my daughter a dowry. But finally Fanny’s fortune was not sufficient for the needs of my extravagant family. I hardly knew where to turn when the second plum fell in my lap. My brother’s orphaned children, and a bag of uncut emeralds. How was that for luck? And the intricate plotting, the timing, the manipulating of people. The stimulation of it! But of course one’s luck couldn’t last forever. Time runs out.’

‘Edgar, you are mad!’ cried Aunt Louisa, horrified.

The shrunken man, with his enormous calm, said, ‘Don’t let those men you brought knock all the copse down, Marsh. I can take them to the exact spot. I agree that I did a careless job on that. I never realised the fellow would be so heavy. I had to risk leaving the body concealed by leaves and do the burying the next night when I could wear suitable clothes. Even so, it was quite a task getting garden debris cleaned off myself so as to present myself back in the ballroom. Luckily there was no blood. I have strong hands. And a man taken by surprise—I had asked him to step outside to discuss some business—has little defence. I must have a discussion with Sir Giles about these spontaneous crimes. They seem to be the most successful. Haphazard, but unsuspected.’ Uncle Edgar seemed almost to relish re-living the success of his macabre tactics. ‘Barlow was an unlikeable fellow, anyway. I can’t think how my brother trusted him. Well, that’s how it was. And now,’ he moved wearily, ‘I suppose I had better be getting along.’

‘Where are you going, Edgar?’ Aunt Louisa cried.

‘To the police, naturally. Marsh will perhaps accompany me, since he has already assumed so much responsibility. One knows when the game is over. One must behave with dignity. Time—oh, speaking of time, Fanny,’ he had taken the large, gold watch, as yellow as a pumpkin, from his pocket, ‘give this to Marcus in the morning. The little fellow was always fascinated by it.’

He wound it absently, and the tiny delicate tune hung in the air, as frail as a dream.

‘Don’t fret, Louisa.’ Uncle Edgar spoke with a shadow of his old pompousness. ‘I haven’t wasted my time with a petty crime. The case will be a
cause célèbre
, of course. And it isn’t as if we have a son able to inherit the estate. Poor George is finished. We both know it.’ He stood a moment surveying his wife’s highly-coloured and tear-stained face dispassionately. ‘It’s a great relief to tell you my true feelings at last. I trust you to see that Amelia’s life isn’t ruined by an unfortunate marriage.’