Naturally, Michael could not resist, for although he was a connoisseur of weaponry, he had never had the leisure to become a collector, as Eustace was, and he never refused the chance to try out an interesting new sword. There was a peculiar satisfaction in the weight of it in his hand, the swordsmith’s art exerted to make a blade which is both light to wield and yet strong enough to do battle. To hold such a superbly crafted piece of art, to slash and thrust against an imaginary opponent, to imagine himself in the intensity of battle once more brought him the utmost satisfaction. He had never regretted leaving the East India Company Army, and he sincerely hoped he would never be called upon to endure the torments of war again, but oh, the joy of a sword in his hand!
He was in a mellow mood by the time he made his way upstairs to join Sandy, Neate and Pettigrew Willerton-Forbes for the interview with Miss Wilkes. It was strange to be back in the old schoolroom at Corland Castle after so many weeks when they had been focused on Pickering. All the notes were still there, the axe on a sideboard, and the plan of the castle drawn up by Winnie Strong, marked with the occupants of every bedroom. He smiled as he saw her neat handwriting and the correction she had made. She had initially placed Walter Atherton, the earl’s eldest son, in his usual bedroom, but as it was undergoing one of Lady Rennington’s redecoration crusades, he had actually slept in a guest bedroom. A young lady with a commendable devotion to accuracy.
To one side was the blackboard, still showing the last list of suspects.‘Tess Nicholson, Tom Shapman, John Whyte’it read, even though Michael was now convinced by the innocence of all three. Angrily, he scrubbed the board clean.
Miss Rosamunde Wilkes was an attractive young lady, elegantly dressed, her light brown hair piled high on her head, with just a few tendrils framing her face. She was accompanied both by Eustace Atherton, and by a severely featured lady’s maid. Michael made no protest. Miss Wilkes would certainly have been told precisely what story to offer, and was not likely to fumble the telling, so there was no point in insisting on seeing her alone.
“Your card, Miss Wilkes?” Michael said, after ushering her to a seat.
She produced a silver card case and extracted her card.‘Miss Rosamunde Wilkes, Warriston Hall, Northumberland’, he read.
“That is your father’s estate? His name?”
“Sir Reginald Wilkes. Baronet.” Her voice was pleasant and well-modulated, with a refined accent.
“Your mother’s maiden name?”
“Winfell. Maria Winfell.”
“Ah. Then she must be related to the Duke of Dunmorton.”
“A distant cousin. My mother has been dead these ten years, Captain.” Her voice wavered, as if she might cry, so Michael hurried on.
“Miss Wilkes, I must ask you some questions about a specific night in June… where you were, with whom, and what happened that night. Mr Atherton has taken steps to shield you from this, but I am investigating a murder and it is vital that everyone I talk to tells me the truth. I am not here to judge you and have no interest in the morality of your actions. I would also assure you that nothing you say will be repeated outside this room. It will not get back to your father through me, I give you my word on that. But you must tell me the absolute truth, do you understand? If I find out later that you have lied, I will certainly arrest you, and that cannot be concealed from your father.”
“I understand,” she said in a low voice.
She then told him exactly the same story that Daisy had told, although with a few more details. She remembered very well the dishes that had been served at dinner, unlike Daisy, who had guessed at mutton. She too said that she had slept late, only waking at around ten, to find Eustace still sleeping beside her.
There was only one odd point. “Miss Wilkes, Mr Atherton’s servants told me that his companion that night had black, curly hair, which is an appropriate description of Daisy Marler’s hair, but not of yours.”
“I always wear a wig when I visit Eustace, to avoid being recognised,” she said.
“Is there anyone at Welwood who might recognise you?”
“Not at Welwood,” she said, smiling slightly. “The servants do not know who I am, and they were never told my name. Eustace is very discreet. When I visit him, I come from my aunt’s house in Scarborough, where I am well known. I should not like anyone to recognise me in his carriage.”
There was not a single point at which Michael could quibble. Despite the uncomfortable feeling that Eustace Atherton was running rings around him, he could not find any flaws in Miss Wilkes’ tale. He spent a day at Welwood talking again to all the servants, who were relieved that the truth was now known. Eustace had told them the same story as Daisy, that he wanted to protect the lady’s reputation, and it was merely the substitution of one lady for another.
“It seemed reasonable to us,” Wallace, the head groom, said. “We knew he had someone in his bed, and it didn’t seem to matter which lady he brought forward to vouch for him. We never said it were Daisy, sir. We agreed we wouldn’t lie for him, no matter what, so we all agreed to say only what was true — that the lady was here for dinner and never left until late the next morning. And we know he couldn’t have gone off to Corland that night, not without one of us knowing. We’ll all swear on the Holy Book that no horse left the stable that night.”
“There are horses in the field across the road.”
“Which need a saddle,” Wallace said at once. “There are only four saddles at Welwood, they were all locked away, and the key was in my pocket. No one left Welwood that night, Captain Edgerton.”
“I believe you,” Michael said. “In fact, I never doubted it, but Mr Eustace lied to me and I had to address that problem.”
“Aye, you’ve a murderer to catch,” Wallace said, “that’s fair enough, but it weren’t Mr Eustace, sir.”
But if it could not have been Eustace, there was still the possibility that it was Kent Atherton. But how to prove it? And most of all —why?
25: Certainty
Ittookafullday of travel to reach York, and a tedious day it was too. Apart from the usual travails of any journey in the autumn, consisting largely of unremitting rain and a vast amount of mud, Kent had the dubious pleasure of the company of James Cathcart, as well as the two valets. Cathcart was usually good company, but he was not his usual ebullient self, and Kent himself could not summon his habitual cheerfulness. He was too distressed about Katy, wondering whether she was in York at all.
Just north of Easingwold, they were delayed for some time by a coach off the road some way ahead. Having discovered the hapless occupants had plenty of willing helpers from a nearby farm and two other carriages passing by, there was nothing to do but return to their own carriage and wait for the road to be clear again. Kent had thought to provide himself with a flask of brandy, which warmed their insides even if their fingers and toes remained frozen, and the atmosphere mellowed somewhat.
“I cannot but think we are worrying unnecessarily,” Cathcart said. “Even if this man is not Cousin Kate’s brother, he cannot mean her any harm, surely? It would be her money he wants, not her person.”
