“That was the day he despatched a letter to me,” Dr. Bascomb explained, “and informed me that he had looked into the stillroom book. He described the remedies the maid had administered; he described the solution she gave at his wife’s labour, well before I arrived. His wife, I did not scruple to advise him by return of post, should never have gone into labour, but for the draught against histericks that Tess administered when young John d’Arcy died. It contained a quantity of rye, in addition to its healing effects; rye that had spoiled from the action of ergot. It is the most powerful spur to labour that is known.”

“Your brother knew, then, how his children had died,” I told Andrew Danforth. “He knew that Tess Arnold was your friend of old; you had played together as children, when Charles was banished to the south. She should naturally have your interests at heart. He may even have observed the two of you meeting in an abandoned ice-house at the estate’s extent, and wondered at the nature of your connexion.”

“This is abominable,” Danforth muttered between his teeth. “I would that Charles could hear you! What indignation you should arouse!”

“He never suspected, however, that Tess acted at your behest,” I concluded softly. “Charles believed you innocent of the worst. And in that, Mr. Danforth, I fear your brother was a nobler soul than you yourself have proved.”

“Are you suggesting—” Lady Harriot cried, in an accent of shock.

“—that Andrew Danforth encouraged the maid to murder his nieces and nephew? Naturally. He taught Tess Arnold to hope for everything. And when she had played her part, he killed her.”

“I killed her?” Danforth stared about the room as one amazed.

“In the interval between the ladies withdrawing from the Chatsworth dining parlour Monday evening, and the gentlemen rejoining them over an hour later.”

Lord Harold tore his eyes from Andrew Danforth’s face and stared at me. “Good God,” he said. “So that was how it was done.”

“Sir James chanced to mention to me the entire program of that evening,” I said. “It was only later, in conversation with Lord Harold, that I detected the discrepancy. You left Penfolds, Mr. Danforth, for Chatsworth at about five o’clock, on a swift horse that might gallop the distance in half an hour. You dined at seven, and the ladies withdrew at half-past ten, much as we did the night of Lady Harriot’s birthday. Sir James was told that the gentlemen quitted the dining parlour at a quarter to twelve, having been much engrossed in a discussion of politics, and the prospects of Charles James Fox — a discussion that you, as a man ambitious in politics, might have been expected to join. But you did not.”

“Andrew?” Lady Harriot gasped.

“I thought you had gone after her,” Lord Harold muttered, his eyes on Andrew Danforth, “to dance attendance. You excused yourself not five minutes after the ladies retired. It never occurred to me that you quitted the house entirely—”

“This story is absurd!” Danforth burst out. “If you will credit the notion that a man might race across open country, under a fitful moon, in order to shoot a girl he had no notion should be walking the hills at such an hour—”

“But you did know, Mr. Danforth,” I persisted. “Because you supplied Tess Arnold with your brother’s clothes in the ice-house that very morning. She told you where she would be, and all that she intended, as a very good joke. You had often engaged in playacting together, as children. You are playacting now, I think.”

Andrew Danforth emitted a choking sound.

“You quitted the dining parlour perhaps five minutes after the ladies. You went swiftly out the West Entrance to the stableyard, and saddled your horse. The stable lads should never have been disturbed; Lord Harrington was much given to coming and going about the loose boxes at all hours of the night. You galloped hard across the country to the hills above Miller’s Dale, and tethered your horse beneath the same tree you chose for your brother’s mount today. We found your hoofprints there on Friday. You waited in a pile of rock for the maid to appear; and when you had shot her, you rode at great speed back to Chatsworth, and joined the ladies a few minutes in advance of the other gentlemen.”

“Deuced cheek!” ejaculated His Grace the Duke.

“You took a considerable risk, to be sure; but one that very nearly succeeded,” I went on. “An enquiry among the stable lads, however, will suffice. One at least must have remarked the curious fact that your horse was already damp with sweat, when you called for it at one o’clock, and quitted Chatsworth for your road home.”

Danforth turned his head wildly, as though in search of a friend. The Duke stared with bulging eyes; Lady Harriot had buried her face in Lady Swithin’s gown; and a cruel smile played about Lord Harold’s lips.

Danforth’s eyes came to rest on the amiable countenance of Sir James Villiers.

“But Charles — You read the letter yourself—”

“Charles confessed to a crime he did not commit,” I said implacably. “He did so from the same motives that have placed your solicitor, Mr. George Hemming, in the Bakewell gaol. Your brother took your guilt upon himself, Andrew Danforth, because he believed too much in your goodness.”

His lips began to work, but no sound came.

“Charles believed that you discovered the maid’s hideous work, and cut off her life like a poisonous snake’s. Why else should she have been killed so soon after her attempt on his life? He regarded you with gratitude; he thought you a man of honour. To kill from such a motive is no different in a gentleman’s mind, I suspect, than death should be in a duel. And having exposed your neck to the noose on behalf of his children, Charles determined that you should receive a similar testament of loyalty. He suspected the reasons for George Hemming’s sacrifice — the solicitor was devoted to you. He saw that Lady Harriot looked upon you with favour. His own prospects of happiness had gone forward into the grave. Why not end such misery with a snatch at honour, and take upon himself your guilt? And so he wrote his letter.

“Did he show it to you, in the hills above Miller’s Dale?”

Danforth sank into a vacant chair, as though his legs would no longer support him.

“I wonder if he understood what you really were, in that last moment before you killed him?”

Monday

1 September 1806

“MICHAEL TIVEY HAS CONFESSED,” SIR JAMES VILLIERS informed me, “to having anatomised the body of the stillroom maid. It is as you suspected — having gone in search of Tess Arnold when she failed to appear for their midnight appointment, Tivey discovered her dead body, and made use of it for his own despicable purposes. He thought to throw suspicion for the girl’s death upon the Freemasons, whom he cordially disliked for having rejected him; and thus endeavoured, as soon as her body was found, to put about the story of ritual murder. Being denied the full knowledge of Masonic rites himself, however, he could effect the wounds of a traitor’s execution only imperfectly. And so we suspected the tale’s veracity from the first.”

Sir James sat in one of the hard-backed chairs of our parlour at The Rutland Arms this morning as the trunks were brought out. My cousin Mr. Cooper had carried his point; and but for this brief visit from the Law, I should have quitted Bakewell without learning how matters were disposed.