“And where do you think you’re going?” Lieutenant Spooner had popped out of his office next to the governor’s and sprung to a quivering halt in front of Marc.
“I have a report to deliver to Sir Francis, after which we have details to work out regarding this evening.”
“Well, then, I will be happy to accept your report on behalf of the governor.”
“I must hand it to Sir Francis in person, Lieutenant. There are additional explanations and comments that are necessary to his full understanding of the situation.”
“Be that as it may, Lieutenant, you will not be able to see the governor today. He’s gone down to the Legislature for emergency meetings with the Executive and the Legislative Council. You have no choice but to give the report to me. Moreover, I have been placed in charge of tonight’s operation.”
Marc was not prepared for this. While he knew Sir Francis had never forgiven him for what he took to be a personal betrayal, he also knew that the governor liked to be informed directly of matters that concerned him and would, despite everything, be willing to accept Marc’s word in regard to statements of fact and reasoned judgements. “All right, then,” he said graciously, suppressing his rising anxiety, “I’ll give it to you just as soon as I have interviewed Ensign Hilliard. His testimony was given while he was in a state of exhaustion and not yet recovered from having been drugged. It would be unfair to him, and improper of me, not to have him corroborate my notes.”
“Oh, I don’t think anything as elaborate as that will be necessary,” Spooner said with a smug smile.
“Are you refusing me access to him?”
“No, you may see him anytime you like.” The smirk oozed and widened. “And you may put any gloss you wish upon the ensign’s actions; it won’t matter a fig.”
Marc felt a sudden alarm. “What in hell do you mean, sir?” Spooner, who had been teetering heel to toe with hands locked behind his back for balance, now brought the latter into view. In his right hand he held an official-looking document. “I have here an affidavit, duly signed and notarized just minutes ago before Magistrate Thorpe.”
“An affidavit signed by whom?”
“By your Ensign Hilliard, of course. Who else?”
“You interviewed him without my permission? Sir Francis put me in charge of the investigation, not you.”
“I didn’t say boo to him. I didn’t need to. He called me in and asked for a magistrate.”
“That’s not possible.” But, of course, it was.
“It seems our young swain was materially moved after his visit with that little trollop from the theatre.”
Marc heard Cobb gasp behind him. “Tessa?” he asked, dumbfounded.
“She came flying in here a short while ago, wide-eyed and demanding to see the man who had tried to save her from a fate worse than … whatever. What could I do? My heart is not made of stone. I let her have a few minutes alone with him. Then I had her escorted back to the theatre: you must have passed her en route.” Spooner was enjoying himself immensely.
“You had no authority to do so!”
“Perhaps not, but I doubt very much if Sir Francis will quarrel with the result of my decision.”
Marc knew Hilliard well and was not surprised when Spooner delivered the coup de grâce. “He signed a confession. It’s all over.”
Marc’s furious glare rocked Spooner back on his heels, but he gave no further ground. “I still want to see him.” Marc struggled to control the anger building in him: this was no time to lose his composure.
“If you attempt in any way to have Hilliard withdraw his sworn statement or otherwise obstruct the course of justice, sir, I’ll have you court-martialled.”
“Are you questioning my honour, sir?”
Spooner took a step back, the flush of triumph fading from his face: images of a foggy meadow at dawn, pistols poised, and “seconds” holding their breath flitted before him. “Go in there and do as you like, then. It won’t matter. He’s finished. And then present yourself in my office-without your henchman. We have more important business to discuss.”
If Marc had expected to find his friend haggard and anxious after his ordeal, he was soon disappointed. Rick was sitting on a stool in the windowless room reading what appeared to be a novel by the light of a single candle. When Marc entered, Rick looked up and grinned a welcome that might have been meant for the happy arrival of a delinquent brother. “Marc, I’m so glad you’ve come. The most wonderful thing has just happened, and I need to tell it to the world!” He was beaming. The lines and pouches deposited on his face from two sleepless nights and endless hours of unceasing worry had been drawn into the service of a smile that, however transitory, was nonetheless genuine.
“What in Christ’s name have you done?” Marc said before he could stop himself.
“I told you she was an angel, didn’t I? Did you see her leaving?”
“You’ve as good as written your signature on a gibbet,” Marc said, still boiling, “and I’ve been working my balls into a sweat over you for the last thirty-six hours.”
Rick looked wounded, but rallied instantly with another ingratiating and infuriating smile. “But I killed him to save her, don’t you see?” The smile turned beatific.
“Are you telling me that you now have remembered smashing Merriwether on the skull and driving your sword through his chest while he lay stunned and helpless on his back?”
“I have no memory of doing either. But I must have, mustn’t I?”
“Then, for the love of God, tell me what you do remember.”
“I’ve put it all down in the affidavit.”
“Humour me.” Marc’s emotions were oscillating between anger and fear, and he fought to keep his mind clear and focussed on the task ahead.
“As I told you Monday night in the tavern, I fell asleep on the settee with my flies open. When I woke up, I felt something sticky all over me, like blood.”
“You couldn’t see it?”
“Not till I stood up in the moonlight.”
“Beasley swore he saw some light coming from the doorway.”
“Well, I think the little candle on Tessa’s night-table was still lit, but I was staring straight ahead at what I had done.”
So much for that discrepancy. “But how do you know you did it if you have no recollection of it? Could you stab someone so forcefully and have no inkling that you’d done it?”
“Ah, but I’d been drugged, Marc. I was confused. Some part of my brain must have seen that blackguard on top of my darling and brought me strength enough to smash him on the head with my sword-butt and then-this is what I wrote in the affidavit-I must’ve seen what he’d done to her and gone a bit crazy. But I was under the influence of the opiate, you see, and my motive was the purest one that any gentleman could have had.”
Looking into the guileless and callow face of his young friend, Marc recognized that Rick was assuming he would be released eventually because of the laudanum and the chivalric impulse behind the homicidal deed. “Neither of those defenses will stand up for one minute in a court. You must face the truth, Rick. I know: I’ve studied the law. And unless you recant and withdraw your confession immediately, using Tessa’s visit to explain your quixotic behaviour, your affidavit alone will propel you straight into the hangman’s noose.”
Rick peered up at Marc, suddenly serious. “I don’t wish to die, unless it’s in battle. But other than that kind of noble death, to die defending the honour of an innocent is surely a close second.” Rick’s eyes lit up again, pulling the sagging flesh of his face with them. “And you weren’t here, Marc, you didn’t see her, you didn’t hear her. She got down on her knees and thanked me from the bottom of her heart. She said I would live there forever. She wept for me-oh, they were the most beautiful tears of love and gratitude! And when she left, she gave me her favourite book to read and cherish. Look at the inscription. Is it not the most moving poetry you’ve ever read?” Rick held out the book and quoted from the inscribed flyleaf: “To my darling hero, Rick Hilliard; yours forever, Tessa.”