“Nothing?” The hand paused, inches from Brandon’s cheek. Water dripped from the loose sleeve. “You call the murder of Walter Fowler nothing? I bring you his greetings… and his accusation.”
“It was not my doing.” Brandon’s breath came in great, sobbing gasps. “I mean, it happened but it was not my fault. Ask Fowler. It was an accident—an argument. I didn’t mean him to die.” His voice rose to a scream. “Please, for God’s sake, don’t touch me!”
“One embrace, Brandon. Surely you would not deny that, to a loving brother, when we have been separated for so long? Except that where I dwell now, there is neither time nor place.” The sodden figure squelched closer along the coach seat. “Come, one kiss of memories. Even if you refuse to confess, you are still the little brother of whom I was always so fond and protective.”
Richard Dunwell lifted his arms and opened them wide. Brandon gave a squeak of terror and wriggled away. He opened the door of the moving coach and tumbled out headfirst. But he did not seem to be hurt, and in another moment he was on his feet and heading at a blind, staggering run away from the road toward a dip in the cliffs on the seaward side.
Richard Dunwell waited for the coach to stop before he stepped down. Almost as unsteady on his feet as Brandon, he moved around to where Jacob Pole sat in the driver’s seat. “You heard?”
“Every word.” Pole’s voice was gruff. “His admission is partial, but more than enough.”
“He says it was an accident.” Dunwell’s tone showed how much he wanted to believe that, but Pole shook his head.
“Think what came after. Your knife, marked with blood. Bloodstained clothes in your rooms at Dunwell Hall. That speaks of preparation, not accident. And afterwards, silence from Brandon. Even when his own brother stood at the gallows’ foot.”
Richard shivered, and it was more than wind cutting through wet clothes. “You force me to accept what I would rather deny. But he is still my brother. I would not see him hanged. What now?”
Pole nodded to the two horses approaching the coach. “I cannot say. However, Dr. Darwin is never without one plan—or a dozen.”
Those plans had to wait a few moments longer. Richard Dunwell helped Kathleen to dismount from her horse, then the pair stood stock-still and hesitant in the biting sea breeze. Neither seemed able to speak. Finally she wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“Ah, I should have mentioned that,” said Darwin. He at least seemed cheerful. “That stench is by deliberate design—and temporary.”
The trance was broken. Kathleen shook her head and smiled. “I don’t care if he smells like the grave.” And she added, in a low tone intended for Richard alone, “So long as you are not in it.”
“And will not be, I trust, for a long time.” Darwin came forward, forcing them apart.
“But how?” Kathleen glanced from Richard to the coach. “The murder and confession I understand, but the thefts—”
“Patience, Miss Kathleen. There will be time enough for answers—in a little while.” Darwin faced Richard Dunwell. “He has to be followed, and at once. You, or I?”
“It should be me.” Dunwell glanced away along the deserted cliffs, following the line that his brother had taken. “But I must know one thing before I go. Was it pure avarice, the simple desire to assume the family estate, that made Brandon act so?”
“It was not.” Darwin took Richard Dunwell’s hand in his. “And the very fact that you feel obliged to ask that question tells me that you cannot be the person to pursue him, lest you stand a second time accused of murder—and this one no forgery of jealousy. Brandon is to be pitied, yet it is not a pity that you can be expected to feel. He coveted something that you had; a thing to be found in a lady’s eyes, not measured in gold or rubies or family holdings.” He lifted Kathleen’s hand, and joined it to Richard’s. “Go back to the inn with Jacob. Leave the horses here. If I do not return within two hours, you may assume that I am… in need of assistance.”
Darwin set out along the cliff. He did not look back, but he scanned the grey skyline and every bare rock and tufted mound ahead. Bad weather was on its way. The low cloud layer had descended farther, and a patchy sea-rack was blowing ashore with the wind. The shore at the foot of the cliffs was a jumble of white waves, black slate outcroppings and tidal pools, among which wandered forlorn seabirds. Even Darwin’s rational eye could easily populate that desolate scene with the unquiet ghosts of drowned mariners. To Brandon Dunwell’s superstitious mind, the sudden appearance of his brother close to the point where he had jumped to his death must have been sheer horror.
Brandon’s physical condition had not allowed him to run far. Darwin came across him slumped on a shelf of rock at the very edge of the cliff. He was leaning far forward with his head in his hands and his eyes covered. He did not hear Darwin’s approach, and gave a great shuddering jerk when a hand gripped his shoulder.
“Courage, man.” Darwin spoke softly. Brandon seemed too terrified to look around. “What you saw in the coach was no apparition from beyond the veil. Your brother Richard is alive. He presented himself so only to force confession—which you gave.”
Brandon lifted his head and shook it wearily. But he was beyond denial, and after a few seconds he slumped back to his original position. “Richard is alive. Then I am dead.” And his toneless voice was that of a dead man.
“Only if you choose it so.” Darwin became brisk and businesslike. “You are a very sick man. But although you cannot be cured, you can be treated. And if I cannot offer you health, I can offer you hope.”
“Hope.” Dunwell glared up at Darwin, and his tired, red-rimmed eyes showed his despair and exhaustion. “Hope to live long enough to dance on air. Better to go here, and now.”
“That is your choice.” But Darwin took a firm grasp of the back of Dunwell’s jacket as he sat down next to him on the cliff-edge shelf of black rock. “You should know, however, that your brother is not a man to seek vengeance.”
“Walter Fowler—”
“Is in his grave. He will not come forth from it, no matter what we do. Naturally, Richard must assume his estate again, and establish his innocence. But a signed letter from you, before your ‘escape’ and departure forever from these parts—”
“Sick and penniless.”
“You know your brother better than I do. Would he send you forth even now, after all that you have done to him, to wither and die a pauper?”
Brandon said nothing, but he shook his head and stared into the blowing fog.
Darwin nodded. “You have money on your person? Then take one of the horses waiting along the road, and go to the Posthouse Inn at St. Austell. I will plead on your behalf with Richard, and come to you tomorrow. With writing materials.”
Brandon Dunwell nodded. He took a deep breath and stood up. Darwin watched him closely until he had backed well away from the cliff and was turning to face inland.
“I will do as you say.” Dunwell’s pale eyes stared into Darwin’s bright grey ones. “But one thing I cannot understand. Why are you willing to do this for me? I am a murderer, and worse.”
“Because I too looked once upon a woman’s face, and was lost.” Darwin’s eyes took on their own emptiness. “I believe I would have done anything—anything, no matter how terrible—to win her.”
“She went to another?”
“At last. But I was fortunate. I won Mary, and was saved from my worst self. Seven years ago, she died.” Darwin gave a strange shiver and a shrug of his heavy shoulders. “Seven years. But at last I learned that life went on. As yours will go on.”
A fine rain had begun to fall. Neither man spoke as they walked slowly, side by side, toward the waiting horses.