Thirty-Two
Earl Arthur stood in the cold cellar-chamber with a cloth held to his mouth, examining two corpses. While both were branded, and both wore native clothing, that was where the similarity ended.
The authenticity of number 383, James Talbert, could not be questioned. His curling, brown-blondish hair and classic Scot features, his square but emaciated form, all fit the known facts: the prisoner who would not be disciplined, who had escaped mentally ill, and on the verge of death. Even now he wore a look of defiance.
But the other, number 406, was all wrong. While no physical descriptions were listed on the tally sheet he held, this surely could not be a man who had fled across half the country, hunted and desperate, remaining with and protecting his doubly afflicted companion.
Beside the physical anomalies---the body before him was lean, but not from hunger, and bore no other signs of a destitute existence---he could find no indication in the pale, languid countenance of the necessary courage and character to survive such an ordeal. Indeed, it was difficult to imagine a face that exhibited less character, or spoke of a nature so obviously low and unseemly.
And what of the way he had been killed---by a single, clean blade-thrust to the heart? Why wouldn’t mounted patrols simply shoot him, if it came to it, rather than dismount, and engage in hand-to-hand fighting? Such a confrontation, with such a result, seemed unlikely at best. And to think of it, why had Talbert been shot in the back? A dying man, and one of his fiery and unstable temperament, was not likely to turn and run from his final meeting with the hated English pursuers.
But the most damning evidence required no such speculation. As an underling reluctantly turned the red-haired man onto his stomach, the discrepancy was plain. The brand just below the left shoulder was not a scar, but an unhealed burn, perhaps not even inscribed while the man still lived.
Earl Arthur had the weapon he needed.
But there was more to come. Upon returning to his chambers to mull over the discovery, and think how to use it to greatest advantage, he had found an old woman still at work on the rooms. He started to leave for the solitude of an adjacent library, when she accosted him with her knowing voice.
“Begging your lordship’s pardon,” she said, eyeing him steadily. “If you will forgive me, speaking so bold, I have words about my master you may find worthy of your attention.”
The Secretary did not think to remind her of her place, as he normally would have done. This was the very type of disclosure he had sought, and been unable to secure, from all the local persons his men had questioned. Fear seemed to padlock their jaws, and even the promise of reward (and protection from Lord Purceville’s wrath) could not induce them to speak.
So seating himself graciously on one side of a small table, he bid her sit down on the other, and the interview began.
The woman spoke mysteriously of an illegitimate daughter and her guardian, locked away to keep them from telling what they knew, and of the sudden disappearance of Purceville’s son when he learned of it, and sought out his father in a rage. Arthur himself had witnessed their tense meeting in the banquet hall, and marked the subsequent absence of young Stephen, which had been explained to him in a most unusual and unsatisfactory manner.
Wasting no more time he thanked the servant, gave her a silver coin, then called for his orderly and dictated a strong letter, informing Parliament and the King of his intention to call an immediate Inquest. By this time it was late afternoon. The Earl’s breathing was tight, as ever, and his heart beat hard and unevenly from the excitement.
But he was determined to act swiftly. After a quarter century, he finally had the means to slap down this crude upstart, who had seduced his niece away from him, and forced her into an unnatural marriage, ending in death.
From that time on they had been enemies. And he had sworn that if it took a lifetime, the rogue would be brought to term for his insolence. That Purceville had risen still further, despite his every intervention, had only fanned the embers of his jealous hatred, driving him on and on. Most galling (to a man who held as sacred trust his own noble birth) were the manipulations, never proved, which had led to his recognition as a Lord, descended from other Lords. Let others believe what they liked! This man was lower born than the commonest sailor, and one day he would hold forth his true nature for all to see.
And now, now that day had come! Throwing caution to the winds, he strode briskly down the long corridors, seeking a direct confrontation with his foe. At length he came upon him in his study, sitting unconcerned with a beautifully printed, leather-bound book in his hands: The Gentleman’s Creed, by Sir William Blythe.
“Purceville,” said the smaller man hotly. “I should like a word.”
“Certainly, Earl,” returned the other, with his hand indicating an adjacent armchair. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” His calm and courteous manner were infuriating. But seeing the book, Earl Arthur contained himself.
“I am here to inform you, Lord Purceville, of my decision to hold a formal Inquest into your conduct as Governor of this province. I have made this intention known to the King, and only await the arrival of his official observer to begin proceedings against you.”
“Well,” replied Purceville calmly. “You are within your rights as Secretary, I am sure. But might I inquire, as an innocent man, what it is I am being charged with?”
Arthur went on to tell him, with some heat, of the suspicious nature of the second corpse, of the bastard daughter imprisoned somewhere within the castle walls, and of the subsequent disappearance of his son, who could perhaps have explained both these things.
But not only was Purceville unruffled, when the girl was mentioned, it was all he could do to suppress a sinister smile.
“Yes,” he said, when the other had finished. “I can see how these things might upset you. And to tell the truth, I am as anxious for the answers as you are. I myself suspected mischief, when my men brought to me the alleged prisoner, number 406. I have since been conducting my own investigation into the matter.
“In fact, it was to this very end that I despatched my son---to the place where the capture is said to have occurred---to secure further details. I’m sorry I could not have been more forthcoming with you on this. Perhaps you will understand if an old soldier, far from his native soil, feels a certain loyalty to the men who help him defend an often hostile frontier? I did not wish to hold one or more of them before you as criminal, until there was conclusive evidence against him.”
He touched his fingertips lightly together, continued.
“As to the second charge---that of an illegitimate daughter---I must confess that I myself am bewildered. There is in fact a young woman here who claims that title---or rather, her guardian claims it for her. And though the evidence is quite clearly against them, still the woman persists. She has asked for a rather large sum as recompense, which I can only interpret as outright blackmail. But I assure you, they are not under lock and key. If it will ease your mind, I will take you to them after supper. In fact, I insist.”
So convincing had the performance been, the casual air and supreme confidence, that Earl Arthur experienced a moment of doubt. What if Purceville had spoken the truth, and the charges against him proved groundless? But his stubborn anger rallied, and he remembered with whom he was dealing.
“Yes, we will pay a call on them, immediately---and I mean just
that!---after the evening meal.” Which was, of course, exactly what Purceville wanted.
The old man started to leave, then paused in the doorway. “And when shall I have the pleasure of speaking to your son?”
The master never batted an eye. “Will tomorrow noon be acceptable? That is when he is scheduled to return to me with his report.” Arthur grunted, presumably in assent, and left the room.
The stage was set. Alone in her chambers, the old woman smiled.