I was living it all again... seeing Belinda... sleeping deeply throughout that night.
I said slowly, “So there was never any connection with the wool trade in Bradford?”
“It was the background we had set up. I was to marry you, make sure that I would be in possession of your fortune... and then we were going to kill you. It could not be a straightforward execution. That would have been too dangerous for us. We had to stage a suicide. With a victim so close it was taking a great risk. We had to plan very carefully. We knew you were going to France through the maid with whom one of our workers had become friendly. It was easy to get the information out of her.”
I remembered then. Amy, I believe was her name. And there was the man who had “delivered documents.” How meticulously they had laid their plans! Roland went on, his voice becoming a little slurred, “The police in England are aware of our family... the O’Neills... not the Fitzgeralds. Phillida did most of the ghosting. She was very good at it. I did it once, Lucie. I am ashamed to tell you. Kitty did the last one. She is one of us, of course. I hated doing it, Lucie. But I had to do it. It was the plan....”
“It is all becoming clear to me, now,” I said.
“We could not have done it that way if it had not been for Joel Greenham’s disappearance and reported death. If you had refused to marry me we should have had to make other plans... but the thought of getting our hands on all the money seemed an opportunity not to be missed.”
“It seems incredible.”
“If you knew more of our organization you would realize that things which seem incredible are a matter of course. Phillida has always been more dedicated than I, and she was very close to Fergus. He was our father’s favorite, too. He was the adventurous one. He loved what he was doing for its own sake as well as the cause. He brought a touch of melodrama into it.
Phillida is like that, too. I was different. In a way they despised me. They will more than ever now.”
“You did this,” I said. “You made all these plans... and yet at the end you saved my life.”
He said simply, “Yes... but you see, I grew to love you, and that was more important to me than anything else.”
I sat very still. My throat was constricted so that for a moment I could not speak.
At length I said, “Roland... what will happen now?”
“To me?” he said. “I am going to die.”
“They are caring for you here, doing everything they can to save you.”
He shook his head. “What could they save me for? It is better so “
He lay back. His eyes were closed and there was a blue tinge about his mouth. I realized then what a great effort he had made to talk to me.
I sat watching him, thinking, he has given his life for me. He, the terrorist, who had planned to murder me in a most devious way, has saved me... with his own life. And all for love.
His lips were moving. His speech was slurred. It had been such a strain for him to talk but he had wanted to explain to me. He had not wanted me to discover through other means. And ... he had wanted me to know how much he had cared for me. What a strange life he must have had! He had given me a glimpse of his forceful family.
His father the stern revolutionary... and Phillida who was made in the same mold. She was a complex creature. She had appeared to be so kind to me, so friendly, always merry, a little insouciant, loving life. But how different she was in truth... setting herself a purpose, never diverging from it. I was to be her victim, and all the time she was professing affection she was planning to murder me. When I thought of her now I remembered on the peaceful lake, and the sudden realization that he was waiting for me to come near to the lake before he attacked me. I had come too close to Phillida and she had marked me down for destruction.
The nurse had come in. She took one look at Roland and I understood that she was aware at once that talking to me had been too much for him. I was hurriedly wheeled away and the doctors were coming in.
Roland died that night.
I spent only a week in the hospital in Bradford and a great deal happened during that time.
My whole life had changed.
It is a sobering experience to come close to death and to know that you owe your life to another person who had lost his own in saving yours. For some time that thought was uppermost in my mind and I knew that there would be incidents in my life with Roland which I should never forget. I had been fond of him; I had been fond of Phillida. She was a magnificent actress.
I was thinking of her now as .
And Roland? It was hard to believe that in those early days he had been in the plot to murder me. How easily deceived I had been!
I lay in my hospital bed and conjured up images of what must have happened that night.
Later I was able to verify that much of what I thought had taken place actually had.
Perhaps it was logical that, being so close to it, I could see clearly what was inevitable.
When Phillida had seen Roland and me lying on the floor of the stable, covered in blood, her story must be that I, verging on insanity, had shot my husband and then myself. She must have been very shaken because she had killed her brother. I do not know if she ever really cared for any person. People who serve causes with such dedication rarely bestow great affection on individuals. This was, however, her brother. They had worked closely together. Perhaps she had some regard for him. But in her eyes he would have seemed a traitor. He had brought their scheme to an ignoble end. He had failed the cause-and all because he had fallen in love with me. I understood how a person such as she was would feel. Roland had failed her, himself and the cause. He had allowed his personal feelings to get the better of his duty.
But to see him lying there dead ... or on the point of death... must have shocked her considerably. Otherwise she would not have been so careless. She put the gun in my hand but did not make sure that I was dead. I must have looked as though I were, with the blood all over me. It would have been unnerving because events had gone so differently from what had been planned.
A new suicide note was needed and that would have been her first concern-for how was she to know that it was in my pocket? It was not easy for her to produce the writing exactly like mine and she would obviously have to make several attempts. It must have been while she was doing this that Mr. Hellman and his cowman arrived. The cowman was immediately sent to get help. Thus a policeman and a doctor arrived from Bracken before Phillida had a chance to set the stage. They discovered Phillida’s notes... several of them... because she had not found it easy to imitate my handwriting. They also found the opera cloak and hat with the wig in my bedroom. Then she learned that I was not dead as she had carelessly thought. In a short time I should be able to give my version; and it would not take long for it to be discovered that Phillida Fitzgerald was in fact Deirdre O’Neill, who in her own name was not unknown to the authorities; and there was the damning link with Fergus, the murderer of my father.
She had failed-after all the elaborate planning of months. She had killed her brother instead of me; and it could only be a matter of hours before she was arrested. Her next action was typical of her. It may well have been that she had always known, in the kind of life she led, it might have been necessary at some time to take such an action.
She did the only thing that would have seemed possible to her. She took the gun and shot herself.
There followed the headlines. Everything was revived and we had to live through it all again. But it was a small price to pay for release. I was not seeing visions. I was not going mad. I was safe and this was the end of the nightmare which had begun when I had sat waiting for my father, and had looked out of the window and seen Fergus O’Neill waiting for the opportunity to kill him.