Hidden in the Heart (22 page)

There did not appear to be any lock to prevent someone from reaching the prize within, so John merely lifted the lid. Standing at his shoulder, Lydia looked down at the contents, but was more mystified than ever.

‘It looks like a roll of linen,’ she said.

‘It is a scroll of some kind,’ John elucidated, slowly raising the object up in his hands.

‘A map!’ Mr Cole cried out. ‘A treasure map.’

‘No.’ John shook his head, squashing that particular fantasy. ‘Come here and have a look, d’Almain,’ he added, motioning to the Frenchman.

Monsieur d’Almain readily obliged, squatting beside John and examining the object before him. Between them, they partially unrolled it. Lydia eyed it minutely as well.

‘It is Greek to me,’ she said at last, repeating Shakespeare’s immortal lines.

‘Quite right,’ d’Almain replied, smiling. ‘It is some dialect of the Greek tongue - though not Classical Greek, I’ll wager.’

Meanwhile, John stood and faced them all.

‘Behold Sir Hector’s treasure!’ he said.

‘Treasure?’ his father repeated with a combination of disgust and disbelief which almost exactly matched the feelings of the others. ‘An old piece of parchment with some ancient Greek laundry list?’

‘Oh no,’ his son hastened to correct his misapprehension. ‘I would wager a fairly large sum that what we hold here is a very ancient document - probably a portion of the New Testament from before the time of the Emperor Constantine.’

‘That is the treasure!’ Mr Cole subsided onto the sofa and closed his eyes as though about to breathe his last.

‘That is what two people have died for so that you might possess it,’ John said. ‘I wonder if you think it worth the cost now?’

‘I never killed anybody,’ Cole muttered hopelessly.

‘No.’ John looked down thoughtfully at him. ‘Sir Hector’s death was an accident, perhaps, and I have little doubt that your sister here is responsible for Kate’s murder.’

‘Do you mean to say that it was Mrs Chalfont here who strangled the maid with her own hands?’ his father demanded, with a glance of almost superstitious dread at the housekeeper, who still stood like a pillar of salt.

‘It did not require great strength.’ John shrugged. ‘A woman would be quite capable of it.’

‘Oh God!’ Mr Tweedy’s voice shook as he beheld Mrs Chalfont as though for the first time. ‘Is it true, Martha? Did you... ?’

‘Calm yourself, sir,’ John told the man.

‘It is my fault, then, that Kate is dead,’ the poor valet said, wringing his hands, his eyes glistening with unshed tears as the enormity of it all threatened to overpower him. ‘I was the one who told her - Mrs Chalfont - what I overheard the girl saying to Miss Bramwell.’

‘But you did not know what she would do.’ Lydia was moved to compassion by his obvious distress. ‘I can scarcely conceive of it myself.’

‘I always thought that Kate knew the person who killed her,’ John resumed his interrupted explanation. ‘The brief time span disturbed me, and there was no sign of a struggle. The housekeeper was probably on the watch for her when she left the house that morning and followed her into the garden, away from the house where they would not be seen. She probably called out to her, and Kate would not have been likely to be suspicious. When the girl turned her back, Mrs Chalfont had only to slip the cord about her neck....’

‘How monstrous!’ Lydia exclaimed involuntarily.

‘A cold-blooded crime,’ d’Almain said.

‘Committed by a cold-hearted woman,’ Lydia continued his thought. ‘And all the time, Sir Hector had told them not only where his treasure was, but also what it was. Yet they never understood, and probably still do not.’

‘I told you that Sir Hector was a pious man. To him, this ancient manuscript was priceless.’

‘I do not suppose that he ever expected to die for it,’ Aunt Camilla said with a slight shudder. ‘And poor Kate, too.’

‘Do not forget,’ John said, returning the scroll to its coffin and shutting it, ‘that there was very nearly a third victim.’

‘A third?’ Lydia repeated.

John crossed his arms and glanced once more at the housekeeper, who turned away and looked out of the window.

‘Mrs Chalfont did all she could to implicate Monsieur d’Almain in Kate’s death.’

‘True!’ Aunt Camilla breathed and reached out for the hand of her beloved.

‘She did it very well, too,’ John admitted. ‘She never said that she recognized the French gentleman, but only that she had seen someone who might well have been him. And yet,’ he concluded flatly, ‘only one of the servants had seen any strange men about - and that was several nights before, and was almost certainly Mr Cole digging in the garden for the treasure.’

‘She must have known the rumors that were circulating about Monsieur d’Almain in the village,’ Lydia mused aloud.

‘Naturally.’

‘It did not take much to fan the flames of suspicion which would condemn him.’

‘And so she had no qualms about sending an innocent man to the gallows for her own crime,’ Mr Savidge commented in the stern but dignified tones of His Majesty’s official.

‘A mere trifle,’ John observed, ‘considering what she had already done in the name of Mammon.’

‘It is a pity,’ Aunt Camilla addressed Mrs Chalfont, ‘that you did not heed Sir Hector’s advice to lay up treasures in Heaven rather than on earth. Had you done so, you might not now be preparing to face your Maker with the stain of murder on your conscience.’

* * * *

Within the hour, all had returned to normal. The surgeon had set Mr Cole’s leg and shoulder, and he and his sister were locked up in a special room behind the stables which served as Diddlington’s gaol and which had so recently been occupied by the Frenchman.

Lydia and her aunt were once more ensconced in Mrs Wardle-Penfield’s old but sturdy carriage, along with John. However, on this return journey, d’Almain himself accompanied them. Each lady sat with her lover’s arm about her, and with nothing remaining to dim the light of their happiness.

‘I dare swear that Mrs Chalfont feels no remorse whatever for what she has done,’ Lydia commented in a kind of wonder.

‘Which should remind us,’ d’Almain answered her, ‘what a blessing guilt can be. Guilt and shame must have prevented many from acts of the most reprehensible kind. Fortunately, most of us are hampered by conscience - if not by inclination - from attending to the promptings of our baser instincts.’

‘They are a wicked pair,’ Camilla said, referring to the housekeeper and her brother, ‘to kill for something which did not rightfully belong to them.’

‘The love of money,’ John quoted blithely, ‘is the root of all evil, as the apostle warns us.’

‘Thankfully, they did not profit by their crimes,’ Lydia said with some satisfaction.

‘And my father has apologized to you, sir, for his unfounded suspicions.’ John inclined his head in the direction of the Frenchman.

‘It was only natural that, as a foreigner, I should be the most obvious suspect.’ He smiled with a somewhat rueful fatalism. ‘It is my rightful role,
n’est-ce pas?
’

‘Natural?’ John considered the matter. ‘Perhaps. But not really justifiable by any standard of reason.’

‘Ah! My friend, how often is reason employed by our fellow men in such a case?’

‘Very seldom, I should think,’ Lydia answered his rhetorical question.

‘At any rate,’ d’Almain said, changing the subject, ‘I must thank you both for your efforts on my behalf. Without you, I would soon be facing the prospect of a well-tied noose, rather than preparing for my wedding.’

‘Though there may be little difference between the two,’ John suggested.

‘You will soon find out the difference for yourself, sir,’ Lydia challenged him.

This directed their thoughts in more pleasant channels, and Camilla and Lydia were soon debating what might be the best dates for their prospective nuptials. The gentlemen were asked to contribute to this discussion, though it was clear that their opinion was a mere formality. This was a sphere in which ladies reigned supreme, while men were mere ciphers.

‘I can hardly believe it!’ Aunt Camilla said with a sigh and an adoring gaze directed toward her fiancé. ‘Soon I shall be Madame d’Almain.’

Lydia and John, watching the gentleman seated opposite them, were surprised to see a flood of rose-red surge up into his cheeks. He cleared his throat, obviously ill-at-ease, and it required no great wit to discern that he was about to reveal something which caused him no little embarrassment. Even Camilla must have sensed that something was amiss.

‘What is it, my dearest?’ she asked apprehensively.

‘There is something I must tell you,
ma chère
.’ His arm tightened about her, as though he would protect her from a blow which might be of his own making.

‘You are not going to confess to having killed someone?’ Lydia asked him, her mind still occupied with murder and general mayhem.

The Frenchman smiled slightly before he imparted his news.

‘Whatever it is,’ Camilla said bravely, ‘it can never change my love for you.’

‘I am glad of that!’ her love exclaimed, looking deep into her eyes.

‘For Heaven’s sake!’ Lydia cried, interrupting this inappropriately intimate moment. ‘Tell us what is wrong.’

‘You are not going to be Madame d’Almain - precisely,’ he stated simply.

‘What!’ Camilla blenched at this. ‘You are not going to marry me?’

‘Of course I am going to marry you.’ He was quick to alleviate her misapprehension. ‘But in truth, I am not Monsieur Henri d’Almain.’

‘You are not?’

‘No.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘I am Henri Phillipe Augustin de Bretonville, Comte d’Almain.’

‘Comte d’Almain?’ Camilla repeated, her mind grappling with this information but failing to comprehend its import.

‘Yes. When we are wed, you will become the Comtesse d’Almain.’

‘A French aristocrat.’ John chuckled appreciatively. ‘If that don’t beat all.’

‘Oh Lord!’ Lydia fell into whoops, laughing until the tears streamed down her cheeks.

‘How can you be so unfeeling, Lydia?’ her aunt chastened her. ‘This is dreadful! I cannot marry a French aristocrat.’

‘You do not love me?’ the horrified Comte demanded.

‘Of course I love you,’ Camilla said. ‘I have always loved you. But I am a mere Miss Denton, not a comtesse!’

‘You need not fear being too grand,’ d’Almain warned, realizing that her innate shyness made her feel woefully inadequate to such an exalted position. ‘My title, I fear, is all that I can offer you. My family’s wealth was lost in the terror.’

‘But how came you into Sussex, sir?’ John could not refrain from enquiring.

The Comte explained that, while living in London he had befriended a young man whose mother had lodgings in Diddlington. Wishing to escape the narrow confines of the émigré community in town, and to earn his living without having to apologize for it to every aristocrat, he had moved to the country.

‘I did not intend necessarily to remain in Diddlington,’ he confessed charmingly, ‘until I made the acquaintance of a certain Miss Denton.’

‘Oh, but it is too much!’ Lydia said. She had managed to govern her laughter by now. ‘Forgive my unseemly behavior, sir. But I was only thinking how Louisa’s match will be thrown quite into the shade by this news. I cannot wait to write and tell Papa all about it.’

‘You are incorrigible, Lydia,’ her aunt said, but could not hold back a smile herself.

‘If you say so, Madame la Comtesse,’ her niece quizzed her. Indeed, she never afterward referred to her aunt as anything else.

* * * *

With such a conclusion to a most eventful day, it was quite a gay party which descended from the carriage when it reached Fielding Place, the home of Mrs Wardle-Penfield. That good lady was on the watch for their return and invited them all in for tea. The old tabbies of the village had already begun to mew, and it was already known that something of great moment was going forward at Bellefleur that day. Naturally, the great lady of Diddlington must be assured of being the first to learn exactly what had occurred.

Mrs Wardle-Penfield was not one to be put out of countenance, but the tale unfolded by her four guests was such as to make her spill a goodly amount of tea upon her best linen - though, mercifully, not on her puce silk afternoon-dress.

‘Incredible!’ she cried at one point. ‘Quite incredible.’

She declared that she had known all along that her French friend was too great a gentleman to have been involved in anything as sordid as murder.

‘One can always tell quality, my dear comte.’ She inclined her head graciously toward him. ‘And as for that unspeakable woman and her - brother, did you say? - have I not always maintained that it was not one of our own who committed so foul a crime?’

‘So you did,’ Lydia agreed, exchanging a look with her aunt, which intimated their shared remembrance that the lady’s suspicions had been centered almost entirely upon the Frenchman.

‘Yes.’ The old woman was more than pleased with herself. ‘They are Londoners, you say? What else can one expect from that bastion of brutality?’

It was not long before Mrs Wardle-Penfield had pretty much talked herself into believing that she alone was responsible for solving this most perplexing problem. Had she not supplied the carriage to convey them all to the very lair of the two cowardly killers? Had it not been her sage counsel which had led to their capture?

Her visitors derived a great deal of entertainment from her performance. However, after some time, her soliloquy on the subject became too lengthy and repetitious, and everyone expressed a shocking degree of fatigue and discovered in themselves a strong necessity of being at home in order to recover from the strain of the day.

* * * *

‘You should be very proud of yourself,’ John complimented Lydia when they were able to steal a few minutes alone together.

‘I was not the one who provided the solution to this mystery,’ she demurred.

‘Do not be so modest, love.’ He placed his hands upon her shoulders and drew her close to him. ‘You know that I would never have stumbled upon the truth as I did without your help.’