A trio of keys, p.72
A Trio of Keys, page 72
She gazed around her, trying to identify the chimneys. The great central hearth of the drawing room would be the largest chimney. In the upper stories, several rooms shared the same chimney, for builders considered efficiency over aesthetics. The lady’s suite on the first floor would share a chimney with the lord’s suite. Where were their rooms?
She hadn’t considered the house’s plan from the roof down.
“What are you waiting for?” Clarissa had reached the end of the walk and rested a hand on the low parapet that encompassed the roof.
“Do I shut the door?”
“Leave it open. I always do. I close the box room door.”
Liza started along the glaring walk. “Do you come up often?”
“In past years I’ve come every day that the sun shined. Not in winter. Ice covers the walk and collects in patches along the parapet.” She steadied Liza’s transition from the walk to the parapet. “There. Look at the view! You can see the church’s bell tower.”
“Where? Oh, there. The village looks so much closer from here.” The grey stones of the crenellated Romanesque tower peered over the great oaks and elms of the parkland. A crimson flag flapped above the church tower, as brightly visible as the red breast of a bullfinch in a winter garden. “I didn’t know the church flew a flag.”
“What?” Clarissa turned quickly, wobbled and grabbed Liza’s arm to steady herself. “Usually it’s a green flag. I wonder why the vicar changed it.”
“Red stands for danger.”
“Yes. Something must have happened in the village. I wonder if it’s a signal for Dr. Chambers. Look. See that dark line winding through the parkland. It’s a break in the trees. That’s our drive.”
Liza did see the break, like a dark green ribbon winding through the treetops with their first show of autumn color.
“The road beyond the parkland loops as well, to follow the river to the mill and the bridge, before cutting back to the village. Come around this way. You’ll have a wonderful view of the estate. See that gutter, how the stone is darker there. The water runs off the roof there. In the winter, that will be pure ice, so never come up in winter, Liza. It’s dangerous. Or when the wind is up. I love it when the clouds are rushing in and the wind is tearing them apart. I wish I could capture that on canvas, but it’s beyond my skill.”
“I like the flowers you paint.”
“Thank you. Here. Don’t look down.” She swept her arm wide. “Look at this instead.”
The vista revealed the reasons Clarissa retreated to the roof. The tiled roofs of the closer buildings were like red patches in an ocean of green. The long stable with its cupolas broke the vista. A wall between the manor grounds and the patchwork fields beyond. More terra cotta roofs on farm buildings rather than the thatch. A wagon climbed a distant hill. Around it, workers buzzed, droning bees who gathered the cut hay. In another field the workers scythed a cereal crop, and pickers harvested in the orchard beyond. Pastures ran parallel, taking the higher grounds more difficult for the plow. Cows and sheep grazed the steeper slopes.
“I remember Greville drove you over the estate when you first arrived, but this really gives you the range of our land.”
“Where is the weir, the one that he rebuilt?”
“On the other side. Do you want to see it?”
“I want to see everything!”
“We just follow the parapet around then. After you.”
Liza shook her head, still unsteady. “I’m slow,” she explained. The wind snatched her words and tossed them beyond the parapet.
Clarissa laughed and went ahead.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
Greville galloped out of the parkland, the constable behind him on a borrowed hack. The grey stones of the house looked gloomy against the cloudless sky. Two women carefully walked along the parapet. Clarissa he expected, for she often escaped to the roof. The following woman wore mint green, the color Liza had chosen this morning.
They reached the corner. Clarissa paused and half-turned.
A figure lunged from the cover of the gable and swung a long stick.
Clarissa fell back. Liza grabbed her. For a horrible second, they teetered, then his sister collapsed, falling behind the parapet, out of his sight.
“Don’t shout, sir,” the constable warned. Greville didn’t realize that he had, but his throat felt ripped open. “Don’t distract her.”
Liza was inching backwards as the other—a woman—stepped over his sister. The woman paused, jerking at her skirt as if something had caught it.
“How do we get up there, sir?”
He didn’t answer, just spurred his hunter.
A footman opened the door as he flung off the sorrel horse. He rushed past the servant and plunged into the dim interior.
“Sir? Sir, what has happened?”
He thrust Winston aside. “Fetch Potts. Fetch Marshall.” He raced for the stairs. “Liza’s on the roof! Someone’s attacking her. Constable!”
“Behind you, sir. Keep going!”
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
Tillie Sparrow jerked her skirt free of Clarissa’s grip. She kicked at the young woman then swayed and grabbed the gable to steady herself. Liza backed away.
The maid held a cricket bat, splotched red with Clarissa’s blood. She stepped past and smiled, and Liza shivered.
“You can’t escape. No use trying, little Miss Perfect.”
Liza considered running down the walk between the roofs. It offered safety from falling. Yet she didn’t dare turn her back on the maid. She passed the white-washed boards and continued on, reaching for the next sloping gable. If she could stay back far enough, Greville would come. She’d heard his shout, seen him jump from his big hunter as it skidded, the gravel sliding beneath the iron hooves.
“Why do you want to kill me? It’s been you, hasn’t it? Who are you?” Then her mother’s delicate matter shifted into a new focus. “Are you one of my father’s by-blows?”
“You’re quick, dear sister. His only by-blow. He used to come to see me before he died. I had sweets to eat, and my own maid, and pretty dresses to wear. My mama wore pretty dresses, too. That all stopped when he died, thanks to your mother.”
“But you want to kill me.”
“Of course.” She sounded so matter of fact that Liza knew Tillie didn’t need hate to motivate her. Her actions were colder than hate, filled with merciless intent.
“I suppose you introduced yourself to Grandfather.”
“Gilbert did.”
The roof edge came back to her hand as the gable sloped downward. She would soon reach the corner. How long before Greville reaches the roof?
“Gilbert’s waiting in the box room, ready to stop your loving husband.”
“No!”
“Yes.” And Tillie laughed, a bell-like trill of happiness.
“Do you think Grandfather will bequeath all his wealth to you? Tillie, they will hang you.”
“They have to figure out it was me. No one here knows my name or where I’m from. Only you know I’m your half-sister.”
“Gilbert knows.”
Without the roof’s protection, the wind struck hard. Liza teetered at the corner. Along this side, the roof sloped away from the low parapet She passed a pediment that had supported the cast-stone urns. It offered a steady brace until Liza backed another step. Her hand slipped from the square pediment. She turned the corner and felt backwards for her next step.
Tillie took a long step, gaining inches that Liza needed to stay out of the cricket bat’s swing.
“Has Gilbert helped you at all?”
“Not he. He says if I want it badly enough, I’ve got to do it. So I am. Never again will I grub for someone else. Never again will I do anything to fill my belly. I’ll be eating sweets and wearing silks in a month, you see if I don’t.”
“You don’t have to kill me,” she reasoned. “Grandfather could divide his property. It would still be more than enough.”
“Too late to do that now. Besides, I don’t share. I never share. If you’d married Gilbert like you were supposed to, then we wouldn’t have had all this trouble. A fall at a coaching inn, and everyone’s so sad, your grandfather most of all. Who’s he going to leave all his money to? There I am, all demure and innocent. His son’s blood in my veins for all that I’m his by-blow. I’ll have it all while you rot in your grave.”
Two quick strides covered the distance between them. She swung the bat.
Liza ducked. She fell onto the angled roof. The slate clattered as she hit. Pieces skittered away from her scrabbling hands.
Tillie took another long step forward. Looming over Liza, she raised the bat.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
The man plowed into Greville, knocking him into a crate. He hit the wood hard, losing his breath. A fist punched low on his back.
He shoved off the crate as the man drove in. Force met impetus, and the man staggered. Greville wheeled and punched. His fist connected. Blood spattered. The man fell backward.
“Go, go, sir!” Constable Cooper twisted the man’s arm behind his back. “Get to your wife.”
Greville lunged through the open door.
Sunlight blinded him, but he surged ahead, his steps sure as he ran to the parapet.
He turned left.
Clarissa had levered up. Blood covered her head, but she pointed the other way.
He whirled around and ran for the other corner. As the gable roof dropped, he saw a cricket bat lifting. The gusty wind whipped the woman’s hair and the soot-colored skirts of her maid’s uniform.
Liza lay on the slate tiles. Even as he lunged for the bat, his wife whipped around an arm. She slashed across the maid’s midriff as he grabbed the paddle-like bat and wrenched it free.
The woman screamed. Her wind-streamed hair blew over her face, hiding it. Blood seeped from her stomach.
She pressed her hands to her belly. “How? How? Why?” Lifting her hands, she stared at the blood. “You bitch.” Then she laughed, a weird trill that cascaded down. When it died, she looked blank, stiff and white as a mask. “Me rotting in the grave.” And she stepped off the parapet.
She dropped without a sound.
Greville didn’t look. He knelt beside Liza. “Are you hurt? Please tell me you’re not hurt. What did you use on her?”
She opened her hand. A sharp wedge of slate dropped to the roof.
Chapter 21
The slate had sliced her palm. As he wrapped his handkerchief around her hand, Liza shuddered. “Is she—?”
“Doubtless.” He finished the knot then levered up. Grasping her elbows, he lifted her upright then embraced her as tightly as he’d tied the handkerchief.
She sank against him. His grip controlled her shuddering body. She said something, muffled against his chest. Greville eased his grip so Liza could lift her head.
“Clarissa?”
“Injured but alive.”
“She saved my life. She grabbed Tillie, held her long enough that I could get a few feet away from her.”
He had dozens of questions, but they would wait.
“Sir! Ma’am! Thank God!” Winston clung to the line of the roof. The wind whipped up his wispy hair and tore at his neat coat. “Ma’am, are you injured?”
“She will be fine,” Greville answered for her. “My sister?”
“James is leading her along the walk, sir. She looks bad, sir.”
Greville steadied Liza as he started their return to the safer corner of the roof. “Dr. Chambers will tell us the damage. He’ll need to be sent for.”
Winston backed up, keeping a hand on the gable. “He arrived a bare minute behind you, sir. Hodge, the pub host, he sent him.”
“The man in the box room, Winston?”
He felt Liza’s start. She whispered, “Gilbert Meaney” even as the butler said, “Constable Cooper has him in custody. It’s the man who came with Mrs. Corbett yesterday, sir.”
“Constable Cooper will wish to view the maid’s body. See her covered then taken to the church. She’s in the hands of the vicar and the sexton now. Tell the constable that he can return tomorrow for any statements he needs. We’ve had enough today.”
“Yes, sir.”
“See that Potts and Marshall and a couple of other strong men accompany the constable and his prisoner to gaol.”
“Indeed, sir. I believe they are eager to see the man behind a steel door.” He trotted along the narrow walk and crammed through the roof door, quickly disappearing.
Liza didn’t release her clutching grip on Greville’s hand and arm until she stood in the box room. He yanked the door shut. The room darkened, the only illumination from the open stairway door.
“Is it over?”
“Yes.”
She wept then.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
Dr. Chambers dabbed at the seeping blood across Liza’s palm. “I have stitched her scalp,” he said of Clarissa. “She’ll have a headache for a while, but no real damage, barring any infection. The scar won’t show, as it’s under her hair.”
“Thank you, God. She saved my life, Doctor.”
His eyes crinkled. “And quite proud of herself for it.”
“Will there be lasting damage to Liza’s hands?” Greville asked. “She plays the piano beautifully, Doctor. I make a point to listen whenever she plays.” He picked up her right hand, clenching on the arm of his sofa while the doctor probed the flesh that the slate had sliced open. “From now on, I will leave my door open, and you will join me afterwards for an early tea. Yes?”
She gave a decided nod then jerked as Chambers’ inspection hurt.
“I must ask that you hold her hand tightly, Mr. Myers.”
Liza started to look at her injured hand then resolutely turned her head away. “Will I need stitches?”
“A few.” He plucked something from the cut and dropped it on the small table brought over to the sofa to hold his implements. “Mrs. Myers, you are not going to enjoy the next few minutes,” and he removed the stopper on a brown bottle. “My own remedy.”
Liza flinched and cried during the application of the fiery tincture. Greville also held her arm while Dr. Chambers plied his needle in several stitches to close the open flesh. Then he nestled his wife close as she sobbed. Chambers calmly rolled up the unused lengths of cloth and gauze.
When he shut his medical bag, he leaned back. “I certainly didn’t expect to be setting bones and stitching wounds after I left the Army. Nor do I want to return to tend another Myers lady.”
“You won’t,” Greville swore.
“I’ll examine Miss Cassandra before I leave. Keep that bandage dry and clean, Mrs. Myers. Early tomorrow I will return to check on all my patients. I advise rest for the remainder of this day. A couple of glasses of whiskey might help your wife, sir.”
Sniffing into Greville’s handkerchief, Liza ignored the doctor. “She’ll rest,” he swore.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
Liza’s retreat to rest was delayed, for when Greville led her from his study to the stairs, Mr. Vincent lurked there.
“Sir! Mrs. Myers, I must express—Good God!” he exclaimed at her blood-covered gown and her tear-ruined face.
“You need to wait, Vincent.” He didn’t stop. He kept Liza moving with his arm at her lower back. “My wife needs quiet and rest after her ordeal.”
“Sir, it’s a matter—. I have spoken with Mrs. Corbett. When I saw the man arrested by the constable and—well, sir, I must offer my deepest apologies to your wife.” Liza’s steps slowed. When she looked her unspoken questions at the wizened man, a spate of words broke free. “Mrs. Myers, I fear I have taken false reports of your character and intentions. I had inquired, prior to your marriage and afterwards, and I believed lies, scurrilous lies about your reasons for agreeing to this marriage. I should have interviewed Mr. Corbett himself as well as yourself, ma’am. And your mother. I can only express my sincerest apologies.”
She stopped at the bottom of the steps. Looking at the long flight, she sighed. “I could have rested on that sofa in your office, Greville. It’s quite comfortable.”
“It’s not, as I have reason to know. Trust me, were you resting on it an hour from now, you would wish you were in your own bed.”
She heaved a great sigh. Obviously wanting to delay the climb, she looked again at Vincent. “Scurrilous lies?”
The man’s face flamed. “Mr. Myers has enlightened me as to the falsity of the chief lie—.”
“I do not think we need to repeat any of that,” Greville growled, and Liza tightened her grip.
“No, I think not,” she agreed, and Vincent’s relief washed him chalky white. “Tell me, Mr. Vincent, how did you come to understand your mistake?”
“The man Gilbert Meaney. Since he obviously had worked in concert with the woman who attacked you and Miss Myers, the constable demanded that he identify her. Once I heard her name, all came clear. And then, at my questions, Meaney admitted that he lied to my investigator, not only in his statements but in giving his name as Guilford Manley.”
“Your investigator did not think to check the veracity of the man’s report or identity?”
He winced at that gibe. “Mr. Myers, I promise to have words with the man on the importance of such checks. His report seemed legitimate, as it was verified by a Miss Matilda Robbins. Next time I will demand twice that number of checks.”
Liza sagged against him. “I fear I am losing the thread of this. Who is Matilda Robbins?”
“You know her, ma’am, as Tillie Sparrow. Your mother has the rest of the pertinent information, Mrs. Myers. She confirms the woman as your father’s illegitimate daughter.”
“Greville, I can take no more of this.”
“As you wish, my heart.”
She gasped when he lifted her and started up the stairs. “You will fall. I’m too heavy.”
“Nonsense,” a reply that answered both complaints.
