“Thatwasrather surprising.”
“Yes, and out of character for her. She said nothing else about the matter after her outburst. Even so, it made me all the more curious about Lady Fitzhoward’s past.”
Rebecca said, “I believe she was here years ago and has friends in the area. That is all I know.”
“And where does she go from here?”
“She has not yet decided. Brighton, most likely.”
“And will you go with her?”
“That, em, depends.”
“On what?”
“John. You. What happens next....”
He stepped closer. “You had better explain.”
She took a deep breath, resisting the urge to back away. “I heard the inquest verdict and the autopsy results.”
“Yes. No evidence of poison found in Mr. Oliver’s body.” He watched her carefully. Waited.
Her stomach seemed to twist one way, then the other asher inner struggle continued.Tell the truth. Tell him. No, say nothing. Walk away. Save John.
But would sparing John from repercussions really save him?
No.She admitted the truth to herself. She could not save her brother. Never could. Never would. She was not God. Sobering words from the book of Hebrews rumbled through her mind.“It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God.”But was it not also the only place to find forgiveness and restoration?
When she said nothing, Frederick said gently, “Are you wishing now you had never mentioned the sage and his poisoned pages?”
She ducked her head in shame, then forced herself to lift her eyes. “Yes. A part of me is.”
“And the other part?”
“Is so tired of secrets and lying to protect him. Rose and I have tried to help. We keep ... holding out branches as to a drowning man, but hewon’ttake them.”
He nodded, slowly and solemnly. “Did John poison the manuscript pages he asked you to deliver to Ambrose Oliver?”
She stared unseeing, blood roaring in her ears. Should she? Dare she?God forgive me, for John never will!
She licked dry lips and replied, “Yes. He confessed as much to me.”
Again he nodded. Something flashed in his dark eyes, but otherwise she saw no change in his expression. He must be an excellent magistrate with that calm, inscrutable countenance.
He asked, “And did John return to Mr. Oliver’s room to take back his manuscript and to finish what he’d started, this time by striking the man?”
“No!” Rebecca exclaimed, then quickly amended, “Hechanged his mind and sneaked into Mr. Oliver’s room to retrieve the pages before he could consume a harmful amount of arsenic. Yes, he took back his manuscript—except the pages Mr. Oliver had already copied and burned. And he took the plagiarized pages as well, except the one we found under the chaise. But John didnotstrike him. The author was already dead when John climbed the abbess’s stair.”
“Any proof of that?”
“No, though I believe him.”
“I want to believe him too, but I also need proof. Did John see or hear anything that might point to another suspect?”
Rebecca’s mind whirled. “Not that he said ... though he mentioned finding the door unlocked. He locked it himself and laid the key on the table. And ... there’s something else. Not from John, but Mary told me she saw Miss Newport dressed in a nun’s habit. Why would she disguise herself unless she was up to no good? Might she have killed Mr. Oliver?”
Sir Frederick grimaced. “I know you are desperate to spare John, but we can’t lodge accusations without proof.”
