The Reluctant Widow by Georgette Heyer
‘That remains to be seen, ma’am. Will you excuse me while I send a message out to your groom? I think he should go back at once to Highnoons, to inform Miss Beccles that you are safely in my charge, and that I shall convey you home in my carriage after dinner.’ She made a half-hearted protest, which was not attended to. He left the room, and was giving the butler his instructions in the hall when John Carlyon walked into the house, carrying his gun, and a couple of rabbits, which he handed to the footman.
‘Hallo, Ned, so you are back!’ he remarked. ‘I stayed in all the morning on the chance that I might be obliged to go over to Highnoons, but no message came, and so I thought I might as well see if I could come by any sport while I am at home.’
Carlyon nodded. ‘I was informed you had done so. Come into the library!’
‘I will do so when I have washed my hands,’ John promised.
Carlyon returned to the library himself, saying as he entered the room: ‘My brother is this instant come in, and will be with us in a minute or two, Mrs Cheviot.’
She made as if she would have risen from her chair. ‘You wish to be private with him, I know. I will leave you, sir.’
‘Indeed, I beg you will not! I may depend upon your discretion. You already know so much that you must know the whole.’
‘You are very good, sir, but Mr John Carlyon may not like to discuss these matters in my presence, and I would not –’
‘Mr John Carlyon will do as he is bid,’ he replied.
She smiled. ‘Ah, I knew you for a despot upon my first encounter with you, my lord!’
‘Very rarely, I assure you! It seems a long time since that day.’
‘Yes, I have often feared that I was but tedious company,’ remarked the widow affably. ‘You must blame my circumstances, sir, which have made me lose the art of making myself agreeable in society.’
‘I observe that they have not made you lose your quickness of tongue, ma’am! You have wished to see me put out of countenance, and now cannot doubt that you have had your wish gratified!’
She laughed, but shook her head. John came into the room at that moment, rubbing his chilled hands together. He stopped short when he perceived Elinor, and said in a voice of surprise: ‘Mrs Cheviot! I had no notion – Ned, you should have warned me you had a guest with you! I would not have come in in all my dirt! Pray excuse me, ma’am! I have been out shooting, and have had no time to change my jacket!’
‘Mrs Cheviot will excuse you readily,’ Carlyon said. ‘I have been waiting to see you all the afternoon. The memorandum has been found.’
‘What! Not at Highnoons!’ John exclaimed.
‘Yes, at Highnoons, locked in the bracket-clock on the mantelpiece in the book-room.’
‘Good God! You do not mean it! It is the actual copy that is missing?’
‘I have not perused it, but read enough to convince me it could be none other. You may look at it.’ He drew a folded sheaf from his pocket, and handed it to his brother.
John almost snatched it from him, and spread open the sheets, scanning them rapidly, and with starting eyes. ‘My God, there can be no doubt! Who found this?’
‘I did – through the instrumentality of Mrs Cheviot,’ Carlyon replied.
John’s gaze was turned respectfully towards her. She said: ‘Yes, indeed, he could scarcely have succeeded without me. You may imagine how happy I am to have suffered a broken head in this cause! To be sure, I was a little put out at first, for you must know that from some cause or another I have not been very much in the habit of being hit on the head, and so was inclined to refine too much on the event. But your brother’s powerful reasoning soon showed me how absurd it was in me to be vexed by such a trifling thing! I make no complaint. I see that it was all for the best.’
‘My dear Mrs Cheviot! You are surely jesting!’ said John, quite bewildered.
‘I do not wonder at your surprise. You would not have supposed I could play so large a part in the recovery of that document! I did not suppose it myself, and I will own that I could have wished my part in the affair to have been of a less passive nature.’
John turned his head to direct an imploring look at Carlyon, who said, with a slight smile: ‘It is very true, my dear John, but Mrs Cheviot has her own way of describing what has occurred. She wished to see if she could not wind up that clock, and while she was endeavouring to open it – but in vain, since it was locked, and I held the key – Francis Cheviot must have entered the room behind her. He saw her with a household inventory in her hand, in the act of adjusting the clock, and sprang to a false conclusion. I think he must have used the paper-weight which I observed on the desk to strike her down. I am persuaded that he took care not to hit her with sufficient force to do her a serious injury, but –’
‘Are you indeed?’ interrupted Elinor. ‘How considerate that was of him! I wonder if I should write to express the sense of my obligation to him?’
‘Obligation!’ John ejaculated, his mind too much taken up with the enormity of the occurrence to be susceptible to irony. ‘It passes everything! I hope you have had the fellow laid by the heels, Ned!’
‘No. He has gone back to London, carrying the clock with him,’ Carlyon replied, taking a pinch of snuff.
John stared at him. ‘I think you must have taken leave of your senses!’
Elinor picked up another macaroon. ‘I must own I have often wondered when that melancholy suspicion would enter your brain, sir,’ she said. ‘I saw at the outset that his intellect was sadly disordered, but I dare say it has come upon him gradually, and you might not notice quite immediately.’
‘Nonsense!’ said John testily. ‘Ned has as sound a head as any of my acquaintance! But how is this, Ned? You cannot want more proof!’
‘I believe I do not, but I also believe that we shall do well to take care how we proceed in this business. I would do nothing until I had consulted with you. I fancy we can neither of us be anxious to advertise this matter. The connection between ourselves and the Cheviots is too close to be comfortable. If matters can be settled without scandal, I own I should prefer it.’
‘You cannot suppose I have not considered that!’ John said, taking a quick turn about the room. ‘But it will not do! Even if I knew how to restore that memorandum secretly, I would not do it! It is not the part of an honest man to let a traitor remain at large out of considerations of family!’
‘Or, indeed, out of any other consideration. But if we could be sure that the traitor was rendered powerless for the future?’
‘How?’ John demanded, stopping to stare at him.
‘I fancy it is in a way to be done.’
‘Ned, what the devil have you been about?’
‘It is not my doing. I may even be mistaken. That must be ascertained, of course.’
‘I do not know what you would be at! Here you have in your possession a document that must be instantly taken to Lord Bathurst, with the full story of its discovery! You cannot be thinking of doing otherwise! It will be hushed up, I make no doubt: no one will be anxious to have it known how easily such a document went astray!’
Carlyon was silent, frowning down at the memorandum, which he had picked up, and folded again. After a moment he raised his eyes, and directed one of his level glances at his brother. ‘I think we should do better to give these papers to Francis Cheviot,’ he said.
His words struck both his auditors dumb. They regarded him in stupefaction. He had spoken in a reflective tone, as though debating within himself, and did not appear to notice the effect his words produced.
‘You – think – we – should – Ned, are you indeed mad?’ John gasped.
‘No. I have not had the opportunity to tell you what I discovered – or, rather, verified – in London. Louis De Castres was stabbed.’
Real perturbation was in John’s face. ‘Ned, old fellow, you cannot
‘We knew it because Francis told us so. It was not in the Morning Post, from which he said he had learnt the tidings, nor in any other paper that I can discover. ‘Stabbed to death’ was the phrase he used. I marked it particularly.’
‘Good God, it was what anyone might have said, assuming it had been so!’
‘But it happens to have been exactly true. You may recall that he spoke of De Castres’s body having been left under a bush. That was also true, but it was nowhere stated in the newspapers.’
John sank into a chair, repeating in a dazed voice: ‘Good God!’
Elinor said: ‘Do you mean to imply – can you possibly mean – that it was Mr Cheviot who murdered that unfortunate young Frenchman?’
‘I think so. I have suspected it all along, but some proof was needed.’
‘Ned, it’s not possible!’ John exclaimed. ‘De Castres was a friend of his! That is too well-known to admit of question!’
‘I don’t question it. I told you that Francis Cheviot was a very dangerous man. I have been aware of that these many years. I do not know what he would stop at: very little, I dare say.’
‘Damme, I like the fellow no better than you do, but you make him out to be villainous beyond belief!’
‘Villainous, perhaps, but not, I think, the villain of this plot. That, if I am not much mistaken, is Bedlington.’
‘Bedlington!’ John ejaculated.
‘It was always a possibility, you know, though I admit it seemed unlikely. It was not until I had had leisure to consider the matter more particularly that I realised how very much more unlikely was my first, really rather foolish, suggestion. It could never have been Francis, of course.’
‘I do not know what you mean! To suspect a man in old Bedlington’s position rather than his son seems to me fantastic!’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Carlyon replied. ‘If Francis, who was De Castres’s close friend, had been the traitor, what possible need could there have been to have employed Eustace as the go-between? No go-between would have been necessary. That such a tool as Eustace was employed should have shown me clearly from the start that the man we were trying to discover must be someone who was anxious not to be known by the French agent with whom he was dealing. Then, too, in using Eustace – hardly an ideal choice, surely! – he betrayed a clumsiness that could have nothing to do with Francis.’
John was silent for a moment, turning it over in his mind. ‘It is true!’ he said at last. ‘I do not know how I can have been so dull as not to have thought of it. I own I did not. How long have you been convinced of this, Ned?’
‘Convinced! I do not know that I am convinced now. It has come upon me gradually, I suppose. My enquiries into the circumstances of De Castres’s death, and the discovery that Bedlington was gone into the country, and was said by his butler to be in such indifferent health as to make rest and quiet indispensable, made me as certain as a man might well be without positive proof – which I will admit I have not. For that reason I would do nothing without consulting with you.’
John nodded, frowning. He walked to the table, and poured himself a glass of madeira, and stood gazing down at it meditatively. ‘It is not easy to see what one should do,’ he said.
‘No.’
‘You have said yourself it is conjecture. If you are right how came Cheviot to know what his father was about?’
Carlyon shrugged. ‘There might be several answers, but I do not know them.’
John drank some of his wine. ‘If Cheviot did indeed kill De Castres –’ He stopped. ‘Black waistcoats!’ he said scathingly. ‘Faugh! The man makes me sick!’
Elinor asked diffidently: ‘Pardon me, but if Mr Cheviot was not himself engaged in the plot, how came he to know the hiding-place in the clock?’
‘Again, we cannot know the answer,’ Carlyon replied.
John looked up. ‘Ay, and if Louis De Castres did not know who stood behind Eustace, how did Bedlington hear of Eustace’s death before the notice of it had appeared in the journals?’
‘He told us that he had it from Eustace’s valet.’
‘And I asked you if you believed that, and you said you did not! Did you not think De Castres, upon learning the news from Mrs Cheviot, had run to Bedlington with it?’
‘Yes, I did. I still believe it to have been possible.’
‘How so?’
‘My dear John, if you had a secret to conceal, would you have entrusted it to Eustace?’
‘No, by God!’ John gave a short laugh. ‘You think he may have told De Castres, when in his cups, that it was Bedlington who was selling information?’
‘Very likely. Or it may be that De Castres might have guessed the truth.’
John turned to Elinor. ‘When he visited you, Mrs Cheviot, did Bedlington make any attempt to come near that clock, or to contrive that he should be left alone in the book-room?’
‘None whatsoever,’ she replied. ‘I received him in the parlour, and he showed no disposition to linger. But he did say that he would return, to attend the funeral, and that he should stay at Highnoons.’
‘He was frightened,’ John said slowly. ‘At that time, I did not credit Ned’s suspicions, but it is true that he was devilishly ill-at-ease. But Ned thought then that Francis Cheviot might be the man we were after, and I set it all down to Bedlington’s having got wind of it. Ned, do you think he can have lost his head, and told the whole to Francis? Or even that Francis has been privy to it from the start?’
‘Certainly not that. Had Francis been joined with his father in the treason I cannot doubt that De Castres would be alive to-day. It is possible that Bedlington, finding his schemes to have gone hopelessly awry, turned to Francis for aid, to save him from disgrace. That Bedlington, with affairs in this uncertain state, has retired into the country on a plea of ill-health, seems to me to suggest that Francis has taken the reins into his hands, and is driving his father hard.’
Again John stared down into his wineglass, his brow furrowed. ‘And you would give that memorandum to him?’ he said.
‘Well?’ Carlyon said. ‘If my conjectures are found to be correct, you will agree that Francis Cheviot leaves nothing to chance. De Castres was his friend, but De Castres is dead. I do not know how he means to deal with Bedlington, but I think, if I were Bedlington, I should deem it well to obey Francis – quite implicitly.’
‘Surely he would not harm his own father!’ cried Elinor.
‘I wonder if his father thinks so?’ said Carlyon dryly.
‘Ned, this is not a thing to be decided in a trice.’
‘No. Turn it over in your mind. If you are set on exposing the whole, very well: it shall be so.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘You will wish to change your dress before we dine. We’ll say no more of the matter at this present. Mrs Cheviot, if you should like it, I will take you to Mrs Rugby. We dine in half an hour.’
She thanked him, and rose, but before he had taken two steps towards the door, it opened, and Nicky bounced into the room, looking tired, and dishevelled, but triumphant. ‘I’ve found him!’ he announced.
‘Good God!’ John exclaimed. ‘Where, Nicky?’
‘Why, you would never believe it! In our own West Wood!’
‘What?’
‘Ay! And I had been searching for ever, but never thought, until I was in flat despair, that he might have come this way! He knew I was after him, too, and in the devil of a temper, for he hid from me under a bush! It was the merest chance that I caught sight of him, and he would not come out, not he!’
‘Hid from you under a bush?’ John repeated blankly.
‘Yes, and I had to drag him out by main force. He is so plastered with mud I have shut him in the stables, and he may roll himself clean in the straw. Lord, how thankful I am to have got him back safe!’
John gave a gasp. ‘Are you talking about that damnable mongrel of yours!’ he demanded.
‘He is not a mongrel! He is a cross-bred! Why, what else should I be talking about, I should like to know?’
‘I thought you had been searching for Cheviot!’
‘Cheviot! What, with Bouncer lost? No, I thank you! Besides,’ said Nicky, recalling his grievance, and suddenly speaking with alarming hauteur, ‘I have quite washed my hands of that business, since Carlyon had as lief manage without my help. I’m sure it’s no matter to me, and much I care!’
‘If I have sunk to being Carlyon I see that I have offended beyond pardon,’ remarked his mentor. ‘But I think you might bid Mrs Cheviot good evening.’
Nicky became aware of Elinor’s presence, and blinked at her. ‘Why, hallo, Cousin Elinor!’ he said. ‘How came you here? I thought you was laid down upon your bed!’ He looked round suspiciously. ‘Oh! I suppose something excessively exciting has happened which you do not mean to tell me!’
‘Nicky, stop being so out of reason cross! Of course I mean to tell you!’
‘You will not do so!’ John said hastily.
‘Nonsense! This has been more Nicky’s adventure than mine, and I think he has a right to know the end of it.’
‘The fewer people to know the better. It is a damned serious affair, Ned, but it is just like you to be treating it as if it were the merest commonplace!’
Nicky, who had flushed up to the roots of his hair, said stiffly: ‘If you think it unsafe to tell me, you need not do so! Though why you should I don’t know, for it was Gussie who always gave away all the secrets, not I!’
Perceiving that he had grievously hurt his young brother’s feelings, John said, in a testy voice: ‘Now, Nick, don’t, for God’s sake, be such a young fool! Only you are such a rattle-pate, you may blurt something out without meaning to! However, it is for Ned to decide! I have nothing to say in the matter. The fact is, those papers are found, and Ned will have it that it was Bedlington who was selling them to Boney, and Francis trying only to recover them, and to scotch the scandal if the theft should leak out!’