Marcus’ eyes went wide, anger flared. Russell shrank away as Marcus rose, hands planted against the table looming over the slender young man.
“I? I?!” he roared, “I committed my own mother to an insane asylum? You depraved wretch!”
Marcus didn’t know if he was shouting at Russell or at his brother, wherever he was. At that moment, Marcus hoped he was burning in hell. He could not imagine a worse fate than to be incarcerated in such a place. Bedlam in London had a horrific reputation. He doubted other asylums were much better. Russell had gone as white as a sheet, raising his hands in supplication.
“Please, Your Grace! I apologize! But I saw the paperwork, saw your signature. You believed it was the best thing for her and I understand that it was. After a year she was declared free of her insanity and devoted herself to helping other poor unfortunates. I have the letters from her.”
Marcus was incandescent. Never before had Russell mentioned any of this. He could have met with his mother, spoken to her, asked her why he had been exiled by them. Asked her if she had rejected him or was it just his brutal father.
And had I done that, my identity would have been revealed and the game would be up. Impossible.
“I was sworn to secrecy. The letters were for you at such a time that you wished to know the truth. Otherwise, they were to be kept secret and safe.”
“Where are they?” Marcus hissed.
“In my office. In my safe. I can go and get them. Return at once.”
Marcus sat, controlling himself with an effort. He clasped one hand with the other in a bid to keep them from the solicitor’s throat.
“Do that, Russell. And then we may discuss the matter of the man seeking to blackmail me over my past. You will suggest a solution to the problem he poses. Think on it on the way back to Gray’s Inn. Go!”
CHAPTER19
Selina walked quietly along the corridor that formed the backbone of the servant’s quarters at Valebridge. From that single corridor, doors branched to either side, leading to bedrooms and storerooms. At the end, behind double doors, were the kitchens. Thankfully, many other sets of doors divided the long passageway up, otherwise Selina was sure she would have been seen before now. Beveridge had accepted his errand with solemnity and had congratulated Selina on recognizing the importance of seniority in the execution of the task. He had set off forthwith, taking the trap as Selina had expected, letter safe in his breast pocket. Selina had immediately taken her opportunity, sneaking down one of the servant’s stairs and hurrying along the passageway that ran beneath Valebridge.
More than once she had to duck into a storeroom as she heard someone coming from behind or in front, letting them pass before resuming her furtive journey. Mr. Beveridge’s rooms were at the far end of the servant’s quarters from the kitchen. The closer she had gotten, the less the traffic heading along the passage. Finally, she was safely into Mr. Beveridge’s rooms, the door closed behind her. They consisted of an office bearing a number of bookcases filled with ledgers and accounts. A door led to a sitting room with a small, black, wrought iron hearth and a few homely items of furniture. Beyond that was a room containing a bed, a table beside it, and a wardrobe. Modest quarters but more than the rank-and-file servants had.
The rooms had no windows but a lamp on the desk, which Selina lit before closing the door. Though it was broad daylight outside, it was black as pitch in the windowless room. She began her search in the office, moving quietly in case anyone happened to be passing by. At first, all she saw was accounts, lists of figures in columns with neat totals at the foot of each. Then she came across a book that seemed to be a journal, though the language used was sparse, like a journalist’s account rather than a personal story. Selina turned a number of pages, skimming them but not taking in the neat handwriting. It seemed that this was wrong, like searching through a man’s soul. No matter how brief Beveridge’s account was, how matter of fact, it was still his private diary and not for a stranger to paw through. She was about to close the book and return it to its space when something caught her eye.
“MR found a letter from JR. It spoke of the depravations of AR. Said that he was always intended to inherit. Also a letter signed A. Told him to do what he has now done. Urged him to do it. I am sworn to secrecy.”
She flipped back through the pages looking for the beginning of this tale but could find nothing. Or rather there was so much material that she would have needed a month to sift through it. Selina sat at the desk and looked at the page immediately preceding this cryptic line. There was a deal of talk about travel to Valebridge, though Beveridge clearly thought there was no need to state from where. A number of place names were mentioned as though part of a planning route.
Carlisle, Chester, Liverpool, Bristol. How I wish my knowledge of English geography was greater. But I would say that a journey mentioning Liverpool followed by Bristol would be a sea journey. Is Carlisle to the north of Chester? Is it in Scotland?
Wherever these places were, it seemed to be a journey from north to south. Beveridge had planned it and documented it, giving side-notes about luggage and modes of transport as well as cost and estimated time of travel.
Did Beveridge come from somewhere up north to take the job at Valebridge? Gracie seemed to think he had served Arthur for many years. Did Arthur live in the north?
It was all very mysterious and confusing. Going back further, there were places that she did not recognize but some that she did.Windermerewas one.Penrithwas another. She was almost certain that both places were in the far north of England. Possibly near Carlisle. From the dates in the journal, Beveridge had spent many years there. There were constant references toMRin those pages, whoever or whatever that was.
If AR is Arthur Roy and JR is Jeffrey Roy, then who on earth is MR? Could that be Arthur’s mother?
Finding a blank sheet of paper, she copied down the lines that seemed to have been written after Beveridge had taken up residency at Valebridge. She puzzled over the abbreviations and what they could mean.
A letter from Jeffrey Roy to someone, telling of the depravations of Arthur Roy? And how Arthur was always intended to inherit? Well, of course he was, Arthur is the heir, the only son.
She froze at the sound of footsteps in the passageway outside. The lamp stood on the desk and she was feet away from it, still examining books on the shelves. Looking over her shoulder towards the door, hands reaching for a volume, she watched as the door knob began to turn. Gracie peeked into the room and Selina let out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding.
“Come in here at once!” she whispered, gesturing fiercely lest anyone else should see Gracie loitering by the door to Mr. Beveridge’s room.
Gracie came in and closed the door carefully, looking around with wide eyes.
“I heard a noise and knew Mr. Beveridge was out on an errand for you,” Gracie stammered.
“Please sit down a moment, Gracie,” Selina said, realizing that she now had little choice but to come clean.
Gracie had already taken in the journal that lay open on the desk and the stack of ledgers that Selina had taken down. She also glanced towards the open door that led to Mr. Beveridge’s private sitting room. Selina realized that even if she could justify being in Mr. Beveridge’s office, there was no excuse for looking into his private room. She went over and closed the door, then took a seat opposite Gracie.
