Strangers at Dawn (38 page)

“No!”
The word echoed off the walls. She shook her head and said in a broken whisper, “No.”

“What then, Sara?
Tell mer’

“She was there, sitting on the bottom step. But she was in a daze. I’d given her laudanum, no more than the doctor prescribed, and she didn’t know where she was. I suppose she heard William and me fighting and had come downstairs to investigate. I asked her where William was. She didn’t answer. She didn’t understand. I was only too glad to think that I hadn’t killed him, and that he’d left the house. I took Anne back to bed, but the bleeding had started again, and I couldn’t leave her. It was the worst night of my life. I thought William might return with his friends or the constable. I don’t know what I thought. I wanted to get help for Anne, but I couldn’t leave her.” Her voice caught on a sob. “I couldn’t leave her, and she was in no condition to walk to the main house.”

She looked at him now, and for an instant, all the anguish and fear from the memory of that night was plain to see. Her breathing was harsh and her voice thick with emotion. “In the morning, the constables came. It was obvious they suspected Anne or me of murdering William. So I told them that William had not come home that night. It was only later that I began to believe that I really had killed him and that in the few minutes I was in the kitchen, Anne had dragged his body to the priest’s hole and had hidden it there. Later, when she was better, I asked her if she’d seen William that night, but she can’t remember. All she remembers is William beating her and losing a baby that she really wanted. I would have looked in the priest’s hole, but it was too late. The authorities had sealed off the house. Then I was arrested. And after the trial, I waited too long. The house burned down. I had to leave Stoneleigh. You know the rest.”

There was a long silence after that. Sara put her head on her knees, and Max pulled a thin cigar from his pocket and
lit it from the lantern. He stood beside Sara, his back propped against the stone wall and inhaled slowly. He watched the smoke he exhaled float for a moment in front of his face then quietly dissipate. Above his head, he could see the stars.

“Why didn’t you tell me all this before?” he said at last.

She looked at him with tired, dull eyes. “Because you
are
the
Courier,
Max. I wasn’t afraid for myself. After all, I was acquitted and can’t be tried again. But Anne is different. I was afraid of what your paper would do to her. I was afraid the authorities would believe that Anne and I had been in it together. They can’t charge me, but they can still charge Anne. But they can’t charge her now, can they?”

“No.” He sighed. “And you thought I couldn’t be trusted?”

“I trusted you with myself, but not with Anne.” She paused. “Or at least, I wasn’t willing to take that chance.” He inhaled again. “So what do you think happened to William?”

“I
think,” she shivered, “that he’s alive. Who else could have written those notes? What would be the point?”

Max might have argued with her, but he saw her shiver again, and he decided that this was not the time to go into it. They had a lot to talk about, a lot to straighten out between them.

He felt as weary as she looked. “I want you to go back to the house,” he said, “and stay there. Peter Fallon will go with you. Try to get a good night’s rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”

He would have helped her to her feet but he didn’t want to see her flinch from his touch again.

“Peter is here?” There was no real interest in her voice.

“He’s standing guard outside the house.”

He walked her to the front steps. When he whistled, Peter appeared at the garden gate. “Go with him,” said Max.

She blinked up at him. “What are you going to do?” “I’m going to find out what happened to William,” he said.

“Are you going to publish the story in your newspaper, I mean, about Anne and me?”

He walked off without answering her.

Twenty-three

M
AX HAD NO DIFFICULTY FINDING DREW
Primrose’s cottage. Though there were no lights shining from its windows, there were lanterns hanging on posts, spaced out at intervals, to light the way to a row of workmen’s cottages farther up the hill. It was long after midnight, but he didn’t give a damn about the time. He was in a filthy temper, and it showed in the way his fist hammered on the door.

His fist was only an indistinct shape, but he stopped hammering, unfisted his hand and turned it over. He would never have put himself in the same class as William Neville. He would never dream of lifting his hand in anger against a woman. But there were other ways of making a woman submit. He’d been angry when he’d made love to Sara tonight. He’d imposed himself on her. Would she forgive him? And how could he make her understand something he didn’t understand himself?

He thrust the thought from him and began to hammer on the door again. When no one called out or came to answer, he used his booted foot to force the lock. He walked into a velvety darkness and promptly fell against an obstacle in his path. Cursing softly and fluently, he groped his way to
the wall where he expected to find the fireplace. He was in luck. On the mantelpiece, he found the ubiquitous tinder-box. It took several tries, but eventually he got the tinder going, and he put the flame to the candle he found on the mantel. That done, he turned to survey the room.

It wasn’t as small as he’d expected. Then he remembered that Drew Primrose’s father had been the head gardener at Longfield. His cottage would be bigger than those of the ordinary laborers. This room would have been the front parlor, but it was now converted into an office. A flat-topped desk was positioned in front of the window. It was a chair he’d bumped into when he’d entered. Books and ledgers lined the walls.

He went through a door and found the kitchen. The only furniture was a table and chairs. There were pots and kitchen utensils, and everything was as neat and clean as a doctor’s surgery. There were two bedrooms, one starkly empty, the other containing only a bed and a chair.

Drew Primrose had done well for himself, considering his humble beginnings. But he wouldn’t have got so far if it hadn’t been for Sara. It didn’t seem likely that if he loved Sara, he had sent her those notes, but he’d been caught out in a lie, and that made him suspect in Max’s eyes.

He returned to the office and placed both his candle and pistol on the flat of the desk. The curtains were already drawn. Whether or not he found what he was looking for here, he would go to Stoneleigh and roust Drew Primrose out of his bed. There were questions he wanted answered right now, not tomorrow or the day after that. And there was every chance that after he’d questioned Sara’s attorney, the mystery of William Neville would begin to unravel. He’d learned a lot tonight, not enough to unmask a murderer-and he was still sure that William was dead-but enough to narrow the field. Odd bits of information were beginning to click in his mind. A few more pieces of the
puzzle were all he needed, then he would have the whole picture.

All the desk drawers were locked. He returned to the kitchen, found a sharp knife and set to work. In the top drawer, there were papers and letters, in fact, just what Max was looking for. From his coat pocket, he removed the last note in William’s handwriting that Sara had received, and began to compare it with the writing on the letters he’d removed from the drawer. Nothing matched.

He started on the next drawer and the next, with the same result. When he forced open the bottom drawer, the deepest drawer, he found a bottle of brandy and an assortment of odds and ends. One by one, he removed each article from its hiding place and set it on the desk. There was a muslin kerchief, a pearl earring, one white kid glove and a monogrammed lace handkerchief. Max shook his head. These were the kind of mementoes a man with a romantic frame of mind would keep as souvenirs of love affairs. There were no such mementoes in his desk drawers.

They belonged to Sara, he thought, and temper sizzled through him. He picked up the lace handkerchief, unfolded it and examined the monogram. His brow pleated in a frown. He was tracing the initials with his finger when he heard footsteps approaching the front door. Dropping the handkerchief, he reached for his pistol, took two paces back, out of arm’s reach, and waited.

The door opened and Drew Primrose entered. “I thought we agreed-” He stopped short when he saw Max, and a look of utter surprise spread over his face. “You?” His glance flicked to his desk, then to the gun in Max’s hand. “What,” he said in an awful voice, “do you think you’re doing?”

Max cocked the pistol and gestured to a chair beside the empty grate. “I thought it was time;’ he said, “that you and I had a private conversation without Sara there to protect you.”

Neither his words nor the gun cowed Drew Primrose but just the opposite. He looked as though he might spring at Max.

“Try it,” said Max, “and I’ll put a bullet in your kneecap, then I’ll have you up on a charge of attempted murder.”

“This is my home! You’re a trespasser!”

“On the contrary. This is my property, by right of my marriage to Sara. Sit down, Mr. Primrose, and I’ll put my pistol away.”

Though he still bristled with hostility, Drew Primrose walked to the wooden chair by the fireplace and sat down. Max put his pistol on the desk, within easy reach, then propped himself against the chair. He’d smelled strong spirits on the other man as he’d passed him, and a whiff of cologne, cheap, flowery cologne.

Max said easily, “I didn’t know there were any fleshpots in Stoneleigh, but by the smell of you, I’d say you’d just come from a brothel.” When there was no reply, he went on, “Now that really surprises me. From everything I’ve heard and learned about you, I would have said you were the straitlaced type, you know, nose always to the grindstone, conscientious, a little holier than the next man.”

The younger man’s face flushed scarlet, and he said furiously, “I don’t have to account for my movements to you, or my character. So tell me what you want and get out.”

“Fine. Let’s not mince words. You can begin by telling me where you were the night William Neville disappeared.”

“The night-” Drew Primrose stared and went on staring.

“Where were you, Mr. Primrose?” asked Max quietly,

“I was in Bristol.”

“Not so. I had someone check on you and you didn’t arrive until the following night.”

“And you think-what? That I killed William Neville and disposed of his body?”

“That’s exactly what I think. You were in love with
Anne Neville, were you not? Her husband brutalized her. So you got rid of him.”

Drew Primrose sat motionless, appalled. “How did you know about Anne?” he asked hoarsely.

Max picked up the lace handkerchief, and looked down at it. “This is Anne’s handkerchief. It has her initials on it.” He looked at Drew Primrose. “Everyone thought it was Sara you loved, and why shouldn’t they? Anne was married. You were always hanging around Longfield. You became the steward here and spent most of your nights in this cottage. But that wasn’t so that you could be near Sara. It was always Anne with you.”

“What if it was? That doesn’t mean I killed William.” He stared at his hand and made it into a fist. “I wish I had killed the bastard,” he said fiercely.

“Was Anne carrying your child? Is that why you killed William? Because he found out about you and Anne?”

Drew Primrose’s head snapped back. “No! You’ve got it all wrong. Anne and I have never been lovers.”

“You sent those notes to Sara, didn’t you? You wanted to bring her back to Stoneleigh then get rid of her so that you and Anne could inherit the Carstairs fortune.”

“What notes? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Max gave the other man no time to think before he flung each question at him…” It was you who attacked Sara when she went to the dower house. You would have murdered her, wouldn’t you?”

“No! I didn’t know Sara was attacked!”

“Were you and Anne in this together?”

“No!”

“Where is William Neville’s body?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then tell me what you do know, Mr. Primrose, because as far as I can see you and Anne have the most to gain by doing away with William Neville and Sara.”

Drew Primrose was white to the very roots of his hair.
His mouth was slack; his eyes unblinking. A shudder passed over him. “You couldn’t be more wrong,” he said.

Max let out a long breath. “Then tell me the truth. Tell me where you were the night William disappeared.”

Drew swallowed. “I was in Bath-no, listen to me-I was on my way to Bristol, but I stayed over in Bath that first night, with a woman I’d met at the White Hart. I was in despair, I suppose, and saw no reason I should not console myself with a pretty woman. Yes, I loved Anne and she loved me. I’d finally persuaded her to leave William and come away with me. Then she learned she was with child, William’s child, and she said that changed everything. I was hurt, furious, I don’t know what. So I found a woman to make me forget.”