“—having been killed by his own treacherous bomb,” Stuyvesant added.
“—there would have been no one to deny the act of the unbalanced American.”
“Framing me would also have set up a nice high protective barrier against any interference from the U. S. of A. After all, what right would the U.S. have to protest a change in British politics after they’d been caught playing fast and loose outside their own borders? But then the bomb failed to go off as planned, and suddenly the whole elaborate edifice tumbles to the ground. Richard Bunsen is a hero, Harris Stuyvesant a misled but well-meaning American, and—” Stuyvesant stopped, and changed it to, “and the Truth Project is just a harmless piece of governmental research.”
“And Bennett Grey,” Grey added, supplying the missing detail, “instead of being thrust down Baldwin’s throat as the missing linchpin—the man who could have prevented the terrible atrocity of a Duke’s murder if only the Major had been given sufficient authority to repel that meddling Yank—instead, Bennett Grey is a minor curiosity permitted to slip back to his Cornish retreat.”
Stuyvesant didn’t deny Grey’s suggestion, although he had begun to suspect that, in fact, Carstairs had gone to some lengths to ensure Grey’s absence from Hurleigh that day. Suspected, too, that the Cornish retreat was not to be a permanent state.
“Have you heard from his people? The Project?”
“Not yet.”
“Will you go, if you’re asked?”
“I said I would. It’s still active, then?”
“So far as I know. Carstairs himself came out of it remarkably well, all things considered. Baldwin insisted that he be fired, but the Army decided they could use him again, and he’s just moved bag and baggage over to them. He’ll do well for them, in the next War.”
With the menacing noises coming out of Germany recently, who really doubted another war would come, sooner or later? And couldn’t a man who’d proved himself able to manufacture evidence efficiently, then commit murder to back it up, be a valuable commodity in certain circles?
Carstairs’ methodical, meticulous work was both impressive and terrifying. More than once in recent weeks, Stuyvesant had been struck by the same shiver of relief that comes with a narrow escape from walking off a cliff on a moonless night.
The worst of it was, he did not think Carstairs was finished with him, either.
“Are you staying here the night?” Grey asked.
“I could find a tree to sleep under.”
“I can do better than that. But I’d suggest you go back to the house now, before it gets any darker.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
“I can find my way in the dark, but if you wait much longer, I’ll end up having to carry you.”
Stuyvesant stood and extricated himself from the bramble-crowded rock. When he turned, Grey was standing at the very edge of the Beacon stone, hands at his sides, face raised to the western sky.
“Did—” He stopped. Did you know, that Laura was going to blow herself up? Did you deliberately walk out of the chapel and allow her to choose death? And the most terrible question of all, Did you even begin to suspect that your sister would try to take herself along?
Questions that could never be asked, and never answered.
The true nature of Laura Hurleigh’s death had been kept out of the newspapers. However, those who mattered knew. Laura’s deliberate self sacrifice, following two brilliant days when she had guided the nation’s powers to the brink of agreement, had forced her friends, her family, and her colleagues to think long and hard about what it had meant. About what it meant when a woman like that chose to lay down her life to make a statement about responsibility.
Her death may not have become the stopper to poverty that she would have wished, but behind the scenes, it was changing, directing, even slowing the flow. A Hurleigh had made the statement: That meant something.
But Grey had not heard Stuyvesant’s cut-off question. He stood, perched at the edge of the world, swaying gently with some unheard rhythm: to and fro, to and fro.
Stuyvesant made his way alone down the hill to the lighted cottage.
Grey came back to the cottage well after darkness had fallen. The two men ate, and when the dishes were put away Stuyvesant took a bottle from his rucksack and put it on the table.
“I have to admit, the thought of that hooch of yours made me hesitate to come. So I brought you this instead.”
Grey picked up the well-aged Scotch in one hand, pinched two glasses from his shelf in the other, and led the way to the sitting room. Fire laid, drinks poured, Stuyvesant took out his cigarette case and offered one to Grey.
Grey took a cigarette. Then he asked, “Do you still have your girl’s picture in there?”
“Helen? No,” Stuyvesant said. “I…I said good-bye to her back in May. Put a match to her picture and dropped it into the Thames. The sort of romantic gesture she would have appreciated. Why do you ask?”
By way of answer, Grey stood up and took an envelope from the mantel, handing it to Stuyvesant.
It was addressed to Stuyvesant, in a woman’s writing.
Stuyvesant ripped open the flap, and slid out the contents.
A photograph of Sarah, trimmed to fit the cigarette case, and a letter.
Acknowledgments
A book like this is built on the shameless exploitation of many experts. Thanks to John Tiley for adding the right booms and bangs; to Dick Griffiths, who helped fix one car and sabotage another; to Laura Crum, who named the roses; to my niece Jane King and her husband, William King, for catching stray oddities; to David Pryer of Dalesrail, who kept my train passengers on the right tracks; and to Annie, Carlina, Corgimom, Dave, Kerry, and Phil the Badger, for their help pushing my Cornish dialect a little farther west.
And to my longer-suffering-than-usual editor, Kate Miciak: Thank you. Thank you.
About the Author
LAURIE R. KING is the New York Times bestselling author of eight Mary Russell mysteries, five contemporary novels featuring Kate Martinelli, and the bestselling novels A Darker Place, Folly, and Keeping Watch. She lives in California’s central coast, where she is at work on the next Mary Russell novel.
Other Mystery Novels by
Laurie R. King
Mary Russell Novels
The Beekeeper’s Apprentice
A Monstrous Regiment of Women
A Letter of Mary
The Moor
O Jerusalem
Justice Hall
The Game
Locked Rooms
Kate Martinelli Novels
A Grave Talent
To Play the Fool
With Child
Night Work
The Art of Detection
And
A Darker Place
Folly
Keeping Watch
TOUCHSTONE
A Bantam Book / January 2008
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2007 by Laurie R. King
Map illustration by Robert Bull
Bantam Books is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the publisher.
www.bantamdell.com
eISBN: 978-0-553-90448-2
v3.0
Laurie R. King, Touchstone
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