Mischances #4
“Well, that is how a man marries a woman, after all. I’m to speak with the minister after I leave here for, with the bride in mourning, I would like to request special dispensation and a quick and quiet ceremony.
I am sure he cannot object. You’ll see to the investigation, Thornton?
I should hate for the lady’s reputation to be harmed in a legal proceeding. Today’s gossip is quite bad enough.”
“Mr Thornton,” Mason added, “if you please, I shall be ready to meet you at the coroner’s office at your leisure.”
He said not a word, merely watched the other two as they collected their hats and left. Then John Thornton, magistrate and master, collapsed in his chair.
Margaret lifted her head from the edge of the chair when the voices sounded in the outer hall. Dixon had opened the door to someone and she distinctly heard, “Miss Hale is unwell today and is not receiving company.”
There was a brief silence, and then—”I imagine she must be unwell. Nevertheless, I will speak with her.” It was his voice—Mr Thornton.
Margaret sat up and dashed the fresh tears from her cheeks.
“She is seeing no one,” repeated Dixon. Margaret could imagine how Dixon was likely crossing her arms to block the towering manufacturer’s way.
“I am afraid it is a legal matter, Miss Dixon,” Mr Thornton replied flatly. “I have not the leisure to wait upon the lady’s ailments.”
“Have you no decency, sir?” Dixon cried.
Margaret could not understand Mr Thornton’s next words, for they were murmured low and in clipped tones. She did hear the familiar old creak in the floor when Dixon stepped back.
“I still say you must come back tomorrow,” Dixon mumbled resentfully.
“Tomorrow will be too late. It may already be. If you have a care for Miss Hale—”
Margaret rose with hasty decision and went to the door but paused at a small looking glass on a side table.
Her eyes were puffy, her cheeks frightfully pale, and her hair in such a state as would have made her mother hang her head in shame.
She pressed uselessly at the dark circles below her eyes, tried to liven her cheeks a bit, and opened the door to the hall.
“—don’t care if you are the only magistrate from here to London!” Dixon was protesting. “Miss Hale is grieving. I cannot let you—”
“It is quite all right, Dixon,” Margaret rasped. She cleared her throat as discreetly as she could and looked only at Dixon. “I will speak to Mr Thornton if it is a legal matter.”
Dixon looked at first as though she meant to challenge Margaret over the matter but reluctantly excused herself. Margaret turned to Mr Thornton yet could only bring herself to look at his hands as she beckoned him into the sitting room. “Sir?”
She heard him draw a breath. “Thank you, Miss Hale.”
He allowed her to precede him, then closed the door. “Forgive the manner of my intrusion today.”
“Of course, sir. I understand it must be of utmost importance.” She paused, half-turned away, but finally raised her eyes to his when she sensed that he was studying her.
He was pale, his lips and cheeks more drawn than she had ever seen.
Those dark eyes of his seemed almost black with intensity, and his shoulders—always before so straight and powerful—were rounded as if anxiety and care had bent him at last.
“Are you well, Miss Hale?”
The gentle, sincere question startled her. She blinked. “I-I am…bearing up, sir.”
A flicker passed over his expression, then his features hardened once more to the familiar mask of the businessman. “As you are presently in mourning, I see no need to prolong matters. You must know why I have come.”
She nodded, her eyes fixed unseeingly on his waistcoat. “Mr Leonards is dead and you must investigate it as a homicide.”
He was silent for a moment and, when he spoke again, there was a curious catch in his voice. “May I ask your business at Outwood Station two nights ago?”
Margaret looked away.
“Miss Hale, I came alone today, without the police inspector, because your father is my friend. I would spare you what mortification I may, but I cannot do so without your cooperation.”
The tears were stinging and she blinked ferociously. She could not cry now, not in front of him! “I was escorting a…a friend to his train. That is all.”
“And this…friend. Does he have a name?”
Margaret lifted her chin about to face him squarely. “Naturally.”
Mr Thornton raised a brow.
“Dickenson. A Mr…S-Samuel…Dickenson.”
“Miss Hale,” sighed he, “I had been accustomed to think of you as truthful. Whatever else you are, you are a poor liar.”
Margaret bristled. “That is the name he goes by.”
“And how do you know him? By what name do you call him, and who is he to you?”
Her chin hitched still higher. “I do not see how that is germane to the affair at hand. You came to ask after my involvement in Leonards’ death, and I can only tell you what I know. He attacked a person, was repulsed, and then he went away. I do not know how he died.”
Mr Thornton took a threatening step closer. “How was he repulsed? With mortal violence? And whom did he attack?”
She set her teeth and stared back into his glittering eyes. His figure seemed to waver, to sway, and then his hand fell softly upon her arm. “Miss Hale, did Leonards attack you?”
Her lips parted—how she longed to tell him all! To tell someone…someone who might find a way clear of the desolation that had become her life. But Mr Thornton! No, she could not tell a magistrate, one who saw matters only in black and white, about Frederick’s crimes. Her fate was her own to suffer.
“Did he?” Mr Thornton demanded. “If you but say the word, I will close the investigation at once. I have seen the body and spoken with the doctor. Leonards was sick…may have already been dying from a degenerate stomach and wasted liver. If attacking a woman can also be added to his sins, I will call it divine justice and let the matter be at an end. Did he touch you?”
She felt herself nodding against her will. “Y-yes.”
His hand eased upon her arm and he tilted his head as if examining her all over again. “Are you unhurt?”
“I am well in body.” As the words left her mouth, she bit her tongue. What had made her confess so much?
“And the rest?”
His voice was low, almost tender, but a shiver overtook her. It was too much! He was too near, too gentle, too…something. She stiffened away, and his hand fell from her sleeve.
“Mr Thornton, have you any more questions? As you have said, I am in mourning, and I should like to look in on my father. He has taken my mother’s death very hard.”
But Mr Thornton did not stir. He gazed at her, his look full of doubt, pity, and something else she dared not name. “I am sorry, Miss Hale.”
She swallowed. “Thank you.”
He lingered another moment, then slowly turned.
She watched him go–the shuffling steps, the broken line of his typically rigid spine.
A wild, insensible longing came over her to call him back, to pour out the entire truth, and to beg for his help, plead for his understanding. He might be the only person who could…
His hand touched the latch, and he stopped. “One more question, Miss Hale.” He looked back, and there was a hollow ache in his eyes that she knew from another day—a wretched day. “Why Hamper?”
Margaret clenched her eyes. “I wish I could say, Mr Thornton.”
“Do you mean that you do not know, or that you will not tell me?”
Her throat was closing up again. “Both.” The word sounded like a helpless squeak and she hated herself for such a display of weakness.
He was at her side again in a moment. “What could make you agree to such an engagement? What power does Hamper hold over you?”
She gazed up at him, her breath short.
“Why? In God’s name, why?” he begged. “You are protecting him—that man at the station. Is that it?”
“I…yes. Please, Mr Thornton, I cannot tell you all. The secret is not mine!”
“Still, you protect him?” he hissed. “After he compelled you to walk out, risked your reputation, and left you alone in the night with Leonards still about? You would shield him rather than give him up—to the point of marrying a man more than twice your age for whom I know you have no kind feelings?”
A quaking from within threatened to crumple her, and she bowed her head into a knotted fist. “You do not understand!”
“Aye! I do not!” He drew a sharp breath, tightened his voice, and bent low near her ear. “But I wish to. Make me understand…Margaret. Please.”
She lowered her hand. A mere tip of her chin, and she could feel his breath hot against her cheek. Something in her core trembled, urging her to step back, away from the edge of danger, but it was too tempting…too comforting to have him close.
“Do you care for him?” Mr Thornton’s voice quavered.
“For Mr Hamper!”
“Hamper can rot,” he snapped. “The other—whatever his name is. Do you love him?”
“I…of course.” She drew in her lower lip, clamping it between her teeth. “Please, Mr Thornton, do not seek him as a murderer. He did nothing wrong!”
Mr Thornton closed his eyes, his head bobbing faintly as if he were struggling for words. “I will not. But it is he who is responsible—he who should…Miss Hale, you cannot marry Hamper.”
“Do you not see? If I refuse Mr Hamper, the scandal could expose Freder—” She broke off with a gasp and covered her mouth.
“And Hamper is your cure for this evil! What power or knowledge does Hamper have that I do not?” he cried.
“Better that you should wed this blackguard you care for. Frederick, is it? I will seek the man myself, if I must. I will drag his miserable carcass back here from London, or wherever he has gone, and make him marry you on pain of a trial, if need be. And if that failed, I would—”
“Please, Mr Thornton! It is impossible—everything you say. If you sought him, it would be his death!”
He was panting now. He drew back, staring in bewilderment. “How? Tell me, Miss Hale.”