Chapter 22
A fortnight after his visit to Wenscote, Brand was drinking ale in the inn taproom with a local farmer and arranging purchase of a couple of prime rams, when they were interrupted by his brother.
The first sign was when Bill Stalling stiffened.
Bey had that effect on many. Not dislike or fear, just a lack of ease.
As Bey came toward them, Stalling brought the conversation to an end and took his leave. Bey took his place, pushing the half-full tankard to one side. “I intend to return south next week.”
“You’ve finished with the New Commonwealth?”
Rothgar picked up a nut from the bowl on the table and cracked it between his fingers.
“Good,” Brand said, meaning it. “You have proof of murder?”
“Proof? Perhaps not, but an incriminating pattern. Geographically, the deaths have occurred throughout the north, and thus were not easily detected.”
“Except by someone like yourself with a far-flung net for information.”
“Precisely. Enquiries about medicinal substances purchased by the sect have been illuminating as well.”
“Opium?”
“That’s the least of their weapons. It’s rather alarming what concoctions are possible with the right knowledge.”
“Collecting recipes?”
Bey’s lips twitched. “How well you know me. But, when the whole picture is presented to a court, it will convince. Especially as a Cotterite was present at every victim’s last meal.”
“Is Edward Overton involved?”
“Up to his weak, sanctimonious chin. He is assistant in their apothecary at Rawston Glebe, and was present at three deaths, including that of his cousin William.”
Brand did his best not to show his relief, or even his interest. He’d no doubt Bey had found time among all this to search for the people who had drugged him, but he couldn’t have discovered anything. Now Rosa was safe from Edward Overton, and from Bey.
“I didn’t have a seizure, though,” he pointed out.
“Why not?”
“Their victims were carefully chosen. All men in danger of such attacks. A young healthy man with powerful connections was another matter entirely. For you, they had to create an accident.”
“So what did they use?”
“I suspect a potion they use on members who try to express doubts about the community. Opium and some other ingredients. Deep long-lasting unconsciousness, followed by suffering. The unconsciousness gets the malcontent out of the way for a while, and the pain doubtless deters future rebellion.”
“It would deter me, that’s for sure.”
“Another useful recipe.”
Brand laughed. “You deter rebellion without need of such crude tactics.”
“How strange then that people so often fail to follow my plans.” He leaned back in his chair. “This enquiry had been a fascinating insight into the dangers of power. George Cotter, as best I can tell, began his crusade as honestly as Wesley.”
“I’d have said he was still that type. There’s no guile in him.” Brand wondered, however, if Bey was also speaking of himself. The responsibilities and temptations of power were enormous, and could corrupt.
“It is possible that Cotter is being kept in ignorance,” Bey agreed, “but more likely that his Godly purpose overwhelmed his judgment of the means.”
“Then it’s a damn shame. He’s right about so many things.”
“You do have a generous soul, don’t you?”
Brand shrugged. “Clearly a sin in your eyes.”
“Wrongs must be avenged.”
“Very Old Testament. What happened to turning the other cheek?”
“One of Christ’s more difficult recommendations. But then, being rich, I have to fit through the eye of a needle, so the minor details hardly matter. Perhaps in the Cotterite recipe books I will find an elixir of smallness.”
Brand shook his head. His brother was in a strange mood.
He thought back to the assault on him. “So, they drugged me; then to be sure, dumped me on the open fells. If I’d lain in that bog for the night, I’d doubtless have been a corpse.”
“So, the Mallorens owe thanks to your rescuer. To your mysterious lady.”
Brand sipped from his glass. “She set her price, and I paid it.”
“Indeed? An unusual transaction. You know no more of her?”
“Bey, let’s not get back to that.”
After a moment, Bey said, “Very well. Now, if you have time, I would like to involve you in this New Commonwealth matter.”
“I thought you said it was done with.”
“My investigations, yes. I’m intrigued, however, by George Cotter’s part. Either he’s very clever, in which case he might escape my noose, or he’s an innocent, in which case he could help me. I’d like you to find out.”
“What?”
“Whether he’s saint or devil. I’m bringing in troops under pretext of a sweep against smugglers on the coast. Within days, we’ll take over the New Commonwealth estates for investigation. In the end, the ringleaders will be put on trial, and the sect disbanded.”
Brand stiffened. “You can’t break up a farming community with harvesttime coming.”
“That’s one area in which I need your help. You’re going to oversee that.”
Brand groaned. He might have known he’d be dragged into a cartload of work.
“For the moment, however,” his damnable brother continued, “and before I bring them down, I want you to find Cotter and see what you make of him. If you think he’s innocent, get him to help punish the sinners in his midst.”
“Even though it will destroy his whole movement?”
“If he’s righteous, he’ll realize he’s created a tree of evil not of good.” Rothgar rose. “I must deal personally with one matter, but I will return in two days. Take care.”
“Take care, too. These people sound mad.”
“It’s distressing how frequently religion has that effect. What is one to make of it?” With that philosophical whimsy, he left.
Brand paid the tab, and followed, wondering idly what was so sensitive that Bey had to handle it himself.
Above all, his brother was a master of delegation—as in deputizing him to sort out the mess of the New Commonwealth estates.
He’d planned to escape south this week. Wenscote and Rosa sat in his mind like a beacon on the horizon, calling him to folly and dishonor.
Excuses for the half-day journey popped into his head a dozen times a day, and the hunger never eased.
Duty called, however. Someone had to make sure the New Commonwealth land was cared for, and bring the harvest in, and it seemed it was him.
Edward Overton opened the message and thumped down onto the plain chair of his small room at Rawston Glebe. No!
He read the note again. Despite the coldness toward him at Wenscote, he’d found one servant willing to keep him informed, for a price.
He’d known his aunt was a whore, and here was the proof.
His spy had overheard his uncle and aunt talking about which room would be the nursery.
He doubted even his uncle could believe the child his, but Sir Digby would wink at the wicked deception in order to keep him out of his legal rights.
He screwed up the paper, trying not to panic.
Wenscote was his. His to turn into Jerusalem. What they were doing was a bitter sin—outright theft—and could not be allowed. Moreover, he had the means to correct it.
He rose to circle the room, horrified by what he was planning to do.
When he’d chosen to work in the apothecary, he’d thought only to heal and succor. Then he had been asked to help in other matters.
It had been for the good of all and the glory of God.
He believed that. See how many saints lived pure lives on estates once poorly managed for the idle luxury of the few.
On a Commonwealth estate, each saint had his own equal piece of land and could grow his own food, raise his own meat.
No earth was wasted for ornamental gardens, deer pasture, or follies.
He could bring Wenscote to this glorious state, and he would. To let them get away with their deceit would be stealing from God! Uncle Digby was living on borrowed time, anyway. It wouldn’t be like Cousin William—”
He put his fist to his mouth, remembering his cousin’s last moments. That had been entirely his own plan, but not selfish. He’d acted only to clear the way for God’s purpose.
He was righteous.
He was a saint.
They had sinned, not he.
Firm in his purpose at last, he went to the dispensary and carefully filled a small bottle from the lotion for bruises labeled “Poison. External use only.” It was rarely used, being ineffective.
He then consulted a book, and found what he wanted—the recipe called, ambiguously, “A means to preserve the menses.” He mixed that and filled another bottle.
With both concoctions in his pocket, he humbly asked permission to visit his uncle, who was unwell. Soon he was riding toward Wensleydale on one of the placid cobs held as communal property of the saints.
He fretted a little about Brand Malloren, who had warned him to stay away, who’d said the servants would tell him. He’d no taste for another encounter with that fire-eater. By the time word reached Lord Brand, however, Sir Digby would be dead, and the whore’s child would be swept away in blood.
And he, Edward Overton, would finally be able to put Wenscote to God’s purpose.
The next day, Rosamunde prepared to mount her horse in her parents’ stable yard.
Since the servants must surely soon guess, she’d plucked up courage to come and tell her parents about the baby before they heard rumors.
She’d worried about what they’d think, but their joy and congratulations had been genuine.
If they had any suspicions, they were keeping them to themselves.
She knew her mother must have recognized Brand at Arradale, but she’d never said anything. Had she told Rosamunde’s father? It all made her feel young and shivery, but it was done. The plan was going to work.
Her mother kissed her, and her father handed her up onto the mounting block from which she carefully eased herself onto the sidesaddle. She was taking no risks. She was leaving early because she’d walk the horse all the way back to Wenscote.