out over the river and listening to the cries of the monkeys and feeling so secure in the knowledge his daughter was safely in London, far away from poisonous beasts and the possibility of rabies from a bite. Safe in their home with the servants, safe among their well-bred friends. Safe because he had made her so.
He’d have no idea what kind of trouble she had gotten herself into. All because she had overheard the fatal words ‘marry me’.
She sighed, but even that was not as relieving as when you were not gagged.
Then a door opened. A voice said, ‘Down here.’
She lifted her head and moaned, groaned, made any sound possible at all. She kicked with her foot against something, hoping despite knowing better that it would make a clanging sound.
Somebody knelt down beside her and touched her face. A voice said, ‘Alkmene, are you all right?’ Hands came on her wrists, untying her bonds. She shook her head, willing him to take off the gag first.
Carefully he pulled it out. She moved her dry tongue. Her throat refused to let audible words out.
Jake untied her ankles and rubbed them with his large hands. She sat on her bottom on the cold stone floor, while other people stood over her, saying things like: terrible and no idea that somebody could be locked in like that.
She looked into Jake’s eyes and saw the relief there and the kindness. Almost like he was happy he had found her.
But of course the first thing he said was: ‘I can’t believe you were stupid enough to go investigating on your own. What did you want here?’
‘I caught the…’ Her mind suddenly raced, and she jumped to her feet. She swayed but pushed past the people cluttering her path and ran up the steps. If they wasted any more time, he’d be gone!
Jake came after her, shouting, ‘What now? Talk to me, Alkmene. You could at least tell me something, you know.’
She ran through the church’s aisle, her side already stinging with exertion. But she could not stop now. She burst into the sunshine, blinking against the harsh light after the darkness in that cellar.
There. There he was.
A man in a suit, a nice face, a smile, ready to get into his car that was parked in front of the post office.
‘Mr Walker,’ she called out.
He froze. He spun to her, disbelief in his handsome features. He was good-looking all right, but a little weak around the mouth. Exactly like she had pictured him the night he had talked to Evelyn Steinbeck behind the screen. A man who wanted things in life the easy way.
But life didn’t work that way.
She halted in front of him.
Jake came up after her, saying, ‘What is this? It would have been nice if you had at least congratulated me on having found you.’
Walker snapped, ‘I am in a rush, if you will excuse me.’
But Alkmene slipped her hand into his pocket and produced the page he had torn irreverently from the list of names in that church. ‘Here is the proof we need that he is the killer of Silas Norwhich,’ she called, holding it up. ‘He came to remove any proof Mary Sullivan had lived here. He wanted to make sure nobody could prove any more there had ever been a claim in which he was involved.’
Jake took the paper from her hand, studied it and whistled.
Walker said coldly, ‘I have no idea what this mad woman is talking about.’
Then a voice said in a screech, ‘You liar!’
Wally Thomson came forward, his face contorted with rage. ‘You came here to find out all about her. I thought you cared for her too, like I had, and wanted the best for her. But you only wanted to erase her. I saw that too late. You want to drive her into the bog for real. You should die for that, die!’
He jumped at Walker, who cried, ‘Get that rabid dog away from me. He is insane.’
‘He is no more insane than any of us,’ Jake said, restraining Wally, who clawed and kicked at Walker. Two other villagers helped him keep the little man off the lawyer.
Jake said, ‘He will testify in court and based on his testimony and that of others, you will swing for having killed Silas Norwhich.’
‘I am glad he is dead,’ a female voice screeched. The innkeeper’s wife stood there, her red hair blowing in the wind from the moors. ‘He deserved to die. I am glad you did it for us, for justice’s sake.’
‘Justice?’ Alkmene said in a cold voice. ‘You hated your sister. You were glad that her dream of being rich and happy ended in despair. You never wanted justice for her, just wealth for yourself. You agreed with this man to testify in court that your sister died all those years ago, while carrying her baby. You agreed to testify that no baby had ever been born, no heir. But the heir is alive and well and so is your sister. And now that Silas Norwhich is dead, she will have everything that he once owned. She will be rich like she once dreamed she would be, and you cannot keep her from it.’
The woman stared, her mouth agape with shock. For a moment nothing stirred about her but those fiery locks dancing in the breeze that came from the moor.
Then the innkeeper’s wife sank to her knees onto the cobbles and began to sob. ‘Mary. Oh, Mary. Oh, Mary.’
Her husband leaned over and touched her shoulder, helpless to comfort her.
The constable with the moustache had rushed over and now clicked the cuffs round Fitzroy Walker’s wrists.
The arrogant young lawyer’s face contorted as he spoke. ‘Evelyn deserved to get the money. The art, all of it. She is beautiful and accomplished, the perfect heir. Norwhich wanted someone who would be in his league, right, who would impress the people in his circles. I created her for them. I gave him exactly what he had always wanted. It made him happy. I did him no harm. And Evelyn… She had a hard time growing up. Then those awful bit parts… The constant disappointment when a play was cancelled prematurely and she had to start all over again. She told me all about it on our journey back here.’
Alkmene saw the beautiful actress, sharing her sad life story with Walker, playing him with her smile, a tear here and there, like she had tried to play Jake at the Metropolitan hotel. Perhaps not even on purpose, to deceive, but just because that was her talent: playing a part, appearing a certain way, beguiling people.
Fitzroy Walker said, ‘She deserved better than that. Norwhich ached for an heir. And she needed someone to take care of her. It was a perfect arrangement. It would have done nobody any harm. I had made sure beforehand the real heir was dead. I had made sure nobody would suffer from this.’
‘Or nobody could turn up to spoil things for you?’ Jake asked in a cynical tone. ‘You knew how substantial Norwhich’s fortune was. You may have even been to his house for business, have seen part of his art collection. You coveted it and for it you killed him.’
Walker shook his head. ‘I never wanted him to die. I wanted to marry Evelyn and we’d all be happy. Happy! But that man came and ruined it all, with his talk of Cunningham. Norwhich began to doubt the story, Evelyn’s integrity. It was not right that she was accused, defiled. She was perfect for the part. It all fit. It should have worked out. But he ruined it all. And for what? Revenge over some alleged slight? A thing decades in the past? What right did he have to spoil it all for us?’
‘The right of a son to defend his mother?’ Jake asked sharply.
Walker strained against his bonds. ‘I only wanted to convince Norwhich that Evelyn was the heir he had always wanted. I only wanted to convince him the past should be over and done with. How was I to know that man had just been with him and had shown him the birth certificate? He was out of his mind, shouting at me that I had betrayed him and had drowned her in the marshes all over again. He must have been delirious to say such insane things. He was so red in the face, almost purple, I was afraid he’d suffer a stroke.