Chapter 15 #2
Freddie stopped moving, perhaps stopped breathing, a torturously long silence stretching between them. With his eyes wide as saucers, he at last stammered, “But I…I didn’t do it.”
“Not a promising start.” Alasdair pointed at the flowers.
“Explain. Now. Your coat was stained with oil, you were picking monkshood behind the theater, what other conclusions shall I draw? That you are the victim of inexplicable coincidences? By God, Freddie, my one solace is that you have no compelling motivation to do this cowardly act.”
“Because I didn’t!” Freddie wiped frantically at his shirt, succeeding only in spreading the stain around. He swore and gave up, retreating behind the chair he had just vacated. “Well, yes, very well, I was picking flowers for Emilia behind the theater—”
Alasdair fought the urge to sink down into the chair, shaking his head with despair.
“Which…I know, that sounds bad, but I don’t know where the oil came from.” Freddie grabbed his hair with both hands, yanking. Bent double, he let out a strangled sound of frustration. “Unless…unless…”
“This had better be convincing, Freddie, or I will have no choice but to drag you before the—”
“N-no! Listen, please, brother, just listen to me. The only reason I was at the Florizel to begin with was because Danforth sent me there. He wanted to deliver a crate of his bloody pamphlets for distribution the next morning, and of course, he couldn’t do it his bloody self because Mother’s physician diagnosed him with ‘weak hands,’ whatever that is.
Probably got it from writing all of his stupid pamphlets!
” Freddie paused in his diatribe to slam his fist down on the desk, sending more ink flying.
“There was some sort of grease on the crate, and there were jars rattling around with the pamphlets, which I did think was odd—”
“And yet you didn’t consider telling anyone?” Alasdair didn’t know whether to be enraged or relieved that his brother was apparently this bird-witted. “Why would Danforth need those jars?”
“I don’t know! Sometimes he gives out jams and vegetables to the poor,” said Freddie, defending himself breathlessly. “Maybe…maybe he’s resorted to bribing people to take his literature!”
Alasdair closed the gap between them, laying a careful, gentle hand on Freddie’s shoulder. He had to know. He had to be sure. “Swear it to me, Freddie. Swear on my life, on Mother’s, on Emilia’s, swear that you did not set the fires at Pressmore and the Florizel.”
“I swear!” Freddie cried. “I swear…I was only doing what Danforth asked of me.”
“And he has far more cause to destroy the theater,” said Alasdair.
“His vendetta against their so-called vulgarity got him nowhere, the play was still going to happen. And you…” His words trailed off as a knot of thoughts unraveled before him.
“And you are in position to take the living from him. He would have to move to another parish, lose his influence here, and his hold over Mother. Come, he’s not here at present, we should search his room.
” They left Freddie’s chamber, retracing Alasdair’s route outside and to the east pavilion, stopping to alert Eades, the butler, that they would need keys for Danforth’s accommodation.
Besides his living at Anselm, Danforth had access to the spacious guest housing that he currently shared with Gordon.
Each man had his own suite of rooms, Gordon occupying the downstairs and Danforth above.
The winter gloom of early twilight darkened the skies.
Lights twinkled merrily in Gordon’s rooms, the pavilion chimney smoking.
Once inside Danforth’s apartment, Alasdair ushered Eades forward with his lantern.
He expected to find everything in good order, tidy and faultless, but nothing could prepare him for the chaotic mess overtaking every nook and corner.
Even the butler couldn’t suppress his gasp of revulsion.
“The state of it,” Freddie breathed. “Mother would be furious if she knew.”
“She doesn’t,” said Alasdair. “She doesn’t know anything about Danforth, not really. None of us do, and that’s how he preferred it.”
He took the lantern from the butler and pushed deeper into the disorder. Crates of empty jars were stacked near the door. The vessels had recently been sealed with wax. Alasdair lifted one of them, smelling.
“Lantern oil,” he murmured.
“Do you think he meant to start fires elsewhere?” Freddie asked, taking his own sniff and recoiling.
“Maybe, or he didn’t like that most of the Florizel is still standing.” A darker idea bloomed like spilled ink, and he wondered if this demonstrated a readiness to punish those who helped anyone affected by the blaze. The Richmonds. Himself.
Violet and her sisters.
Alasdair turned away from the crates, shuffling over the papers that littered the floor until he found the small office off the main sitting room.
It was partially a library, and all the likely books were present, including those Alasdair had warned him not to keep on his little painted table.
The desk was piled high with correspondence and drafts of his pamphlets.
Alasdair picked up the topmost paper, squinting down at it in the grim lantern light.
“He means to attack Miss Bilbury next,” said Alasdair. When Freddie did not respond, he pivoted and glared at his brother. The evidence was written on his face in a pale grimace. “You knew about this.”
“He had me write to some of his fellow clergymen in London,” Freddie replied, hoarse. “And yes, he was searching for any hint of scandal around her. There was some, I’m afraid.”
“She’s an artist, of course there was,” Alasdair grunted. “What did he find?”
“A squabble with a jilted lover,” Freddie began in a croak. “That…ended in a fire.”
So that’s what Robert had been on about. Alasdair sifted through the other papers, searching for anything relevant. His eyes flashed across Freddie’s name. He snatched up the letter while Freddie huddled close, reading over his shoulder.
“Cambridge? He—Why! The rotten weasel, he was trying to get the chancellor to admonish me.” Freddie’s mouth dropped open as he yanked the letter out of Alasdair’s grasp. “He blames me for the fire! He set me up!”
“You would have taken the living at Anselm from him,” Alasdair pointed out.
“It’s only a draft. Do you think he sent it?”
“Looks unfinished to me, but we have to assume he’s been plotting against you and this family for some time now. This pamphlet about Miss Bilbury seems to be complete. Did Mother already fund the printing?”
“He’s been railing about her on Sundays for weeks,” said Freddie, downcast. “Her and the Florizel.”
“And he no doubt thinks he can blame you and her for the fires at Pressmore and the theater, point the finger anywhere but at himself, the man of God.” Alasdair gathered up the relevant letters and drafts, tucking them under one arm. “I’m afraid we have to show these to Mother.”
“Oh.” Freddie drooped. “Oh, God.”
“Yes, exactly. She won’t like it, but we cannot let Danforth escape justice for his crimes.”
Freddie lifted his head, perking up. “So…you believe me, then? You believe that I didn’t knowingly help him start that fire?”
“I don’t need to believe you; the evidence of Danforth’s guilt is here before us.”
His brother’s expression puddled, his lip quivering. “What if I want you to believe me?”
Alasdair straightened, annoyed. But then he studied Freddie’s face a heartbeat longer, and for an instant, he recognized their father’s countenance in the young man.
“Yes, Freddie, I believe you, but I wish you had come to me with your concerns about Danforth, about the crate. I would have stood by your side.” Alasdair lowered the lantern, clasping him on the shoulder.
“If it had been you, I would’ve stood by your side still, protected you however I could even while punishment arrived.
I’d blunt the weapon, Freddie—any weapon—that fell upon you.
Father died getting you and Mother out of Clafton.
We aren’t made of cowardly stuff. We do what is right. ”
“Well said,” Freddie whispered with the faintest smile. “I’ll give whatever testimony I must, even if I look stupid, to make sure Danforth is held accountable.”
Alasdair nodded. “Good lad.”
Through the open library door, they heard muffled voices.
Alasdair hoisted the lantern again and stepped out into the sitting room to find Danforth returning to what he assumed was still home.
Eades looked to Alasdair. The yellow light in Alasdair’s hands bounced along the walls, finding its way to Danforth’s churlish smile.
His eyes had always been black and piercing, but something intruded now, a darkness that made him uneasy.
Alasdair recognized this darkness, knew it somehow.
“Ah. I will gather my things” was all Danforth said. His tone was hollow.
“Eades will stay and make certain that you do.” Alasdair passed the lantern to the butler, then gestured for Freddie to follow him.
“She won’t believe you,” Danforth called as they took the stairs. “I’m more of a son to her than you ever were.”
Alasdair ignored him, even if a quick slug to the bastard’s jaw was an incredibly enticing and deserved notion.
Back in the house, Lady Edith sat in her preferred drawing room by the roaring fire, surrounded by the sculptures and paintings Alasdair had brought her from across Europe, a shawl tucked around her shoulders and a book of sermons in her lap.
She wasn’t reading, exactly, but looking beyond the spine of the book to the window off to her right, gazing out into the gathering dark, her expression that of a person who had just forgotten something, searching for it on the tip of their tongue.
It was an image worth preserving; in that moment, she wasn’t his mother, just a woman lost in thought.
He stopped across the room from her, struck by the uncomfortable slap of premonition, knowing that what he had to say would likely cause her great harm.
His throat felt like it was being strangled by an invisible hand; that premonitory aura plunged him through time, and as he approached his mother, he wondered who had been the person that had come to tell her of their father’s passing in the fire.
He felt a kinship with that messenger, the weight of it crushing down on his shoulders.
There would be his mother before this conversation and his mother after; Danforth was damn near like a child to her. And he wasn’t wrong; perhaps she had more affection for him than she had for Alasdair or Freddie. Again, that crushing weight, and the sense that this day would haunt him forever.
“At least she’s already sitting down,” Freddie murmured at his back.
Lady Edith turned toward them. There was fleeting surprise, then a softening of motherly tenderness around her lips that made Alasdair freeze with guilt. Adjusting his spectacles, he took a deep breath and started in. “We need to discuss Mr. Danforth.”
“Oh?” She lifted her chin, smiling.
Alasdair flinched. “He’s not the man you think he is. He’s dangerous, Mother, and never again can he darken our doorstep.”
Just as Danforth predicted, Alasdair’s loving mother did not believe him.