The Birth of Blue Satan (16 page)

His allusion to the intolerable accusation Sir Joshua had made caused Gideon to curl his fingers into a fist. He did not know if the Duke would go so far as to back the accusations, but he could only think of one motive why he might.

“I am aware of your Grace’s designs on a certain lady of our acquaintance, but I will not be discouraged. I mean to marry her.”

If he had expected to anger the Duke, he was soon undeceived.

Bournemouth merely laughed. “Have at her, my boy, and I wish you joy. I would advise you to make haste, however, before someone cuts you out. I believe her mother is eager to make a decision. But, now that you raise the point, one has heard—has one not?—that you will stop at nothing to have her.

“Have a care, St. Mars,” he said, turning to depart. “Take care that that temper of yours does not bring you to an early grave.”

He strolled to the top of the stairs, leaving Gideon to stare after him. The two constables moved up to flank him.

Before his Grace descended, he threw an amused glance back over his shoulder. “I will have the lady if I want her, St. Mars. Make no mistake about that. For the rest . . . you should consider all that I have said.”

He left Gideon angrily torn between a desire to make him eat his words and a fear he could not wish to acknowledge.

He looked down at his hands, tightly balled into murderous fists. The weight of his solid gold mourning ring had been added to his fingers just minutes ago.

The Reverend Mr. Bramwell had assured him that his father had chosen the image that adorned it—a death’s head, in the centre of his family’s coat of arms.

Gideon managed to shake off his constables for another short while. He could hardly bear their presence in the face of the glances he had received today. The Duke’s casual remarks about Isabella had raised a fear in him that threatened to overwhelm anything else.

He could not lose her, too, not when he had just lost his father. Life could not be so unfair.

He needed to get back to London to see her. But he could not—and would not—stir from his home until he had uncovered his father’s killer. He had not been able to question his guests, and no one had volunteered any theories on who might have committed the crime. It would be entirely up to him to discover it, and now was the moment to get his questions answered.

He gave orders for his father’s receiver-general, James Henry, to attend him in the library where his father had been attacked. This was the room where his father had been murdered. It was also the place where Gideon had last seen him alive.

James Henry, he recalled, had been outside the room when he had stormed past the servants after their argument. He should be able to tell Gideon something of the details of that day.

The library occupied one of the larger closets in the king’s wing, in a twisting set of chambers that led to the former king’s suite. One of these had been converted into a library by his father, who had enjoyed a rare collection of nearly three hundred volumes. A system of cabinets and presses had been designed to protect his books in folio behind doors, while a separate leaf had been hinged to fold out into a desk.

The room had been cleaned. Whatever books might have been left out had been placed behind their cabinet doors. The leaf that opened into a desk had been locked and all his father’s papers tidied away. For an instant, Gideon wondered if the Duke’s papers could be found inside that desk, before he was distracted by an unusual sight.

The Turkey carpet had been removed.

Normally, it covered the floor. It had undoubtedly been stained with his father’s blood. As Gideon looked on the scene of the murder and their last, vicious argument, he was nearly overcome by pain.

James Henry chose that moment to appear. He paused in the doorway, a strong, square figure of medium height with harsh facial features, dressed in the sober brown clothing of a superior servant, his manner stiffly correct.

“You asked to see me, my lord?”

 Unlike the other servants in the household, he had not come to offer his condolences. Nor did he now.

Gideon felt the strange discomfort he had always known in this man’s presence. For some reason, his father’s man of business had never taken to his open ways. His failure now to show any regard for Gideon’s suffering made him angry. It had not escaped him that neither James Henry nor his father’s friends had once honoured him with the title of Hawkhurst.

“I have some questions to ask you,” Gideon said. “Will you please tell me where my father was found?”

James Henry hesitated, as if considering
whether
—not
how
—to respond.

“Over there,” he finally said, “quite near to the far door. I came in to see if there was anything his lordship needed and discovered him, dragging himself across the carpet.”

Gideon looked up swiftly. “Did he suffer much?”

For a brief instant, Henry’s eyes revealed a flicker of emotion, before he shuttered them, and said, “My lord displayed his usual courage. He gave no indication of suffering, although his wound was deep enough to impede his breathing. He insisted on trying to speak instead of allowing me to fetch aid.”

“What did he say?”

Henry’s expression was guarded. “He did not name his assailant, if that is what you are asking. He only managed to get out that he had wounded the coward. He spoke of treachery, and his distress was obviously heightened by thoughts of betrayal.”

His voice had taken on an edge. Gideon was shaken by the accusation he saw the man’s eyes.

Hurt and anger kept him from responding to it now. “Sir Joshua Tate came to see me in London. I presume he questioned you and the rest of the household?”

A stiff nod was his only answer.

“How was the murderer able to enter and leave the house with no one’s knowledge?”

“It is presumed—my lord—” and here Henry’s insolent tone made his opinion clear— “that he came up the small back stairs beyond this closet and vanished the same way. There were drops of blood on the stairs.”

“How long after I left did you find him?”

“Not
very
long, my lord. No more than half an hour . . . Long enough, I suppose.”

Gideon’s mind reeled. No wonder it was thought he had killed his father. The back stairs would only be used by someone very familiar with the house. It was one of the improvements his father had made to facilitate the movement of servants through a building with more than two hundred and fifty rooms. Tightly wound and narrow, the staircase was never used by outsiders.

“A search was made?”

“We began it immediately after my Lord Hawkhurst died. We do not know how much lead his killer had, but presumably not long. Again, it is presumed that he took the road for London. We found no sign of him then, and the search was cut off as soon as Sir Joshua was sent for.”

“Had no one seen any horse or carriage waiting?”

“No.”

“And all the servants were accounted for?”

In Henry’s eyes, he saw a sneer forming. “There is little reason to suppose that this was the work of a servant, my lord.”

“Why not? What reason and
whose
reason should be applied to this? I do not like the tone of your voice, Mr. Henry.”

As James Henry’s gaze followed the unconscious movement of his hand, Gideon relaxed it before it reached his sword.

Would every burst of his anger and every attempt to defend his honour be interpreted as the action of a murderer?

A footman entered the room. Gideon was arrested by the signs of agitation on his face.

“My lord—there are gentlemen to see you.”

Gideon felt that this was no polite visit.

“Have they sent up a name?”

“One of them is that magistrate, Sir Joshua Tate, my lord. He insisted on being taken to you immediately. Mr. Shaw tried to tell him that you was recovering from your father’s burial, but he said his business cannot wait.”

“Take me to him then,” Gideon said, anger pressing at his jaw. “I find I am ready to say a great deal to Sir Joshua right now. Mr. Henry, you and I will continue this conversation soon. Please be waiting to come to me as soon as I call you.”

He could not help noticing Henry’s failure to bow as he strode from the silent room.

Four Knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band,

Caps on their heads, and halberts in their hand;

And particoloured troops, a shining train,

Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain.

Form a strong line about the silver bound,

And guard the wide circumference around.

Whatever spirit, careless of his charge,

His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large,

Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o’ertake his sins,

Be stopped in vials, or transfixed with pins;

Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie,

Or wedged whole ages in a bodkin’s eye:

Gums and Pomatums shall his flight restrain,

While clogged he beats his silken wings in vain .

Think what an equipage thou hast in Air,

And view with scorn two Pages and a Chair.

CHAPTER 8

Sir Joshua had refused to be shown into a room. He waited for Gideon at the base of the great stone staircase, the two constables by his side.

“Well, my lord.” As Gideon descended, the magistrate addressed him with barely concealed smugness. “You are come back into Kent in time to save me a great deal of bother.”

Gideon took the last few steps, taking offence at the man’s glib manner. “Am I to believe that you have caught my father’s killer, sir?”

The justice of the peace returned an unamused smile. “I have, my lord, although I doubt it will bring you much joy—I have come to arrest you, Gideon Charles Francis Fitzsimmons, for the murder of your father, Charles Edmund Fitzsimmons, fifth Earl Hawkhurst.”

Gideon’s heart gave an angry leap. He heard a gasp from the footman behind him, and revulsion filled him. “You cannot possibly mean this!”

“Aye, but I do, my Lord St. Mars. Your family’s tainted blood has caught up with one of you at last. I make no doubt your father’s head should be hanging on London Bridge, but you have saved His Majesty that bit of trouble.

“You will accompany me to my chambers where your deposition will be taken before you are remanded to the King’s prison in Maidstone.” To the constables, he quickly ordered, “Tie his hands.”

Gideon made a reach for his sword, but the constables were much quicker than they looked. Jumping him from both sides, they each grabbed an arm. He struggled with all his might, but his weight was no match for two burly men. Accustomed to subduing unruly prisoners, they spared no blows.

His body was bruised and scraped before they managed to tie his wrists behind him. Then, breathless, and with fury burning a hole in his side, he had to give up his struggle.

By the time they had secured him, more servants had run into the hall, attracted by the sounds. He heard Robert’s wails and Philippe’s Gallic curses, but none of his servants took up the fight.

He could not expect them to. None of them was armed. But it galled him to be taken like a common thief in his own house.

He was pushed and pulled out of the hall, the servants following after them. The grooms and coachman had gathered in front. Tom, who must have heard of Sir Joshua’s arrival and come to see what message he brought, instantly moved into their path to block their way.

“You let his lordship go,” he said to the magistrate, “or there’ll be hell to pay!”

“Hush, fool, or I will put you in chains alongside your master! And who do you think will help the two of you? Never fear, your lord will have his fair trial. The next assizes will sit in August.”

“The assizes!” Gideon came to such a sudden halt that his captors nearly lost their grips. “I shall be tried in the Lords, according to my rights.”

“No, you will not. You have never received a writ of summons, have you, St. Mars? You have never been received as a peer, and I believe their lordships will not insist on granting you those rights—not when you killed your father to get them.”

“That’s a lie!” Tom shouted.

“Stand aside, man,” Sir Joshua said. “I’ve told you he will get his fair trial. Although I warn you, it is not at all likely that he will be cleared. The lot of you have tried to hide his guilt, but happily there are
some
men on this estate who have respect for the law.”

“They’re liars, too!” Tom clenched his fists, ready to do battle.

Gideon’s mind had been whirling in shock at what his imprisonment would mean. Nearly five months until his indictment and trial. He would rot in a prison cell, unable to act. He could not allow himself to be gaoled when giving in would mean that his father’s murderer would go free.

He saw that Tom had drawn back a fist and hastily spoke. “It is quite all right, Tom. They have no proof. This is nothing but a foolish misunderstanding. They cannot possibly convict me of something I did not do. Besides, you can serve me much better here than you can from inside a gaol.”

He had tried to sound convincing, but deep down he knew that the cards were stacked against him. He would not be allowed to seek counsel or even to face his accusers, not unless Sir Joshua wished, and clearly he meant to establish Gideon’s guilt and no one else’s. Sir Joshua would likely sit upon the Grand Jury, which had been loaded with Whig justices of the peace since the recent elections. The Crown had no obligation to provide him with the least defence. Nor would it allow him to furnish his own, other than a plea. Even questions about the evidence against him could be ignored.

The Duke of Bournemouth’s remark about his lack of friends at Court came to taunt him now like the ringing of his death knell.

Tom must have noted his doubts, for he started up again. “Master Gideon—let me come with you.”

“No.” Just that suddenly, Gideon thought of a plan. He must, and he would escape.