Caught in a Cornish Scandal Eleanor Webster (new books to read .TXT) 📖

seemed to paralyse his muscles so that he could not breathe.

‘Arrested? That is not credible. What for?’

‘The murder of Mr Ludlow.’

‘Murder? Jason is dead?’

The cold tightened, vise-like. It gripped at his heart and his lungs so that each exhalation hurt and felt like an effort of will. His dream, the blurred image of his brother-in-law, flickered before him.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ the landlord said.

‘Well,’ his wife corrected, ‘more precisely he disappeared.’

‘Disappeared?’ Sam asked.

‘His body has not been found,’ she explained, adding ghoulishly, ‘Yet.’

‘But several of his personal effects have washed up on shore,’ the landlord added. ‘Leading people to think that ’e’s dead.’ To emphasise this point, he lifted his plump finger and made a movement across his throat, much as a school boy might.

‘And they think his wife was involved?’ Sam managed to ask, pushing out the words.

‘Their relationship had been...’ The landlord paused as though gauging Sam’s reaction.

Sam lifted one eyebrow. ‘Yes?’

‘Fraught.’

Sam stood, the movement so abrupt that his chair banged into the wall behind him. The need to escape the curious eyes of the landlord and lady overwhelmed. Indeed, their earlier gossipy nosiness now seemed laced with malevolence. The smells of ale, food and tobacco no longer comforted, but seemed to suffocate.

Throwing down a guinea, he strode from the room, pushing open the door and almost sprinting down the narrow corridor and outside, into the fresh air beyond. The outer door clattered behind him. He leaned against the stone wall, staring blindly at the small courtyard, while gulping the air like a man drowning.

The stone exterior felt rough and bumpy against his spine. Dazedly, he watched the cockerel strut in a circular manner about the yard and the donkey gaze at it apprehensively.

What had happened that night? Why couldn’t he remember? And would he ever?

‘Frances couldn’t murder or hurt anyone,’ he muttered. ‘They are all mad.’

But then what had happened to Jason? Where was he?

Again, Sam remembered his dream and Jason’s face twisted with anger. He swallowed, fearing he might cast up his accounts. Could there be truth to his dream? Was it indeed not a dream, but a memory? Had they fought? Had some accident occurred? He could not have hurt his sister’s husband in cold blood—he had never hurt a fellow human—but it was only logical that he might have had some involvement. It was too much of a coincidence that he had almost drowned and Jason had disappeared on the same night.

He pushed his head against the wall. What had happened? Anything, however awful, must be better than this blankness—this endless, awful questioning.

‘But Frances could not have done it. She couldn’t have done it,’ he muttered, so oblivious to his surroundings that he was shocked by Millie’s brisk response.

‘Indeed not, I can think of many others with greater motivation,’ she said, bracingly.

He turned around, staring at her strong features, the firm jaw and straight brows as though confused by her presence.

‘And what about me? What if I did something to him?’

‘You are a man beset by violent rages?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘Then it is entirely more likely that you both fell into the water doing something foolish or that you were attacked by someone who bore a grudge against him.’

‘He was so angry in the dream.’ He squeezed his eyes tight shut to block out the image.

‘If you were both attacked, I presume he was cross.’

Again, he was struck by the woman’s unflappability. She seemed as calm as she would have been discussing seasonal vegetables. There were no hysterics and no disposition to fall into the vapours, merely a bracing common sense.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You are right. There is no point jumping to conclusions.’

The door opened and the landlord emerged, his wife behind him, curiosity evident in their expressions. He wanted to avoid them, but also knew a sudden desperation to learn more or, at the very least, everything they knew.

‘Thought I should tell you, the coach should be here in fifteen minutes, or so. Stops regular like,’ the landlord said, ambling forward with the rolling gait of a sailor.

‘It took two of you to deliver this message?’ Millie snapped.

Sam ignored her, stepping forward almost as though motivated by a force beyond his control. ‘What—why—what items washed up? Why do they think him dead?’

‘His monogrammed handkerchief,’ the landlady said.

‘That is hardly conclusive,’ Millie said. ‘I have dropped my handkerchief a thousand times and I am still alive and well.’

‘Aye,’ the landlord agreed. ‘Aye and so I can see. Except his pocket watch was also found. Besides, the big difference between you and ’im is that you’re here and he ain’t.’

‘Lord have mercy!’ his wife interrupted, her rosy cheeks flushing to a more hectic hue and her button eyes sparkling. She bustled past her husband, stepping close to Millie and waving a finger in her face. ‘Lord have mercy. I knew as soon as you started talking about handkerchiefs that you ain’t no lad. Running around in trousers. Spending time with gentlemen what have murderous relatives. I have never seen the like. This is a respectable place, I’ll have you know!’

Sam watched the rhythmic wag of her finger. The words washed over him, waves of sounds, negligible against the discord of his own thoughts. The beat of his heart was like a tuneless chant. Dead...dead...dead...

And then, sharp against the blur that was his mind, Sam remembered that Jason had been wearing a gold watch. At dinner. Sam was certain of it. He could see the gold chain bright against the waistcoat.

‘He had a watch,’ Sam said.

He felt three pairs of eyes turn to him.

Jason had also been drenched in his dream. Sam pictured his angry face. He saw the dark hair and lank, sodden strands.

‘He was wet,’ Sam said.

Thoughts chased and bounced through his mind. A fight? An accident? Again his brother-in-law’s image flickered before his mind’s eyes: angry, drenched, hair plastered to his forehead.

‘He was angry at me. I—I am sure of it. I must know something. It cannot be a coincidence. I saw