Black Gold (35 page)
Justice and Honor
Tuesday/Wednesday, April 10/11
For a minute, Saint-Martin stared across the clearing to the tennis hall, then hurried to the entrance. He leaned inside, and listened. The sound of voices drifted faintly from the training room. He slipped into the building, then suddenly stopped. With a slight rasp, a sword had left its scabbard. A few seconds later, quick footsteps, then a sharp cry of pain, and the thud of a body hitting the floor.
He crept stealthily through the antechamber to the open door of the training room and peered in. Rogers stood with his back to the door and a sword in his hand. In the next instant, he hissed “Treacherous ingrate!” and thrust the sword into Critchley's body. “You
would
insult the woman I love.”
“What have you done?” exclaimed Saint-Martin aghast and stepped into the room. Before him, Fitzroy lay sprawled on his back on the floor, the handle of a knife protruding from his side. At the far end of the room, Critchley staggered, then fell back against the racquet cabinet and slid to the floor.
Rogers spun around, sword in hand. His eyes wild, his jaw taut, he strode toward Saint-Martin. “Unfortunately, Colonel, you have seen too much.” He held the bloody weapon at his throat. “I intend to blame the captain for Critchley's death and for yours. This is his sword after all.”
Saint-Martin stood his ground. “Have you found what you were looking for?” He spoke as evenly as he could. Rogers appeared deranged.
He lowered the sword a fraction, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a slim, square package. Holding it aloft, he shook it like a trophy. “Here's the proof I need to put before Parliament. I'll soon be rid of the Irish bitch and her son.” His face hardened. He raised the sword again. “Time to say your prayers, Frenchman.”
Suddenly, a loud explosion shook the room. Rogers lurched forward. The sword dropped from his hand, striking Saint-Martin's left arm and tearing his coat sleeve. An echo rang in his ears. The acrid stench of gun powder stung his nostrils.
For a moment he was too stunned to realize what had happened. Then his vision cleared and he saw Rogers crumpled at his feet and Critchley sitting slumped against the cabinet, a pistol in his right hand. Saint-Martin picked up a lantern, held it over Rogers, felt his pulse. None.
He approached Critchley warily, even though his pistol had fired its shot. The wounded man's eyes followed him, his lips moved. Barely a whisper. Saint-Martin strained to hear.
“I'm dying, Colonel. Better than hanging.” His eyes were unnaturally bright and watering. He gasped for breath.
“Did you kill Roach?” Saint-Martin still had in the back of his mind the nagging fear that Jeff had done it.
Critchley nodded. “Gave him the packageâ¦asked for money. He laughed. Called me a foolâ¦his slave. He opened the package, wasn't looking. I hit him.” His eyes drifted to the rack of iron balls nearby.
“And Mary Campbell?”
“No,” he murmured. “Dead when I came home. Ask⦔ Blood dribbled from his mouth. His eyes glazed over.
Saint-Martin leaned closer and asked softly, “Yes? Yes?”
For a second, the man's face seemed suffused with an inner light. “
Italia! Come bellaâ¦Italâ¦
” His head slumped to one side.
“Beautiful Italy, indeed!” Saint-Martin felt a tinge of pity for the dying man, despite the evil he had done. He turned to Fitzroy and found no pulse. The face still wore a look of surprise, the eyes staring into the void, the mouth slightly open. Saint-Martin knelt down on one knee and gazed at the dead man. A vile brute, Sir Harry had said. True enough. Fitzroy had scarred Silvie de Chanteclerc for the rest of her life.
The colonel sighed. He would return to Paris empty handed, having spent a great deal of Baron Breteuil's money and much valuable time. He couldn't even claim credit for Fitzroy's death. Sir Harry had killed him for his own reasons, depriving the baron of the satisfaction of vengeance. Fitzroy would not slowly rot away in prison. He died, as he would have wished, in combatâquickly, deftly, believing his honor still intact.
Footsteps and hushed agitated voices sounded in the entrance hall. Still on his knee, Saint-Martin looked up apprehensively, then relaxed as he recognized Anne, pale and drawn, carrying a lantern. Behind her loomed Jeffery, a long iron bar in his good right hand.
“We heard the shot,” she exclaimed, slowly scanning the carnage. “Horrible! Are they all dead?”
“Yes,” Paul replied, pointing to Fitzroy and Sir Harry. “And Critchley's dying. He confessed to Roach's death but not to Mary Campbell's.”
Paul rose to his feet and picked up the package that had fallen from Sir Harry's hand. “You must help me decide what to do with this. I'll keep it safe for now.” He slipped the package into his pocket. To Jeffery he remarked, “Forget you've ever seen it.” The footman nodded gravely.
Anne glanced at Paul's left arm. “You're wounded!” she cried. Blood was soaking through his sleeve.
“Sir Harry nicked me as he fell. It's not serious.”
With a boxer's familiarity, Jeffery pulled medicine and bandages out of a cabinet and dressed Paul's wound. Anne assisted, since Jeffery's broken arm was still causing him pain.
“Police work is dangerous,” the footman said, as he put away the medicine. He glanced over his shoulder at Paul. “You should box instead.” Jeffery's brow wrinkled with apparent concern. “Yes, sir, we both must be careful. If we hurt our right arm as well, who will cut our meat into dainty morsels?” His gaze shifted mischievously toward Anne.
For a moment the black man's impertinent wit nonplussed Paul. He shook his head as if to clear away his confusion, then noticed the flicker of a smile on Jeffery's lips, a tentative twinkle in his eyes.
Paul turned to Anne. A smile had spread across her face. “You were wise to bet on him. Sly fellow, just like Georges.”
***
“Jack Roach's pistol,” said Colonel Saint-Martin, handing the small, deadly weapon to Dick Burton. The colonel had just finished reporting what he had witnessed in the training room. “He always carried it on his person, but mistakenly thought he wouldn't need it when dealing with Critchley. The man's spirit
seemed
broken.”
Burton studied the pistol in the light of a lantern. Dawn's rays were only just beginning to break through the high windows of the tennis hall. “We searched everywhere for this thing. Where did he keep it?” He dropped the pistol in his bag.
Saint-Martin bent down and slipped his hand into the space under the racquet cabinet. “Critchley must have hidden the pistol there after we had searched the training room. He could reach it from where he fell.”
Burton had arrived at the tennis hall with several watchmen to inspect the scene and remove the bodies. While they worked at their task, he told Saint-Martin that Georges had captured the two highwaymen a mile outside Bath on the Bristol road. They might have escaped, had they not stopped for an early morning drink at The Little Drummer. Under questioning, they claimed they didn't know who hired them. They never saw his face, only his money.
When Burton finished and was about to leave, he turned to Saint-Martin. “Sir Harry took too great a risk in freeing Critchley. Still, if you hadn't interrupted him, he might have succeeded.” His gaze fell. He tapped the floor with his cane, as if pursuing a thought. Abruptly, he looked up. “The package, Colonel, the one stolen from Lady Margaret. Have you found it?”
Saint-Martin had foreseen the question as soon as he studied the package's contents. He also understood Burton's viewpoint in asking. He had shared Roach's papers. Fairness seemed to require Saint-Martin to share the stolen package. It might also earn Burton a financial reward from Lady Margaret. “Yes, I have,” Saint-Martin replied, adding, “Critchley gave it to Sir Harry. He dropped it when he was shot. I picked it up.”
“May I see it?” Burton's voice was low and insistent, his eyebrows lifted. The question was a challenge.
“I am not at liberty to show it to you, for it touches a woman's honor. And, since the thief, Critchley, and his accomplice, Jack Roach, are dead, the object they stole should simply be returned to Lady Margaret.”
Burton frowned. “I had hoped you would trust me to respect her honor. I'm not prying into common Bath scandal. That package contains the key to understanding four violent deaths.”
“I mean no insult to you, and I understand your desire to resolve this case fully in your own mind. But I simply cannot run the risk of the package's contents becoming more widely known.”
Burton's expression grew irritated. He leaned heavily upon his cane.
Weighing his options, thought Saint-Martin. He could arrest him but with no likelihood of getting the package. Or, he could accept the fact that it didn't matter. The case was closed, all the villains dead. Finally, Burton straightened up, started toward the door. He turned, met Saint-Martin's eye. “I trust you will appear at the coroner's inquest.”
“Of course.”
“Then we shall resolve our differences there. Otherwise, I believe my work is nearly finished.” With a straight face, he added, “And yours, too.”
“Not quite,” Saint-Martin rejoined, the fate of Lord Jeff on his mind.
***
Early afternoon on the next day, a maid showed Anne and Paul into Lady Margaret's room. Dressed in a black silk gown, she sat staring out a window, a closed book on her lap. Her thick auburn hair had been brushed into lustrous waves, but her face was haggard. Paul wasn't surprised. At dawn on Tuesday, she had been roused out of a drunken stupor at a friend's house and brought back to Combe Park to identify her dead husband and her cousin. She had fainted away and been put to bed.
Anne and Paul had gone to Bristol and persuaded Betty to nurse Lady Margaret. Leaving her cottage in a neighbor's care, Betty had returned with them to Combe Park late in the afternoon.
Betty now sat nearby, knitting. She rose as Anne and Paul approached. “I'll go to my own room. Tell me when you leave.”
Lady Margaret gave them a sidelong glance, sighed, then gestured for them to be seated. Unsmiling, she asked why they had come. “You needn't express regrets. All three men are better off dead. Even Fitz, and a part of me loved him.” Her eyes were heavy lidded from fatigue but clear. No sign of tears.
Anne turned to Paul, who began, “Lady Margaret, we have come here to speak on behalf of Jeffery, your footman.”
She frowned. “I understand Sir Harry was displeased with his impertinence. Planned to sell him, I suspect. What concern is it of yours?”
Anne spoke up. “I am in his debt.” She went on to describe Jeffery saving her from Jack Roach on the portico. “And, I may add, little Charlie owes him much.”
“He only did his duty,” Lady Margaret said irritably. “If that's all you wanted to talk about, you may leave. I can't be bothered about a black footman.” With a haughty stare she challenged them to contradict her.
Paul and Anne glanced at one another with a shared understanding. Mr. Woodhouse's plans to free Jeffery were going forward on the assumption that Lady Margaret could not be trusted to do the right thing. When she began to settle her affairs, she might decide to sell Jeffery. Woodhouse and his companions would have to act within a couple of days. There was no time for delay.
Paul leaned forward, his voice took on a stern tone. “Lady Margaret, we do have something more to talk about: your certificate of marriage to Maurice Fitzroy from February 11, 1776, signed by Rev. John Blair, vicar of St. Bride's church in London, witnessed by a sexton and by your nurse, Betty. And, recently stolen by Mr. Critchley.”
Her hands flew to her mouth. She gasped, “Do you have it?”
“Yes, I do.” He drew the package from his pocket and smiled gently, inviting her confidence.
She fell into an uneasy silence, drawing up buried memories. “I was just nineteen and recently widowed. My father arranged my engagement to Harry Rogers, who would pay his debts and settle a large income on me. I protested in vain that I didn't love him.”
She stared out the window, as if uncertain whether to continue, then went on in a low voice. “While Harry was on a visit to Jamaica, I fell in love with my cousin Fitzroy and we married secretly in London. Shortly after the wedding, my father called me home to Ireland. Fitzroy fled to France to escape his creditors. No one knew of the wedding, except Betty, the feeble-minded sexton, and the old vicar who died soon after. I couldn't tell Harry. When I married him, I was already pregnant with Charlie though I didn't know it until a month later.”
“Why did you keep the certificate?” Anne asked softly.
At first, Lady Margaret appeared not to hear the question. She gazed quietly at the distant hillside. “Yes,” she murmured finally, as if talking to herself, “Why
did
I keep it?” She smiled. “Fitz was a fine lad then, handsome, full of mischief and laughter. Our wedding night was the happiest moment of my life.” She turned and pointed to the certificate. “Through the years, this reminded me that I wasn't really married to a Bristol slave trader, but to Fitz. We were joined together forever.”
Paul tapped the package. “This certificate also is evidence that your marriage contract with Sir Harry is null and void. By the terms of Sir Harry's will, Charlieâillegitimate in the eyes of the lawâis no longer his heir. Another male relative should inherit Sir Harry's wealth.” Paul patted the certificate. “If William knew of this, he would surely challenge Charlie's claim.”
Her expression grew hard. “I see what you're going to do with that certificate.” She stuck out her hand. “Give it to me. It's mine.”
“It's material evidence of a crime. I should bring it to a magistrate.” He handed it to Anne, who put it in her bag.