The Imaginary Gentleman (33 page)

W
HILE
L
AURA AND THE COUNTESS
parleyed with Mrs. Whichale, the gentlemen had rushed back to the library. Mr. Grahame tried the handle of the library door. Locked!

“Open up, Mr. Whichale!” he shouted, but no reply was heard from inside the room. Mr. Templeton and Edward put their shoulders to the door to burst it open.

All four ran in. Mr. Whichale was not at his desk but halfway through the open window. They rushed at him and he looked back over his shoulder, turning.

“Take care! He's armed!” yelled Grahame.

They froze, in the centre of the room, at the sight of the pistol. Mr. Whichale looked desperately from one to another, settling his eyes resentfully upon Mr. Templeton, and seemed to choose his target. He turned the weapon.

“We are four to your one, sir,” said Edward.

“You will surely hang if you commit murder,” Grahame said.

“I hang, in any case,” said Whichale.

He fired. As the echoes bounced from the walls, Edward heard the thump of a body falling to the floor, followed by the rumble of wheels on the road. He leapt forward.

“Wait, sir!” said the magistrate, but the captain seized the gunman's wrist, dragging him back into the room. Whichale grabbed at Edward's face with his other hand, clawing at his skin. Edward was too strong for him. He jerked Whichale's arm up sharply in the air. Whichale flailed at the captain's jaw with his free hand but one more wrench on his arm caused the pistol to drop to the floor.

“Hold him, sir!” said the magistrate, as Edward forced Whichale into a chair.

Mr. Grahame climbed out of the window and raced across to the gate.

Down the road, Mr. Grahame saw the constable pulling his horse up, turning at the sound of the shot. “Go after them, man,” shouted the magistrate, pointing. The horseman nodded and took off again.

It was then that Mr. Grahame saw the lady at the gate.

“Miss Morrison! Wait—pray do not go in.”

However, Laura sped past him and halted briefly in the court, listening. She heard voices from the side of the house and ran in the direction of the sounds. Through the open casement, she saw a gentleman of middle years collapsed in a chair. Before him stood her brother—unharmed! He turned, staring at her in amazement. “Laura?”

“Thank God,” she said.

Over by the door, Sir Richard stood, blinking. It was just as she had thought. Her brother and cousin were thankfully safe, but Mr. Templeton? She shivered, lowering her gaze to the floor. In the corner behind her brother and to his left, she saw a pair of boots, toes pointed upward. She gasped, and her eyes flew past the top of the old-fashioned boots, to a rusty black coat. An old servant was lying on the floor—not dead, it seemed, but in a faint. Sir Richard was now kneeling beside him, slapping his cheeks to revive him.

What of Mr. Templeton? She looked to the side of the room, and saw him pointing a pistol at the miscreant. Alive!

Joy lit her face, shimmering in her glass-green eyes—joy such as could not escape his notice. His look in reply was an instant of dark-eyed passion. Just as quickly, he turned back to his charge.

“Laura, I beg you to return to the carriage,” said Edward. “You are not alone?”

“I am not alone, and I will go—Elspeth is beside herself,” she said.

She ran back out of the gate, to find the countess standing in the road, poised between curiosity and fear. Reassured by Laura's happy look, she clapped her hands.

“Is anyone murdered? Is there much blood? Tell all, my dear,” she said, putting her arm around Laura's waist.

Laura was too happy to do other than smile. She went to the carriage window, seeing Elspeth in genuine anxiety.

“Laura, you are safe! What of my brother?”

“They are all unharmed—all of our gentlemen are safe,” she said.

“Quite all?” said Mrs. Bell.

“Every last one,” said Laura.

 

The magistrate hurried back into the house and took over the situation.

“That shot was a signal to your coachman to carry your wife to safety,” he said.

Whichale gave him a sour smile of triumph. “Your man will never catch her. My coachman knows every turn in every lane hereabouts.”

“We shall see. Now—the document, Mr. Whichale? Where is it?”

Whichale looked over to see Moreley still sitting forlornly on the floor.

“You are safe, Moreley,” said Whichale. “Show them.”

Sir Richard helped the old man to rise. “Are you well enough to lead us there?”

Moreley nodded.

Leaving the captain standing guard over Mr. Whichale, the other men followed the servant upstairs and into the master bedroom.

“The same room,” said Mr. Templeton.

An enormous old oaken closet stood against the wall. “It's a'fallen behind the closet, sirs,” he said.

“Fallen, you say?” said the magistrate.

Moreley was wringing his hands in anxiety. “'Twere all on my account—the master tried to protect me rights.”

“From what?”

“Old master always promised me the cottage at Lane End, when I were too old to work.”

“And?”

“He must of forgot to put it in his will. 'Twere on the day he died, he writ a new one.”

“A new will, you say? Was he in his right mind?”

“On my sacred oath, sir, he was. The physician was with him at
the end—he'll tell you how sharp was old Mr. Whichale to the very last.”

“How came Mr. Templeton to be called in?”

“Old master asked for his attorney. New master sent for Mr. Templeton, instead, to witness the will. He forgot as I must not be witness.”

“You witnessed the signing of the new will, which gave you use of the cottage and an annuity?”

Moreley nodded miserably.

“Mr. Templeton went downstairs, and new master—he weren't master then for old master were still alive, only sleeping—new master came in. He were standing just there, by the closet.”

“What happened next?” asked the magistrate.

“He said, quiet like, ‘Good God, were you a witness? The law will have you.'”

“The heir could have grounds to claim influence and contest the bequest, if you were a witness,” Mr Grahame said. He saw that Moreley did not comprehend him. “What followed?”

“He were waving his arm, like this, for he were worried.” The servant swept his arm across the top of the cabinet. “Will was a'knocked back and went behind. My master said best for me if it disappears.”

“So your master hid the new will?”

“'Twere an accident—I tried to remind him about it later but …”

The magistrate rolled his eyes. He pulled the bell rope. “No one sought to retrieve the document?”

“I didna' dare by myself.”

“It's as well you did not destroy it.”

“We got nowhere to go. Me savings are a'gon on medicine for Mrs. Moreley. Weren't dishonest really for old master wanted it that way.”

“Let us see, Moreley.”

A footman entered and helped them pull the cabinet away from the wall. A sheet of parchment flopped over into the dust. The magistrate reached into the space and picked it up, blowing the dirt away. He read aloud:

His bushy eyebrows were drawn together as he skimmed the rest of the opening statement. He ran his eyes over the first of the articles, shaking his head; then read it aloud.

Mr. Grahame looked around at them all before continuing.

O
NCE
M
RS
. E
VANS HAD SATISFIED
herself about the safety of her relations, and the countess had reconciled herself to the living state of the others, her ladyship suggested they partake of a little nuncheon. Not for the first time, Laura wondered how the countess kept her trim figure.

The barouche was moved to the side of the road, and a blanket spread upon a stretch of grass. The ladies sat on the blanket, well wrapped in coats and shawls, and passed the time in finishing off the contents of the picnic basket.

“I hope a certain gentleman did not see you run in so desperately,” said Elspeth.

“I rather think he did,” said Laura, her lips parting in a smile. She accepted a glass of wine, poured from the countess's flask.

Elspeth brushed irritably at the fringes of her shawl. “Well … you are proved correct, Laura, and I hope you are satisfied.”

“I am truly vindicated, Elspeth. Pardon me if I display a little triumph, which I feel I deserve after the treatment to which I have been subjected these long weeks.”

“I never meant to wrong you, dearest. Everything I did was for love.” She nibbled on a piece of cake.

Love for whom? thought Laura. A memory returned of Elspeth as a little girl, throwing her arms around her sister's neck and covering her face with wet kisses. She loved me then, Laura thought. Perhaps she loves me still, in some strangely limited manner of her own.

“Tell us what dreadful deed has been committed, Miss Morrison,” said Lady Clarydon.

“I await the result of the magistrate's investigations to confirm my little theory.”

“Pray tell—we all long to know.” The countess gave the sulky Elspeth a little nudge. “Take heart, my dear. See how well it all ends.”

Elspeth forced a smile.

Laura thought for a moment, taking a sip of wine. “The seed was planted at Oakmont, when I was accused of madness in believing Mr. Templeton to be a real person. Despite all the evidence, it was only when odd things began to happen at Oakmont too that I wondered if I had taken leave of my senses.” She looked pointedly at Elspeth, who adopted an air of innocence.

“How terrible, dearest sister!” she said.

“It now seems that a criminal conspiracy led people to deny the truth. The ostler, Tom, the servant at the Charmouth Inn, the Whichales—all colluded either for reward or from fear. Mr. Whichale is at the centre of it all, I am sure.”

“But what is your theory, Miss Morrison?” said the countess. “End my misery!”

Laura bit on her cake and ate the piece thoughtfully, before saying, “It harks back to my meeting with Mr. Reece at the Assembly in Lyme. Gossip had it that he was a great favourite with his rich, dying uncle and was sure to inherit the estate.”

“Mr. Whichale!” said Mrs. Bell.

“Indeed, Mrs. Bell! You recall our meeting with Mr. Reece, Countess?”

“A pleasing young man!”

“Yes. I imagine his family sent him to Mr. Whichale in the hopes of advantage, for he is very amiable. When I encountered him again the other day, one of my first thoughts was that he did not inherit after all. I hadn't even given him or his possible fortune a thought since I left Lyme.”

“You cannot mean a forged will also!” said the countess.

“Yes—or a new one suppressed. When I learned that Mr. Reece's valuable commission in the Royal Artillery had been purchased by a fond uncle, I thought how well blessed he was with fond uncles.”

“You think his Uncle Whichale wished him out of the way?” said the countess.

“Yes, and perhaps he hoped to disarm suspicion with his generosity.”

“That makes good sense,” said Mrs. Bell.

“All fell into place when Mr. Templeton said he had witnessed a document for old Mr. Whichale.”

“It could have been any piece of business that he wished tied up at the end,” said Mrs. Bell.

“I could not help jumping to the conclusion that it was a will.”

“Men do sometimes worry about unfinished business matters on their deathbed,” pursued Mrs. Bell.

“Yes, indeed, they do. Yet the relations in most cases do not set a conspiracy in train.”

“How you terrify me!” said Elspeth.

Laura smiled at the way her sister's terror took on an appearance of wide-eyed curiosity and excitement. She continued. “Imagine that on his deathbed the old man writes a new will, perhaps cutting out nephew Whichale altogether. The only witness is a man who is a stranger to the district. Mr. Whichale intends to destroy the new will but his plans are endangered when he discovers that someone else knows that Mr. Templeton came to his house the night his uncle died.”

“You!” said Mrs. Bell. “If he merely keeps you apart from Mr. Templeton, you may still tell others the truth. He must discredit you.”

“A dreadful theory! Yet it has a ring of truth!” said Elspeth.

“Mr. Whichale suspects that Mr. Templeton is in love with you,” said the countess. “He racks his brain for a way to keep you apart, with no communication ever again.”

“The letter!” A cry of agony interrupted them and the ladies all turned to Elspeth. “Laura!” she said. “You thought that
I
wrote the letter. How could you?”

Laura looked at her coolly. “We had no notion of a forged letter until the other day. However, I confess that your secret letter-writing made me wonder if you had also written to Mr. Templeton in order to put him off.”

“I would never drive off an eligible suitor, Laura.”

“I thank you for that kindness,” said Laura, too happy to be cross any longer.

She caught sight of a rider approaching from the direction the carriage had taken. As he drew near, she saw the horseman to be the constable. He slowed to turn in at the gate. “He has lost them,” she said.

In a moment or two, the constable appeared again, riding this time in the direction of the main road.

Mr. Templeton emerged from the gate and strode up to the carriage, before realising it was empty. The ladies observed him from the grassy verge. The countess giggled, as did Elspeth. Laura held her breath so as not to laugh. He turned and discovered them.

“Countess, ladies, we are almost done here.”

“Was anyone shot, sir?” asked the countess.

“The shot was a signal pre-arranged by Mr. Whichale, to tell his wife to flee without him. He became fearful of discovery when the captain and Sir Richard came enquiring after me, and set up his plan then. When he heard that both Miss Morrison and I were returned to Lyme, he was ready.” He looked quickly, with warm intensity, at Laura.

“Yet still he did not give up his ill-gotten gains,” said Laura.

“You have solved the puzzle, then?”

“Yes,” she said. “He destroyed a will that cut him out?”

“I believe he planned to fortuitously
find
the new will, but only if all hope of keeping the estate was gone. He left it too late.”

“The document you witnessed left all to Mr. Reece?” said Laura.

“The bulk of the fortune, yes. The constable has gone to Axminster to bring a conveyance and guards to take the criminal to prison.”

“May God forgive him,” said Mrs. Bell.

“Will he hang, sir?” said Elspeth.

“Were he not a ‘gentleman', if one may so call him, then he would almost certainly face death. Clemency is rarely extended in cases for involving forgery, I believe. Much depends upon young Reece's testimony. Mr. Grahame says the best Whichale can hope for is transportation to Botany Bay.”

“The Antipodes!” cried Elspeth. “The society there would not be to my taste.”

“Did he comprehend the risks before setting out to cheat his young relation of his rightful fortune?” asked Mrs. Bell.

“Greed overrode caution and every Christian principle. Yet Mr. Whichale seems convinced of his own moral right to the property. We heard him rail about young Reece's cunning and avarice!”

“He attributes his own evil tendencies to his relation,” said Elspeth, with a saintly sigh.

Mr. Templeton agreed; then caught a glimpse of laughter in Laura's eyes. In a second an image flashed into his mind of all the coming pleasure, the joy of learning to know her. He put the feeling aside, as he must, and turned to the countess.

“Would you be happy to return to Lyme, your ladyship?”

“Only if you promise me that I do not miss any more thrilling dramas,” said Lady Clarydon.

“The magistrate wishes only to finish writing an account of the events, after which we will depart.”

“I am quite done in,” said the countess. “The solving of mysteries is so very tiring.”

 

At last they all reassembled in their dining parlour in the Three Cups. Rested after the ardours of the day, the countess presided happily over an excellent dinner.

“I was very nearly right,” Laura said. “Mr. Whichale did rely upon his own household to provide the forger.”

“You ought not to take pride in deciphering the mind of a criminal!” said Elspeth.

“I should have delighted to have been his nemesis, after the devastation he wreaked upon my life,” Laura said.

“You were very clever, Laura,” said Sir Richard. “You did not wish to take the women in charge?”

“A citizen's arrest? I had not the heart for it,” said Laura. “Mrs. Whichale is punished enough, as it is. She keenly felt her husband's disgrace.”

“You are so kind-hearted, Laura,” said Elspeth.

“I believe I am.”

“What awaits the maid Perkins, if she is captured, Captain?” asked the countess.

“Whichale says he forced her to write the letter under threat of violence. However, he is confident he has the women well hidden. It may be that already they are on board some ship heading beyond the reach of the law.”

“He has a certain honour, then.”

“He protects his own family and servants, even though it may endanger his own life. He similarly exonerates his butler; it seems he told Moreley that his sick wife would die in the gutter if he did not keep silent.”

The countess turned to Mr. Templeton. “Would you say Mr. Whichale has some elements of goodness?” she said.

“I believe that all but the most hardened criminals have not closed their ears to their conscience altogether,” he said. “He saw the new will as the theft of his rights by young Reece. So I imagine he embarked upon his career of deception on an impulse when enraged.”

“He is certainly a man easily fired up,” said Sir Richard. “He saw no way out once he had begun.”

“He did not pretend to discover the new will?” asked Mrs. Bell.

“It seems that he did not destroy it thinking that he could fall back upon ignorance—after all, he was not in the room when it was signed.”

“But a taste of his ill-gotten gains and he could not give them up,” said Elspeth, with a dramatic toss of her head. There was a brief silence.

“Laura, I was startled out of my wits when you said that Mrs. Whichale had written the letter,” Sir Richard said. “What made you think so?”

“You did, Richard,” she said, enjoying his surprise. “You are always so careful of others' feelings and took note of the lady's fear. Yet Mr. Templeton portrayed Mrs. Whichale as serene before the strange events began to unfold.”

“I see your meaning,” said the countess. “Mrs. Whichale was perfectly tranquil before she knew of her husband's wicked plans.”

“Her conscience made her fearful only when my brother and cousin arrived to investigate.”

The countess looked sidelong at the baronet, an arch smile lurking about her mouth. “Let us not forget that Sir Richard commonly reduces ladies to a state of trembles.”

“How often have I wished it was so!” said Sir Richard, laughing so happily at the joke, although it was at his expense, that everyone joined in. As the chuckles died down, all were startled by an attack of giggles from none other than Mrs. Bell. They turned to her, surprise writ large on every face. Laura saw the embarrassment in Mrs. Bell's eyes, her horror at drawing attention to herself in this unseemly way. It was clear that she tried to stop her laughter and failed.

“Pray excuse me,” she said, rising.

With her handkerchief to her face, she ran out of the room. Every face turned to the baronet, who sat humming dreamily to himself until he perceived their interest and blushed.

“What an extraordinary exhibition!” said Elspeth.

Laura felt she understood. Had Mrs. Bell's feelings, suppressed in meekness all these years, welled up at last? It charmed Laura that they should do so in an unstoppable fountain of hilarity.

She quickly filled the silence. “It now seems impossible that I believed myself deluded about Mr. Templeton's very existence.”

“Until you heard of the mysterious letter,” said Mr. Templeton.

“My encounter with that girl was merest chance, yet it turned all my thinking around.”

“We would still have been re-united, without that chance meeting,” said Mr. Templeton. “From the moment I realised that the man on the cliff was your brother, I questioned everything. I hurried to Lyme to search for proof that the letter was not in your hand.”

“How rapidly you then tracked me down!” said Laura.

“I had determined to find you, if I had to comb the kingdom. To see you appear in front of me, two minutes later, took my breath clean away.”

Laura was caught by a sense of emotion so keenly pitched that she was all but overwhelmed. Again there was an instant's silence in the room, broken by the footman, who opened the door to announce a visitor.

“Mrs. Morrison.”

Evalina appeared in the doorway, her fresh comeliness seemingly untouched by the fatigue of travel. There was a scrape of chairs as the gentlemen rose. Evalina had removed her bonnet, and her lacy cap sat among her black curls. The footman helped her to remove her travelling coat. Its practical brown wool peeled off and she emerged from its husk, all white muslin and lace. The warmth of the room had sent a flush to her cheeks.