WHILE LAURA AND THE COUNTESS parleyed with Mrs. Whichale, the gentlemen had rushed back to the library. Mr. Grahame tried the handle of the library door. Locked!
“Open up, Mr. Whichale!” he shouted, but no reply was heard from inside the room. Mr. Templeton and Edward put their shoulders to the door to burst it open.
All four ran in. Mr. Whichale was not at his desk but halfway through the open window. They rushed at him and he looked back over his shoulder, turning.
“Take care! He’s armed!” yelled Grahame.
They froze, in the centre of the room, at the sight of the pistol. Mr. Whichale looked desperately from one to another, settling his eyes resentfully upon Mr. Templeton, and seemed to choose his target. He turned the weapon.
“We are four to your one, sir,” said Edward.
“You will surely hang if you commit murder,” Grahame said.
“I hang, in any case,” said Whichale.
He fired. As the echoes bounced from the walls, Edward heard the thump of a body falling to the floor, followed by the rumble of wheels on the road. He leapt forward.
“Wait, sir!” said the magistrate, but the captain seized the gunman’s wrist, dragging him back into the room. Whichale grabbed at Edward’s face with his other hand, clawing at his skin. Edward was too strong for him. He jerked Whichale’s arm up sharply in the air. Whichale flailed at the captain’s jaw with his free hand but one more wrench on his arm caused the pistol to drop to the floor.
“Hold him, sir!” said the magistrate, as Edward forced Whichale into a chair.
Mr. Grahame climbed out of the window and raced across to the gate.
Down the road, Mr. Grahame saw the constable pulling his horse up, turning at the sound of the shot. “Go after them, man,” shouted the magistrate, pointing. The horseman nodded and took off again.
It was then that Mr. Grahame saw the lady at the gate.
“Miss Morrison! Wait—pray do not go in.”
However, Laura sped past him and halted briefly in the court, listening. She heard voices from the side of the house and ran in the direction of the sounds. Through the open casement, she saw a gentleman of middle years collapsed in a chair. Before him stood her brother—unharmed! He turned, staring at her in amazement. “Laura?”
“Thank God,” she said.
Over by the door, Sir Richard stood, blinking. It was just as she had thought. Her brother and cousin were thankfully safe, but Mr. Templeton? She shivered, lowering her gaze to the floor. In the corner behind her brother and to his left, she saw a pair of boots, toes pointed upward. She gasped, and her eyes flew past the top of the old-fashioned boots, to a rusty black coat. An old servant was lying on the floor—not dead, it seemed, but in a faint. Sir Richard was now kneeling beside him, slapping his cheeks to revive him.
What of Mr. Templeton? She looked to the side of the room, and saw him pointing a pistol at the miscreant. Alive!
Joy lit her face, shimmering in her glass-green eyes—joy such as could not escape his notice. His look in reply was an instant of dark-eyed passion. Just as quickly, he turned back to his charge.
“Laura, I beg you to return to the carriage,” said Edward. “You are not alone?”
“I am not alone, and I will go—Elspeth is beside herself,” she said.
She ran back out of the gate, to find the countess standing in the road, poised between curiosity and fear. Reassured by Laura’s happy look, she clapped her hands.
“Is anyone murdered? Is there much blood? Tell all, my dear,” she said, putting her arm around Laura’s waist.
Laura was too happy to do other than smile. She went to the carriage window, seeing Elspeth in genuine anxiety.
“Laura, you are safe! What of my brother?”
“They are all unharmed—all of our gentlemen are safe,” she said.
“Quite all?” said Mrs. Bell.
“Every last one,” said Laura.
The magistrate hurried back into the house and took over the situation.
“That shot was a signal to your coachman to carry your wife to safety,” he said.
Whichale gave him a sour smile of triumph. “Your man will never catch her. My coachman knows every turn in every lane hereabouts.”
“We shall see. Now—the document, Mr. Whichale? Where is it?”
Whichale looked over to see Moreley still sitting forlornly on the floor.
“You are safe, Moreley,” said Whichale. “Show them.”
Sir Richard helped the old man to rise. “Are you well enough to lead us there?”
Moreley nodded.
Leaving the captain standing guard over Mr. Whichale, the other men followed the servant upstairs and into the master bedroom.
“The same room,” said Mr. Templeton.
An enormous old oaken closet stood against the wall. “It’s a’fallen behind the closet, sirs,” he said.
“Fallen, you say?” said the magistrate.
Moreley was wringing his hands in anxiety. “’Twere all on my account—the master tried to protect me rights.”
“From what?”
“Old master always promised me the cottage at Lane End, when I were too old to work.”
“And?”
“He must of forgot to put it in his will. ’Twere on the day he died, he writ a new one.”
“A new will, you say? Was he in his right mind?”
“On my sacred oath, sir, he was. The physician was with him at the end—he’ll tell you how sharp was old Mr. Whichale to the very last.”
“How came Mr. Templeton to be called in?”
“Old master asked for his attorney. New master sent for Mr. Templeton, instead, to witness the will. He forgot as I must not be witness.”
“You witnessed the signing of the new will, which gave you use of the cottage and an annuity?”
Moreley nodded miserably.
“Mr. Templeton went downstairs, and new master—he weren’t master then for old master were still alive, only sleeping—new master came in. He were standing just there, by the closet.”
“What happened next?” asked the magistrate.
“He said, quiet like, ‘Good God, were you a witness? The law will have you.’”
“The heir could have grounds to claim influence and contest the bequest, if you were a witness,” Mr Grahame said. He saw that Moreley did not comprehend him. “What followed?”
“He were waving his arm, like this, for he were worried.” The servant swept his arm across the top of the cabinet. “Will was a’knocked back and went behind. My master said best for me if it disappears.”
“So your master hid the new will?”
“’Twere an accident—I tried to remind him about it later but …”
The magistrate rolled his eyes. He pulled the bell rope. “No one sought to retrieve the document?”
“I didna’ dare by myself.”
“It’s as well you did not destroy it.”
“We got nowhere to go. Me savings are a’gon on medicine for Mrs. Moreley. Weren’t dishonest really for old master wanted it that way.”
“Let us see, Moreley.”
A footman entered and helped them pull the cabinet away from the wall. A sheet of parchment flopped over into the dust. The magistrate reached into the space and picked it up, blowing the dirt away. He read aloud:
In the Name of God, Amen.
I, Samuel Frederick Whichale, gentleman, of the Parish of Saint Stephen, in the village …
His bushy eyebrows were drawn together as he skimmed the rest of the opening statement. He ran his eyes over the first of the articles, shaking his head; then read it aloud.
I give and bequeath my estate at Longpan, near Axminster, comprising of Longpan House, four farms, the row of cottages in Lane’s End, Longpan, and all the income there from, unto my great-nephew …
Mr. Grahame looked around at them all before continuing.
Benjamin Adam Reece, grandson of my sister, Mrs. Charles Reece, nee Anna Jane Whichale, of Malton, Yorkshire.