Strangers at Dawn (12 page)

The reporters at Sara’s trial had dubbed this man “Sir Prig,” and it was an apt description. Tradition and bloodlines were the yardsticks by which Sir Ivor measured the world. He was a proud man. It must have been hard for William Neville to meet his father’s standards. Maybe that’s why he had married Anne Carstairs-to spite his father.

“This is a pleasure,” Sir Ivor said, “and a surprise. I understood from your father that you were spending the summer in Exeter, setting up a newspaper or something.”

“Well I was, but the negotiations fell through.”

“Ah, so you’re taking a well-earned rest from your labors, are you?”

“Not exactly. Nothing for me,” Max added when Sir Ivor held up a decanter of brandy and jiggled it invitingly. “I like to keep a clear head when I’m working. But I wouldn’t say no to coffee.”

Sir Ivor replaced the decanter, snapped his fingers and addressed the footman who stood just inside the door. “See to it, man.” As soon as he and Max were alone, he took the
chair behind the desk. “All goes well at Castle Lyndhurst, I hope?”

Sir Ivor always spoke as though he and Max’s family were intimate friends, and that irritated Max. Keeping his expression bland, he said, “My parents aren’t there. They always spend the summer in Derbyshire.”

Sir Ivor snapped his fingers. “Of course. They are great hill walkers, are they not?”

Again, Max was annoyed, because he detected a thread of amusement in Sir Ivor’s voice, as though hill walking were beneath his dignity. “They like to keep fit,” he said, “and keep up with our Derbyshire relations.”

Sir Ivor linked his long, thin fingers and rested them on the flat of his desk. “But you did not come into Hampshire just to pass the time of day with me.”

“No,” said Max. “I came to ask you about your son.”

“Has someone claimed the reward?” Sir Ivor asked quickly.

“No.”

“What then?”

There was no way of putting this gently. Sara had given him some clues the night he’d climbed in her window, and he had to follow them up. “What can you tell me,” he said, “about a young woman, a local girl, who had a child to your son?”

Max had expected shock or anger, but Sir Ivor looked as though he’d turned to stone. All the color washed from his face, and he began to stutter. In the next instant, however, the color surged back in a fiery red, and he said furiously, “What has this to do with William’s death?”

“You don’t deny it?”

“William did not confide in me.”

Sir Ivor rose abruptly, went to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. He bolted the first shot, then poured himself another. When he returned to his chair, he had himself well in hand.

He smiled faintly. “Forgive me. No one likes to hear ill of his son. If William had a child to some local girl, I know nothing about it. I trust you will be discreet. It would break his mother’s heart if it got back to her. Who is the girl?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you’d like to know, wouldn’t you? Personally, I don’t think it’s relevant. I’m not excusing my son’s behavior if what you say is true, but many young men sow their wild oats. Regrettable, but not unnatural.”

Max said, “I mention the girl only because it’s possible that her father or brother may have killed William in revenge.”

Sir Ivor shook his head. “You’re on the wrong track. Sara Carstairs murdered my son.” He sat back in his chair and his shrewd eyes narrowed on Max. “Who told you about this girl?”

“A reliable source. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Oh, no. It was her, wasn’t it? It was Sara Carstairs!”

Max shifted restlessly.

“You had that from her, didn’t you?” Then incredulously. “You’ve found her, questioned her, and she’s trying to shift the blame onto someone else.”

Max didn’t confirm or deny it. “All I’m trying to do,” he said, “is tie up a few loose ends.”

“But why now? The case has been inactive for three years. Oh, no, you’ve found Sara Carstairs. Nothing else makes sense.”

So much,
Max
thought for trying to keep Sara’s name out of it.
Peter Fallon would have handled this much better. “Yes, I found her,” he admitted reluctantly.

“She’s here in Stoneleigh? My God, she’ll be stoned when the local people get to hear of it.”

“No. She’s not here. She’s still in hiding. And that’s all I’m going to tell you.”

“I see.” Sir Ivor’s face twisted in a sneer. “You’re a fool if you believe anything that jade tells you.”

Max kept his voice and expression neutral. “I’m only trying to get at the truth.”

“I’m surprised she would confide in you. Your paper has hardly shown her much sympathy in the past.”

“She doesn’t know I’m connected to the
Courier.”

There was a silence, then Sir Ivor began to laugh. “Ah, now I begin to understand. I doubt if your father would approve of your methods, but I most certainly do. I know she cannot be tried again for William’s murder …” His voice turned husky. “But if she can lead you to his remains, his mother and I will be forever in your debt.”

He cleared his throat. “What else can I tell you?”

L
ADY NEVILLE WAS WAITING IN THE LIBRARY
when her husband returned after seeing Max out. He frowned when he saw that she was in her invalid chair. More and more of late, she’d taken to using the chair when the doctor said there was no necessity for it. It was all in her mind, Dr. Laurie said, a kind of hysteria, the result of losing first a daughter, then a son, under tragic circumstances.

Sir Ivor kissed her on the cheek and nodded a dismissal to the burly footman who was his wife’s personal servant.

“You’re looking well today, Jessica.”

“Beckett wheeled me around the gardens. I think the fresh air did me some good.”

She gave Sir Ivor a brilliant smile when he handed her a glass of sherry. “Thank you, dear.”

Her figure was slight, almost frail; her features were as regular and as dainty as those of a china doll. There were lines on her face, but they hardly showed. As the years passed, her ladyship had become more adept in her use of powder and paint to preserve her youthful complexion. If there was silver in her pale blond hair, no one would have known it. She was dressed in primrose muslin, the color
that Sir Ivor had told her, thirty years before, made her skin glow like warm honey.

“You would do better,” Sir Ivor said, “to walk around the gardens. Jessica, you really must try not to give in to these foolish fancies. Dr. Laurie says_”

He stopped when her face fell and she looked at him with the hurt of a child. Once, he’d found her childlike innocence attractive. It was many years since it had begun to grate on him.

Berating her didn’t do any good. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you do your best. What is it you wished to say to me?”

The careless compliment did the trick, and the radiant smile appeared again. “I saw Lord Maxwell Worthe arriving when I was in the rose garden. What did he want, Ivor? Is it something to do with William?”

He could easily have put her off, but knew that if he did, she would only start questioning the servants, and servants’ hall gossip was something he would not tolerate.

“He has found Sara Carstairs,” he said. “She’s still in hiding, but he’s found her. I don’t know what good it will do. She hasn’t confessed, and even if she did, she can’t be tried again. And it won’t bring William back to us.”

Her thin lips formed a round O.

“Jessica, did you hear me?”

Her eyes focused on his face. “Maybe she’ll tell Lord Maxwell where she hid William’s body.”

He shook his head. “Not the Sara Carstairs I know, not the woman I saw at the trial. She’s as hard as nails. Accept it, Jessica. We’re never going to find out what happened to William.”

She nodded, but her lips trembled, and her faded blue eyes filled with tears. He knew better than to try and comfort her. The tears would turn into a deluge.

But tears or not, he had something of importance to say to her. “The vicar was here earlier.”

Her tears dried. “Oh?”

“He tells me that you and the Carstairs women have become quite friendly.”

“The Carstairs women?” she asked innocently, “Do you mean Mrs. Carstairs and Anne?”

“Don’t prevaricate with me,” he snapped. “You know I do.”

The childlike innocence was replaced by childish petulance. “We’re in the ladies’ guild. We are making plans for the Stoneleigh Fair. What would you have me do? Ignore them? Is that Christian? Besides, I don’t go to Longfield, and I don’t invite them here. We meet only in church. You told me I should go out and about more, and that’s what I did. Have you changed your mind?”

“I thought you had more sense than to take up with any of that vipers’ brood.”

She looked down at her glass of sherry. “What should I do, then? Shall I resign from the guild?”

“No. That would only start gossip, and there has been enough of that already. Be careful, Jessica. Be very careful. Don’t tell them anything, least of all that Lord Maxwell was here today. If you do, they’ll only warn Sara Carstairs, and Lord Maxwell will get nothing more out of her.”

She pounced on this. “Do you think Lord Maxwell will succeed where everyone else has failed?”

“It’s highly unlikely.” Her tears wore him down. “Maybe.”

She put her index finger to her mouth. “My lips are sealed.”

H
ER LIPS WERE SEALED EXCEPT WITH THE PER
son she considered her most trusted confidant, her footman, Beckett, the young man who carried her up and down stairs and saw to her comfort.

“Sara Carstairs,” she said, “has come out of hiding. That
nice newspaperman, Lord Maxwell, has found her. She won’t tell him anything, of course. But still, it’s a step in the right direction.”

She saw the gleam of satisfaction in his dark eyes and her own eyes sparkled. “Do you know what I think, Beckett? I think Sara Carstairs will be back in Stoneleigh before long. We have only to be patient, then we’ll both get what we want.”

“Yes, m’lady,”

“How much does the reward in the
Courier
stand at now?”

“Five thousand pounds,” he replied.

“And it will be yours, if we play our cards right. Now run along. I want to rest before dinner. I’ll ring for you when I need you.”

In the privacy of her own parlor, she did not use her invalid chair. Sir Ivor rarely entered this wing of the house. If she were to die tonight and Beckett was not around, it would be days before anyone noticed her absence, and longer than that before her husband noticed.

Tears formed at the ends of her lashes and she dashed them away. She did everything in her power to make herself pleasing to her husband, but what used to appeal to him was now tiresome. He’d told her that she could always depend on him, but it wasn’t true. She’d learned that the older men got, the younger the females they lusted after.

She never made a scene, because Sir Ivor hated scenes. But she also knew what her husband wanted more than anything, and she was going to give it to him. Then she would be his pet again.

The tears vanished as she thought of how grateful he would be. He would lavish her with attention, and she would give up using her invalid chair.

She couldn’t do it without Beckett, and she blessed the day that fate had sent him to her door seeking a position as a footman. She’d known at once that he was all wrong. He
was too good-looking, too bold, too ambitious, and he did not have a character reference. She’d made enquiries and found that he’d been dismissed from his last post for making love to his master’s daughter.

He was all wrong, and that made him just right for her purposes.

She unlocked a door and entered a tiny chapel. The windows were high up on the stone walls and the light did not penetrate to the floor. At the altar, she halted. There were two miniature portraits on stands, one of her daughter, Caroline, and the other of her son.

She picked up Caroline’s portrait first. A solemn young girl stared back at her. Poor Caroline. She’d always been sickly. They’d taken her to the best physicians, as far a field as London, but they could do nothing for her. She’d died in London of a lung fever when she was sixteen years old. But at least Caroline had a grave in Stoneleigh’s churchyard. There was comfort in that. William had nothing.

She replaced Caroline’s portrait and looked at her son. “Soon,” she told him, “we’ll find you. I promise you, William. And you know that Mama never breaks her promises.”

P
ETER FALLON WATCHED HIS EMPLOYER PACE
back and forth in front of the empty grate. They were in a private parlor in the Cat and Fiddle in Stoneleigh, having just opened a bottle of burgundy while waiting for their dinner to arrive. Max had asked a few perfunctory questions about how things had gone in Exeter, but it was evident that the
Exeter Chronicle
was of little interest to Max now. Peter wasn’t surprised. Sara Carstairs had always been something of an obsession with Max.

Peter was a lean man with light brown hair that was already beginning to recede at the temples, making him look older than his years. His face was far from handsome, but it
was a pleasant face, warm, friendly, the kind of face that, as Peter freely admitted, served him well in his profession. His clothes were costly and well-tailored, and chosen to be neither in nor out of fashion. He wasn’t the kind of man who stood out in a crowd, and that, too, had served him well in his profession.

On Max’s instructions, he’d spent the day interviewing a lot of tiresome people who didn’t want to be interviewed. He’d been tired when Max had walked in, but now he was wide awake. They’d finally got her. Sara Carstairs had crawled out of her hiding place, and the
Courier
had got to her first.

He was jubilant.

It was an act of God, Max said. He’d climbed through the wrong window, and there she was.

“Sara Carstairs.”

“She’s calling herself Sara Childe,” Max said, “but I recognized her.”

“And she doesn’t know who you are?”