The Secret of Pembrooke Park(135)

“And what do you think now?” Abigail asked gently. “Do you believe it is your father Mr. Chapman found at the bottom of the ravine?”

Harriet nodded. “I do think it’s him. The ring. The pistol. Where they found him . . . But remember, I have wanted to believe him dead for a long, long time.”

“And Miles?”

Harriet hesitated. “He didn’t react with the relief I expected. He was . . . strange about it. He had tears in his eyes, even as he muttered something quite disrespectful to the dead. . . . Not that I blame him, but still I found his reaction unsettling, I admit.”

“Is it such a surprise that he should feel torn?” Abigail asked. “He was a boy who shot his father, and probably still wishes his father would forgive him, and love him, and value him. . . .” Abigail swallowed, realizing she was prattling on. “After all, he cannot know whether his shot ended his life, or the exhausted horse, or the ravine itself, or all of the above. . . .”

“I told Miles again and again he has no need to feel guilty.”

“Saying the words and believing oneself forgiven are very different things.” Abigail knew this from firsthand experience.

“Yes, you’re right. That’s why I’ve felt I needed to do something, to make restitution.”

“And you have, but remember that God is merciful. You are not responsible for your father’s wrongdoing.”

She managed a humorless smile. “The Old Testament contradicts you, Miss Foster. Perhaps you ought to read the Book of Numbers. . . .”

“Numbers 14, perhaps?” Abigail said, naming one of the verses referenced in the miniature book.

“Ah! You found one of my clues! You cannot know how satisfying that is. Did you find the one about Cain and Abel as well?”

Abigail nodded.

“I wrote them down while we were packing to leave. My small attempt to hint at the truth—and how I felt about it.” Harriet smiled, then sobered. “I have thought about what you told me, Miss Foster. And I will continue to consider your words.”

Abigail thought for a moment. Hadn’t Duncan mentioned something about the gamekeeper—that he had died? She asked, “Did you ever hear from the gamekeeper again?”

Harriet shook her head. “No. But I recently asked Mr. Morgan’s man if he knew anything about the old Pembrooke gamekeeper. He told me the man died only last year but is survived by his wife and son.”

A sense of foreboding prickling her skin, Abigail asked, “What was his name?”

For a moment, Harriet met her gaze, then said evenly, “James Duncan.”

After Harriet left, Abigail went to find Duncan, looking in his usual haunts. He wasn’t in his room or in the servants’ hall. Entering the lamp room, she found it empty as well.

From the corner of her eye, she saw something and turned back. A hefty wad of faded green material lay bunched on a stool in the corner. Frowning, she stepped closer and picked up one edge of the moth-eaten, musty wool with two pincher fingers. She stilled, nerves prickling. Was this the hooded cloak she had seen someone lurking around in? She felt something hard through the material. Laying down the cloak, she patted until she found an inner pocket. Inside was an old copper lamp base.

Footsteps echoed in the passage and Abigail dropped her find and whirled, feeling illogically guilty.

In the threshold, Mrs. Walsh drew up short at the sight of her. “Oh. Hello, miss. Where’s Duncan?”

“That’s what I want to know.”

Abigail asked Polly and Molly as well, but no one had seen him all day.

She went to find Miles instead, but he wasn’t in his room either, nor in the library or drawing room. Finally she wandered out to the stables, and there found Miles sitting in the straw of an empty stall—sleeves rolled up, forearms on his knees, hair rumpled and specked with straw. He looked twelve years old all over again.

“Miles . . .” she said, relieved to find him but concerned at his state.

He looked up at her with haunted eyes, reminding her of Harriet’s description of the little girl staring up at her window with haunted eyes. A girl whose father had also met a violent end.

“What are you doing out here all alone?” she asked gently. “I was worried about you.”

“Were you? Dear Cousin Abigail . . .” He patted the straw beside him.

Pushing aside concerns for her skirt, she sat. “Harriet was just here.”

“Did she tell you?” he asked softly, not meeting her eyes. “About . . . everything?”

“I think so, yes.”

He nodded, appearing relieved.

He stared at the stall wall and said, “Harold was good. You wouldn’t know it to look at him—foul-tempered and sullen most of the time. But he stood up to Father, put himself between him and Mother, or me, time and time again. And ended up black and blue for his trouble. And I . . . killed him.” His chin trembled. “A good man. Barely more than a boy himself. And I killed him. Unforgivable.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Miles. You were trying to save him. You were only an innocent boy.”

He shook his head. “Don’t make me out to be innocent, Miss Foster. I know myself too well. I am no innocent. I meant to kill my father.” His voice shook. “And I came here fully intending to take all I could . . . until I became acquainted with you and your kind father.” Again he shook his head. “No. Don’t try to make me an innocent.”