Page 66 of The Secret Word
The constable must have been satisfied with what he heard from the servants, for he apologized for disturbing the household and took himself off.
Billy O’Hara was their next visitor. “Have you heard?” he wanted to know.
“Wright is dead,” Chris said, and Billy nodded.
“Shot,” he said.
“The constable who called thought Chris might have done it,” Clem blurted, looking at Billy in suspicion.
“I think I convinced him I was here all night,” Chris said.
Billy smiled at Clem. “I didn’t do it either, Mrs. Satterthwaite. In case you were wondering. I think it was a good idea, though. Whoever did crash that monster did everyone a favor.”
“Not if the magistrates arrest Chris for it,” Clem retorted.
“As to that, I have a suggestion. Chris, talk to the magistrate in charge. Show him your evidence against Wright. If ever there was a reason for a man to kill himself, Wright’s secret was it.”
“Father would never have killed himself,” Clem objected.
“The magistrate doesn’t know that,” replied Billy. Which was true enough, and, indeed, whether the magistrate believed that Father had committed suicide or not, after seeing Chris’s evidence, he dismissed the case, writing on the death certificate, “accident with a gun,” which Richard Anderson said was magistrate-speak for suicide.
Clem was glad that women were not encouraged to attend funerals in order to protect their “delicate sensibilities”. Chris went, and said that the congregation was very sparse, with only Morton, Father’s business rival, the lawyer, Harcourt, and a couple of people from Father’s office. “Harcourt wanted to talkto us about the will,” Chris told her. “He is downstairs. Would you like to hear what he has to say?”
Father had not had time to change his will, which meant everything went to his grandson, with Chris as his trustee.
“I suppose this means we still have to take that trip to Yorkshire, my love,” Chris said.
“It will be quite nice to see Yorkshire again,” Clem told him. “Anyway, as long as we are together, dearest beloved, it doesn’t matter where we go.”
Chris gave her a deep and satisfying kiss. “Together,” he agreed. “Always.”
Epilogue
As Billy’s carriagepulled into the driveway of Maidenstone Court, he leaned forward to peer out of the window at the house and park. He had visited often enough over the past eighteen months that the view was familiar.
On one of the fields to the right of the house, enough boys to be the entire student body of the school were playing cricket, while three men ran up and down the sides of the field shouting directions and encouragement.
Billy allowed himself a small smile. Cricket! With a real bat and real wickets. And no doubt played to established rules. Billy himself, and at least half the boys in the school, had learned a version of the game on waste ground between buildings, with rolled up rags or a rock as the ball and any available stick used to bat the object away from an old plank or other improvised wicket.
Supporting the school was one good thing he had done. There were a few, though they were paltry when weighed in the balance against the men he’d ruined (along with their families), the people he’d beaten, and all the other harm he’d caused.
He didn’t apologize for it. The stews of London were a hard school, and only hard men survived. Men who could take the pain and abuse, could turn the anger it engendered into a drive to succeed. Billy was, above all, a survivor, and he’d not ask forgiveness for his hard choices.
But he had had the opportunity to save other boys from those same choices. Only a fraction of the tens, perhaps hundreds of thousands that poverty chewed up and spat out. But some.
And here came one of them, striding away from the cricket game and cutting across the front of the house to meet Billy’s carriage at the front door. Another smile, this one involuntary. Christopher Satterthwaite was, in some ways, just another of those boys. In other ways, he was Billy’s greatest weakness, though Billy worked hard to never let anyone know it—not even Christopher himself.
“Billy!” Christopher greeted him. “Here’s a pleasant surprise. Come in, come in. Clem is due home any minute. She went to visit the vicar’s wife. The twins are here, though. I’ll send for them.” While he was speaking, he had been leading the way up the stairs and into the house and now he spoke to the footman who was crossing the hall as he opened the door.
“Roger, let Cook know we have a guest, have tea served to Mrs. S.’s parlor, and ask Nurse to bring the twins down to see our visitor. And Roger, ask the kitchen to look after Mr. Harrington’s driver and groom, please.”
“How is Mrs. Satterthwaite?” Billy asked. Clementine was with child again, and due to give birth in three months.
“She is well. Full of energy. She is certain she is only carrying one child this time, for she is much more comfortable.”
Billy found himself smiling again. It was becoming a habit, and was not at all in keeping with his public image. He consoled himself that he was William Harrington today, at least to the inhabitants of this household and the school next door. With a few exceptions. Chris himself, of course. Clementine. His spy in this household. His spy had reported Clementine’s excellent health. Billy could only hope it continued. Childbirth was a dangerous proposition.
“And here they are,” Christopher said, with the doting expression and voice he adopted whenever his children appeared. “How are my children this afternoon? Look who has come visiting! It is Uncle William. Will, make your bow to Uncle William. Bel, give Papa a kiss and make your curtsey to Uncle William.”
