“He sent you a letter?”
“Yes, from Vienna before he killed himself.”
“But how old were you?”
“Twelve.”
“He told you what he was going to do?”
“Not specifically. Just that he’d met with certain ruin and wouldn’t be coming home. He said that one man had destroyed him.”
“But he didn’t say who?” I asked.
“Not by name. Only that the man who’d bought his freedom turned on him.” She took the handkerchief I offered her. “When Sir Julian told me Albert’s story—I recognized it, of course—I knew at once that my husband was responsible.”
“Did you confront him about it?”
“I did. He laughed at me, Lady Ashton. Laughed. Told me not to worry about the past now that I’m so comfortably settled. Had I the means, I would have killed him on the spot.”
“So what did you do?”
“I got Albert’s gun.” She pressed the handkerchief to her mouth, making her words difficult to understand. “One of his friends in Vienna sent his possessions to me, including the gun and its case.”
“I—I’m so sorry,” I said.
“I’m not. Only exhausted. Do you know what it is like to have everything taken from you? Your house, your possessions, your very position? To be passed around, never welcome anywhere? To know that your best hope for happiness is to be little more than a servant? For ten years I’ve lived in grief. There’s nothing left for me to suffer.”
“How did you…”
“Shoot him? It was simple. I’d always excelled at archery, so Albert decided to teach me to shoot after my parents died.”
“What did you do?”
“I got the gun out of the library—I wanted to use the same pistol that had ended my brother’s life. I walked out to where the gentlemen were, hid in some brush a short distance away, and fired when I knew the sound would be muffled by their own rifles.”
“It must have been awful.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “It was. But I could not let him live.”
I reached for her hand. “And you can’t let Mr. Brandon be hanged for a crime he didn’t commit.”
“I can’t…I just can’t…I know it’s wrong of me, but I can’t face it.”
“You have to, Mary,” I said, reaching for her hand. “I know what happened. I’m going to tell the police. Please understand that I have no choice.”
“No.” She shook her head, over and over.
“I must. But surely there’s some way to gain mercy for you. Anyone could understand what you’ve been through. Your circumstances, the fact that your own husband betrayed you in such a way…There must be some way for me to help you.”
She rose from her chair, and for a moment I was scared. Not that she could have overpowered me, but suddenly I imagined that she had the dueling pistol in her hand. Ridiculous, of course. She hadn’t known what to expect when I arrived. But emotions play funny tricks.
“Think of Mrs. Brandon. She’s expecting a baby, Mary. Don’t take away its father.”
“A baby?”
I nodded.
“Another child with a ruined life,” she said, her voice flat.
“I will help you, I promise. There are very few gentlemen in Britain who haven’t feared being destroyed by Lord Fortescue. Could you tell me exactly what your brother’s letter said? I think that so long as we can prove you were certain your husband was instrumental in Albert’s downfall, we may be able…” I didn’t want to make false promises. She would spend the rest of her life in prison, but that would be better than facing execution. I would visit her, bring her books, do whatever I could to ease her pain. “Well, we may be able to make things easier for you.”
“I’ve never shown anyone his letter.”
“Please, please, Mary.” I took her hand. “Let me help you.”
“You really think it will make a difference?”
“I do,” I said, hoping that I was right.
“I’ll let you read it. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll bring it to you.”
“Of course.”
Almost as soon as she’d left, I realized what she was doing. I ran out of the room, calling for her, desperately rushing down hallway after hallway as quickly as possible, hoping that I could find her. I was too late.
A single shot rang out before I reached the door of the library.
Chapter 26
It took all of my will to force my hand to open the door. Mary was sprawled on the floor, her brother’s dueling pistol less than a foot from her hand, a star-shaped wound in her forehead, a thin line of blood running down her face. I forced myself to go to her, to see if she was still alive, but of course she was not. Almost without realizing what I was doing, I reached out and closed her eyes, unable to bear the vacant sadness in them.
Servants burst into the room, and someone pulled me up from the floor, but I did not require assistance. I maintained my composure, feeling detached, almost as if I were watching the scene through a window, but at the same time knowing that when I found myself alone, I would be overwhelmed with what I’d seen. On the table next to where Mary had fallen was the mahogany box that had contained the pistol. It was closed, and placed on top of it was a letter. I unfolded it, expecting it to be Albert’s. Instead, it was written in his sister’s shaky hand:
DATED THIS 5 JANUARY 1892.
There was no sign of Albert’s letter. I pulled out the velvet interior, hoping there was something else in the box, but there was nothing. I looked back at Mary and fell to my knees next to her. I hesitated to touch her, but forced myself, and gently opened her clutched hand. She was holding the charred bits of paper I’d seen the first time I’d looked in the case.
For the first time in my life, I felt more than a little inclined to faint, but managed to stay calm and called for help, directing the servants to send for the police, who arrived with astonishing speed. Or perhaps I was unaware of how much time had passed. An officer tried to remove me from the room, but I refused to be sent away until I could be certain every detail of the case had been addressed, certain that Robert would be released, and certain that someone other than one of Lord Fortescue’s children would arrange for Mary’s burial.
I kept my voice steady as I answered the policemen’s questions, holding my hands tightly together so they wouldn’t shake. They said it was obviously a suicide, that they would check the handwriting on her note against other letters she was known to have written, that they would interview the servants again to ascertain whether she’d been seen leaving the house before her husband’s death. This was all perfunctory, of course, but procedure must be followed.
Soon enough, they were satisfied. The body was removed, the servants set to cleaning the carpet. But I stood, still wondering how Mary came to possess the pistol. After Lord Fortescue’s murder, the police had put the murder weapon in the room they’d used to interview everyone in the house, locking the door whenever they left. Mary, who had keys to all the rooms, would have seen the gun when they questioned her—they’d shown it to each of us. She could easily have slipped back into the room to steal it. No one noticed it was missing until they’d been
