CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

The Ties That Bind

“Poor thing! She was always looking about for some one to pour out her heart to, and never found one.”

 

Bury, Charlotte, The Diary of a Lady-in-Waiting

It was Mortimer who carried the note to Letitia Poole. While he delivered it, Rosalind and Adam procured a table at the tearoom in the high street. Rosalind ordered far too much food for them. She wanted an excuse to linger.

In the end, she needed all the excuses she could contrive. She and Adam ate and drank and spoke idly of the weather and similar dull subjects. Anyone listening to them would have taken them for a long-attached pair, possibly even brother and sister, and otherwise paid them no mind.

Rosalind’s nerve held until the second hour of nibbling cake and sipping tea that had gone stone cold. The room’s hostess was beginning to look at them suspiciously, and Rosalind became very aware that she would not be able to drink yet another pot of tea. Adam was likewise beginning to cast a doubtful eye toward the door.

Perhaps she had been too trusting in Letitia’s desire for the truth.

Perhaps Mrs. Poole had intercepted her, and she was now sitting in her room.

Perhaps they had simply been mistaken, and Letitia was also complicit in the crimes of her father and her stepmother.

But as the painted porcelain clock on the room’s back shelf chimed the half hour, the door opened again, and Letitia Poole entered. She clutched a satin reticule in both hands.

Adam rose to his feet. Letitia walked to the table, stiff as a wax doll. He pulled out a chair, and she sank into it.

“I’m sorry to have been so long,” she said softly. “But, well, I had to wait until my stepmother was gone.”

“Thank you for agreeing to meet us,” said Rosalind.

Letitia said nothing. Instead, she opened the reticule and reached inside.

And laid what had clearly once been the silver handle of a walking stick on the table. It was smeared with ash and blistered from heat.

“You were right,” said Letitia. “I did not want to believe you, but you were right.”

Adam claimed the handle and tucked it away in his pocket.

“I’m sorry,” said Rosalind.

Letitia bowed her head. “Oddly, I find I’m rather relieved. At least I know . . . I know it was not my fault.”

Rosalind drew back. “How could any of this be your fault?”

Letitia returned a small, mirthless smile. “For not being obedient enough, I suppose. If I had not protested my marriage, I could have been out of the house before . . .” She brushed at her eyes. “I am babbling.”

Rosalind poured her a cup of tea. Letitia took one sip and set it down. “Perhaps we could walk a bit?”

“That is a very good idea,” agreed Rosalind.

Adam got to his feet. “I’ll settle the bill.”

Rosalind and Letitia stood. She took Letitia’s hand, and the younger woman did not resist but let herself be taken back out onto the street. Rosalind looped her arm through Letitia’s, as if they were old friends, and together they walked away from the tearooms, moving up the high street as if nothing at all was wrong.

“What can you tell us about the morning your father died?” Rosalind asked.

“I was getting dressed,” Letitia said. “I suppose it must have been about ten o’clock or so. There was a great commotion from downstairs. I looked out into the hallway to see what was the matter, and there was my stepmother, and the footman was carrying her brother up . . . He was covered in blood . . . ,” she whispered. “I asked what was wrong, and Melora told me to go back into my room, that he’d had a seizure and had vomited and . . . and . . .” Letitia swallowed. “I did as I was told. I went back into my room. She came in later and told me he had had a restless night, as he did sometimes, and must have gone downstairs, because the servants had found him in the library. But, she said, it was not as bad as it might have looked at first. And I said I was glad.”

“But?” prompted Rosalind.

“But what I could not understand was if he had just been in the library, why did it take until ten o’clock to find him?” She lifted her eyes to Rosalind’s. “And why was he wearing his riding boots?”

* * *

As they had suspected, Mrs. Poole had left orders that neither Rosalind nor Adam should be admitted to the house under any circumstances.

“I’m sorry, miss,” whispered Lizzie, who kept her eyes pointed firmly at the floor.

“I understand,” said Rosalind. “If, however, you could please take this message through to Mr. Considen?” She handed over the leaf with the note penciled on it that Adam had torn from his notebook.

Lizzie bobbed her curtsy and scurried away. They waited, standing as close as they could without touching. Rosalind felt acutely aware of the front parlor waiting on the right hand, and of the scent of the candles that were still burning beside the open coffin.

It was only a few moments before Lizzie returned.

“You’re to go through, sir, miss.”

“Thank you, Lizzie,” Rosalind said.

Adam went first. He opened the door to the library. Inside, William Considen sat in his usual chair, staring at the fireplace and the cold ashes heaped inside.

“Where’s Letitia?” Mr. Considen asked.

“My footman is taking her to my house,” said Rosalind. “She asked to stay for a while.” Which was not entirely true, but it was not entirely false, either. “If I may ask, where are the children?”

“Gone.” The word came out like a sigh. “It seems we still have some cousins who were prepared to take pity on them. But then, Melora can be very persuasive.” He held up Adam’s note. “Who drove the carriage?” he inquired mildly.

Adam made sure the library door was closed before he answered.

“I am assuming it was Tom Faller,” he said. “But it could also have been your sister.”

“Melora?” Considen laughed mirthlessly. “Yes, yes, she could have done it. I should have asked her. Perhaps this would have gone better if I’d consulted her. But that would have defeated the purpose, you see. After all, I killed Poole for her sake.”

“Did you?” asked Rosalind.

“Oh, yes. Poole wanted her to use the last of our family connections to get word to the palace that he had the marriage certificate. He was sure he could sell it for thousands rather than the mere hundreds his original client offered. He said if she failed him this time, he would divorce her and disown their sons—it would have been the end of her, Miss Thorne. The last shred of pride she maintained would have been destroyed. She had already sacrificed so much . . .” The words trailed away.

“So you determined there was one thing you could do for her,” said Rosalind.

“The possibility I might hang for it even seemed like a relief after all this.” He gestured toward his own body. “And Poole made it easy. He was ecstatic about his own cleverness. Faller had left the doors open and told him when would be the best time. He slipped into the house, broke the box, and was out again before the noon bells ceased to toll, he said.

“But he was also in a hurry. Whoever his initial client was, they would be put off for only so long while he secured another, richer buyer. So, he was not as careful as he might have been. I saw my chance, and I took it.” These last words carried with them an inexpressible weariness. “I told him I had a person who would buy the thing. I told him I would come to fetch him at the White Swan when matters were all arranged. He got into the carriage . . . We drove . . . He was crowing over his brilliance.” Considen shuddered. “And I stabbed him. He was so surprised. He did not believe I had the strength, of course. I almost did not, but there was just enough left in me for that.”

“How did you have strength enough to push him from the carriage?” asked Adam.

“Oh, that was easy. He simply fell out the door. Then I had my man take me back to the White Swan, and I wrecked the room there, to make it look like he was killed by someone who was looking for some paper or the other.” He chuckled. “Some paper or the other.

“I was sure I had killed myself that morning,” Considen went on. “I was so exhausted when I finally managed to reach home, I truly believed I might die on the spot. Melora found me here, all covered in blood. I told her I had vomited it up, and she believed me. At least I thought she did.” He screwed his brow up tightly. “It can be very difficult to tell just what Melora believes.

“Regardless, after you came to say Poole had been murdered, she realized what had really happened. I told her I would turn myself in, and I would have. But she went down on her knees. She begged me not to make her watch me die in prison. All I had to do was remain quiet, she said. Poole had so many enemies, no one would ever suspect me.” He gestured at his own weakened body. “As soon as Poole was in the ground, she said we would send me away to Switzerland. I would still die, and away from my home and family, but at least it would be in a bed with a view of the sky. At least I would breathe clean air.

“What could I do against her pleading?” he asked them. “I told her I would do as she asked. As I have always done, God help us both. Then we spoke to Poole’s attorney and . . . well, more fool me. Us. I, she, we had thought the man actually had some money.”

“He was bankrupt?” asked Rosalind.

“Not quite. Almost. That’s why he was so very excited about the certificate, and willing to gamble for a bigger payment. He needed the money.”

“How was it Faller came to be involved?” asked Adam.

“Ah, yes. Poor Faller.” Considen shook his head. “I’d seen him and Judith together. No one pays attention to what the invalid might notice.” His lips twitched into a brief smile. “I asked him to drive me and said that I’d pay him enough to take himself and her to the Americas. He agreed, but I failed to make sure of him. When he found out Poole was dead . . . he turned skittish. I tried to reassure him. But he wouldn’t listen, and Judith, the little idiot, sent him away with a flea in his ear for daring to suggest she would desert her post. He ran out of the house. So, I had to make sure.” He held up his pale hand. “And I did.”

What was there to be said to that? What could be said to any of this? Rosalind’s throat was dry as dust, and she felt as drained as if she had run a full mile. A glance at Adam told her he felt much the same.

But there was one last question, and she must ask it.

“Do you have the certificate?”

Considen reached one shaking hand into his coat pocket and brought out a leather wallet. It slipped from his fingers and dropped to the carpet.

Adam retrieved the wallet and opened it. From inside it, he pulled out a folded paper. He passed it to Rosalind.

It was a remarkably small thing, light and fragile from being opened and refolded so many times. Rosalind read the names and the dates and the formal Latin affirmations. A soft rush of breath escaped her lungs.

“Thank you,” she said.

“What will become of me?” inquired Considen.

“You’ll be charged,” said Adam.

“Can you take me now? I do not wish to face Melora.”

“If that is what you want.”

“Yes. I do.” But he paused. “Miss Thorne? When you . . . if you see my sister again, will you tell her I am sorry? Tell her . . . tell her I tried my best.”

“You will be able to tell her yourself,” said Rosalind.

He shook his head, and she saw how bloodshot his eyes were and how his lips were tinged with blue. “No, Miss Thorne. I don’t think I will.”