Chapter 32
“So blind is the curiosity by which mortals are possessed, that they often conduct their minds along unexplored routes, having no reason to hope for success, but merely being willing to risk the experiment of finding whether the truth they seek lies there.”
René Descartes
“No, not at all,” Cab insisted. “After consulting with Detective Pratt and the district attorney’s office in Boston, who convened the grand jury to indict Wilkie Valentine, so I could take the warrant to the British Consulate—”
“Which proved entirely unnecessary.”
“Perhaps the British Consulate’s part, but the rest of the indictment still holds. Wilkie Valentine is now being sought for murder. That information should be in every town within the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, if not the rest of New England, by Monday morning.”
“By Monday morning, he could be anywhere.” Marigold gave in to her weariness, admitted her defeat. With Cab she would have no misrepresentation or misunderstandings. “But at least now I have a description to go with the evidence, which may be of some small help.”
“That is excellent.” He reached into his suit pocket to withdraw that neat little notebook she had seen him use with Isabella. “Let me take this down.”
“You don’t need my word—you can write it yourself.” At his frown Marigold confessed. “The journalist, James Wilkerson?”
“Ah, yes. About him. As I told you before, I could find no record of him with the Evening Standard—”
“Because he was not really a journalist at all. And that is because I am almost positive that James Wilkerson and Wilkie Valentine, as well as a man named Valley, are all the same person. It was all a ruse to do to me what he had already done to the Thayers—confuse and misdirect.”
“Good God.”
“Indeed,” she admitted. “I’ve made a shambles of everything. Everything I’ve done or asked you to do has been completely inadequate to solve this murder and bring him to justice. And I’ve made a complete and utter fool of myself in the process.”
Cab’s disagreement was a momentary salve to her feelings. “Surely not, for you have solved the murder, even if he has not yet been brought to justice.”
But only a momentary salve. “He could be anywhere by now! Almost from the beginning, I’ve made wrong turn after wrong turn. Wrong about Professor Currier. Wrong about Sarah Appleton.”
“Do you mean to say Sarah Appleton is not a complete pill?
He was being kind. “No, that she is. But she is not a murderous one. At least not yet.” Though Marigold had likely given her reason enough. “But I was entirely taken in by Wilkerson, or Valentine, or whatever name he might be using now. I was an idiot to put any faith whatsoever in him.”
Cab raised his eyebrows slightly but gave only a mild rejoinder. “I’ll grant you that.”
“I should have listened to Isabella—she never liked him.”
Cab wisely said nothing to that, though Marigold was sure that Cab had suspected the sham journalist too, but was too polite to say so. “I was wrong about Miss Burke. Wrong about May Barnacle. Wrong, wrong, wrong. It’s as if I don’t know myself.”
“Marigold, it isn’t wrong to doubt,” he said in that quietly steely voice of his. “Doubting that we are right is the thing that makes us better—able to look again and again, and find another way forward. Only fools and maniacs never doubt they are wrong.”
It was Marigold’s turn to smile. There was that lovely, unparalleled sense of fellow-feeling. “Thank you, Cab. You’ve reminded me that Descartes’s most famous words of wisdom were not ‘Cogito ergo sum’—”
“Were they not?” Cab was amusingly dubious. “I’m fairly sure that ‘I think therefore I am’ was taught in my philosophy and rhetoric classes at Harvard.”
“Then Harvard has let you down. No.” Of this, if nothing else, she was quite sure.
“The full accounting of his wisdom is ‘Dubito, ergo cogito, ergo sum.’ I doubt, therefore I think, therefore I am. I ought to make them my watchwords,” she swore.
“So you had the right of it, even if you didn’t have your Descartes exactly correct. ”
“Then I shall continue to doubt away,” Cab pledged.
“But one thing I never doubt is you, Marigold. Even if you have faltered, you have seen this through. You have identified the man who did this unspeakable thing to this bright, promising young woman. You have seen through the jealousies and lies that tried to hide the truth, because that is what you do.”
Marigold felt the hot scald of gratefulness sting her eyes. She had always tried to believe in herself, through thick and through thin, but it had always seemed too much to ask of anyone else. And yet, here Cab was, believing and encouraging her. Again.
“You really are the most extraordinary man.”
His smile was warm but somehow guarded. “I’ve been waiting patiently for you to discover that.”
“I’ve always known that,” she told him. “I just don’t think I had the confidence to tell you how much I admire you. And appreciate you. And your … support.”
“Miss Manners.” He looked around at their surroundings, gauging their level of privacy. “Is this your rather forward way of asking me to kiss you?”
“Forward? No,” she disagreed. “This is forward.”
She clasped his extraordinarily well-tailored lapels and held him temporarily captive for a kiss.
Because she knew that was all that she was going to get—a kiss, temporarily.
Cab was never going to do much more—his misplaced sense of honor wouldn’t let him.
But still, it was a kiss. A lovely, just exactly what she needed kiss, with his arms stealing around her shoulders to hold her momentarily close.
And she held him, and for that moment, let herself relax into the surety of his presence. Into the ease and confidence she felt when she was with him.
The confidence to be herself, without worry or care. Without striving.
Not that she minded the striving—she liked striving. Yet the constancy of the need to strive was exhausting. Such was their world, where the striving was necessary if one wanted to be something of one’s own.
If one wanted to be one’s own unapologetic self.
He spoke before she could. “I should be getting back—I’ve brought papers for Isabella to sign, and she won’t thank me—or you—for making her wait for dinner.”
“Me? I have nothing to do with it. Didn’t even know she was still here, holding court, giving dinners to which she has not invited me.”
“Why don’t you come with me?” he offered. “Now that the proper authorities are involved, you can rest easy knowing that you have done all you could. You can put this unfortunate murder from your mind and drink Isabella’s superior champagne.”
Marigold wanted to say yes. She wanted to forget everything, all her past failures and future pressures. But she had classes tomorrow for which she was not yet prepared and expectations she had neglected to meet—for herself if for no one else.
“Thank you.” She patted his arm in consolation. “But I really must stay. Antiphon won’t translate himself.”
“Antiphon?” He seemed surprised. “Far past my humble abilities. You really are a scholar.”
“Yes,” she said, trying to be truthful while not making too much of oneself. “At least I am trying to be.”
“I’ve no doubt you are succeeding.”
He meant to be kind and reassuring. But the truth was that even if she surpassed his abilities by tenfold in any other subject, instead of just Greek translation, she would still never be given half of his opportunities.
No one would ever encourage her to go to Harvard Law School or offer her a position at a revered Boston firm of any kind.
Or urge her to run for office or sit on boards or committees or be given even the slightest feel of the reins of power.
To be fair, she had been encouraged to work toward the one position that might be open to her, here at Wellesley. But not at Harvard or Yale or the University of Michigan or anywhere else that would automatically infer that both she and her education were inferior.
It made her furious. And exhausted.
But she wasn’t furious at Cab—she was furious at the world. The world that let mediocre men like Wilkie Valentine take their insecurities out on superior young women like Olivia Thayer.
And so, she had to exist in this small part of the world that was made for her. And in doing so, she would do everything in her power to make it safe for young women like Olivia.
“I’ll see you … soon?” Cab asked.
“Naturally.” She gave him a smile that was more confident than she felt. “You will give Detective Pratt this information about Wilkerson being Valentine? And him being behind the attempt on Professor Currier’s life? And keep me informed?”
“I will assuredly do so.” He stood there, awkwardly she thought, so unlike his usual urbane self.
“Cab? Is there something you’re not telling me? I know I’m a bit low at the moment, but I shall rally.”
“I know that.” He took her hand one last time and held it tight. “I’m just worried is all. This Wilkie Valentine has proved a damn slippery character, who hasn’t known when to stop.”
“He’s a murderer, Cab—do they come in any other stripe?”
“No.” He looked at her then, with something like despair in his eyes. “Just promise me—no,” he repaired. “Promise yourself that you will be careful. That you will leave this to the authorities and exercise all your considerable intellect in conjunction with your caution, to keep yourself safe.”
“Naturally,” she conceded. “Why on earth would you think I won’t?”
“Marigold.” He said her name with a sigh. “Because you never have. And that is why I love you.”