Vice and Virtue (22 page)

“Any man in your position would have done the same,” insisted Celia. “It is not a question of strength, but of prudence.”

Josiah Deede regarded her sorrowfully. “Very well, my dear,” he said, putting his handkerchief to his eyes.

Aurora waited while he composed himself, then she ventured on. “Sir … I regret having to ask such a question, but when Henry Francis disinherited Edward and left his fortune to you, did you not wonder that he could treat his beloved adopted son in such a cruel way?”

Before Josiah could speak, Celia gave a snort of scorn. “Father, it is perfectly obvious why he disinherited Edward Francis. Because he was
your son
, and he hated you! ‘Beloved adopted son’, indeed! He must have seen his enemy every time he looked at him!”

Josiah breathed in and out, and wiped his eyes. “I am sorry, Celia,” he said, “but I cannot agree. Henry
did
love Edward, and his disinheritance of him is something that has ever mystified me.”

“Why, then, sir,” asked Aurora solemnly, “did you not protest at the time? Edward contested the will, but the hearing was presided over by Sir John Wilkinson, a judge known to be harsher on Protestant plaintiffs than Catholic ones, and a good friend of you and your circle.”

The word “corruption” hung unspoken in the air. Aurora wondered if she had gone too far. She readied herself to receive the full force of Josiah Deede’s outrage.

“Hatred, my dear Mrs Francis,” he said calmly, “is not easily set aside in favour of compassion, or even logic. I understood Henry’s desire to acquit himself of his sins, but I did not understand why he had done it at Edward’s expense. However, such was my resentment of both father and son, I made no attempt to give Edward a fair hearing. As I stood there with Joe at the will-contesting, my own will lay locked in my attorney’s office. How could I admit in public that Edward was actually
my
son, and that although he might be disinherited now, part of my own fortune would come to him in due course? It would have been the sensation of the year, and my reputation would have been ruined. So I kept my counsel.”

Aurora considered, her heartbeat quickening. Josiah’s dilemma had not moved her – his stubborn refusal to help his own son was repugnant – and his persistence in believing Henry Francis to be a blackmailer incensed her.

“Sir, Henry Francis did not blackmail you,” she told Josiah. “He
could not
have written those letters. For the last ten years of his life, he was unable to write, so crippled were his fingers with rheumatism.”

Josiah Deede nodded slowly, the skin around his eyes folding as he gazed at something invisible. “Indeed,” he murmured.

He seemed so distracted Aurora could not be sure he had understood. But she pressed on. “And if he dictated them, why has the person he dictated them to not continued with the blackmail himself? I will tell you why. Because the blackmailer wanted you to think he
was
Henry Francis, writing with his own hand, the lone possessor of the secret. When Henry died, they ceased.”

Josiah’s distraction turned to disbelief, which gradually turned to horror. In the darkest recesses of his eyes, Aurora saw the truth dawn. “Mrs Francis,” he gasped, his handkerchief again at his mouth, “what are you suggesting?”

Aurora did not speak.

“Surely,” he went on, “the only person who knew about Edward’s true parentage, apart from Henry, myself and three deceased women, was …” – Josiah’s expression turned to one of agony – “
Joe
?”

Celia could remain silent no longer. She turned her blue eyes, heavy with weeping yet bright as jewels, upon Aurora. “What nonsense! How dare you accuse my brother of such wickedness?”

“I have accused him of nothing more than rifling through your father’s papers,” replied Aurora. “Do you believe he could be guilty of more than this?”

“He is innocent of everything!” Celia’s eyes implored her father. “Father, it is plain that Henry Francis blackmailed you and changed his will in order to save himself from damnation. All this talk of rheumatism is lies. I cannot fathom how Joe knew this woman Honoria’s name, but I swear before God that he was entirely ignorant of Edward Francis’s true parentage. And until now, so was I.”

Josiah had lifted his head, but Aurora could see that he was barely listening to his daughter’s protests. “Dear God,” he murmured, his black eyes moving rapidly, seeing nothing, “if Henry was not the blackmailer, there was no need for him to make reparation for what he had done. So why in the name of heaven did he alter his will?”

Aurora’s heart thudded, but she kept her nerve. “He did not, sir,” she declared steadily. “Someone else did.”

No one spoke. Aurora was aware of the sunlight, the silence, Josiah’s stunned stare and Celia’s horrified one. The room seemed stifling, as if full of some heavier substance than air. The pain in Aurora’s shoulder had intensified. She shifted in her chair, trying in vain to ease it. Her mouth was dry. She swallowed, and continued.

“Sir, I was witness to the sword fight, and I was also witness to the challenge, last Sunday night.”

Josiah was still staring at her coldly. She pressed on.

“Joe accused Henry Francis of blackmailing you.” Her voice wavered as she spoke her next words. “And then … forgive me, sir, but Edward accused you of murdering Henry Francis and altering his will in order to steal his fortune.”

There was a silence, during which Aurora heard a low snort of contempt from Celia. Ignoring it, Josiah set his jaw. “And will you now make the same accusation to my face, Mrs Francis?”

“No, sir,” replied Aurora readily.

“And what is preventing you?”

“Honoria herself,” explained Aurora. “The woman you once loved, who gave birth to Edward. Now I know your story, I am convinced that you would not commit such a heinous crime against the man who brought up your son.”

Josiah gave an almost-imperceptible nod. Aurora kept her eyes on his face, though on the edge of her vision she saw Celia’s body stiffen.

“Edward was wrong,” she continued. “You are not his father’s murderer, and I offer my heartfelt apologies for suspecting you. But whoever
did
kill Henry Francis altered his will that same day, the twelfth of December last. They forged the signature of the witness, dating it six months before, because Lord Snaresborough was killed in an accident in June.”

Josiah Deede’s deep-set eyes regarded Aurora with a darkness greater than sorrow, greater than suspicion. “So…” he began slowly, “you are saying that Joe took this desperate measure, resorting to murder in order to steal Edward’s fortune?”

Aurora nodded. “He thought – wrongly, as it turns out – that he was going to lose his fortune to Edward upon your death,” she said. Then she added, hoping to comfort Josiah, “Perhaps there is a misguided logic in that.”

But Josiah could not be comforted. He could not go on. He had exhausted his ability to bear the pain, first of his confession and now of this revelation. The burden of Edward’s true parentage had weighed heavily upon his heart for many years. Even now that he had confessed, he felt no relief. And now, to hear his other son accused of both blackmail and murder was too much.

Aurora watched as he rose shakily, putting a hand on the window frame to steady himself. In vain. His knees gave way, and he began to sink towards the floor, his long coat splaying around him.

“Father!” cried Celia, and jumped up. As she did so, a small cylindrical object rolled across the floor towards Aurora. She retrieved it, intending to offer it back to Celia, who had evidently dropped it. But when she saw what it was, she slipped it into her pocket.

Celia knelt by her father’s side as he lay on the floor, his legs folded awkwardly beneath him, his wig sliding off, his head cradled in his daughter’s arms. “Fetch Harrison!” she ordered Aurora.

“Very well,” said Aurora, “but if your father is unwell, I can go for a physician. Perhaps if you loosen his necktie—”

“Leave us!” cried Celia bitterly. “He is unwell because
you
have broken his heart!”

Aurora stood back and gathered her skirt. “Even so,” she told Celia, “it does not mean I cannot be concerned for him. I have no wish to harm him, as you are well aware.”

Celia did not reply. Helplessness and dread silenced Aurora too. With no word of farewell, she turned her back, opened the door and hurried downstairs. “Harrison!” she called in the direction of the kitchen. “Come to your master! Quickly!”

When the man came running, hauling on his coat, she lifted the latch on the front door and let herself out. Once her feet were on the cobbles, she too began to run.

The Power to Work Magic

T
he apothecary held the phial to the small amount of light that filtered through the coloured bottles and jars in his shop window. “May I ask where you obtained this, sir?”

Richard indicated Aurora, who stood beside him. “This lady found it.”

“In the street?” asked the man, regarding Aurora suspiciously.

“No, sir, in a private house,” she replied.

He could see she was not inclined to elaborate, and his professional discretion would not allow him to question her further. “The container is the type in which poisons are stored,” he observed.

“So we thought,” said Richard. “That was our reason for bringing it to you. We wish to know what poison it is, and what its effects are.”

The apothecary gave a weary smile and put the phial down on the counter. “Ah. So you intend, sir, to murder your wife and marry your mistress?”

Aurora’s legs felt weak. The physical discomfort of a few snatched hours of sleep in a church pew, a long time without nourishment, the exertion of running from Mayfair to Covent Garden and the tumultuous events of the last twenty-four hours were taking their toll. She wished she could sit down, but there was no room in the tiny shop for a chair.

“I take it you are in jest, sir,” said Richard in his solemn way. “We merely desire the identification of this substance, for private reasons. If we had illegal intentions we would hardly present ourselves to you as being in possession of it.”

Aurora’s weariness made her impatient. “That is one of the services apothecaries such as yourself advertise, is it not?” she asked the man. She took a shilling from her purse and slid it across the counter. “I beg you, bring your professional knowledge to bear upon our questions, and be done with it.”

The man adjusted his spectacles, removed the stopper from the phial and poured a small amount of the dirty-white powder it contained onto a metal tray. Wetting his finger, he tasted a particle of it. “Arsenic,” he announced. “Used for killing rats.” He pointed to a large jar on a high shelf, half full of the same greyish-white substance. “It is a common-enough purchase. Indeed, it has often been observed that throughout history it has killed more people than rats, because it is such a convenient poison. It has medicinal and cosmetic uses, it is almost tasteless and odourless, and small doses may be administered over a long period. Furthermore, the symptoms caused by the fatal dose may be confused with other, more natural, deaths.”

Richard and Aurora were both staring at him. Aurora’s jaw was so tense she could not speak.

“Cholera, for example,” the apothecary went on, scraping up the powder with a tiny spoon and depositing it back in the phial. “Or even an extreme bilious attack, perhaps caused by bad food.”

Aurora remembered Edward’s description of his father’s death:
The physician declared him dead from a convulsion, or from eating something bad
.

Richard put his elbows on the counter and leaned forward, his expression so intense the man took a step back. “So a man might be poisoned, but his death declared a natural one by a physician?”

“Certainly.” The man wiped his hands on his apron, watching Richard warily. “The circumstances of the victim’s death are often very suspicious.”

“Indeed,” agreed Richard. He held his hand out for the phial. “We are indebted to you, sir. Would you be so good as to note down the day and date we entered your shop, and what we brought with us? We cannot leave it here, but your recollection of today’s events might be very important.”

“In a legal situation?” asked the man, placing the shilling in his apron pocket.

“Perhaps.”

“Not for the first time.” He took writing paper from a drawer and dipped a quill in the inkpot on the counter. “On the afternnon of the tenth of May, seventeen hundred,” he said as he wrote, “a lady and a gentleman …”

“Mrs Francis and Mr Allcott,” supplied Richard. “Two
l
s and two
t
s.”

“… brought me a phial of a powder which I identified as arsenic. They then took it away with them. Is that all, sir?”

Richard looked at Aurora. She nodded, and he turned back to the man. “Will you copy it, and give us the copy?”

The man did so. Richard gave him another shilling and requested that the paper be sealed and put away carefully. When he was satisfied, he put the phial and the copy in his pocket, thanked the apothecary again and ushered Aurora from the shop.