Nina Coombs Pykare (33 page)

Simpson wailed again. “‘Twas me as told her ‘bout the curse—the treasure vault and all that. And ‘bout his lordship’s mama’s accident—her jumping and all. Then Lady Catherine, she started acting queerly. I wanted—I only wanted her to understand, to know ‘bout the story, how it be told round.” She wrung her hands. “But then she went and jumped. She jumped—and he said I were to blame.”

Edwina’s heart trembled in her throat and her stomach began to flutter like a leaf in the wind. So Lady Catherine had killed herself. Who was this man who gave Simpson orders? Who told her she was responsible for the death? “He?” Edwina asked.

“Aye. He said I might as well a pushed her over meself. Meself! But he said he wouldn’t tell no one long as I done what he told me to.” She looked around wildly. “I didn’t know what else to do. So I done what’er he told me. I had to.”

“You—” Edwina swallowed hard. “It was you who pushed the stone?”

“Aye,” Simpson whined. “He had it all readied. I jest hadda give it a little nudge. But I wasn’t wanting to hurt no one, least of all you, miss—who was kind to me. Sparing me poor bones all that carrying up and down the stairs.” She gave Edwina a toothy smile. “He told me to do it. So I did.” She cackled. “But I waited a little long, till I knowed the stone’d miss you.”

That was just like Simpson. Edwina felt a surge of gratitude toward the old woman. “Thank you, Mrs. Simpson. That was kind of you.”

Simpson shrugged. “He didn’t know no better. So he didn’t blame me none.”

Poor woman, Edwina thought. At the mercy of someone who had no compunction about playing on her guilt. Simpson had been hard used, indeed. But there were still things that had to be explained. “The voices?” Edwina asked. “Were you the voice of the ghost, too? Did you tell Henrietta you were her mother, that her mother wanted her to come to her?”

Simpson shook her head, outrage on her weathered face. “Not me, miss! That weren’t me. I love them little ones. I wouldn’t do nothing to hurt ‘em. Not one blessed thing. Don’t matter what he says.”

Edwina swallowed. She wasn’t sure why, but she believed Simpson, believed the housekeeper cared for the girls as she claimed. Still. “You left the mangled rat outside my door? And the shroud?”

Simpson cackled. “Aye, he said them things’d scare you` off, get you to leave this place. I knowed you wouldn’t go. Not you. I seen the way you looked at them children. The way the little one looked at you. I seen. And I knowed. I told him, too, more’n once, but he wouldn’t listen. Don’t pay no mind to a crazy old woman, he don’t.”

Who was this mysterious he? Edwina hesitated, the question forming on her lips. She wanted to know, but the words froze there. She couldn’t bring herself to ask the question. If Simpson said that Charles had done these awful things—and to his own children—Edwina wasn’t sure she could bear it. Instead she went on asking about other things. “It was you who locked me in that room then.”

Simpson nodded. “You was supposed to run off like them others afterwards. But you was different. You wouldn’t budge. I told him you was different, but he don’t listen.” She shook her head. “Not to no crazy old woman, he don’t.”

Edwina knew she should be frightened, up here with the half-crazed old woman who’d done all those horrible things, but there was such combined friendliness and misery in Simpson’s voice that all Edwina could feel was pity. Somehow, in spite of all that had happened, she felt sure the old woman wouldn’t really harm her. “You’re right,” Edwina said. “And I still won’t go.”

Simpson waved a hand. “But he don’t want you here. At the castle. That’s why he sent you that there note! Cause you wouldn’t go way.”

Edwina’s heart threatened to shiver into a million little pieces. The note! Charles had written the note.

This man who had used Simpson, who had played on her guilt, he had to have been Charles! “The note that said to meet him here?”

“Aye, miss, but—”

Chapter Thirty-four

 In Edwina’s room, Charles stood staring at her bed. For a moment he could almost see her in it, her pale nightdress, its lacy collar framing her sweet face. Her eyes closed, her lashes dark against her ivory cheeks. He shook his head sadly. Such thoughts were forbidden.

But where was Edwina? He wanted to tell her his decision. He couldn’t love her like he wanted to. He was still Catherine’s husband. Always Catherine’s husband. But he wanted to tell her that he meant to fight to stay alive, like she’d urged him to do, for his children, if for no other reason.

But where was Edwina? She’d promised not to wander about the castle at night. He took a step toward the door and something crackled underfoot. He stooped to pick it up—a sheet of paper. A letter.

Dear Edwina, it began. A letter written in a masculine hand.

Charles averted his gaze. He had no right to read her love letters from Crawford. He stiffened. Was that where she was now? With Crawford? He’d like to give Crawford a piece of his mind. And something else!

Charles turned away, crumpling the paper in his hand, fighting his anger. Edwina was a grown woman, with a right to her privacy. To her own decisions. But why did she have to make such a wrong one?

* * * *

On the parapet, Simpson waved a white-clad arm at Edwina. “Aye, miss, but he—”

“That’ll be enough, Simpson.” The viscount stepped from the shadowy staircase, wearing his usual brash smile. Edwina didn’t know whether to be relieved or embarrassed. She wasn’t really afraid of Simpson and she didn’t want Crawford to know about Charles, about the awful things Charles had made Simpson do. She didn’t want poor Simpson to get in trouble.

Simpson frowned. “But she thinks, Miss Pierce thinks—”

The viscount chuckled, a strange sound that, for some reason, Edwina found frightening. “All right, Simpson,” he said. “I suppose I might as well tell our dear Edwina the truth, that I wrote the note that brought her up here. That I am the one responsible for what’s been going on here at the castle.” He chuckled again. “Though come to think of it it’d be rather a good joke to let the chit go to her death believing that her beloved Charles was responsible for all this. She has caused me no end of trouble, you know.”

Edwina almost sank to the stones in her relief. It wasn’t Charles. Thank God! What a blessed relief. It wasn’t Charles! It wasn’t Charles! Her soul sang with the joy of that knowledge. Then the rest of the viscount’s words registered. Go to her death! Why should she- Did Crawford mean to kill her?

Charles would stop him, though. Charles wouldn’t let- Oh God! Her heart threatened to stop. Charles hadn’t written the note- Crawford had written it to lure her here. That meant Charles didn’t know she was up here, and that meant Charles wasn’t coming.

Her heart fell. No one was coming. She was on the tower roof with a man who meant to murder her. “You!” she stammered. “You sent me the note! You did all this.”

“Of course,” the viscount said, in the same tone he might have announced that they were having pigeon pie for dinner or that he’d enjoyed his morning ride. “I did it all, the curse, the voices, the whole haunting thing. I was succeeding. I was driving them all away, until you showed up, our dear inquisitive stubborn Miss Pierce.”

Moonlight lit his face as he smiled again. It was not a normal smile. This was a stranger, a madman, standing there. Where was the man she’d laughed with, talked with? Why had she never noticed the evil in his smile, in his eyes?

“Too bad we didn’t run you down with the coach that first day,” he went on, his tone conversational. “It would have made things so much simpler for us all, wouldn’t it?”

She fought back a shiver. So much evil in one man. “But why?” she cried. “Why would you wish to frighten me off? I’m only a governess. I cannot hurt you.”

The viscount’s laughter sent chills through her already shivering body. “Don’t be dense, Edwina, my dear. You kept insisting there was no ghost. Sooner or later Charles might have listened to you, might have believed you. The fool might eventually have come to realize the truth, that Catherine hadn’t died by her own choice.”

Edwina swallowed a gasp. She’d been right! Catherine had been murdered.

The viscount preened a little, as though he had a right to be proud of something. “I’ve managed it all quite well, you know.” He frowned. “Except for Catherine, of course. That didn’t go well.”

“Catherine?” Edwina echoed, trying to keep him talking, trying to keep her wits about her. She didn’t want to die. There must be something she could do, some way to save herself. And poor Simpson. She couldn’t let Simpson be party to murder.

“Yes, I didn’t mean to kill her.” He shrugged. “I loved her. You see, I asked for her hand in marriage. I asked before Charles did, but she refused me.” He looked pained, as though he couldn’t understand how that was possible. “Still, I wanted her. Oh yes, I wanted her. I don’t give up what I want.”

His eyes shone with fierce determination. “So I encouraged Charles in that ill-fated shipping venture. The poor fool did just as I hoped. He lost heavily and had to bring his family out here, to vegetate in the country.” He laughed again. “Of course, I followed, still the faithful friend. Or so Charles thought. Actually it was Catherine that brought me here. Catherine was mine. She was always mine. I was determined to have her.” He adjusted his cuffs. “I always get what I want, you see. Always.”

He looked around, his eyes bright with his madness. “Catherine loved walking up here. We all knew it. One night I followed her. I was tired of waiting. But when I took her in my arms, when I kissed her, when I told her that now she was mine, she pulled away from me. She stared at me in horror.” He shook his head, almost in bewilderment. “Why did she do that? Why did she run away from me? She was mine. Mine. She was always mine.”

He took a step toward Edwina. With great difficulty she held her ground. He stopped, and gazed around him again, then shook his head as though to clear it. “She tripped and fell, striking her head.” He pointed. “There, she fell there, on the stone floor.” He shrugged again. “There was nothing else to do. I picked her up. I threw her over the parapet.”

Edwina’s stomach roiled in revulsion. She pressed a hand over her mouth to hold back the bile that rose in her. The man was mad! She had let this monster hold her, kiss her! She had actually enjoyed his company, enjoyed conversing with a madman, a killer!

A whimper from one side called her attention to Simpson. The old woman stared at Crawford, her watery eyes wide with surprise, her face a mask of disbelief. “It weren’t me? I didn’t- It weren’t my stories ‘bout the curse that done it? That made her ladyship jump like her did?”

The viscount laughed again, that hurtful laugh that chilled Edwina’s soul. “Of course not,” he said. “You crazy old fool. Lady Catherine didn’t jump. I just told you that.”

Simpson pressed a hand to her heart and whimpered. “But you said- You told me—”

He shrugged again. “I needed you. I still need you.” He motioned. “Come, our dear Edwina here is going to join Lady Catherine. Another victim of Catherine’s curse. Then no one will come to this miserable place. Charles and his brats will have only Leonore.” He chuckled evilly. “I could wish nothing worse on anyone than life with that witch.”

Edwina couldn’t help asking. “Lady Leonore, is she—”

He laughed again, the laugh of a madman. “No. She wouldn’t dirty her hands. And she couldn’t be trusted. But she was glad when Catherine died, really glad. Any fool could see it. Any fool but Charles.”

He motioned to Simpson. “Come along, old woman, you take one of her arms. I’ll take the other. Over the edge she goes. She’ll be easy work.”

Simpson shook her grizzled head. “No, no, not me! I ain’t killed no one. Glory be! Me soul’s clean! Glory be to God!”

“You stupid old fool!” he shouted at her, for the first time losing his aristocratic poise. “You’ll help me or you’ll be sorry!”

“I’ll tell!” she shrieked, backing away from his outstretched hand. “I’ll tell his lordship what you done! I’ll tell him, I’ll surely tell him!”

The viscount shrugged. “You think he’d believe you?” he asked, his voice gone cold. “Not a chance. Now come help me. Or you’ll regret it.”

“But I can’t do it,” Simpson cried. “I can’t.” Raising her hands to ward him off, she backed still further away, her face twisted with emotion. “All this time, I thought meself to blame. And I ain’t, praise God, I ain’t! I ain’t to blame! I sure ain’t gonna help you no more.”

“Oh yes, you will, you old crow.” He gave her a hard look. “Or you’ll go with her.”

“No, no!”

The viscount grabbed Simpson by the arm. For a moment Edwina stood paralyzed, then she hurried to help the old woman. This was their chance. Together, perhaps-

But the viscount was a strong man, stronger even than he looked. Though both of them fought their hardest, they were no match for him. Slowly he dragged them toward the parapet. Edwina dug in her heels, but the stones gave no purchase to her flimsy soft-soled shoes. She thought of screaming, but what purpose would screaming serve? No one could hear her.

A million thoughts raced through her mind. She didn’t want to die, and she was terribly afraid. Above and under all that was the joyous surety that Charles had done no wrong. The man she loved was innocent!

She fought harder. She couldn’t die now. The girls needed her. Charles needed her. She fought still harder. They had almost they reached the parapet. A few more feet and-

Behind her a crash sounded. The tower door had burst open, hitting the wall. The viscount whirled, dragging them with him.

Edwina’s heart thumped in shock—and joy. Charles stood in the doorway. Charles had come. Her beloved Charles.

The viscount loosed his grasp on Simpson, and she fell whimpering to the stones at his feet. At the same time, Crawford shifted his hold on Edwina, wrapping an arm around her throat. “Don’t come any closer,” he warned hoarsely. “Or this one dies. I’ll break her pretty neck. I swear I will.”

“Charles.” Edwina managed to get the strangled word past the pressure of Crawford’s arm. Then she stopped trying to speak and concentrated on breathing.