The Taste of Innocence (57 page)

Now she understood; that hadn’t been his purpose. That had never been his aim. He’d told her he’d never harm her or Charlie—that it would be counterproductive…she recalled the strange smile on his lips when he’d said that, and gulped again.

She tugged and heaved as Charlie inched upward. The bank was naturally faced with rock in large smooth sections; there were very few cracks or ledges he could use. She hauled in another breath, tightened her grip and backed as, with her help, he slowly eased his weight higher, up around the post, until he was on the upper side of it and could get one boot across to the steps.

Scrabbling backward, unheeding of the damage to her velvet skirts, she kept the fingers of one hand locked in his coat, until he scrambled high enough to collapse on his back beside her just beyond the top of the slope. A slope that now led straight into a yawning crevasse. She checked that they were both sufficiently on the flat that they stood in no danger of an injudicious movement sending them sliding down—then she collapsed on her back beside Charlie.

They lay side by side and simply breathed. They gazed up at the sky, blue with just a few wisps of clouds racing and chasing across the expanse.

For long moments they remained silent and still—for herself, she didn’t know where to begin—then Charlie lifted one hand, found hers, and closed his around it.

“He was right about a lot of things, but wrong about one. A declaration of love given under duress is worthless.” He paused, then went on, his grip on her hand tightening, “I love you. You know I do. I’ve been searching for the right words, but these are the only ones I know. You are everything to me. My sun, my moon, my stars—my life. Without you, I could no longer be me—the me I need to, and want to be. I would give my life for yours, at any time of any day, without hesitation. But I’d much rather live my life alongside you—and care for you and love you for as long as fate allows. That’s the only reality I now know. And if I haven’t had the courage to say the words before, then I intend to say them to you every day for the rest of our lives. I love you.” He lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed their linked fingers. “Never doubt it.”

Sarah had turned her head to watch his profile as he spoke; now she smiled mistily. “I love you, too, and always will—as you know.” Coming up on her elbow, she leaned in and kissed his cheek. Studied his face for an instant, then added, “As you’ve always known…haven’t you?”

He hesitated, then shifted his gaze to meet hers. “Not consciously. But on some level…” Lifting one hand, he smoothed back her hair. “I think that’s one of the reasons my eye fixed on you.”

She shifted and rested her head on his shoulder. They both again looked up at the sky. “I still can’t believe it—what he did.”

A moment passed, then Charlie said, “I’m still not sure I understand it.”

She hesitated, then said, “Before you arrived he said he wanted to put one thing right—an act my aunt would have approved of—before he left. I think he saw ensuring our marriage worked as being that one thing.”

“I can’t fault him in that choice—our marriage is important. And the connection between him and me—our friendship—obviously had bearing on that, too.” Raising one hand, Charlie touched her head, let his fingers gently smooth her hair. “Regardless of his intent, regardless that it was his doing that put us all at risk on the bridge, I don’t think I would have made it if he hadn’t boosted me up.”

Sarah found his other hand, twined her fingers in his. “I thought, when he demanded that you listen, and then speak, that he must be insane. I started to get frightened. I couldn’t imagine what he would do once you did.”

“I know. I couldn’t, either. That’s why I jumped down instead.”

Their hearts had slowed. Sarah sighed. “He meant to go, didn’t he? All along he meant to die.”

They were both locals; they knew the falls. Knew there was no chance that Malcolm had survived.

“Yes.” Charlie drew in a deep breath, then exhaled. “This was another of his clever schemes designed to accomplish a number of things. To return your aunt’s diary to you, to force me to listen to his lecture on love, to force me to tell you I love you, and…to give him a way to depart this life. If he’d wanted to save himself he could easily have done so. When I jumped on the bridge and swung you free, all he had to do was dive for the other side. He would have made it to safety without a doubt—he had plenty of time. And there’s no way he didn’t know that. Instead, he came to me, to make sure I was safe.”

“And then he hacked through the rope.”

Charlie thought about that. “He’d come prepared with the knife because he assumed I would speak, then you would walk off the bridge to me—and then he’d cut the ropes while I was helping you up the steps. Neither of us would have been able to stop him.”

Another long moment passed, then Sarah sighed and sat up. Charlie did, too. His arm about her, shoulder to shoulder they looked across the yawning crevasse.

“He was a strange man,” she said.

Charlie nodded. As if uttering an epitaph, he added, “A man who’d never known love.”

They got to their feet, brushed the dirt and damp leaves from each other as best they could, then Sarah retrieved Edith’s diary from where she’d tossed it to safety farther along the track. Together they walked slowly to the clearing and the waiting horses.

22

Beside Sarah, Charlie clattered into the stable yard at the Park. He still felt faintly disoriented, still grappling with all that had occurred at the bridge, still assimilating the facts and emotions involved.

Croker came to take the horses. He exclaimed at Charlie’s and Sarah’s state, but accepted Sarah’s gentle but firm assurance that despite appearances they were both perfectly well.

“Bedraggled once again,” Charlie murmured as he and she started across the lawn to the house. “Crisp and Figgs won’t approve.”

Sarah looked down at the silver-plated diary she held in both hands. Her faint smile faded. “What should we tell people?”

He understood what she was asking. During the slow journey down from the falls, she’d told him what Malcolm had said before he’d arrived at the bridge. But now that Malcolm was dead and gone, how much did they need to make public? “I—”

He broke off as the thump of approaching hoofbeats reached them. They turned to watch as three horse men, riding hard, thundered up across the fields, then swung onto the drive leading to the stable yard.

Gabriel, in the lead, saw them; checking his hunter, he trotted over.

Barnaby followed, along with a greatcoated individual Charlie recognized. “Inspector Stokes,” he murmured to Sarah. He’d met Stokes on a number of occasions.

Taking in their state, Gabriel narrowed his eyes. “What’s happened?”

“In a moment.” Charlie looked from Stokes to Barnaby. “You couldn’t have reached London. What’s brought you back hotfoot?”

His expression like granite, Barnaby met his eyes. “You may not believe it, but our villain is Sinclair.”

Charlie nodded. “We’ve just learned the same thing.” He glanced at Sarah, then looked up at the three men. “Why don’t you leave your horses with Croker, then wait in the library. Give us a few minutes to change, then you can tell us what you’ve learned, and we can tell you our news.”

Barnaby frowned, but Gabriel nodded. “Good idea.”

He wheeled away; Stokes followed. With an impatiently curious look, Barnaby was forced to fall in with that plan.

Twenty minutes later, Charlie opened the library door, held it for Sarah, then followed her in. The other three had gathered in armchairs before the fire; as Sarah approached they all rose.

Charlie introduced Stokes to Sarah.

A tall, dark-featured man, neatly and soberly dressed, the inspector bowed. “A plea sure, countess.”

Sarah smiled. “I’ve ordered tea and crumpets.” She looked around at the faces. “I daresay we could all use the sustenance.”

She sat on the chaise; Charlie sat beside her as the others resumed their seats. He caught Barnaby’s eye. “You first.”

Barnaby hesitated, then acquiesced. “I never made it to London. I ran into Stokes near Salisbury. He was riding this way with news of Montague’s discovery.”

Barnaby glanced at Stokes, who took up the tale.

“Montague did as I believe you suggested”—Stokes inclined his head to Charlie—“and searched for the source of the funds used to buy land for subsequent profiteering. He concentrated on one property, one amount. The instant he traced it to an account owned by Malcolm Sinclair, he realized the implication. Montague took his suspicions to His Grace of St. Ives.”

“Devil checked further,” Barnaby said. “He spoke with Wolver-stone, who put him on to Dearne and Paignton.” He looked at Sarah. “As it happens, Paignton’s wife, Phoebe, is a connection of yours.”

“Cousin Phoebe?” Sarah frowned, then her eyes widened. “At one time she lived with my aunt Edith. Did Phoebe know Malcolm Sinclair?”

Puzzled, Barnaby shook his head. “No, she didn’t. But her husband, Paignton, did. As a minor, Malcolm Sinclair had been involved with his guardian in some scheme connected with white slave trading. Back in ’16. Paignton, Dearne, and some others exposed it.”

“But Malcolm Sinclair wasn’t charged,” Sarah said, “even though the scheme was suspected to be his creation.”

Barnaby stared at her. “How did you know?”

Sarah held up the silver-plated diary she’d brought with her. “My aunt Edith suspected that, and told him so—and advised him to reform his ways. She wrote it all down in here. And I inherited this volume of her diaries.”

“As you can see, the diary is distinctive. Sinclair recognized it and stole it so Sarah wouldn’t learn the truth about his past,” Charlie said, “and perhaps tell me, who might then suspect that his interest in railways could have a reason beyond simple investing.”

“Indeed.” Stokes started to say more, but paused when the door opened; he waited while Crisp and a footman brought in trays of tea, toast, and crumpets. The lure of honey, jam, and fresh butter caused a temporary hiatus, then, having wolfed down a crumpet, Stokes washed it down with a draught of tea and set down his cup.

He glanced at Charlie. “We’ve grounds enough to reel in Mr. Sinclair, and plenty of questions for him. I was on my way here, to take him into custody and back to London, when I ran into Mr. Adair. His news about the orphanage fire only gives us yet more reason to take Sinclair up immediately.”

“They stopped by Casleigh to let me know what was afoot.”

Gabriel’s smile was predatory. “Naturally, I invited myself along.”

“And of course we stopped here, so you could come, too.” Barnaby frowned as he searched Charlie’s impassive—unenthusiastic—face. “After all, you know him best…what is it?”

Charlie sighed. “Sinclair’s dead.”

The announcement was greeted with exclamations and disbelief; when those faded, Charlie explained what had happened—that Sinclair had used the diary to lure Sarah to the bridge over the falls, and then used Sarah to draw Charlie there as well.

“He made a clean breast of it all,” Sarah said. “He was truly regretful, repentant—he didn’t try to deny his part in it at all. They were his schemes, and he accepted that the blame rested with him.”

“But he had an accomplice who, if I understood correctly, was overenthusiastic in interpreting Sinclair’s orders.” Charlie narrowed his eyes, recalling. “Sinclair implied we’d soon learn the accomplice’s identity, but he didn’t say more about that.”

“How did he die?” Barnaby asked. He and Stokes were leaning forward, caught up in the tale.

Charlie looked at Gabriel. “He’d weakened the ropes anchoring the bridge so that they’d only support the weight of two people. When I arrived, he and Sarah were on the bridge. After he’d made his confession and said all he wanted to say, he let Sarah walk off the bridge. The instant she left it, he hacked through the ropes. He fell.”

It was the story he and Sarah had agreed to tell; the rest of Malcolm Sinclair’s revelations had been for the three of them alone.

Gabriel paled. “Good God.”

Stokes looked from Gabriel to Charlie. “Are you sure he’s dead?”

Gabriel caught Stokes’s eyes. “We’ll take you to the bridge—the place where it used to be, Inspector, and you’ll see. No one could possibly survive such a fall.” Gabriel glanced at Charlie. “In effect, Sinclair took his own life.”

Barnaby and Stokes decided they should nevertheless check Malcolm’s house in Crowcombe. While they rode north, Charlie and Gabriel organized a search for Sinclair’s body.

An hour later, after dispatching various groups to search the rushing stream below the falls, Charlie, Gabriel, and Sarah were standing around Charlie’s desk poring over a detailed map of the area when striding footsteps in the corridor heralded Barnaby and Stokes’s return.

They entered, looking even more stunned than when they’d left.

“What?” Charlie asked.

Barnaby fell into a chair. “Incredible.” He shook his head. “He’d left a confession covering more than a decade of schemes, with enough detail to keep any judge happy, all neatly signed and sealed, propped on his desk with a note telling us we’d find his accomplice tied up in the cellar, and that we should check with the local solicitor for further information.”