A picture flashed into Alexander’s mind: the globe in its mahogany stand in the far corner of the library at Thornycombe.
“You see it in your head, don’t you?” Georgiana asked. “You know it’s there, and you could go to it without hesitation, and if someone showed you a map of England you’d be able to put your finger right on Thornycombe and say, ‘The globe is here, in the library’.”
Alexander nodded.
“It’s just like that, except that these are places I’ve never been to before.”
“Hubert . . .” Alexander said, and then stopped.
There was silence for a long moment, apart from the creaking and rattling of the carriage.
“I saw his grave,” Georgiana said. “A headstone with no name on it. At first I thought that’s all I’d ever know—where he was buried—but then I realized there was a lot more I could find out.”
Alexander frowned. “Such as?”
“Where’s the man who was with him when he died? Where’s the man who killed him?”
“What?” Alexander leaned forward. “Who? Where is he?”
“Dead,” Georgiana said. “Hanged on the gallows.”
“You know that?” He looked from Georgiana to her father and back.
Georgiana nodded.
“But why?” he burst out. “Why would anyone kill Hubert? He was the nicest of fellows! And what was he doing in the middle of nowhere when he should have been in Perth?” He caught himself, sat back on the seat, ran a hand roughly through his hair, tried to calm down. “I beg your pardon. I know there’s no way of knowing. It’s just . . .” It’s just that he was like a brother to me.
“We do know those things,” Lord Dalrymple said quietly.
Alexander’s gaze jerked to him.
“It’s surprising what you can learn by asking Where? For example, where was Hubert headed that day?”
“Perth,” Alexander said.
Lord Dalrymple shook his head. “Craigruie.”
Craigruie? Alexander had never heard of a place called Craigruie. “Where’s that? Why on earth would he go there?”
“What’s in Craigruie?” Dalrymple asked.
“I don’t know.”
“The cave where Robert the Bruce saw the spider.”
Alexander opened his mouth, and then shut it again. He had a flash of memory—he and Hubert and Oliver halfway up a cliff, Hubert gritting his teeth, saying, I’m not giving up. The spider didn’t, and I’m not either!
“Hubert was headed to Perth. Where did he change his mind? At Kinross. Where did he stop for refreshments? Kinross. Where did he learn about the cave in Craigruie? Kinross.” Dalrymple paused. “Where did he die? On the road to Craigruie.”
Alexander closed his eyes. “Oh, God.”
“And as for why he died . . .”
Alexander opened his eyes and stared across at the viscount.
“Where is the man who met Hubert on the road to Craigruie? Where is the man who stole his horse, his money, his clothes? Where is the man who killed him?”
Alexander’s mouth was dry. He swallowed. “He died on a gallows.”
Lord Dalrymple nodded.
Alexander glanced at Georgiana. She was pale-faced. He saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes. He reached out to take her hand, caught himself just in time, and sat back. You can’t touch her, you fool; you’re not betrothed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have brought this subject up. Forgive me, Georgie.”
He turned his head and looked out the window blindly, not seeing the fields and the hedgerows; what he saw was Hubert getting murdered on a lonely road in Scotland. Helpless, futile rage rose in his chest. It was as well Hubert’s murderer was dead or he’d kill the man himself, hunt him down and rip his head right off his shoulders.
Alexander clenched his hands, unclenched them, and looked at Georgiana and her father again. “The gypsies who abducted Alexander St. Clare . . . where are they?”
Georgiana shook her head. “No one abducted him.”
Alexander’s rage faltered. “What?”
“There were no gypsies in the woods that day. The nurserymaids were lying.”
“What?” he said again. His rage folded inwards and became confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“No one was with him when he drowned.”
Alexander thought about this for a moment, and then said, “The nurserymaids lost him? And then lied about it?”
Georgiana nodded.
Alexander rubbed his face roughly. He looked out the window, and then back at Georgiana. “Where are they now? The nurserymaids?” And then he said, “No, don’t answer that. There’s no point.” He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his face again. Fuck. He tried to organize his thoughts. What did he want to know? He looked across at Georgiana. “Were they playing hide-and-seek? Is that why they lost him?” He rephrased it as a question she could answer: “Where are the nurserymaids who were playing hide-and-seek with Alexander St. Clare when he drowned?”
Her brow creased for a moment. She shook her head. “They weren’t playing hide-and-seek.”
Alexander frowned. Why else would the nurserymaids have lost sight of their charge? He tried to imagine the scene: a warm summer’s day, a picnic in a sunny glade, two nurserymaids and a four-and-a-half-year-old boy. “They fell asleep. Didn’t they?” He found the right question: “Where are the nurserymaids who were napping while Alexander St. Clare drowned?”
A flicker of surprise crossed Georgiana’s face. “Oh,” she said. “That’s it. They were asleep.” And then she said, uncertainly, “You don’t want to know where they are, do you?”
“No,” Alexander said. “Thank you.” He looked out the window again.
There was no triumph in knowing what had happened all those years ago, merely a sour, weary disillusionment.
Chapter Six
They put up for the night just north of Torquay, halting at an inn so close to the sea that Alexander could taste salt in the air. He climbed stiffly down from the carriage and turned to help Georgiana descend. The second carriage-and-four, bearing their personal servants, clattered into the yard. All was bustle and noise for a few minutes and it was impossible to think of anything in particular, but later, when he was in his bedchamber dressing for dinner, all his worries came crowding back. Alexander changed his shirt and waistcoat silently, tied a fresh neckcloth, combed his hair, stared at himself in the mirror. Who am I?
Behind him his valet, Fletcher, was unpacking the candles, placing one candelabrum on the mantelpiece and another on the dressing table, two chambersticks to the right of the bed and two more to the left.
Because I am afraid of the dark. Whoever I am.
Alexander sighed, and went downstairs. The taproom was busy, but the inn was an old one, with walls so thick that the din of voices didn’t penetrate to the private parlor they’d hired.
The parlor already had one occupant: Lord Dalrymple.
“Good evening,” Alexander said.
“Alexander.” Lord Dalrymple smiled that particularly sweet smile of his, the smile that both his children had inherited. “My daughter will be down in a moment. Would you like some brandy? It’s surprisingly good.” He poured a glass for Alexander. “I haven’t inquired as to its origin. As a justice of the peace, I don’t want to know.”