Rook(132)

René sat heavily at the table, looking at the document that Benoit slid over to him. He read it without touching it, fingers tented over his nose.

“Adèle,” said émile, “why did you tell René his inheritance was lost?”

“That,” she said, “was his father’s fault.”

René untented his fingers as Benoit slid over another document. “Your father left a stipulation that you could not inherit. Not until you were married.”

“Well, that would make a mess,” commented Enzo.

“Idiot,” said Andre, shaking his head. He didn’t look all that surprised.

“Sentimental,” Madame added, “that’s what he was.”

Benoit scratched through his wispy hair. “Could you not have stopped him, Adèle?”

“He did not tell me! He wanted his son to have what we had, working the … business, together.”

“Richard never was one for thinking with his head,” said Peter.

“That was my job,” said Madame, giggling. “We did make a wonderful team …”

René’s voice maintained only a thin veil of calm. “Will someone please explain to me why I have never been told this? And will someone help Tom restrain that woman?”

Sophia realized they’d all been ignoring the sounds of struggle coming from beyond the table, where Mrs. Rathbone had been set upright, her hat and purse on the floor, Tom behind her chair, his walking stick braced across her middle. Francois slid out from the table, crossed the room, and suddenly Tom’s stick had been replaced with a knife. Mrs. Rathbone went instantly still. And then the door latch to the dining room rattled, the lock held, and someone knocked. Silence descended.

“Sophie! Are you in there?”

“Orla,” Sophia breathed. She hurried to the door and opened it.

“Sophie, the sheriff and Mr. Halflife are here, and …” Her angular face grew even more so at the sight of all of them hiding away in the dining room, Madame with her head on the table and Mrs. Rathbone with a knife to her side.

“Well, it’s a good thing Tom is here,” said Orla, calm unruffled. “They’ve already been to the farm looking for him. They’re arresting him today instead of …”

“Tell them you’ve found a note saying we’ve all gone to dig on the far west downs,” Sophia said. “There are holes there already. And you never saw any of this.”

Orla glanced once more around the dining room before she said, “I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” and shut the door. Sophia turned the lock.

“Maman,” René was saying, causing his mother to raise her head. “I am waiting for my answer. Why did you never tell me of this?”

“Because I did not want you running off to get married just so you could inherit! Which is what you would have done. Better not to have … the money.” Madame was starting to sound more like herself. She was also looking a bit ill. “And in any case, I had already picked out a wife for you. Years ago …”

“What? Who?” said Sophia and René together.

“Miss Bellamy, of course! I chose her when she was nine years old.”

“But I only met you a few days ago!” Sophia protested.

Madame shook her head. “No. No. Nope. You are wrong. I met you both. Your brother was so polite, and you told me the dearest little lies about … circus performing.”

“Sophie!” Tom said. “It’s the woman …”

“… from the night the rope broke!” she finished, incredulous. René lifted his head while his mother waggled a finger at them.

“And I thought,” she continued, “that any little girl who could scale a cliff, fall on her brother’s head, brush herself off, and lie to a stranger like a rug on a floor—even if she did get a little dramatic—and a stranger who could have had her taken up by the guard, too? Now that …” She pointed emphatically. “… was a fitting wife for my son. It was easy enough to find out who you were.”

Sophia watched Benoit sit back and stretch his arms behind his head, as René did sometimes, a bit of a smile leaking onto his unremarkable face.

“But, Maman!” René said. “I agreed with your choice …” He paused, seeming to take in the oddity of this fact. “… but you are still rejecting her!”

“I had concerns.”

“What concerns?” said Sophia and René together.

“For one, my son, you were very good at charming young ladies into behaving like nitwits for you. Much, much too good …”

émile chuckled.

“… and Miss Bellamy here was in need of money. Badly. This was not a good beginning. Your father may have been sentimental, René, but I did at least agree with him in wishing your future happiness rather than a lifelong misery. I had intended to be here myself, of course, to observe, but … alas, I went to prison.”

René slammed the table. “This is nonsense. Tell the truth, Maman. Whoever I married was also going to inherit the business with me and take your place. And you could not have that, could you?”

“No. I have not given thirty years of my sweat and blood to have it ruined by your father’s whim and a silly girl who has been enticed by your charms.”