The Imaginary Gentleman (32 page)

Mr. Templeton was silent for a moment. Without a doubt this old letter and the one in his possession were in different hands. While there was scarcely a limit to what an expert forger could produce, he could not imagine how a person such as Mr. Whichale could have caused a new letter to look twenty years old. It must be genuine.

Mr. Whichale indicated a portrait that hung near his desk.

“This is how they looked at about that time,” he said proudly. Two little girls were portrayed with their mother, the smaller child on her knee and the other leaning at her side, one arm clinging around her neck. The similarity of all three was striking, and anyone who had made the lady's acquaintance could clearly see the woman in the picture to be a younger Mrs. Whichale.

The captain was forced to withdraw his hasty accusation. Mr. Templeton noted how quickly Mr. Whichale seemed to recover from
his pained offence; the man seemed mercurial, prone to follow every impulse.

Mr. Whichale stood up and handed the untouched glass of wine to the captain, who curtly refused it, and their host placed it on the tray. He continued to stand on the hearth opposite the captain.

“Sirs,” he said. “I hope you are satisfied that I meant no ill will to the lady in the case. You have a long ride ahead of you so I will not take offence if you cannot stay long.”

The magistrate cleared his throat. “There is one item that I wish you to produce, sir.”

Mr. Whichale frowned. “What would that be?” he asked icily.

“The document to which Mr. Templeton put his name on the night your uncle died.”

Mr. Whichale rose, spluttering in anger. “Have you some further calumny to suggest?”

The magistrate did not lose his composure. “Is it not best for all concerned to be quite open in this matter, sir?”

“I should not be put in the position to make these explanations!” said Mr. Whichale.

He's blustering, thought Edward, glancing at Mr. Templeton, who raised his eyebrows slightly.

“If you will not produce the document willingly, sir, I will pass the case to the High Sheriff forthwith.”

Mr. Whichale paled. He strode angrily to the door, pulled on the bell rope and the butler entered. “Send for Mr. George—he is in the copse, marking damaged trees. He must carry a note to Axminster at once. Perkins can go with him.”

“Yes, sir.” Moreley trembled his way from the room.

Mr. Whichale ushered the visitors into the hall, where he opened the drawing-room door for them.

“Kindly wait here, sirs, while I write to Mr. White, my attorney in Axminster, to send back my uncle's will with Mr. George. You will see that a codicil was added before his death.”

“Mr. White could show us the document at his office,” said the
magistrate calmly. “That would save considerable trouble to … Mr. George is your steward, I believe?”

“He is. There is no trouble that is not worth taking to protect my family name from slander,” said Mr. Whichale.

The magistrate gave a little bow. “Indeed you have every right to protect yourself, although I am sure this is a formality.” He moved near a window that afforded a view of the forecourt. Mr. Whichale left the room, closing the door.

“Should we not watch him?” asked Edward.

“That would not be gentlemanlike,” said Sir Richard. Edward shook his head in disbelief.

Mr. Grahame said, “It is not utterly impossible that the letter originated outside Mr. Whichale's family.”

“Something is very wrong in this business,” said Edward.

“Indeed,” said the magistrate. “I prefer the cases I usually deal with in my court—a little poaching or a quarrel over a stolen petticoat.”

“You may yet hear this matter in your court,” said Mr. Templeton.

“I shall pass the case on to the Assizes, if it comes before me, as indeed I must. Forgery alone carries the death penalty.”

“If the forgery proves to be connected only to matters of the heart, or perhaps written by a madwoman, would it be treated so seriously?” asked Sir Richard.

“I am very suspicious of Whichale. He was too quick to assume that forgery had been committed,” said Mr. Templeton.

“Thankfully, you were sharper than I,” said Edward. “I was too occupied in wanting to thrash him for speaking of Laura.”

Through the window, they saw a brown chaise come around into the court.

“That was fast work,” said Edward.

A man they took to be Mr. George himself sat on the box next to the coachman; there was no sign of another servant. The chaise turned out into the road. The constable looked after it, scratching his head; then shrugged and stayed near the gate. The men waited for another minute or so, when the magistrate suddenly leapt to the
window. Opening it, he called out sharply to the constable. “Where was the servant Perkins?”

The man ran over. “There were a woman inside, sir—lady's maid mayhap.”

“A woman! I thought Perkins to be a man! Get your horse at once and follow them. But first, find the mistress of the house and bring her to me.”

“Aye, sir!” He ran off.

The magistrate rushed towards the door.

“What is happening?” cried the captain.

“I believe they've given us the slip.”

T
HE LADIES ARRIVED AT THE
Crossroads Inn and alighted from the barouche.

“Such unseemly haste! I was never so frightened in my life!” said Elspeth.

“I enjoyed it immensely,” said Laura.

The countess patted her arm, saying, “I have a strong and perfect team, though I say it myself.” She looked in pride at her horses, a splendid matched four, black coats steaming from their effort.

She turned to the coachman. “Well done, Barton!”

“It were a pleasure, my lady.”

“I will send out a glass of ale and a pie to you, while you watch over the change of horses. There is no one I can trust as I trust you.”

Barton blushed and nodded. Eight years in her ladyship's service had not inured him to her flattery.

“What is the great hurry, Countess?” said Elspeth, as her friend seized her arm and hurried her into the inn.

“The gentlemen have such a start upon us. Come, we must refresh ourselves. There is no time to lose.”

In less time than Elspeth wished to devote to adjusting her bonnet ribbons, the four ladies availed themselves of the services of the inn and drank a cup of tea. They re-entered the carriage again, a few minutes later, and set off along the narrow road to Longpan.

Laura stared at her sister, who looked at her briefly with a mixture of defiance and disdain. How she hates to be proved wrong, thought Laura. Was this enough to drive her to her deceitful acts? Why was she so determined to marry me to Richard? If she thought it such a desirable match, why did she not manoeuvre it for herself? The very thought made her smile. Elspeth had her goals fixed on a life of fashion and elegance among the Ton; it was inconceivable to imagine her as Richard's wife.

Laura's thoughts turned again to Mr. Templeton. How soon
might she see him? They had been apart a matter of a few hours only and she was eager for their next encounter.

“We are coming into the village,” said Laura.

“Do you see the shape the river takes on—like a frying pan!” said Mrs. Bell.

Already the tiny village was left behind. “I believe Longpan House is on this bend in the river. It will be the next entrance,” said Laura.

Elspeth said, “My brother will be very displeased if we enter the house.”

“That would be distasteful but I hope to see some fun outside,” said her friend.

“There is the stone wall—a carriage is turning out!” said Laura.

“Perhaps they are trying to flee,” said the countess with a reckless laugh. Putting her head out of the window, she called, “Cut them off, Barton!”

The barouche steered towards the middle of the road, while Elspeth screamed and Mrs. Bell gave a moan of fear. The barouche came to a halt and one of her ladyship's footmen came to the door.

“We must not move an inch,” she said.

The footman smiled. “There do seem to be summat wrong with my lady's carriage.” He called up something in a laughing voice to Barton, and went to hold the horses' heads, while the coachman got down and began to laboriously inspect the wheels.

A voice shouted from the brown chaise. “Excuse me, we are on urgent business.”

Barton looked up and shrugged.

Mr. George climbed down from the carriage and approached the barouche. In the window appeared the lovely face of the countess.

“Pardon me, madam, but I am in the greatest hurry.”

“Oh sir, can you not aid me?” said the countess. “My coachman thinks something is amiss. I am frightened out of my wits that my carriage will tip over.”

Laura almost laughed aloud. Even the obligation to rescue such a
beautiful lady seemed not to deter the man from his urgent desire to be on his way.

“Won't you step down, madam,” he said, opening the door for her.

With a great show of relief, the countess accepted his assistance to alight, turning to say to Laura, “Pray accompany me, dear friend.”

Laura obliged her and found her arm firmly taken by Lady Clarydon, who drew her towards the other carriage, while Elspeth looked crossly after them.

“'Tis only the mistress's waiting woman inside,” said Mr. George.

The countess looked into the carriage. “Pardon me, my dear, will you share your carriage with us?”

“My mistress will be very angry if I do,” said the woman. “Can your coachman not move your carriage aside for us to pass?”

“I fear not—if the carriage should tip over altogether, we can none of us go anywhere.”

She looked around inside the carriage, seeing a large hamper, cloaks and a travel case pushed under the seat. “I see you are equipped for a journey. How shockingly I have inconvenienced you!”

“Lady Clarydon, someone comes!” said Laura.

From a little lane, fifty yards from the gate, there appeared a lady wearing a straw bonnet, and rather red-faced in her haste. She hesitated only for a moment on seeing the two ladies next to her chaise before hurrying over.

“Have I the honour of addressing Mrs. Whichale?” said the countess.

The lady made a sound surprisingly like a groan. “Who are you?” she asked.

“I am of little interest to you, madam, but this is Miss Morrison.”

The blood drained away from Mrs. Whichale's cheeks and she began to sway. Laura caught her as she fell almost into a faint.

The countess opened the door of the carriage and Mr. George, helped by the maid, placed the lady on the seat. Laura looked at Mrs. Whichale, her face pale with drops of perspiration on her forehead, her bosom heaving. Was this weak, frightened creature responsible for all that had befallen her?

After an application of smelling salts to her nose, Mrs. Whichale opened her eyes. Her gaze wandered for a moment, before fixing on Laura's face.

“You are Miss Morrison?” she said.

“I am, and I cannot say it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Mrs. Whichale reached out her hand, but Laura turned her head.

“You cannot bring yourself to touch me,” Mrs. Whichale said bitterly. “It was not my doing—I swear I did not write the letter.”

“Are you well enough to travel, ma'am?” Mr. George said. “We can turn and go the long way.”

Mrs. Whichale looked at Laura in desperate appeal. Her plump face seemed wasted, fallen into sick creases. “I told him we were happy as we were before.”

Laura looked from the lady to the maid, who knelt on the floor of the carriage, fumbling in a bag for a restorative.

The maid slowly raised her eyes—guilt and terror mirrored in them. “The master made me do it!” she said. “I sat up all night practising the hand.”

“You all but destroyed my life,” said Laura.

“He'd have dismissed me without a character.”

“Could you not let morality guide you?” Even as she said it, Laura knew the futility of such an argument. Without a character reference, this maid would be unlikely to ever find another place; honesty would most likely have been rewarded with poverty.

“'Twas but a love letter, of sorts.”

“You must know that forgery is a capital offence!”

The woman put her hand to her throat and moaned.

There came a whimper from Mrs. Whichale. “The disgrace!” she said.

The maid began to rock to and fro, the bag clutched in her arms like a baby.

Laura stepped back. “Let them go.”

“As you say, my dear.” The countess took Laura's arm and they moved to the side of the road. At once, Mr. George slammed the door shut and climbed up onto the box.

The coachman turned the carriage and drove it back to the gate, where they waited for a moment.

For whom do they wait? thought Laura. Did they plan to aid the villian's escape? she wondered. Of course! “No!” cried Laura. “They wait for their master! They shall not all get away.”

As she rushed across the road, a shot rang out, echoing across the still valley. Both teams of horses neighed and reared up.

Mr. Whichale's coachman cracked the whip.

The horses strained forward and the chaise was off, rapidly gaining speed as it disappeared down the road.

 

The reverberations of the shot died away. Laura still stood, shocked, as the dust swirled about her. She was dimly aware of screams from the barouche, and the incredulous laughter of the countess. A horseman cantered out of the gate and into the road, hesitating a second to spot the escaping carriage, before heading off down the road after it, bouncing in the saddle.

Slowly Laura approached the gate, numb with apprehension.

“Laura!” cried Elspeth from the window of the barouche. “My brother! Cousin Richard!”

Laura scarcely heard her, walking across the road in a daze. I was never prepared for violence, she thought.

She heard no further sound from the house—the thick garden wall ensured that. She began to run towards the gate, not hearing the other ladies calling out to her to wait.

Edward dead? Richard wounded? Or …? Every possibility was horrible. She could not bear the loss of her dream of love. Always so much stood in their way. It was never meant to be, or they would not have lost sight of each other in the first place. She saw that now. It seemed that fate dictated that Mr. Templeton now lay dying.