Titus contemplated the proposal. To marry a woman close to fifty years his senior on her deathbed, for no better reason than money on his side and malice on hers—it was contemptible. He’d be a laughing stock.
He’d be arichcontemptible laughing stock.
“All right,” he said.
Chapter Two
The next period passed in a blur. Titus sat with Miss Whitecross, holding her hand, feeling the spasmodic twitches of pain. Her broken body was failing despite her indomitable will, and the doctor’s draughts made very little headway against her physical agony. She muttered about the Laxtons, father and son, and made Pilcrow swear he’d never give Matthew Laxton anything. “Not a penny to the murderer, hear me? Promise!”
He promised, and talked to her soothingly about anything he could think of, until a very ruffled clergyman came in with a curate in tow, shepherded by lawyer and butler. Mr. Carnaby left the parson to speak to Miss Whitecross, and took Titus outside for a low-voiced talk.
“I know she’s pushed you into this. I can assure you it will be worth your while.”
“Surely Mr. Laxton will object,” Titus pointed out. He’d been thinking a lot about that. “Could he not challenge the marriage in court?”
“Not if I can help it. I’ve drawn up a will, to be witnessedas soon as the marriage is solemnized, in order to confirm her wishes. The vicar is speaking to her alone now, to be sure she’s in her right mind and not coerced. I’ll make this watertight.” He grinned ruefully at Titus. “She’s a dreadful, bullying old harpy, and my favourite client.”
“I like her too. Oh Lord.”
“She’s had a good run,” Mr. Carnaby said briskly. “Let her die as she lived—dictatorial and malicious—and she’ll go happy.”
“Yes, but—Mr. Carnaby, about her accusations—”
Mr. Carnaby made a face. “Mr. Laxton came to visit yesterday afternoon. He asked her to show him some picture, of his mother, I think, and they went upstairs. And then—well, the servants heard a scream and a crash. They came running, and saw Mr. Laxton hurrying down the stairs to her. She was very distressed and confused and in a great deal of pain. And, unfortunately, she insisted on summoning the coroner.”
“The coroner?”
“Quite. She explained to him that she had been murdered, which he took as evidence she was not rational.”
It would do that, Titus thought. “But if she was tripped and dies of the fall, surely thatismurder?”
“When she’s dead, absolutely. But she isn’t dead yet, and the coroner is not used to discussing murders with their victim, or to the victim calling him a blinkered fool. With profanity.”
“Oh dear.”
“Thorpe sent for me, but I was out. I wish to heaven I had been in,” Mr. Carnaby muttered. “To make a short tale of it, the coroner spoke to the household, and with no witness to support her claim, he concluded that Miss Whitecross’s account was unreliable. She is old, unbalanced by pain, and casting blame unfairly. That was his conclusion last night, and I doubt he will change it when she is dead.”
“Do you believe her?”
Mr. Carnaby hesitated, then spoke carefully. “She had a very painful, shocking fall. I have seen her take against people many a time, and she harbours a great dislike of her nephew. With no evidence, and no witness, I very much doubt there would be any use pursuing the matter further.”
That wasn’t what Titus had asked. “Do you believe her?” he repeated.
Mr. Carnaby exhaled, long and hard. “It is not a matter of what I believe. Matthew Laxton knew she was discussing marriage with the intention of cutting him out—”
“She was going to marry? Really?”
“She has been considering it on and off for years. This was the first time she had gone so far as to obtain a licence. One might wonder if that seemed significant to her nephew, who I believe has heavy debts. I could not possibly say he killed her, but it is fair to observe that he stood to lose a great deal by her marriage.”
“Then surely—”
Mr. Carnaby shook his head. “No jury will hang a man on the basis of motive alone, and all we have otherwise is an unsupported accusation by a dead woman. It won’t fly.”
“Then he has, or will have, got away with murder,” Titus said. “Surely we cannot tolerate that. If I am to—to inherit, I have aduty.”
“A praiseworthy sentiment,” Mr. Carnaby said, almost without irony. “And don’t let me stop you trying, but it won’t change a thing. I am not saying this lightly, Mr. Pilcrow; I don’t want to see him get away with it either, but I very much doubt there is anything I can do about it. You, however, can go through with this marriage and snatch his prize. That will be something.”
“I don’t entirely understand the situation,” Titus said. “Why must she marry?”