It was Lady Rennington who voiced the fear in everyone’s mind.
“You mean Eustace. You are saying that Eustace murdered Nicholson. Impossible!”
“But why?” someone cried.
Michael said nothing. Surely they would work it out?
“That is nonsense!” Olivia cried robustly. “The room at the top of the other stair is the guest suite, which was empty that night.”
“No,” Walter said slowly. “It was not empty. I was sleeping there, because my own room was being repainted. You are saying thatIwas the target, and therefore it must have been Eustace because he was next in line to inherit.”
“Mr Atherton,” Michael said slowly, “if you had died that night, as I believe was the intention, Mr Eustace would have become the heir, he would have been Viscount Birtwell, andhe would also have been able to claim the woman he loved obsessively, Miss Beatrice Franklyn. She was betrothed to you as the heir, and had you died, she might very likely have transferred her affections to the new heir. And then Mr Eustace would have had everything that was yours. Nowthereis a motive for murder if ever I heard one.”
27: An Ending
One of the ladies gave a low moan, but Eustace laughed.
“Bravo, Edgerton! A fine tale. But you have forgotten, I think, that I was in my own bed twelve miles away at the time, as my entire household will tell you… have already told you, I believe.”
“I have not forgotten that, sir. If his lordship will permit the indulgence, I should like to describe how I see the murder arising in the mind, and then taking place.”
The earl nodded his agreement. One or two of the gentlemen at the back exchanged wry glances, and Eustace was still smiling, quite sure of himself. But Michael was very sure of himself, too, and had dealt with enough murderers over the years to understand how good a face they could put on impending disaster.
So he settled down to tell them just how the murder must have happened.
“It began, I believe, a week or ten days before Mr Nicholson’s murder,” he said. “Perhaps there were earlier attempts on thelife of Mr Walter Atherton, or Viscount Birtwell, as he was then. There were certainly a number of odd incidents — accidental or otherwise. Whatever the truth, there is no longer any hope of pursuing them, so let them be left in the past, if they existed. But certainly Mr Eustace must have been considering how his brother might be disposed of. A second son must always be a little envious of his elder brother, who has so much, when he has so little. Mr Eustace is better off than many a second son, for he has a modest independence, enough to enable him to live as a gentleman and not need a career, but that does not compare with his brother’s future prospects, of eight thousand a year and a great title, as well as Corland Castle and much other property.”
Pettigrew pushed a glass of something into Michael’s hand. Gratefully, he took a sip. An excellent brandy, and French, no doubt. He knew, now, where that had come from. But that was not his concern.
“And now he has something else that Mr Eustace wanted, as well,” Michael went on. “His future wife is Miss Beatrice Franklyn, whose personal attractions are enhanced by a dowry of forty thousand pounds. Mr Eustace had already offered for Miss Franklyn twice at this point, and been rejected both times. If only Walter were not there! Then both the inheritance and Miss Franklyn would be in Mr Eustace’s hands. Yet time was running out, for surely Miss Franklyn would soon set a date for the wedding, and then all would be lost. If only there were a way to get rid of Walter. So he must have thought, as he arranged the armoury display on the stairs on that day. If only! But he could see no way it could be done, because he would be the first to be suspected.”
The men were listening quietly now, thinking about it, and he could see the frowns on some faces, and the curious glances thrown Eustace’s way, as if they were beginning to wonder — could he truly have done this? Could he have wanted to kill hisown brother? Someone was sobbing quietly — Lady Rennington, he thought. Lady Alice looked ashen, but dry-eyed. The younger ladies were clearly shocked, but they listened in silence.
“But then, a strange mischance occurred. Mr Eustace was arranging the armoury display on the stairs one day, and the belt which was meant to hold the axe in place, broke. Or perhaps it was already broken, who can say? However it was, it could not serve its purpose and the axe could not be displayed. The broken belt is one of those niggling little points that always worried me. I assumed at first — we all assumed, I think — that the belt was broken by the murderer wrenching the axe from the display on the night of the murder. A weapon seized by chance, as he passed by. But my own experiments proved that the slightest touch would bring the entire display crashing down, as many of you will remember.”
There was a murmuring around the room, recalling the devastation at the time, when the armour and weapons had cascaded noisily down the stairs and scattered across the great hall.
“So it would have been impossible to remove the axe from the display on the night of the murder without waking the whole household. Where, then, was the axe, if not secured by the belt? The maid who cleaned the display never saw the axe at all, so it must have been hidden, and thanks to Lady Tarvin, we know precisely where — it was inside the urn overlooked by the balcony. Light shining through the roof windows on a sunny day illuminated it, and she realised what it was. So I suggest that Mr Eustace, when arranging his display and discovering that the belt was broken, tossed the axe into an urn. Perhaps he intended to come back and repair or replace the belt, but when he thought about it, he realised he now had the perfect opportunity to remove his brother. Mr Walter was not in his usual room, near to the rest of the family, but in the guest suite, surroundedby empty rooms with no one to overhear. There was a hidden weapon, ready to be retrieved at any time, and the murder would look as though a random stranger had simply walked in, picked up the axe from the display on the stairs and wandered into Mr Walter’s room by chance. All Mr Eustace had to do was to arrange a rock solid alibi for himself.”
“Yes, how do you explain that, Edgerton?” Lord Rennington said testily. “He was at home all night, his servants vouch for him.”
“Laudanum,” Michael said crisply. “He chose a day, and invited a lady to join him to dine and stay the night, as witness. To ensure his servants slept soundly, he gave them a bowl of punch, and sleep soundly they certainly did. I interviewed every one of them, and they all reported it. Let me read you some of their remarks.‘Never overslept before.’That was the head groom.‘Don’t know what was in that punch but I went out like a light and woke ever so late.’Or this one.‘The master made the punch with his own hands, and it must have been strong because I fell asleep at the kitchen table.’It has not been mentioned, but I would wager that Miss Wilkes was offered a bedtime glass of something, too.”
She nodded. “It’s true, but it was just wine, and he poured it from the bottle, two glasses.”
“But did he drink any of it?”
“I… don’t remember,” she said, frowning. “I don’t remember much, to be honest, until I woke up next morning, and the sun was well up. I was ever so late getting back to—”
Eustace made a noise deep in his throat. “Rosamunde!”
“Oh!” She flushed, and subsided at once.
“It is quite all right, Miss Wilkes,” Michael said smoothly. “I believe I can finish the sentence for you. You were late getting back to Pickering, to Apstead House, a rather exclusive brothel. Miss Rochester, that was your name then, was it not?”
She turned terrified eyes on Eustace, who made a small shrug with one shoulder. “What of it? So she was once a light-skirt, and now she is my future wife.”
“I thought she looked familiar!” Tess cried. “I saw her when I worked there as a housemaid briefly.”
