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Edwin rose slowly to his feet and looked down at the papers spread across his desk. Even in the bright light of his desk lamp, the writing was difficult to read. Some of the documents were more than a hundred and fifty years old, and the ink had faded with the passage of time.
He had before him the record of five generations of a family.
Edward Blanchard, Earl of Southwold, had been the first to scrawl his name across the parchment and seal it with the Blanchard signet ring. Four more Earls had followed him in a direct line of descent and had added their own signature and made their own decision to say nothing. Although the documents had been hidden, they had not been abandoned. They showed signs of frequent folding and unfolding. Candlewax had been spilled by shaking hands. Wine had spotted the records of births and deaths. Insects had tracked across the pages and left behind their tiny desiccated bodies.
Edwin opened his office door. As he had expected, Miss Clark was still at her desk. The short winter day was drawing to a close, with dusk gathering outside the windows, but Miss Clark would not leave until he left. She would not leave while she thought that he might need her. He drew a deep breath. He needed her. He couldn’t do this alone.
“Miss Clark, would you come into my office?”
She reached for her notebook.
“No need to bring your book. You won’t be taking dictation. I want you to look at something.”
She nodded her head and adjusted her reading glasses. When she rose from her desk, he saw that her gray skirt was wrinkled from long hours of sitting, and she winced as she straightened her back. She was growing old just as he was growing old. He would have to do something to let her know that he appreciated her fidelity; perhaps an addendum to his will.
Miss Clark followed him into the office and stopped abruptly at the sight of his desktop covered in old documents.
“What are these?”
“What are they indeed?” said Edwin. “Let me tell you what they are.”
“Very well.”
Edwin picked up the first document. “This is a family tree of the Blanchard family. Here we have Earl Rodney, born in 1780, married to Countess Elizabeth, and the father of five children, Michael 1812, Richard 1814, Mary 1815, Godfrey 1821, Sarah 1824. Michael, as the first born, inherits the title, Richard joins the army, Mary dies in infancy, Godfrey takes a colonial position in Australia, and Sarah marries Norman Newell.
Miss Clark traced the names with her index finger. Her hands, Edwin noticed, were knotted with arthritis, her fingernails square and unpolished.
“So Michael inherits the title,” she said. “Richard appears not to have married, and presumably, it is Godfrey’s heirs from Australia who stand to inherit the estate if it is not passed to the disputed child.”
“Yes, exactly,” said Edwin. “But things are not as they appear.”
He searched among the papers and found another document, a handwritten letter from General Sir William Tregorran, addressed to Sir Rodney Blanchard, Earl of Southwold, informing him of the death in combat of Captain Richard Blanchard on May 15, 1835 in Accra, Gold Coast. He handed the document to Miss Clark.
“So that’s why Richard never married,” she said.
“One would assume so,” Edwin agreed. “Therefore, one would assume that Richard would no longer be a consideration.”
Miss Clark again cocked her head sideways inquisitively. “Obviously, there is more to this than meets the eye.”
“Very much more,” said Edwin. He slid another paper across the desk and into the light of the desk lamp. “This is a certificate of marriage dated July 12, 1834. It would appear that Richard married Lydia Chapman, spinster of the parish of Rose Hill.”
Miss Clark adjusted her glasses and scrutinized the document. “Two witnesses,” she said, “and neither one a member of the Blanchard family.” She looked up, an expression of intense interest on her face. “A secret wedding?”
“Yes,” said Edwin, “that would be my supposition. A village girl perhaps?”
“A secret love match,” said Miss Clark breathlessly. “Perhaps it was discovered, and that was why he was sent away, forced to join the army.” She consulted the family tree. “He was born in 1814, so in 1834 he was only twenty years old. Twenty-one when he died. How sad!”
She looked down at the document in her hand. “But why is this here? Someone in the family must have known about the wedding. Someone kept this marriage certificate. Why keep it all these years?”
Edwin sat back in his chair. “Let me tell you what I think, Miss Clark. I’m not in the habit of reading romantic stories such as one finds in women’s magazines, so I will leave the details to your imagination.”
Miss Clark blushed and protested faintly that she had no interest in the frivolities of women’s magazines. Edwin ignored the protest.
“I believe that Lydia came to the Blanchards and told them that she had married their son and was expecting his child. I am quite sure they rejected her. Lydia went quietly away and gave birth to a son. Michael inherited the title, Godfrey went to Australia, and Richard’s branch of the family tree came to an end, or so people were led to believe.”
“But the family kept the marriage certificate,” said Miss Clark.
“That’s not all they did.” He pushed another paper toward her. “They kept a record of Lydia’s children. This is Lydia’s family tree. These are the descendants of Lydia and Richard’s legitimate child.”
Miss Clark reached out to take the paper. Edwin held it back for a brief moment. He thought of the day that the Earl had opened the secret drawer in his desk and revealed the little cache of documents.
I’m relying on you to do the right thing.
He had given his word. The time had come. The lies could not continue.
Miss Clark dropped the paper and turned toward the office door.
“Someone is outside.”
He knew that she was remembering what he was remembering. Scattered papers, a pool of blood, and Alderton dead on the floor. He gathered the papers together. Where could he hide them? His heart was pounding.