“First, I must confess to meeting secretly with Mr St Clair.”
“St Clair?” Mrs Waltham sat forward. “Where?”
“At Hatton & Sons solicitors on Old Compton Street. We met with Mr Hatton to discuss your nephew’s will. I believe you were the one who first drew our attention to the fact Mr St Clair was the heir to Oakmere.”
“Yes, I assumed he knew,” she said, intrigued.
It occurred to her that if they had conspired to kill Charles Holland and frame Nicholas, the motive must be money. Would Mrs Waltham contest the will? Did she feel that a debt-ridden estate was better than no estate at all? For his help in the matter, had she promised to claim the valet as her long-lost nephew? Or was she unaware of his true identity?
Either way, it was time to scupper her plans.
“You see, I married Mr St Clair yesterday by special licence. I am with child and he means to provide for me should there be a miscarriage of justice.” She touched her abdomen to make the story appear convincing, though her heart bloomed at the thought of carrying Nicholas’ babe. “Mr Hatton drew up a will declaring I am to inherit Oakmere if Mr St Clair hangs.”
The bold statement probably wouldn’t hold up in court, but then she was unaware of the laws pertaining to wills and criminals.
“Imagine our surprise when Mr Hatton claimed to know Mr St Clair’s mother,” she added before they could contest her previous assertion. “He told an incredulous tale which was supported by a midwife in Bedford.”
Mrs Waltham shook her head. “It all sounds like nonsense to me. You’re rambling. What has any of this to do with poor Charles?”
She spoke about Esther’s friendship with Marjorie Russell and the secret child. “Charles was a twin.”
“A twin!” The woman looked genuinely shocked. “But that’s absurd.” She stood and gestured to the door. “Miss Langley, it’s best you leave. My nephew is dead, and I find these ridiculous stories quite disturbing. It’s clear you’ll say anything to save your lover.”
Helen kept her composure. She could almost hear Sir Percival’s ragged breath in her ear, urging her to get to the point.
“It’s not a story, madam. I have Mrs Russell’s statement and a portrait of Charles’ twin that I mean to give to the magistrate tonight.”
A muscle in the valet’s cheek twitched.
“A portrait?”
“Yes.” Helen glanced at the imposter. “You might find it hard to believe, but it proves Monsieur Laurent is your nephew.”
Tension filled the air.
The valet straightened, his impassive expression giving way to shock, and then to something quite sinister. Firelight cast shadows across his hard features, drawing attention to his evil sneer.
Mrs Waltham gave a doubtful chuckle, then turned to the valet. “Pierre? What on earth is she talking about?” She must have seen something wicked in his eyes because she started shaking. “Tell her she is mistaken. Tell her!”
Pierre!
The valet’s icy stare would freeze hell’s fires.
Helen mentioned the unusual ring. “The man who tried to kill us on the road to Grayswood wore the ring given to Captain Russell for his courage at Waterloo. There’s a record of the award at the War Office in Whitehall.”
Why had he swerved into them if he meant to frame Nicholas for murder? That part didn’t make sense.
Mrs Waltham’s face turned deathly pale. “Pierre, tell her how ludicrous it all sounds. You can’t possibly be my nephew.” She grabbed his arm, pleading to be put out of her misery. “We agreed to sell Oakmere and move to France. You said you cared for me deeply. You’ve been nothing but supportive these last two months.”
The valet ignored the whimpering woman.
When he spoke, he used his French accent. “Miss Langley, you seem to be confused. I did not kill my master. If we can speak privately, I would like to make a confession. To explain how I have been lied to and coerced.”
“What? No! You’re the liar!” Mrs Waltham shook her head. “You used me, manipulated the situation. When you heard about the will, about Esther’s son inheriting, it was your idea to ruin the plans.”
“Which one of you killed Charles Holland?” Helen said.
They pointed to each other.