“You will hang for this, of course,” Michael said.
“Aye, sir.”
“Sandy, see him safely locked up in the basement somewhere — Simpson will know where to put him. I shall send word to Sir Hubert. It will be his duty as magistrate to get him to… York, I suppose, Pettigrew?”
“Yes. He has missed the Summer Assizes, so he will have to wait for Lent, now. You had better tell Lord Rennington, too.”
It was late in the afternoon before Michael returned to the old nursery, where Luce, Sandy, Neate and Pettigrew were sitting around the table. All the papers had been cleared away, and only the axe lay in the middle of it, the last reminder of the murder.
Michael sat down with a sigh.
“Bad, was it?” Luce said sympathetically.
“Fairly bad. The earl is delighted the business is settled at last, but very cross that we have been here for almost ten weeks and in the end the murderer walked in and confessed of his own volition.”
“He was one of your principal suspects,” Pettigrew said. “You would have got there in the end.”
“Perhaps.”
“But you believe him… or do you?”
“Oh yes. There is too much detail there — the axe in the urn, for instance, which neatly accounts for why no one remembers the axe in the display. And the bloodstain on his shirt cuff — thatis very convincing. He lives alone, so it would have been easy enough to burn the smock in his own kitchen.”
“But everything else he could have known,” Pettigrew said. “The scullery window, Nicholson’s room… everything. His reason is the flimsiest in the world. You are not easily deceived, but you believed him innocent. And I note he arrived here to confess just days after you threatened to arrest Miss Nicholson.”
“You think he is protecting her?” Luce said.
“It makes no difference,” Michael said testily. “Shapman has confessed, his story is consistent with the facts, and unless he recants, he will hang for it. He is adamant that Tess had nothing to do with it, and we must accept that. There is nothing more for us to do here except to collect Miss Peach from Pickering and go home.”
“You are just cross because you did not solve the mystery yourself,” Luce said.
Michael smiled. “I am a little, yes. It feels… unsatisfactory, somehow. So much discovered about Nicholson’s life, and so much yet to be discovered, and now… it all stops. If nothing else, I should like to have discovered this fortune that has been left to Miss Nicholson.”
“The lawyers will find it,” Pettigrew said. “Besides, Michael, it may feel unsatisfactory for us, but the earl and his family have enough to deal with just now. Nicholson’s legacy has overturned all their lives. At least with the murder out of the way, they will be able to adjust to their new circumstances without that cloud hanging over them.”
“Very true, and in a year or two, I might even be able to see it in that light myself,” Michael said. “But at the moment, it looms in my mind as one of my more spectacular failures.”
31: In The Rain
Breakfast was Winnie’s favourite time of day. Dinner was too formal a meal, with everyone in their finery and very often guests as well. There was a rigidity to it that she disliked. But breakfast was just the family, the boys joking around, Lily being agitated about something or other, and Mama soothing her, with Papa smiling benignly on them all. And now there was Walter, too, who was as much family to her as anyone.
Her betrothed! Not that it was acknowledged by anyone. Papa disliked it because Walter had no money, and Mama disliked it because she had never quite forgiven him for having a mistress all those years ago, as if a man who had once transgressed could never be redeemed or forgiven. So they had insisted it be kept secret, and Walter was not even permitted to tell his own father. Even so, he had offered, and she had accepted, and in her heart, Walter was her betrothed.
One day he would be her husband if nothing prevented it. Every day she woke up wondering if this would be the day her father finally put his foot down, or Lord Rennington found somebetter prospect for Walter, or perhaps Walter himself would think better of it. And every night she retired to her room, still betrothed. It was like a miracle, some unexpected and quite undeserved grace. Nothing was said about a wedding, but she could be patient. She had waited ten years for Walter, after all. She could wait a little longer.
One breakfast brought a surprise, a letter for Papa.
“How is this, Maynard? The mail, so early? Ah, it is delivered by hand, I see. It must be— oh!”
The others all looked at him expectantly. “A matter of business, Sir Hubert?” Mama said.
“No…” He gave Winnie a searching look. “It is from Mr Lomax. He has reflected on matters, and now wishes to repair his position with Winnie. In short, he still wishes to marry her.”
Walter gave an exclamation. “Oh, very fine behaviour! He walked away from her before, and now he thinks he can simply walk back into her life and resume his betrothal as if nothing ever happened.”
“Walter…” Winnie began, but her mother laid a hand on her arm.
“That is for Winnie to say, Walter,” she said. “She must be allowed to choose her own future. Winnie, we will discuss this after breakfast.”
