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Edwin sank back into his chair and looked at Vera. She would not meet his eyes. He could tell that she wanted to run. Hardly surprising, considering that she had been caught up in a tangle of lies, but she alone could give him the answer he needed. When he had the answer, he would tell them what he knew.
The village woman still waited to console Mrs. Harrigan, but he was certain that a cup of rapidly cooling tea would not be the answer to Mrs. Harrigan’s grief. He felt nothing but sympathy for Jack Harrigan’s mother. She had been offered hope and seen that same hope snatched away. He thought that she was a strong woman, stronger than anyone he knew; strong enough to face the truth and abandon false hope.
Slater had already dispatched someone to find Mrs. Pearson. Her nephew, Robbie, had made an attempt to follow her out into the night, but a nod from Slater had resulted in a reassuring click and a surprised grunt as the nephew found himself handcuffed to the radiator.
Edwin was willing to wait for the return of Mrs. Pearson. He wanted to see her face when he told her what he knew. Setting all other matters aside, he was affronted that she had tried to use Champion and Company to legalize her deceit.
First, however, he would like to know about the child, and he would really like to know what had happened to young Whitby. He settled his gaze on Vera Chapman.
“Why?” he asked.
Vera ignored him but not his question. She looked at her mother with the sullen eyes of a teenager. “I wanted to get to America. He wouldn’t have married me unless I was pregnant.”
Her mother looked at her with wide puzzled eyes. “You were pregnant.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“But the baby, the christening, the birth certificate.”
“What birth certificate?” Vera asked. “I got rid of the birth certificate.”
Mrs. Chapman shook her head. “You got rid of it, but I kept it. I gave it to that young lawyer, Mr. Whitby.”
Edwin sighed. There it was; almost the last piece of the puzzle. So where was Whitby?
Vera shrugged her shoulders. “When the baby was born, Carol told the doctor that her name was Vera Malloy.”
“Carol?” Mrs. Chapman said. “Carol Elliot?”
“Yes. Anita’s her daughter.”
The teacup fell to the floor with a crash as the nosy village woman stood openmouthed.
“Carol Elliot,” Mrs. Chapman whispered. She looked around at the other villagers, who all stood with their mouths agape.
“So who is the father?” Edwin asked.
Vera shrugged her shoulders. “Gunther something.”
The news reverberated through the room, sending shockwaves of rattling spoons and slopping tea.
Edwin thought he detected a mixture of spite and sympathy in Vera’s tone. “German prisoner of war; he was working on the farm at Billingshurst. Turns out he was married, and he didn’t want anything to do with Carol having a baby.”
Edwin felt truly sorry for the unknown Carol Elliot. Now she would have no choice but to claim her child, and he wondered if she would ever be able to show her face in the village again.
Mrs. Chapman was still staring at her daughter, and her right hand was twitching. Edwin thought that the mother was tempted to give her daughter a good slap. He could hardly blame her, but the poor woman only knew what was on the surface. She had no idea what lay behind this web of lies. Even Lady Sylvia, sitting stone-faced and emotionless, could not know the whole truth. Of the people in the room, only he and Miss Clark had seen the documents that had been hidden in the Earl’s desk, but he was certain that other documents existed. The Earls of Southwold were not the only ones who had been keeping a record of births and deaths.
He heard the door open. He hoped it might be Whitby, but it was a police officer who was keeping a firm hold on Mrs. Pearson. Slater gestured with his left hand, and the officer pressed Mrs. Pearson into a seat.
The housekeeper glared around at the assembly. “I went to look for the little girl. No one else seems to be looking.”
“You can leave the looking to us,” Slater replied. He turned to Edwin. “I have the feeling that you know what’s going on here.”
Edwin nodded his head. “I understand most of it. There are still a few loose ends, but I can tell you who killed Mr. Alderton and Nurse Tierney, and who attacked Mr. Ruddle, and I can tell you why.” He sighed. “I’m very worried about Mr. Whitby. There has been far too much violence already, and I would not like to think anything has happened to him. Is anyone looking for him?”
“I can’t send anyone out to the house,” Slater said, “and I’ve pulled them back from the cliffs. It’s too risky. Until that mine comes ashore or the tide turns, he’s on his own.”
Edwin focused on Miss Clark’s hands, clasped together so tightly that her knuckles were turning white. She was as worried as he was about young Whitby. He made a determined effort to suppress his fears and concentrate on telling what he knew.
He looked at Mrs. Pearson. “She didn’t do it with her own hands, but she’s just as guilty as her nephew.”
He ignored the agitated jangle as Robbie Pearson strained against his handcuffs.
“Alderton was the first victim. It took a strong man to take him down, but Mrs. Pearson was the brains behind the brawn. It had to be done. Alderton was making inquiries among his friends in high society. It would not be long before he realized that there had never been a wedding between Lady Sylvia and an American officer.
“After that, things began to escalate. That’s the way it is with lies. Mr. Ruddle was dropping hints that he knew something, and he had to be silenced. Fortunately for us, he didn’t die, and when he recovered consciousness, he said he had been attacked by a woman. I think we should all be glad that he was able to make that statement and relieve Terry Chapman of any blame. It is quite obvious that this has nothing to do with that poor fellow. The evidence, which is written on Mr. Ruddle’s unfortunate head, tells us that the blows came from behind him. My assumption is that Mrs. Pearson was in front of him and her nephew was behind him.
“As for the Irish nurse; I really cannot say, because I never met her, but it’s no easy matter to push someone off a cliff. I think it would take a man’s strength.”
Edwin paused. He had no proof of what he was about to say, but he owed it to Dennis Blanchard to say it.
“I don’t think it took much strength to kill the Earl. She could have done it herself, if she wanted to.”
In the shocked silence that followed his statement, he heard a chair creak and saw Lady Sylvia lean forward so that her sleek black hair obscured her face. Did she know? Was she involved? That was for Slater to discover.
He let his gaze wander from the Countess to Terry Chapman. Terry’s expression was shuttered, and his eyes roved nervously around the room. Edwin did not know if the mind behind the eyes was seeing a prison camp or if it saw the familiarity of home. He spent no time on asking himself meaningless questions. One day Terry Chapman’s mind would return to his body, or perhaps it would not. It was not a question that needed to be answered at this moment.
Edwin looked at Miss Clark. Her knuckles were white with strain. “Anthea?”
She blushed and unclasped her hands. He had never before addressed her in such an informal matter, but she was more than his secretary now; she was his confidant.
“Yes, Mr. Champion?”
“Do you see the resemblance?”
She followed his gaze, looking first at Mrs. Pearson and then at Terry Chapman. She nodded her head, and he could see that she too was piecing the puzzle together.
He smiled his approval and received her tentative smile in return. This was really no smiling matter, but it was good to know that Anthea was there to back him up.
Edwin turned his attention to Mrs. Pearson. “What was your name before you married?”
She unclamped her lips and spat out her reply. “None of your business.”
“Was it Chapman?” Edwin asked. “Were you, in fact, Nell Chapman?”
Terry’s mother stepped forward in protest. “She’s not a Chapman. I knew everyone in my husband’s family. He wasn’t a fly-by-night like that soldier Vera married. Walter was a village man. Everyone here knows who his family were, and that woman wasn’t one of them. I don’t know where she came from.”
“She came from Norfolk, from another branch of the Chapman family; one that moved away before the Great War,” Edwin said. “That’s right, isn’t it, Mrs. Pearson?”
“So what if it is?”
Edwin looked at Anthea. He had the documents with him, but he wasn’t ready to produce them, not yet.
“July 12, 1834,” Anthea said.
Mrs. Pearson’s eyes flashed. “What about it?”
Edwin was assured now that he was on the right track. Mrs. Pearson knew. She knew the story just as well as he did, maybe even better.
“July 12, 1834,” Anthea repeated, “Richard Blanchard, the second son of the Earl of Southwold, married Lydia Chapman in a secret ceremony.”
Edwin tuned his ear to the sounds in the hall. Slater snorted impatiently. Terry Chapman murmured soothing words to himself, but his mother gasped and left him alone as she came forward to stand by Edwin’s chair.
“What is this?” she asked. “What are you getting at?”
Anthea continued in unruffled confidence. “Because the Blanchard family would not acknowledge Richard’s marriage, Lydia did not dare use their family name. She named her son John, John Chapman, and she lived with him in the village. Perhaps she was paid to keep quiet. I hope that money was involved. I hope that they allowed her to live comfortably.”
“They gave her nothing,” Mrs. Pearson said. “She had to raise her son in poverty.”
Anthea leaned back in her chair. “So you know the story?” she asked.
“Of course I do,” Mrs. Pearson snapped.
“Well, I don’t,” said Slater. “I don’t know what any of this has to do with what’s happening now.” He looked from Mrs. Pearson to Anthea. “You women read too many magazines.”
Edwin held up his hand for silence and gave Anthea a reassuring smile. “Now is not the time to discuss the merits of women’s magazines. I am sure that, in their rightful place, at home by the fire, they are very informative.”
Anthea blushed again. He hoped that his words would come as a gentle warning that she should not keep such magazines in her office.
“Lydia and her son were not forgotten,” Edwin said. “The Blanchard family kept records.”
“Why didn’t they speak?” Mrs. Pearson asked. “Why didn’t they acknowledge our claim on the estate?”
Lady Sylvia spoke for the first time. “Your claim,” she hissed. “You have no claim.”
“More claim than that brat you brought from America,” Mrs. Pearson snarled. She glared at Vera. “You lied to us. You lied to everyone.”
Vera smiled a cold tight smile. “Yes, I think we’ve established that I lied, but it was all in a good cause. Carol couldn’t bring the illegitimate child of a Nazi into the village, but I could take her to America. I did what I had to do.”
Slater held up a hand to command silence and attention. “Someone tell me what’s going on here,” he commanded. He looked at Edwin. “You tell me. You seem to know everything.”
“It’s a simple story,” Edwin said, “when you boil it all down.”
“Good,” said Slater. “I’d like a simple story.”
“Richard was the Earl’s second son,” Edwin said, “and he did what second sons normally do, he joined the army. He died in the Gold Coast. As no one was willing to acknowledge his marriage to Lydia Chapman, he was wiped from the family line of succession, supposedly dying without issue. His older brother, Michael, inherited, and the line continued until today, when the current Countess of Southwold finds herself without an heir. It is assumed that the estate and the title will be claimed by Godfrey’s descendants in Australia, but they are not the rightful heirs. Godfrey was the third child. Richard’s descendants have a better claim, but none of them will make a claim unless and until the current Countess dies childless. Everything that has happened here has happened in order to put one of Richard and Lydia’s descendants into Southwold Hall.”
“No!” Sylvia’s voice echoed around the dusty room. “These are all lies.”
“I have proof,” Edwin said. “The Earl entrusted certain documents into my keeping.”
“What documents?” Lady Sylvia asked. “Why didn’t I know about them? Why didn’t he tell me?”
Edwin could find no answer for her. Should he tell her that her father had not trusted her? No, not yet. He carried on speaking.
“Lady Sylvia is telling the truth. She knew nothing about the other branch of the family because Mrs. Pearson never revealed her true motives. Lady Sylvia’s interest was purely financial and pertained only to maintaining her lifestyle. She was not interested in what would happen to the estate after her death.”
He looked at the Countess. She had returned to her former calm.
“Après moi le déluge,” Edwin said softly.
She acknowledged his comment with a cold smile. “I’m afraid the British have run out of money. We’ve given it all to the Americans.”
Harry Harrigan rose from his seat, but his wife held him back.
“Let the man talk,” she commanded. “Go on, Mr. Champion. We’re all listening.”
“Well,” said Edwin, “I assume that Mrs. Pearson has been whispering in her employer’s ear for several years and suggesting ways that the family fortunes could be improved. The Chapman family, Nell’s relatives, have no money, and even if they can prove their claim, they will be unable to maintain the house. It was in everyone’s interests to find someone with large amounts of money, and no such person could be found this side of the Atlantic. It was Mrs. Pearson who devised the plan that would bring in American money and solve all of their problems.”
He looked at Mrs. Pearson. Her face betrayed nothing of the inner turmoil she was surely experiencing.
“It was a clever plan,” he said with a nod of appreciation to her. “Almost perfect. The American money would return Southwold to its former glory and allow Lady Sylvia to live in style, and she would not even know that the baby she claimed as her own was one of John Chapman’s descendants. Eventually the child would inherit the Southwold title, and the Chapman family would have what they have wanted for all these years, and some American money into the bargain. As an added bonus, Sylvia was already aware of the resemblance between herself and Vera. She was sure that the resemblance would carry down to Vera’s daughter.”
Edwin paused for a moment, taking in the stunned expressions of his audience.
“Fortunately, or unfortunately,” he said, “none of this matters, because the child who was brought from America was not Vera’s child.”
He leaned back in his chair. He had told his story. He suspected that he had left some loose ends; it would be up to Slater to tease them out and see what was attached. Slater could surely find sufficient evidence to charge Mrs. Pearson and her nephew with murder. As for Lady Sylvia, her behavior had been cruel and entirely reprehensible, but he was not sure that it amounted to a crime; not if Vera had been a willing participant in the lie.
Slater’s London voice interrupted his thoughts and brought him back to reality with an unwelcome jolt.
“So where’s the child; and where’s Whitby?”