Cynster [22.00] A Match for Marcus Cynster Read online

  Sean stared at her stonily, every bit as stubborn as she. “We can’t let you face him alone. I’ll hang back if you promise to keep your distance from him.”

  She grimaced, but then nodded. “All right. I’ll keep out of his reach.” She turned to the path. The others returned their attention to Nolan. Niniver, along with Sean, glanced at Nolan, too.

  Abruptly, Nolan clutched his head with both hands. He pressed hard, the tendons in his hands and wrists sharply defined as he pressed in, his features contorting. Then he hunched, curling in on himself as if in unbearable pain—

  He released his head and straightened. Throwing his arms wide, he screamed, “You bloody fool! You should have killed me, instead!”

  He took one step forward and flung himself off the ledge.

  Below the ledge ran a deep, narrow, granite-sided crevasse—one of the occasional fissures that, like rocky gashes, scored this landscape.

  In the sudden silence, they instinctively froze, then the breeze wafted and they heard a muted thump.

  It was the most chilling sound Niniver had ever heard.

  Shock held them all speechless.

  Until Sean murmured, “Bugger me. The bastard’s killed himself.”

  * * *

  Phelps was a sheep farmer; he and his son, Matt, always carried ropes on their saddles, as did Sean.

  In a group, they walked to the ledge. They peered into the crevasse, but small bushes and grasses sprouting from the rock walls made it impossible to see what lay in the shadowed depths.

  The opposite lip of the crevasse was lower than the ledge, but was flanked by scree; circling around to it wasn’t an option. But the crevasse was very narrow, a gaping wound ripped in the side of the hill and lined with rock as far down as they could see; there was no way to walk in and no path down.

  Phelps, Matt, and Sean laid out the ropes. The other men organized themselves into teams to lower Sean and Matt into the crevasse. Her arms tightly folded, her mind blank, Niniver watched as the pair went over the edge, each on separate ropes, with a third rope dangling between them.

  As they descended into the shadows, she walked to the edge; she looked down, watching, but the bushes soon obscured her view.

  She turned her attention to the ropes. The men slowly let the ropes play out—and out; the crevasse was deeper than any of them had thought. At last, the tension on the ropes eased as first Sean, then Matt, reached a point where they could stand.

  A moment later, a yelping exclamation—both Sean’s and Matt’s voices raised in surprise—erupted from the depths. Peering down, Niniver frowned. Sean and Matt had known what to expect, so why had they sounded shocked?

  “What did they say?” Ferguson called from where he waited with the other men to haul the pair up again.

  Still frowning, she shook her head. “I don’t know. The rock distorts their voices too much. They’re talking now, but I can’t make out what they’re saying.”

  The third rope—the one Sean and Matt had planned to tie around Nolan’s body—shifted. Phelps came to stand beside Niniver, but he, too, could make nothing of the mutterings rising from below.

  Then Sean tugged on his rope, and Matt tugged his. Phelps rejoined the other men, and they hauled the pair up.

  Sean reached the ledge first. His weathered, normally ruddy countenance was chalk-white.

  “What is it?” Niniver demanded as he scrambled onto the ledge.

  Sean pushed to his feet. “We found Nolan’s body. He’s dead—neck broken, among other things—just as we expected.” He glanced at Matt as the younger man scrambled up to stand beside him.

  Matt, too, looked badly shaken.

  Sean turned to Niniver. He hesitated for a second, then blurted, “Nolan’s body was lying on top of another body. Nigel’s body was already there—Nolan flung himself down in the same place.”

  Niniver blinked. Her mind whirled. “Nigel flung himself off this ledge, too?” She couldn’t imagine that, not of Nigel, but she hadn’t expected Nolan to kill himself, either.

  Looking grimmer by the second, Sean shook his head. “Nigel landed on his back, and Nolan’s hunting knife, the one he said he lost last year, was buried between Nigel’s ribs.”

  She felt her mouth fall open, then her mind whirled one last time, and like a kaleidoscope, all the pieces fell into place. “Ah.”

  The quiet sound—of recognition, of realization—was drowned beneath the men’s shocked exclamations.

  She looked around the group. Unlike the others, she wasn’t surprised.

  Indeed, just the opposite. Finally, everything was starting to make sense.

  * * *

  It took several hours to bring both bodies up from the depths of the crevasse and transport the remains to Carrick Manor. Despite the depredations of small animals and the passage of time, Nigel’s body was easily identified. His remains were garbed in the clothes he’d worn to the wedding of their cousin, Thomas Carrick, and Lucilla Cynster—the last time anyone other than Nolan had set eyes on him.

  Niniver spent the rest of that day closeted in the library with the clan council. Norris was present, too. Although he was several years younger than she and therefore had fewer memories of Nigel and Nolan as children, his assessments of their older brothers matched and supported her own.

  Fact by fact, she and the council assembled the true sequence of events. Recalling a statement Nolan had made at the inquest into the Burns sisters’ deaths—an inquest that had reached no final conclusion but had left the suspicion of murder hanging over Nigel’s head—Niniver sent Sean to Ayr to pose what were now clearly pertinent questions to certain people there.

  It was the following morning before Sean returned. The clan council reconvened to hear his report. Once they’d digested the no-longer-unexpected news, Ferguson turned to Niniver. “What now? Do we summon the authorities, or what?”

  Seated behind the desk her father had used throughout his long reign as laird, Niniver met Ferguson’s gaze, then looked at Mrs. Kennedy, the housekeeper, seated alongside him, then at Canning, Phelps, Bradshaw, Sean, and the others on the council. All regarded her levelly, expectation in their eyes.

  The vow she’d uttered over her father’s grave resonated in her mind. I will do whatever’s necessary to ensure that all mistakes made by your children are put right and that the clan is made whole, strong, and prosperous again. I will do all I can, and whatever I must, to preserve your legacy and to steer the clan as you would have wished.

  It had been all she’d had to offer in reparation for her father losing his life; she hadn’t known enough to save him from being poisoned by one of his sons.

  The least she could do now was to ensure the blame fell on the son who deserved it, thus clearing the name of the son who had been another victim. That way, Nigel—Manachan’s firstborn and best-loved child, the one who, despite his weaknesses, had been groomed to take the lairdship—could be buried next to Manachan in the family plot.

  Yet her vow demanded she put the clan first. “We need to inform the authorities of Nolan’s death, and of all we’ve now realized. But if at all possible, I think we should endeavor to keep the matter quiet. I see no reason for the news sheets in Ayr and Dumfries, much less Glasgow and Edinburgh, to be encouraged to revisit the clan’s difficulties.”

  Everyone was nodding. Phelps glanced around. “Clearly, you’ll get no argument from us on that score. The clan have suffered enough—we don’t need our dirty linen hanging out for the rest of the county to gossip about.”

  Seeing agreement writ large in every face, Niniver nodded. “We’ll summon the doctor to examine the bodies—he’ll confirm what we already know. Meanwhile, I’ll send notes conveying the bare facts to…” She paused, considering, then went on, “Sir Godfrey Riddle, Lord Richard, and Thomas, and ask them to meet here this afternoon. Let’s see if we can manage things with just those three—they know the clan’s situation and will most likely be willing to help us arrange matters with the mini
mum of fuss.”

  No one argued. Half an hour later, Sean took the notes Niniver had written and rode out to deliver them.

  * * *

  The doctor came, viewed the bodies, and promised to send his report to Sir Godfrey Riddle, the local magistrate.

  Sir Godfrey arrived promptly at two o’clock. He came up the front steps, his expression grave and concerned. “Niniver, my dear.” After taking her hands in an avuncular clasp, he squeezed gently. “This must be so very distressing for you.”

  She’d written only that Nolan had killed himself, and that subsequently they’d found Nigel’s body. Her expression uninformative, she inclined her head. How to explain that, while her father’s death and Nigel’s disappearance had rocked and shaken her, Nolan’s death and their subsequent understanding had restabilized her—had restored her confidence in her ability to read people, in her ability to navigate her world? The earlier situation, she simply hadn’t understood. Now, she understood all too well.

  As for grief—those who had deserved her tears had been dead for nearly a year. She had too much to do to preserve their memories to feel much over Nolan’s passing.

  Sir Godfrey released her as Lord Richard Cynster and Niniver’s cousin, Thomas Carrick, rode into the forecourt—followed by a carriage that swung wide to draw up before the steps. Thomas dismounted, tossed his reins to Sean, and went to open the carriage door. He handed down his mother-in-law, Richard’s wife, Catriona, and then, as if she were made of porcelain, Thomas assisted his wife—Catriona and Richard’s daughter Lucilla—to the ground.

  Lucilla was pregnant, the whisper was with twins. Only slightly taller than Niniver, even though she was still many months from confinement, Lucilla certainly looked large enough for the rumor to be true. Yet from the reassuring smile she sent Thomas and the ease with which, supported by his arm, she climbed the steep front steps, she wasn’t seriously bothered by the extra weight she was carrying.

  Although she hadn’t requested their presence, Niniver had hoped both ladies would come; she was relieved they had. After touching cheeks, squeezing fingers, and exchanging grave and muted greetings, she steered her collection of “authorities” into the drawing room, where Norris stood waiting.

  Niniver had had the footmen rearrange the furniture. After greeting Norris, Lucilla let herself down on one sofa, and Catriona sank onto the matching sofa facing her. Richard sat beside his wife, and Thomas sat alongside Lucilla. Sir Godfrey took one of the armchairs set to one side of the fireplace and angled to face the room, leaving Niniver to sink into its mate.

  Norris had placed a straight-backed chair on Niniver’s left. As Norris sat, she turned to Sir Godfrey. “If you don’t mind, I would like several clansmen to attend this meeting, as any decisions made will affect the whole clan.”

  Sir Godfrey nodded somberly. “Indeed. This is a dire business for you all.”

  Ferguson had hovered by the door; at Niniver’s nod, he ushered in Mrs. Kennedy, Bradshaw, Forrester, Canning, Phelps, and Matt. Ferguson followed, and Sean brought up the rear, closing the door behind him.

  Ferguson and Sean placed the straight-backed chairs they’d earlier carried in from the dining room in a semi-circle between the ends of the sofas and the door, then with nods to the assembled gentry that were gravely returned, the clan members sat.

  Niniver held Thomas’s gaze for a moment, then she looked at Sir Godfrey. “It might be best if I relate recent events as they occurred, and then we can move on to what we, the clan, subsequently deduced and confirmed, and ultimately to what we now believe occurred in the deaths of not just Papa, but also of Faith and Joy Burns.”

  Sir Godfrey’s gaze sharpened. “I see.” He nodded. “Pray proceed.”

  Niniver drew in a breath and succinctly described the events of the previous day. Sir Godfrey questioned Sean and Matt as to what they had seen when they’d first reached the bodies; their answers were brief, but complete.

  “So.” Thomas met Niniver’s gaze, then looked at Sir Godfrey. “It appears that Nolan was in fact the murderer, and Nigel another of his victims.”

  Thomas, too, was no doubt finding the new truth easier to comprehend than the previous judgment that had cast Nigel as the murderer.

  “Hmph!” From under beetling brows, Sir Godfrey regarded Niniver. “You mentioned deducing and confirming more. What, exactly?”

  “At the inquest into the Burns sisters’ deaths, Nolan said that he and Nigel had spent the night on which Faith and Joy died in Ayr, in a house of ill repute.” Niniver hoped her blush wasn’t too noticeable. “In light of our conclusion that Nolan killed Nigel, I sent Sean to ask the…er, ladies what they knew of that night. We thought…” She looked at Sean.

  He came to her aid. “We thought as how if either of those two had left the ladies that night, the ladies would be likely to remember, even if it was nearly a year ago.”

  “And did they remember?” Richard asked.

  “Yes.” Sean looked at Sir Godfrey. “They remembered that the fair-haired one—Nolan—had ridden home that night. A pair of them heard Nolan tell Nigel he’d forgotten to put away some books they didn’t want anyone reading, so he was riding home to put the books away but expected to be back come morning.”

  “And,” Thomas said, his gaze on Bradshaw, “when the Bradshaws fell ill because someone put salts into their well, that salting occurred the night before, when both Nigel and Nolan spent the night here. They headed to Ayr the following morning.”

  Norris nodded. “So it was Nolan who put the salts in the well. Nigel would never have done that. He might have joked about doing it, but he would never actually have done it.”

  Niniver looked at Sir Godfrey. “No one asked us—Norris and me—what we thought of Nigel poisoning Papa. Norris doesn’t remember Nolan and Nigel as well as I do.” She glanced at Thomas. “And I saw them more consistently than Thomas—when he was around, Nolan always played a very careful hand.”

  Returning her gaze to Sir Godfrey, she continued, “Nolan resented— deeply resented—that Papa cared only for Nigel. That was Papa’s one real weakness—he never truly saw any of us but Nigel. However, Nolan didn’t hate Nigel. In his own way, Nolan loved Nigel, as much as he was able to feel that emotion. But Nolan was the clever one, while Nigel was…well, he was always easily led, and he trusted Nolan implicitly. From an early age, Nolan cast himself as Nigel’s closest friend and confidant, and his most loyal and effective supporter. I remember seeing it happen, even though I didn’t understand what I was seeing at the time—because, of course, Nolan never cared what I saw. I was just their baby sister, and no one would ever listen to me about them. To Nolan, what I—and later Norris—saw or didn’t see was never anything to be concerned about.”

  She paused, then went on, “Over the last ten or so years, neither Norris nor I saw much of Nigel and Nolan. We stayed here, while they were out and about, often going to Ayr, Dumfries, Glasgow, and Edinburgh. However, I can’t imagine that the relationship between them changed, nor that they, as individuals, changed. So when it seemed it was Nigel who had poisoned Papa and killed Joy and Faith Burns, with Nolan innocent of any wrongdoing, I…didn’t know what to think.” She spread her hands. “It seemed backward, mixed up and confused, but with Nigel having supposedly fled, and Nolan… Once Nigel was gone, Nolan buckled down and did the best he could, and I thought perhaps I had interpreted things wrongly and it had been Nigel’s influence that had made the pair of them so wild before.” She drew in a breath and added, “And I never for a moment dreamed that Nolan might have killed Nigel because, as I said, if Nolan loved anyone, he loved Nigel.”

  Silence fell.

  Catriona broke it. “That last fact—that Nolan loved Nigel—and yet, when it was clear there was a real risk of Lucilla seeing Manachan, realizing he was being poisoned, and raising the alarm, Nolan had to sacrifice Nigel to give the authorities and society a villain they would be content with… Having killed the one person he actually loved would
account for Nolan’s descent into madness.”

  Lucilla shivered. “Indeed.”

  “If I may make so bold,” Phelps said, “if Nolan had intended to keep Nigel alive—to let Nigel be the laird, but for him, Nolan, to be the clever one managing the estate, and all else, from Nigel’s shadow—if that’s what Nolan had wanted, but then he was forced to kill Nigel to protect himself, that would also make sense of the blatherings Sean’s been hearing for months. Aye, and what all of us heard today up on that ledge.”

  “It also explains,” Ferguson said, “why, having Nigel’s body close by, Nolan went to the ledge to talk to him—to still be close to him.”

  Thomas stirred. His expression stony, he said, “I agree. If we accept that Nolan wanted revenge on Manachan, and that Nolan effectively controlled Nigel, then killing Manachan and having Nigel become laird… That might well have been the sum of Nolan’s intentions. He wouldn’t have had to shoulder any responsibility—no matter what happened, all blame would fall on Nigel’s shoulders. I can see that as being a nice revenge for Nolan. He would get to pull the strings Manachan had intended to be in Nigel’s hands, and any failures would be sheeted home to Nigel.”

  They revisited various matters, recasting conclusions in the light of what they now understood, but it was clear that no doubt lingered in anyone’s mind as to the truth of what had occurred in the months leading to Manachan’s death.

  Finally, Sir Godfrey called them to order. “I believe we’re all agreed that Nolan was the villain, first to last, in the matter of the old laird’s death, and also the deaths of the Burns sisters.” Sir Godfrey fixed his gaze on Niniver. “My earlier judgment will need to be rescinded, but I imagine you and the clan”—with a glance he included the other clan members—“would rather we accomplished what we need to do with a minimum of fuss, heh?”

  Relief swept through Niniver. “Exactly.” She glanced at Thomas, then at the others. “The clan has suffered through the scandal of Papa’s murder, supposedly by Nigel. We would prefer not to have to go through that ordeal again.” She looked at Sir Godfrey, then at Lord Richard. “Yet we need to have Nigel exonerated so he can be buried next to Papa. Is it possible to do that while avoiding more public scandal?”