“What is so special about this account book that has Mr. Turnbull-Minchin so easily roused?”
“I can tell you that,” Mr. Quetal said calmly, rising from his chair at the table across the room. He held the storybook with the hidden account book between its covers.
“And who are you?”
“Quetal, magistrate. Jeremiah Quetal. I am an estate agent—or was an estate agent by trade until my breakdown. Lady Branstoke asked me to look at the account book Liddy had hidden. I have done so this morning.”
“And?”
“Among other things, it reveals additional charges made to relations of those staying here. The charges vary but are monthly. They appear to be based on the financial capabilities of the patients’ families.”
“He did ask me for details on our financials when I brought my wife here,” James said.
“There is a letter slipped in the pages of the book from a Mr. Yellin, protesting an additional charge and demanding to know when his wife would be well enough to come home,” Mr. Quetal added.
Cecilia watched Mr. Ratcliffe’s face as the truth about the account book came out. It went from confused curiosity to outrage.
“You killed him! You wanted my cousin dead!” Ratcliffe proclaimed.
All eyes turned to Mr. Ratcliffe. He rose from his chair. “You said you threw that rock just to break his attention from fighting me, and that hitting him was an accident. But it wasn’t, was it? You meant to hit him in the head.”
“Even if I did, that didn’t mean it was going to kill him.”
“And it didn’t then, did it? While Worcham took me into the house to attend to my injuries, you were supposed to help Malcolm. And you did. You helped him to his death!”
“I didn’t put him in the water,” Mr. Turnbull-Minchin protested.
“No, you didn’t,” said Mrs. Worcham from where she stood by Mrs. Vance. “I did,” she said softly.
“Emily!” protested Dr. Worcham.
“I saw Mr. Turnbull-Minchin come in after you took Mr. Ratcliffe to a treatment room. He was alone. I wondered where Mr. Montgomery was. I had heard you all yelling minutes earlier so I went outside to see if I could help him. He was alive and conscious. Barely. He grabbed my hand. I tried yelling for someone to come help, there was another flash of lightning and clash of thunder nearly on top of each other. No one could hear me, but he wanted to say something to me. I leaned close to him. He said—and I swear there was a smile on his face—he said a woman’s name, something like Lily or Lila?—”
“Lilias,” supplied Cecilia.
Mrs. Worcham looked over at her. “Yes, that was it. He saidLilias can wed Alastair, as she should have.Then he squeezed my hand tighter for a moment and died. I felt a peace in his body. I sat there beside him, crying in the rain. He was a nice man. I figured he would understand my actions. I rolled him into the canal and came back into the house.”
“Why did you roll him into the canal?” her husband asked.
“I didn’t know what had gone on. I didn’t know who was responsible. I knew you would be devastated at any damage to Camden House’s reputation. I thought if he was in the canal it could look like a suicide drowning, like that Miss George.
“Oh, Emily,” her husband said.
“Well, Squire Eccleston, will you release Soothcoor from jail?” James asked.
The magistrates’ mouth quirked sideways, and his thumbs circled each other. “Damn you, Branstoke,” he muttered. Finally, he stood up. “Dr. Worcham, Mr. Ratcliffe, Mr. Turnbull-Minchin, you are all under arrest for falsifying the events surrounding Mr. Montgomery’s death and accusing an innocent man. More charges to follow,” he ground out at the end.
Cecilia hugged Liddy. “You were magnificent!” she whispered.
Liddy giggled and hugged her back.
EPILOGUE
SUMMERWORTH PARK, AUGUST 1816
Cecilia watched James snake a ribbon out to Randy for the cat to attack. The cat didn’t disappoint. He reared up, tossing his head from side to side before leaping on the moving ribbon. James laughed, pulled the ribbon out from under the cat and snaked it out again.
“I thought you didn’t like cats, that you tolerated Randy for my sake,” she said in a teasing tone.
