Beguiled (5 page)

Before he could move, the massive work of
white stone was shoved by an unseen hand. Mr. Quince was directly in its path.
The speed of the disaster gave the old man no time to react. It fell on the
stable master, hitting his head with a sickening thud. Piers watched in
horrified silence as Quince toppled to the floor, crushed under the weight of
the marble.

A thick pool of dark red blood formed a halo
around the old man’s smashed skull.

Quince was dead.

Slowly, Piers turned with dread to the
shadowed alcove. A pair of glinting mad eye stared back at him. He pressed his
hand over his mouth to stifle the scream that rose to his throat and backed
away, slowly, slowly, and then gripped by terror, he turned and ran from
Windemere
Hall.

§

Gateshead, that same day.

BRANSON APPROACHED the asylum on horseback.
The avenue opened into a broad expanse of turf. From the central block, twin
towers rose like castle battlements. To the right and left were the wings of
the asylum. There were thick iron bars on the windows.

He was windblown and out of breath. Feeling with every
length of Gladiator’s stride that he was a fool, wasting his one chance to
bring down Arthur Hamilton, he rode toward the gothic building, grimly furious.
Today was the culmination of everything for him, the fruition of years of
planning and he’d left it in Edgar Hamilton’s puny power to see it through. He
must be mad sticking his neck out for a girl who likely hated him and one he
had every reason to hate—for a shiver of intuition—a voice he had heard coming
to him across the Down?

But without his intervention, Clara would have fallen into
Strachan’s power and he could not allow that to happen. Branson had been
vulnerable last night and full of self-pity. The cold clear morning brought him
back to earth.
I was damned either way
,
he thought and slapped Gladiator’s haunches, urging the horse to a gallop. His
cloak lifted behind him and he leaned into the cold wind, his eyes stinging. Fear
was bearing down on him that he might be too late and Clara would be too far
gone to be saved. He’d seen it happen before.

At the front entrance, Branson dismounted
and slung the leather satchel across his breast. He took the steps two at a
time. Upon opening the heavy wooden door, he was struck first by the smell and
then by the austerity of the lobby. The board of directors obviously believed
in frugal use of the patronage they received. Branson found the Director’s
Office and rapped sharply on the door. A woman in the garb of one of the new
Nightingale Order of Nurses approached.

“The doctor is in conference, sir. How may I
help you?”

“You can fetch my wife, Mrs. Clara Hamilton.
She was admitted earlier this week. I’ve come to take her home.”

“Oh my!”
The nurse cast an anxious glance at the Director’s office. “I shall
have to consult with Dr. Rutledge before I can release Clara Hamilton to your
charge. If you will take a seat, sir, I will alert the doctor that you are here.”

“Do not trouble yourself. This will only
take a moment.” Having ascertained the man was in his office, Branson opened
the door and walked in. “Doctor Rutledge. My name is Branson Hamilton. I
believe you are holding my wife here. I’ve come to take her home.”

Rutledge looked up from the papers on his
desk. He wore the sombre black frock coat of his profession. He set his pen
down and sat back in his chair. Folding his hands over his midriff, he
considered Branson thoughtfully.

“What you are asking is impossible, sir. I have examined
Clara Hamilton carefully and she is only now beginning to respond to treatment.
She is presently sedated and resting comfortably. I cannot authorize her
removal in any case without her father’s consent.”

“Her father has nothing to do with this,” said Branson. “I
am her husband and I have the registration of marriage here to prove it.”

BRANSON WITHDREW the Parish Registrar Book
from the leather satchel and opened it to the last page. The line read
Mr. Branson Hamilton, Esquire wed Miss Clara
Hamilton of London on September 25, 1867 at
Windemere
Chapel.
Officiated by Church Curate, Mr. Harold
Bellweather
.

“The confusion occurred when Mr.
Bellweather
neglected to record the ceremony in a timely
manner. When I explained the peril my wife was in following a visit to her
father in London, Vicar
Wimbley
took steps to rectify
the mistake.”

The doctor examined the entry closely. The
book itself was undeniably a record of the births, deaths and marriages of the
inhabitants of
Windemere
parish, filled in by various
curates and vicars over its long history.

“I shall have to contact Mr. Arthur Hamilton to confirm this
report before I can take action,” Dr. Rutledge said. “You must understand, sir,
procedure must be followed.”

“I am not a patient man, Doctor. My
father-in-law is tied up in a meeting of the shareholders and cannot be
reached. I have no intention of waiting for his permission to claim my wife.”

“It is curious that Clara did not recall her
own wedding,” Rutledge mused. “She is suffering from a pernicious psycho-sexual
delusion. I believe it was brought on by illicit sexual relations with you,
sir. The can be no other explanation for her bizarre claims.”

Branson leaned his fists on the man’s desk.
“I see what you’re doing. You colluded with Arthur Hamilton to imprison my wife
in this place and your treatments have driven her into a state of amnesia. You
have used your influence to induce Clara to forget our wedding so she would not
seek my help.”

Dr. Rutledge leapt to his feet, his face
crimson with outrage. “How dare you! I am a respected physician in my field of
study. Perhaps the trauma of returning to
Windemere
forced her into a regressive state, a state of childhood, before her marriage. And
if that is the case, it was a reasonable misdiagnosis on my part, given the
fact that the lady was not wearing a wedding ring when she arrived. Where are
her rings if she is indeed your wife?”

“My wife had a habit of removing them to put
on her gloves. I daresay she forgot them before travelling to London.
Hardly a reason to confine her to an insane asylum.
I have
them here.”

Branson produced two rings from his vest, a diamond
engagement ring and a plain gold wedding band and set them in front of Dr.
Rutledge.

“Now, I am at the limits of my tolerance,
sir. You will produce my wife immediately or I shall call the police and use my
considerable pull in Parliament to have this institution shut down. If I find
any harm has come to Clara, you will answer for it.”

Rutledge raised his hands to pacify Branson.
“Sir, kindly
restrain
your temper. I have no objection
to your claim—only a professional obligation to confirm it. If Clara identifies
you as her husband, I will feel satisfied that the treatments she has undergone
have restored her to reality. If she does not know you, you must agree it would
be dangerous to force her into your company.” Dr. Rutledge came around the desk
and led Branson to the door. “Shall we let the lady decide?”

He rang Matron to have Clara Hamilton
dressed and brought downstairs. “Do not tell her that it is her husband come to
bring her home. I want to observe her reaction. Thank you, Mrs. Sutherland.”

§

QUINCE’S BODY was already cold and stiff
by the time Piers returned. The statue lay across the man’s chest in a
grotesque embrace. The threat was gone—he sensed she was no longer in the
house. He could dispose of the corpse without fear.

Piers knew why she had done it. Quince had been saying the
most terrible, disparaging things about her and Gracie could never bear an
insult, even when she was little girl.

But this was going too far. It had been hard enough
explaining matters to Branson when Clara Hamilton was attacked. How in God’s
name
was
Piers supposed to explain
this
? This was cold-blooded murder!

Calm down. It is
impossible for a ghost to murder a man.

Piers seized on the realization with glee. There could be no
arrest or charges made against an assailant that was a spirit! The ghost of
Windemere
Hall as the housemaids used to call her. The
story Branson concocted seven years ago made sense now though Piers had
objected at the time.

He bent over and grasped the statue. With a great deal of effort
he was able to budge it just enough to free Quince’s body. Piers fetched a
blanket from the cedar chest in the guest bedroom and wrapped it around the
corpse, then hoisted Quince over his shoulder. He’d have to come back to clean
up the blood.

Once he had a plan and a task, Piers began to breathe freer
and feel easier about the accident.
It
was just an accident
, he thought. No one could have moved that statue in
his or her own strength. It was exceedingly heavy! It was a tragic freak
accident. Perhaps a mild earthquake had dislodged it. Perhaps Clara Hamilton
had tried to move it. Piers had no idea how it came to topple from the
pedestal. It was unfortunate that the stable master was unable to get out of
the way in time but no one could be held responsible.

Piers giggled.

A
tragic freak accident
.
He would explain it all to Branson when he
returned.

§

THE MESSAGE was a strange one even for this
place.

“Your cousin, Mr. Branson Hamilton is here to see you,
miss.”

Even with Mrs. Sutherland’s assurances, Clara doubted its
veracity until she left her room and saw Branson pacing the foyer below.

Clara slowly walked down the stairs, utterly bewildered by
his presence. He was the last person she expected to see on this day. It was
first of October—the day he was meant to be in London executing his scheme of
revenge.

She tugged on her shortened hair nervously. Mercifully, her
appearance was not too deranged by her incarceration. Matron had given her a mirrored
glass to make herself presentable to receive her visitor. Her reflection had
shown a girl who was thin and pale, but reasonably sane.

Her heart lurched when she set eyes on him, but she kept her
feelings on a leash and her manner was guarded as it had not been before. Dr.
Rutledge seemed to be watching the exchange with keen medical interest. She
would not disappoint the staff of
Gateshead
Asylum by
throwing a fit. The experience with the ice bath was enough to cure her of
displays of temper.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hamilton. I was
informed that my cousin had come to visit. Now that I see you, I understand the
joke. It is a cruel one.”

Branson’s eyes were fixed on her face and
held a strange look that alerted her to another, greater purpose to this visit.
She stared, divining his message—
I will
get you out
.

Dr. Rutledge cocked his head. “Why is that,
Clara? Why cruel?”

“Because,” she said hesitantly, “because Mr.
Hamilton is not just my c-c-cousin—h-h-he is also my husband.” She was
perspiring but the words were there. “It is cruel of him to d-d-deny the
relationship.”

“Ah, well!” Rutledge frowned and pulled on
his beard. “I must take the blame for that, Mrs. Hamilton. When your husband
arrived to take you home, I had to make sure you knew him as such before I
could consent to release you into his care.”

“I brought your rings, dearest,” Branson
said gruffly. He reached for her left hand and Clara flinched. He met her eyes.
“You forgot them again.” He slipped them on her finger and they hung loosely.
“You have lost weight. I came as soon as I could. Vicar
Wimbley
was good enough to offer proof of our marriage in the event of any difficulty.”

Clara nodded, understanding at last that
Branson had really come for her. Not a dream—not a hallucination or a wish—her
cousin was here in the flesh and he had devised a way to get her out! She only
had to play along.

“You mustn’t blame Dr. Rutledge for the
confusion, Branson. I was not certain of anything when I arrived. His treatment
was most effective in restoring me to my right mind.”

Branson turned to Rutledge. “I’m glad to
hear it,” he said with meaning. “If Mrs. Hamilton’s bags could be brought down,
we’ll take our leave. We have a long journey ahead of us to Somerset.”

Rutledge wasted no time in doing as he
asked. It was when he was left alone with Clara in the foyer that Branson met
his first serious opposition. He had not calculated on the emotions he would
endure in seeing her again. There were dark smudges under her eyes and her
hands shook as she reached up to smooth her hair. She wore it unbound and had
been cut recently. Still, for all that, she looked well. Her eyes were as
beautiful as ever.

“You came for me,” Clara murmured. “I didn’t
think you would.”

Branson steeled himself. “I can take you as
far as London,” he said stiffly. “I keep a carriage there. I shall journey back
to
Windemere
Hall and you may do as you please. I
won’t trouble you any longer, Clara.”

“I see.” Her hazel eyes glistened but she
did not cry.

She seemed removed from him, as though
confinement in the asylum had done more to her than change her hair. It had
broken her spirit and interest in life. Branson wanted to hold her, kiss her
and bring her back to life, but doing so would only trap her further and drain
her of what little life she had left.

“I am sorry you came all this way and put yourself
to trouble on my account.” Clara turned away.

“Where are you going?” he asked sharply.

“I would rather stay here, sir. There is
nothing for me in London. Thank you all the same.”

“Stop!” he hissed through clenched teeth. “I
did not come all this way to return to your brother empty-handed. At this very
moment, Edgar is making the announcement at the shareholders’ meeting in my
absence. He came to me yesterday to arrange for your release in exchange for my
proxy. The success of the day hinges on your safe return! I have come at great
personal risk—”

“Risk!”
Clara’s eyes were alive with fury. She balled her hands into fists.
“The risk is that Edgar will rebel and he won’t do your bidding. Your sudden
interest in me begins to make sense. I can only imagine the choice you gave
Edgar—destroy his father or destroy his sister—
it is up to you, dear fellow
. You treat your friends well, cousin.
You treat your fiancées even better. One, you allowed to kill herself. The
other, you suffered to be shut up in a madhouse.”

His jaw clenched. He took two swift steps
toward her, grasped her arm and pulled her against his chest to shut her up. “
I mean to take you London and deliver you to your
brother. If you did not run away from me in the first place, none of this would
have happened!”

“You gave me little choice, Bran.” Clara gently
extricated herself from his hold. Her expression held great grief. “I am sorry
but I will not be going anywhere with you. Please inform my brother that I have
released you from your promise and you are no longer under any obligation to me.
He will understand my meaning. I am glad to have the opportunity to part with
you as friends. I wish you well. Good-bye, cousin.”

Obviously, Edgar Hamilton had not taken into
account his sister’s significant objection to Branson’s company when he devised
this plan. “Wait, please—Clara.” Branson caught her arm. “There is something
you need to know. Something I must tell you. I did not come here for Edgar’s
sake alone. Will you come now, before we attract further enquiries from the
good doctor? It is only a matter of time before he decides to send word to
London to confirm my story. Your father will be out of the meeting soon. We
need to be well away before then.”

“Nothing you can do to my father will prick
his conscience,” she said sadly. “Nothing will move him. He has no feeling for
any person’s welfare save his own.”

“That does not
make what he is about to endure any less just,” Branson retorted fiercely. “Make
no mistake—I regret
nothing
on that
score.”

Her legs seemed
to give way and she collapsed against him. Branson noticed for the first time
how very weak and pale she was. He lifted her in his arms as easily as he might
lift a sack of grain and choking with emotion, he buried his face against her neck.

“Clara, I
cannot leave you behind. I beg of you—if you love me, you will let me take you
away from this place!”

The orderly arrived with Clara’s belongings
in that moment, a small case containing the barest of necessities. Branson motioned
to the man to carry it out to his horse while he followed carrying Clara in his
arms. She held onto his shoulders, too weak to resist and leaned her cheek
against his chest.

Branson exited hurriedly down the steps,
cursing his luck that in his haste he did not bring the carriage. Gladiator
greeted his mistress with a snort of welcome. The bloody beast hated all human
life save Clara Hamilton.