The Prince in the Tower (10 page)

Major Goodwillie shook his head.  His chins followed. 

Bertie looked at the floor.  At Kate, but for once she was at a loss.  Along with everyone, she waited for him to speak.

“I was wi
th Ethan.  We were playing by the river--”

“Bertie--” Kate started with alarm.

Major Goodwillie motioned her to silence, but as Kate herself had reckoned earlier, he had no idea with whom he was dealing.

“Bertie, don’t say
another word.”

Her brother turned to her, expression pleading.  “It wasn’t us, Katie.  He was dead when we found him.”

The major conveniently overlooked this tidbit.  “And were you, or where you not, my lord, dressed as the Cavalier?”

Bertie nodded miserably.  “We were playing with some of the costumes from the pageant.”

“And was this the costume?”  He stepped aside to reveal the soggy mass on the table.

Bertie glanced at it. 
“No.  We put them back in the Rectory basement.  Then someone came in and we ran out, then came back home through the woods.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone what you say?”

“We were scared.  We didn’t know what to do.”

He turned to his sister.  “I’m sorry, Lucy.  He was already dead.  We didn’t kill him,” he said, anguished.

Lucy nodded, trying to give him a comforting smile.

“Of course you didn’t, love,” Lady
Alice agreed instantly.

Kate turned on the m
ajor.  “You have no proof of this,” she stated coldly, she alone having excellent reason to know this.  “How dare you barge in here without reason, without proof, flinging accusations about, utterly unfounded and untrue?”

Major Goodwillie continued to stare at Bertie.  Without taking his eyes off
the boy, he motioned to a spotty-faced subordinate.  The soldier, who looked barely older than Bertie, stepped forward, placing in the major’s hand a handkerchief, and most damning of all, a pearl-handled silver-chased dueling pistol.

It was the one Kate had lost in the cavern, so long ago it seemed now.

"This handkerchief was found stuffed in the victim’s pocket.”  He held it out, but Bertie refused to take it.  But the young man’s flinch was all they needed to see, even if the Thoreau crest (two lions and a badger), so lovingly embroidered by Lady Alice, wasn’t enough.

“A
nd this gun.”  Kate’s stomach turned to see the pistol, gleaming in the candlelight, held in the major’s chubby hand.  The silver was studded with what appeared to be dirt and blood.  Lucy gave a cry of anguish and buried her face in her hands.

“Don’t say one more word, Bertie,” she ordered in the voice which caused her nearest and dearest to liken her to the late earl, their dear, wild papa. 
“Not one more word.”

She swung about to face the m
ajor.  “You have no proof Bertie left the gun there.  In fact, it was one I lost last week.”

The m
ajor smiled at this patent falsehood.  “And why might you have been using a gun, my lady?”

“I was going after the counterfeiters in the underground caverns of Wallingford Castle,” she said truthfully. 
"Someone yelled at me, and I cracked my head on the wall and passed out.  When I came to, Mr. Dalrymple was there.  He picked the dead body off me and we jumped off the cliff and the river swept us out on the current.”  Her confession raced faster and faster, becoming more implausible the more she realized that for once she was telling the stone cold truth and not a person in the room believed her.  “Ask Mr. Dalrymple,” she said desperately.  “He can confirm all I’ve said.

A
condescending smile smeared itself on the major’s face.  He exchanged a glance with one of his soldiers, man to man.  “Well, I shall certainly consult Mr. Dalrymple as soon as possible.”

Kate wanted to rip and tear in frustration.  “It’s true--”

“Yes, yes.” The major had lost interest.  Without so much as a dismissing glance at Kate, he advanced upon the young earl.  Bertie flinched when the major motioned for the nice young sergeant.  With a glance Kate could, if she so chose, interpret as sympathy, stepped forward with wrist chains.

Horrified, Lady
Alice cried, “Surely, Major, this is unnecessary.”

The
major smirked.  “On the contrary, madam.  His lordship is arrested on a charge of murder.  He’s a felon and will be treated as such.”

“The
re is such a thing in England as due process,” Kate informed him.  She put her hands on her brother's shoulders.  “Remember--not another word.  I’ll have Mr. Gibble come and we’ll get this all settled.  It’s all a big mistake.”  She threw a glance of loathing at the Major.

Bertie nodded, though his lips were white.  The nice dragoon took him by the elbow to lead him out.  If he’d had a forelock, he would have tugged it, Kate surmised, tucking that away in case she should have need of him later, and gave him an imperceptible nod.

Major Goodwillie turned to the horrified party in the salon.  “We’ll hold him here in the village for a day or two until the investigation is complete,” he said.  His expression softened the tiniest fraction as he looked at Lucy’s ravaged face, but it was a fleeting moment, swiftly gone under an ill-hidden mask of glee.

Kate nodded curtly, willing him gone so she could spring to action.  Curtis appeared at the door to usher the Major and his soldiers out the door, bowing ceremoniously to Ber
tie as the lad passed.  If the major did not know what was due the consequence of an earl, Curtis certainly did.

Before the door was closed behind the group, Kate ran for the backdoor, the one she always took when out on a mission.

“Katherine, where on earth are you going at this hour?”  Lady Alice called.

Kate stopped in mid-flight.  Where was she going? 
She had no real idea in mind, just a pressing knowledge that such terrible happenings demanded instant and decisive action

“I’m going to find the murderer.”
  It was nothing more than the truth.

Instead of the hue and cry she’d expected, Lady
Alice looked at her with penetrating gaze.  Then she nodded.  Kate, who’d expected much time wasted in argument, was relieved, thought surprised.

“Kate, don’t go!” called Lucy.

“I have to, Lu.”

“No
!  Stay here!  Mr. Gibble will take care of everything.”  She grabbed Kate’s hand in a crushing grip.  “What if--”

She didn’t have to finish the sentence.  Kate understood.  Lucy had just lost her fiance and possibly her brother.  She was afraid she’d lose Kate, too.  But going after Bertie’s tormentors was something she had to do.

“I have to go, Lu,” she repeated gently, peeling her sister’s fingers off her arm.  Lucy shook her head stubbornly.  “No, you don’t--”

“Yes I do!  It’s all
my fault!”  Kate cried in agony.  She rushed out the door just as Mr. Gibble was coming in.  He was grey and grizzled and had been getting the Thoreaus, mostly male, out of trouble for more than a quarter of a century.  This would be his first case for this new generation.  Mr. Gibble, though he outwardly tsk-tsk’d the shenanigans of the family, secretly took pride in their exploits.  Kate had every confidence in him, but what could he do without another suspect?  If the true murderer were never found, Bertie, should he escape the noose, might never shake of the stigma.

There was only one person knowledgeable, deceitful, and devious enough to help them out of this scrape
:  Mr. Dalrymple, a.k.a. the Marquis of Granville.  Kate grabbed a cloak at random, ran to the stable, and rummaged under the floorboards.  She knew a moment of panic, not uncommon this terrible night, when there was nothing, not even a hint of whisker or scrap of grey wool.  Her second pistol and the remnants of her Cavalier suit were gone.  For a moment she felt sick at her stomach.  When someone behind her cleared his throat, she whirled with a whimper.  Curtis stood there.

“The
--ah--garments have been properly disposed of, Miss Kate.”

She put her hand to her throat
.  “Thank you, Curtsy.”  Then she flung herself on Diana’s back.  The butler handed her the pistol, and horse and rider galloped off into the night, bound for Mr. Dalrymple and exoneration.

Ventre a terre
she road through the night, not caring who heard her this time.  Across the fields, then splashing through the river between the Lady and the Scamp and the old Norman church.  At the graveyard, in the deep shadows, she paused.  Leaning forward, she patted Diana’s neck.  Through the trees, far across the green, the small band of dragoons was just arriving at the cottage of Constable Mackey.

Kate slid off Diana, leaving her loose in
the graveyard to graze.  She turned to slip through the shadows to inn, but hadn't got two steps before she realized it was lit up bright as day, with people coming and going in great excitement.  Of course, the murder, the tourists, not to mention the dragoons quartered there -- it was no wonder it was bustling even at this late hour.  Just as well, really, because it occurred to Kate that she couldn’t rush in demanding to see Mr. Dalrymple.  It wasn’t seemly, to say the least.  Not that propriety was her watchword, but her reputation was still of good standing in public, and all decorum must be exercised right now.  Kate didn’t even want to begin to imagine Uncle Richard’s reaction to this little fiasco.  On the other hand, perhaps his heavy drinking and card playing days in the highest circles might pay off in a light or no sentence for Bertie.

Keeping to the darkest shadows, Kate carefully scanned the windows as if by sight alone she could tell which one was Edmund’s.  She circled round back.  Just as she was about to cast caution to the winds
and stride into the inn, she caught a glimpse through the diamond-paned casement of a lacy parasol propped up against the tall casement window.  The room behind it was barely lit, as if from a small fire, but it was enough.  She scrabbled around for a handful of gravel and tossed at the window.

A
resounding crash shook the night.  Fragments of ancient glass tinkled to the ground.  There was a moment’s pause.  Kate gasped, hands at her mouth in shock, but no one appeared at the window.  Then she screamed as a hand came from behind her and clamped onto her mouth.

"Are you out of your mind?"

Kate sagged in relief against the hard body behind her.

She turned.  Edmund
, perspiring and covered with dirt, looked ready to murder her.  Instead, he motioned her to wait, thrust the pistol he was holding into his waistband, and went around the front door of the inn.  She waited impatiently, almost coming out of her skin, as he informed Mr. Rigby that he’d stand buff for any damage caused by hoodlums.

“Youngsters
today,” grumbled the landlord. “No respect.”  A loud male voice called for another ale and the landlord went inside to tend to his customers.

Edmund
caught Kate's eye and motioned her behind a tangle of shrubbery.  Obedient for once, Kate complied.  Once they were hidden from the inn, he turned to her, furious, but any protest or words of censure died on his lips as he saw her ravaged face.

“What
happened?  Are you hurt?”  He grabbed her arms and ran his eyes over her body.  Kate pushed him away.

“
I'm fine.  They’ve got Bertie.”

“Who?  Why?”

“Major Goodwillie.  For murder.”

“
What
?”

Kate nodded. 
“Adam Weilmunster.  I found him in the river earlier with a bullet through his head.  They think Bertie did it.”

From far across on the green,
low tones of male conversation floated across on the breeze.  Kate and Edmund looked at each other, then moved in tandem to peer over the bush, their arguments for once forgotten.

Lights were now on at the constable’s.  Several figures milled about, silhouetted black by the yellow glow.  Two larger figures led a smaller one to the roundhouse, locking the door behind them.  Bertie, Kate realized.  Though she’d know what would happen, watching it was more painful than she’d imagined.

As they watched, the small group dissipated until only a shadow figure remained.  Constable Mackey, Kate presumed, set to guard the prisoner that night.  Edmund cursed, pulling Kate back into the shadows behind the headstone.

“Did you shoot him?”

“No.”

“Did Bertie?”

“No,” she snapped.  Kate pulled her arm out of his grasp.  She stood glaring at him, her breath coming in fits and starts.

“That’s
why I came to you.  You’ve been keeping something from me and I need to know.  You know who did it.  You know who the counterfeiters are.  Maybe they’re murderers, too.  Maybe Mr. Weilmunster found out something he shouldn’t have, so they killed him.  Maybe--”

Edmund shushed her with a hand over her mouth.  “I don’t know who killed Weilmunster.”

Kate wrenched her head away.  “But you know something--I’d lay my life on it.  Who?  Who is it?”

Ed
mund studied her carefully, but slowly shook his head.  “I can’t tell you.”