‘Inspector!’ My prayers had been heard; my own good angel had arrived, in the drab and tousled shape of dear old Blackbeard (I won’t go as far as saying I could have kissed him), and two young men in plain clothes.
‘Damn you!’ Rutherford was appalled, astonished, thunderstruck. ‘Damn you to hell! This isn’t England – you have no power here!’
‘That’s why I’m taking you home,’ Blackbeard said. ‘So you can have a proper English trial, and swing from a proper English noose.’
I will never forget the expression on Rutherford’s face then – thoughtful, as if working out a puzzle.
‘There must be melodrama, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘You leave me with no choice.’
He pulled a pistol from the folds of his cloak, and placed it against the forehead of his unconscious child.
‘NO!’ It came out of me in a banshee’s scream, and I would have tried to snatch her, but Blackbeard gripped my arm to stop me; we watched him fearfully, knowing this man was quite capable of carrying out his threat.
‘On the other hand,’ he said, ‘it’ll be better for my immortal soul if I take this journey alone.’
He dropped the child in a heap at his feet and turned the pistol on himself – with a look of triumph that haunted my dreams for many months afterwards.
I said a prayer for his soul; I have never stopped saying prayers for Henry Rutherford.
I wish I could find a good piece of Shakespeare to illustrate the scene, or a sonorous verse from the Bible. All I can think of, however, is the Punch and Judy booth at the fair, and Mr Punch’s crow of victory when he beats the hangman. Rutherford had beaten the hangman by choosing to bypass all earthly courts and stand before the Judge of Judges.
Blackbeard stared at the body for a long spell, before he covered it with a tarpaulin.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘this time he’ll stay buried.’
My first consideration had to be the child. Adelina was still as limp and white-faced as a little ghost; I dreaded to think how much of the drug Rutherford had given her. On the steamer back to England we were allocated a tiny cabin of our own, and Blackbeard sent out an appeal for a doctor. Somehow, in such circumstances, there is always a doctor; on this occasion, it was a Scots army surgeon with bristling white whiskers, who assured me that ‘the wee gerr-ull’ would suffer no ill effects, and should be left to ‘sleep it off’.
Once this weight was off my mind, I could surrender to my own fatigue; I fell into a sound sleep as if falling into a feather-bed, and knew no more until the splendid Murphy woke me with a cup of tea.
‘And I do assure you, ma’am, that nobody has slipped in any powders this time – I’m very sorry about that.’
A sigh issued from the narrow bunk; I leaned over to take Adelina’s hand, and to my very great relief, she opened two bright blue eyes.
‘Good morning, Adelina,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how much you remember, my dear, but it’s all over now, and you will soon be at home again.’
She smiled and squeezed my hand, and whispered: ‘I’m hungry!’
Murphy fetched a bowl of warm bread and milk; I fed it to Adelina, and saw her gaining strength with every spoonful. By the time we were nearing England, she was chattering as if she’d known me all her life. She remembered her father striking Miss Muirfield, but the sleeping-drug had wiped all the other horrors from her memory.
Before the day was over, I had the happy experience of returning the child to her home, and the two women who loved her with such devotion; she threw herself into Miss Muirfield’s arms, and Muirfield hugged her as if she would never let her go.
Blackbeard and I stayed in the carriage.
‘There’ll be time enough to tell them,’ he said. ‘Let’s leave them alone for the moment.’
It was over.
I will never forget the surge of gladness I felt when we drew up outside my dear old front door in Well Walk.
Mrs Bentley had lit the big lamp in the drawing room, and the window shone out a welcome home.
‘Here you are then,’ Blackbeard said. He cleared his throat. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me for staying out of sight like that, Mrs Rodd.’
‘All’s well that ends well,’ I said. ‘And you came to our rescue like Sir Galahad.’
‘What I mean to say, ma’am, is that it has been a pleasure working with you. I freely admit, I was a bit slow with this one. Next time I’ll have to take your word for it.’
‘But you won’t,’ I said, laughing. ‘You’ll be just as obstinate as ever.’
‘I’d call it cautious.’
‘No more arguing,’ I said. ‘Let us agree that we have each learnt from one another’s methods, and drink a toast to Justice.’
‘Always happy to raise a glass to that, ma’am.’
Blackbeard helped me from the carriage, and we went into the house together.
Extreme old age does strange things to my memory. The past is fresh to me, vivid in every detail, felt in every sense. People who have been dead for years are suddenly filled with life again, and I hear their voices reminding me of things I had long buried. Whereas I couldn’t tell you what happened yesterday if you paid me.
I am working out in the garden, in the drowsy shade of the big oak tree, and it is that soporific hour after luncheon on a warm afternoon. Everything sleeps (children, birds, livestock) except the bees – and me. I’m too old to feel the heat, and I have been utterly caught up in remembering.
Tishy, who is a great romantic, wants to know if Charles Calderstone married Esther Grahame. I’m happy to say that he did; they went to Kirkside and lived happily ever after. Mr Fitzwarren was not disappointed, however, because he was not in love with Miss Esther after all. I am mortified to admit that I was completely wrong about this. Three months after Charles’s release, he married – even now I can hardly believe it – Miss Blanche.
And this was the young lady who had sworn never to fall in love with a clergyman!
The birds are stirring; a breeze nudges at my papers on the table. The children have come out to play on the lawn.
Tishy comes to my side. ‘Is it finished yet, Aunty?’
She’s not my Tishy, but her daughter, and so like her that I sometimes feel, near the end of my life, that no time has passed at all.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Quite finished.’