Chapter 8 #2
“Understood.” The captain frowned at his notepad. “You were betrothed to Miss Arabella Sinclair before you were compelled to leave, were you not, Wellwood?”
“I was.” Alexander straightened up, defensive at Arabella’s innocent name being dragged into such an abhorrent conversation.
“Might she have a father or brother who disapproved of the imminent union?”
“No …” Alexander could not conceive of it.
“Am I to understand she does not have a father or a brother?”
“No. She does, indeed. But they are good upstanding gentlemen of whom I am very fond and have reason to believe the sentiment is mutual.”
“They would also have had motive for your good cousin’s murder, as I am aware he went on to marry Miss Arabella Sinclair …?”
Alexander’s eyes dropped to the floor. Hearing his family’s history laid out in such a way sounded so scandalous, and he wrestled with the shame of it. Thomas interjected to assist.
“Edmund did marry Miss Arabella Sinclair to save her reputation following Alexander’s reported desertion and consequent apparent death.”
Alexander winced to hear it.
“Hmm.” Captain Morrison frowned at his notebook, clearly noting these were names he would investigate further. “Are there any known accountants or clerks who would have access to your father’s estate with potentially malicious intent?”
“There were accountants and clerks, indeed,” Alexander thought back. “I cannot recall names, but I know there were friends from my father’s club on Berkeley Square.”
“I shall look into it,” the captain concluded. Once again, his face erupted in a twitching spasm. Alexander wondered if it was perhaps some nerve damage from his time spent serving in the military. As before, he continued without drawing any attention to it.
“Are there any others who stood to benefit in any way from the dastardly events that materialized?”
Thomas and Alexander looked at each other blankly. Eventually, Alexander shook his head.
“I do not believe so, Captain Morrison.”
“Very well,” the captain closed his notebook and replaced it in the pocket of his breeches.
“From all I have learnt through your cousin Edmund’s journal, I suspect that the perpetrator was aware he was digging, and it is also my belief that they silenced him because he was getting close to the truth. ”
Alexander’s mouth dropped open at the insinuation.
“Gentlemen, I recommend you conceal our conference with the utmost discretion and that you keep your wits firmly about you. Somebody out there does not want this truth exposed.”
Alexander and Thomas both stood in silence, nodding their understanding.
“We will reconvene here at the end of the week to discuss any developments,” Captain Morrison concluded.
“Thank you for your time, Captain,” Thomas asserted.
“Yes … thank you, kindly,” Alexander added, in a daze.
As the captain left the warehouse and Thomas closed the door firmly behind him, the two friends turned to each other, their faces haunted in the light of this new reality.
Alexander blinked back a surge of emotion and whispered, “Edmund died trying to clear my name.”
***
As Alexander navigated the streets returning to his dank, cold room in Whitechapel, he kept his head firmly down.
Dressed as he was in his common, ragged clothes and adopting the gait of a humble man with a slight limp, he was unrecognizable as the former heir to the Wellwood estate.
But even so, he had yet to frequent the town during its busiest hours.
Alexander kept to the borders of the street as he made his way through the bustling crowds of Rosemary Lane Market.
Dockworkers flocked here, stallholders yelling out offers of warm, comfortable second-hand clothing as market-goers heckled over the price. It was unlikely anybody he knew would attend such a market, but he could not take any risks, no matter how small.
Walking through Church Lane, the crowd had dispersed a little, but this area felt more vulnerable, as the houses were owned by men who would have moved in some of the same circles he once did.
Alexander pulled his flat cap further down on his head and nestled his face into his collar as though he were cold, which was not far from the truth on this early spring morning.
A prickle danced up the back of Alexander’s neck as an awareness overcame him. An intuitive sensation that he might usually ignore, but knew that in his current precarious circumstances, ignoring such a feeling could be the misstep that led to his execution.
Alexander slowed slightly to allow the perception to settle. His consciousness was on high alert; he certainly felt as though the presence behind him that he had become aware of had also slowed to match his pace.
Alexander turned quickly, cautious to keep his face hidden. People generally milled around, going about their business, but nobody seemed to be paying him any particular attention.
Even so, the sense made him nervous, and he picked up his pace, with care to still adopt his feigned limp. He wanted to reach his room at his fastest opportunity, where he could once again relax that he could be neither seen nor exposed.
Upon entering his room, Alexander closed the door and locked it, leaning back against the wood to take a deep breath. A successful mission, though one that had revealed an unprecedented threat and provoked a cocktail of concerns.
The room smelled worse than when he had left it. Alexander looked under the bed to check no small rodent had died there. There was no rat or mouse, but an abundance of damp wood and stained floorboards, so he decided it was best not to look there again.
The thin straw-filled mattress sagged upon the bed ropes, which had clearly not been tightened in some time. He sat down upon it, uncomfortably, and thought through all the information Captain Morrison had bestowed upon them.
It seemed that his father’s killer was still active and sensitive to any potential intervention. That made anybody who was looking into the truth extremely vulnerable.
The people at risk, therefore, Alexander considered, were himself, Thomas, Captain Morrison, and Arabella!
For he had requested her help in clearing his name.
She had yet to be delegated any particular task, but she had been eager to get involved—and as she now knew that Alexander was alive—she was already entangled in this mess he would have much preferred to keep her free from.
Alexander pulled the small, battered book of poetry from his pocket and smoothed his hand over the book cover. This was his talisman, associated with Arabella. During his years in exile, it was the closest thing he had to remember her, and so he held it as dear to him as any amulet or lock of hair.
Sitting there in the room that felt more like a prison than a refuge, he bargained with the universe that Arabella should not be harmed.
He did not feel he could continue to exist if anything happened to her.
He hated that he had invited peril into the lives of those he cared about, simply by his mere presence.
He permitted his heart a small flurry of happiness at the fact that Arabella accepted her part in uncovering the perpetrator, when he knew she could just as easily have reported him to the authorities. He was overjoyed that she had jumped on board to help with his plight.
However, he reminded himself sombrely, she was only doing so to satisfy her keen sense of justice.
Her assistance had no reflection on her affections for him, and he must remain mindful of this fact.
Arabella may be helping, but her willingness to be a good person was not suggestive of her continued fondness for him. He must accept that sad reality.
As Alexander ruminated on these thoughts, he heard a floorboard creak as soft footsteps approached his door in the corridor outside.
The hostel was loud and overpopulated at night, but during the day, it was strangely quiet, as the occupants were mostly out trying to earn money to pay for their room again that night.
The movement piqued his interest as it sounded as though the visitor was moving intentionally quietly, which was at odds with the raucous way in which his new neighbours generally conducted themselves.
Alexander held completely still, awaiting the knock which he felt was inevitable—and which he would ignore, holding his breath until the caller disappeared.
No knock came, however. Alexander stared at the door, and as he did so, something slipped underneath on the floorboards. It looked like a note.
But who would leave a note without first knocking to ascertain I am not present? Alexander wondered. The answer arrived in his mind immediately. Somebody who does not wish to be seen.
Alexander quietly crossed the room and swept the item from the floor, discovering it to be a playing card. Alexander flipped it over to see the black and white print of the ace of spades.
Alexander barely repressed a sharp intake of breath, recognizing the symbolic meaning of this card to propose death.
Without thinking, he unlocked the door and peered out, feeling ready to confront whoever had delivered the card. He knew perhaps it was hazardous, and certainly it was impulsive, but he needed to know who his enemy was so he could protect his loved ones from them.
It seemed the visitor was faster in making their escape than they had been on their approach. Alexander whipped his head first left, then right, to no avail. He ran to the top of the dark, narrow staircase and peered down, but he was too late. His adversary had gone.