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‘So you had returned to Lancashire at that point?’
Guinevere nodded. ‘Then someone to whom Francis owed money sent some awful men to make him pay it back and we had to run. Francis kept drinking and every night he – It was unpleasant, but I discovered that if he drank a lot he became maudlin, not violent or amorous any more, so I encouraged him to drink. I thought that somehow I would find a way to earn some money, or Francis would have a relative who might help him. Or a miracle would happen, I suppose.
‘It was wrong of me not to try and keep him sober, of course. By the time we arrived at the Red Griffin in the village he was drinking gin heavily every evening. The inn has a very tall window on the stairs and it was open that night because it was so hot. I do not know exactly
what happened because I hadn’t seen him since the middle of the afternoon and there were no witnesses, but apparently he stumbled out of the bar, very drunk, and was last seen at the foot of the stairs, starting to climb.’
‘A clear-cut matter for the Coroner, even though there was no actual witness to the fall,’ Jared said, keeping a tight hold on his temper. The man was dead, he couldn’t run him through as every instinct urged him to, and showing anger would only frighten Guinevere.
‘It would have been,’ she agreed with that deceptive calm she so often showed when things became really bad. ‘Only he was seen at the foot of the stairs leading to our chamber at half past eleven and he did not fall until midnight when he almost crushed an unfortunate ostler who was on his way to the outside privy.’
‘Time to have reached your room and for you to have had some part in his fall, they thought? But if he fell from a landing window, how are you supposed to have got him there?’
‘Our bedchamber window was right next to the stairs. The ostler was more interested in his bladder than star-gazing and he was frightened out of his wits when Francis crashed down just behind him. He had no idea which window of the two he fell from.’
‘What do you believe happened?’
‘I think that he collapsed on the landing outside our door, lay there for a while in a drunken haze, then, when he got to his feet, he was so unsteady that he went out of the window while he was groping for the door handle.’ She stood up, took an uncertain step towards the desk, shook her head as though she had forgotten what she had been about to look for, and sat down again.
‘Everybody was very kind at first, but I think they could tell I was not grieving. And I was not, Heaven help me, I was relieved. Not that he was dead, never that, but that he was gone. I could see that they were suspicious and I wrote immediately to my family, begged them to send me some money to pay a lawyer to advise me. They responded by return disowning me – and Augustus walked into the bar that day just as the magistrate was becoming rather exasperated with my lack of answers to his questions.’
‘And rescued you.’ Guinevere nodded and smiled for the first time since she had begun her story. ‘Why were you here. In the village, I mean?’ he asked. ‘Allerton is a small place, off all the main routes. I would have thought Willoughby would have made for a large town, somewhere he could sink out of sight and avoid his creditors, somewhere he might find a mark or two for a confidence trick or some crooked gaming.’
‘I don’t know.’ Guinevere stood up again and went to the window, stared out as though the landscape might hold the answer. ‘I assumed he was heading for Lincolnshire, if I thought about it at all. Something he said once made me think he might have come from there. The night before we got to Allerton he said that if my family wouldn’t do right by him then he would get help from his.’
‘That makes no sense. If he was travelling to Lincolnshire from Lancashire the best route would be down through Leeds and Doncaster.’
‘So it would be,’ Guinevere agreed, turning from the window. The unhappiness on her face had been replaced by animation, an interest he was relieved to see there. ‘I was far too occupied being miserable and telling myself what a fool I had been and I never thought about it.’ Then she shrugged, the green lights in her eyes that Jared had begun to associate with happiness faded. ‘But what does it matter what he was doing here? Whoever was behind the attacks on me, is responsible for Augustus’s death, it was not Francis Willoughby and that is about the only fact we can be certain of.’
‘Where was he buried?’ Jared asked. He wouldn’t be satisfied unless he saw a good solid grave slab on top of the bastard.
‘In the village churchyard. Augustus paid for everything, attended the funeral himself. Why? Are you thinking that he is not dead after all?’ She shook her head. ‘I had to identify him, remember.’ Guinevere lost colour. ‘His head was badly damaged, but not his face. There can be no mistake.’
‘Of course. Enough of that. What do you want to do with the rest of the day?’
‘Mrs Mountjoy has a long list of items she insists she needs my opinion on, but I wanted to have a few moments of tranquillity to think about Augustus here before I am immersed in domestic trivia. I always loved this room.’
‘And I am bringing anything but tranquillity into it. I will leave you in peace and see you at dinner.’
Guinevere came down to breakfast with an expression of determined cheerfulness that did not convince Jared for a moment. At dinner the night before she had been apologetic for being so lacking in sensible conversation and had snatched at his suggestion that she must be tired, should not mind him and should take herself off to bed as soon as she had finished dessert.
Jared wondered whether she had been afraid that he might have expectations after the previous night, that he might appear at her chamber door wanting admittance to her bed. Her eyes had widened when he asked her where her room was and he noticed the hint of relief when he pointed out that he had to know where she was in order to guard her.
‘Your room is next door to mine,’ she’d said, colour in her cheeks. ‘I explained to Porrett about your role as bodyguard.’ Then she had fled. He wondered whether she had decided that their lovemaking had been a terrible mistake or whether she was simply very tired and remembering Lord Northam in these surroundings was adding to her grief.
Chapter Sixteen
‘I have to go out for a while,’ Jared said abruptly as he finished his third cup of coffee. Suddenly he could not cope with seeing that look on Guinevere’s face, that blank unhappiness that she was bearing so well, that courage despite the memories he was powerless to erase for her. Even the lovely sea-green of her eyes seemed merely grey today. ‘I want you to promise that you will not go anywhere without Faith and that you will not set foot outside the house without both her and one of the men with you.’
‘I promise. But why? What do you expect to happen?’ Her expression was tense but her voice was quite even.
‘I have no idea,’ Jared said grimly on his way through the door. He found the back stairs and went down to the half-basement, following the sound of voices.
‘And you get your sticky fingers off those lemon tarts, Thomas Bainton.’
‘I like ’em.’
‘Aye, you and Master Frank both and it was like having a plague of blackbirds down here when the two of you smelled my baking – and both old enough to know better.’
