I saw the two men in the chapel, perhaps by arrangement, perhaps by accident. Snow turns his back. Was he caused to do so? He could have been. The little bundle of jewels would have been a pretty lure. He could pocket them and then, his back still turned, he is struck down by a single vicious blow from the candelabrum.
Stunned, perhaps dying already, he slumps unconscious to the floor. His murderer turns him onto his back, and standing at Snow’s head, reaches over his face to strangle him. The bruises would speak eloquently of a right-handed man, the perfect alibi for a left-handed murderer.
I opened my eyes, surprised to find myself still on the stair. I had seen it so clearly in my mind’s eye. All but the face of the killer, and it did not require much imagination to supply that.
I rose and put on my slipper, determined not to waste a moment. I sped to the gentlemen’s wing and knocked softly at one of the doors. It took an agonisingly long time before he replied, but at length he did. I had expected I would rouse him from sleep, but his hair was neatly combed, and his eyes, though shadowed with anguish, were clear and alert.
“My lady,” he began, his expression one of naked astonishment. But I gave him no opportunity to say more. I pushed him into the room and closed the door behind us.
He recovered from his surprise and quickly gestured toward the chairs by the fire. I took one, schooling my expression carefully. I must not seem accusatory if I hoped to win his confidence. I must be gentle, sympathetic even.
With that in mind, I reached out when he had seated himself and I took his hand in mine. He started, but did not remove his hand, and after a moment I felt it relax in mine.
“I think you know why I have come. You are burdened. Would it not ease you to speak?”
He sighed then, a great exhalation carrying all the weight of the world with it, but he did not speak. His hand was warm and smooth in mine, and larger than I had expected.
I had thought it would feel less substantial somehow, but there was a solid, sinewy strength in his fingers.
“It weighs on you, does it not? You should not carry this burden alone.”
He gave a little groan and started to pull his hand away, but I held it fast and courtesy would not permit him to push me away.
“I shall not leave until you talk to me. Believe me when I say I am your friend, and I can help you. My family has a great deal of influence, and if you confide in me, I will do everything in my power to see justice is done. You believe that, do you not?”
He nodded, closing his eyes. His hand was now clasping mine, and I knew he was very nearly there. Just one last push…a shot in the dark, but my only chance to reach him.
“I think that she would want you to tell me.”
His eyes flew open. “She said I must never,” he whispered hoarsely.
I tightened my grasp on his hand. “She is overwrought. If she were thinking clearly, she would never want you to suffer, I am certain of it. And you are suffering now. It is written plainly on your face.”
His expression did not change, but I noticed a sudden brilliance to his eyes, the shimmer of unshed tears. I had found his most vulnerable spot. And like Paris bringing down Achilles, my aim must be true.
“It is not right you should suffer. All you have to do is tell me, and it will be over.”
For an instant I thought I had pushed him too far. But then his body sagged and his other hand reached out to cover mine.
“Yes. That is what I want, for it to be over,” he murmured.
“Then tell me. I will not abandon you. I swear it.”
“I believe you,” he said simply.
And I settled in my chair and waited for Henry Ludlow to tell me everything he knew.
THE TWENTY-FIFTH CHAPTER
Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep, And in his simple show he harbours treason.
—II Henry VI
It was not his fault. He was Sir Cedric’s employee and cousin, poor relation to a monster who held the purse strings. Whatever crimes Sir Cedric had committed, Ludlow must fear being charged as an accomplice. I could well understand why he had kept silent. But as his kinsman he must know Sir Cedric better than most, witnessed the ferocity of his temper, his obstinance. And he must have drawn his own conclusion about the author of the murder in the chapel. Lucy’s claim to sanctuary must have cemented the conviction that Sir Cedric had murdered Lucian. A woman knows the heart of her beloved, and what she does not know, she intuits. Even if Lucy had not been privy to his plans, she had looked at the broken body on the floor of the chapel and known the handiwork of her beloved.
“His arrogance,” Henry began softly, “was deplorable. I have rarely ever encountered a man so replete with it, and for so little cause. I would have hated him on his own merit, even if she had not revealed to me exactly what he was.”
I felt the niggle of a question, but did not ask. Now that Henry was talking, I was reluctant to interrupt him.