The Outcast's Redemption

‘Tell him it is a weary traveller. A poor vagabond who needs his assistance.’

The servant hesitated.

‘Nay, ’tis late,’ he said at last. ‘Come back in the morning.’

He made to shut the door but the stranger placed a dirty boot on the step.

‘Your master will know me,’ he stated. ‘Pray, take me to him.’

The old man gave in and shuffled off to speak to the parson, leaving the stranger to wait in the hall. From the study came a calm, well-remembered voice and as he entered, an elderly gentleman rose from a desk cluttered with books and papers. Once he had passed the manservant and only the parson could see his face, the stranger straightened and removed his hat.

‘I bid you good evening, Mr Duncombe.’

The parson’s eyes widened, but his tone did not change.

‘Welcome, my son. Truscott, bring wine for our guest.’ Only when the servant had closed the door upon them did the old man allow himself to smile. ‘Bless my soul. Mr Wolfgang Arrandale! You are returned to us at last.’

Wolfgang breathed a sigh of relief. He bowed.

‘Your servant, sir. I am pleased you remember me—that I have not changed out of all recognition.’

The parson waved a hand. ‘You are a little older, and if I may say so, a little more careworn, but I should know you anywhere. Sit down, my boy, sit down.’ He shepherded his guest to a chair. ‘I shall not ask you any questions until we have our wine, then we may talk uninterrupted.’

‘Thank you. I should warn you, sir, there is still a price on my head. When your man opened the door I was afraid he would recognise me.’

‘Truscott’s eyesight is grown very poor, but he prefers to answer the door after dark, rather than leave it to his wife. But even if he had remembered you, Truscott is very discreet. It is something my servants have learned over the years.’ He stopped as the object of their conversation returned with a tray. ‘Ah, here we are. Thank you, Truscott. But what is this, no cake? Not even a little bread?’

‘Mrs Truscott’s gone to bed, master.’

Mr Duncombe looked surprised. ‘At nine o’clock?’

‘She had one of her turns, sir.’

‘Pray do not worry on my account,’ put in Wolfgang quickly. ‘A glass of wine is all I require.’ When they were alone again he added drily, ‘Your man does not want to encourage dubious fellows such as I to be calling upon you.’

‘If they knew who you are—’

‘They would have me locked up.’

‘No, no, my boy, you wrong them. Not everyone in Arrandale believes you killed your wife.’

‘Are you quite sure of that, sir?’ asked Wolfgang, unable to keep a note of bitterness from his voice. ‘I was found kneeling over her body and I ran away rather than explain myself.’

‘I am sure you thought it was for the best, at the time,’ murmured the parson, topping up their glasses.

‘My father thought it best. He was never in any doubt of my guilt. If only I had called here. I am sure you would have counselled me to stay and defend myself. I was damned the moment I fled the country.’

‘We cannot change the past, my son. But tell me where you have been, what you have done for the past ten years.’

Wolfgang stretched his long legs towards the fire.

‘I have been in France, sir, but as for what I did there—let us just say whatever was necessary to survive.’

‘And may one ask why you have returned?’

For a long moment Wolf stared into the flames. ‘I have come back to prove my innocence, if I can.’

Was it possible, after so long, to solve the mystery of his wife’s death? When the parson said nothing he continued, giving voice to the thoughts that had been going round in his head ever since he decided to leave France.

‘I know it will not be easy. My wife’s parents, the Sawstons, would see me hanged as soon as look at me. I know they have put up the reward for my capture. Florence’s death might have been a tragic accident, but the fact that the Sawston diamonds went missing at the same time makes it far more suspicious. I cannot help feeling that someone must know the truth.’

The parson sighed. ‘It is so long ago. The magistrate is dead, as are your parents, and Arrandale Hall has been empty for years, with only a caretaker there now.’ He shifted uncomfortably. ‘I understand the lawyers wanted to close it up completely, but your brother insisted that Robert Jones should remain. He and his wife keep the house up together as best they can.’

‘Jones who was footman in my day?’ asked Wolf.

Mr Duncombe nodded. ‘Yes, that is he. I am afraid your lawyers will not release money for maintaining the property. Your brother does what he can to keep the building watertight, at least.’

‘Richard? But his income will not cover that.’

‘I fear it has been a struggle, although I understand he has now married a woman of...er...comfortable means.’

‘Ah, yes. I believe he is now step-papa to an heiress,’ said Wolf. ‘Quite a come-about for an Arrandale! Ah, you are surprised I know this. I met Lady Cassandra in France last year and she gave me news of the family. She also told me I have a daughter. You will remember, sir, that Florence was with child and very near her time when she died. I thought the babe had died with her but apparently not.’ He gazed into the fire, remembering his shock when Cassie had told him he was a father. ‘The child is the reason I must clear my name. I do not want her to grow up with my guilt hanging over her.’

‘An admirable sentiment, but how do you begin?’

‘By talking to anyone who might know something about that night, ten years ago.’

The old man shook his head.

‘That will not be easy. The staff are gone, moved away and some of the older ones have died. However, Brent, the old butler, still lives in the village.’

He stopped as a soft, musical voice was heard from the doorway.

‘Papa, am I so very late? Old Mrs Owlet has broken her leg and I did not like to leave her until her son came—oh, I beg your pardon, I did not know you had a visitor.’

Wolf had risen from his chair and turned to face the newcomer, a tall young woman in a pale-blue pelisse and a matching bonnet, the strings of which she was untying as she spoke to reveal an abundance of silky fair hair, neatly pulled into a knot at the back of her head.

‘Ah, Grace, my love. This is Mr...er...Mr Peregrine. My daughter, sir.’

‘Miss Duncombe.’ Wolf found himself being scrutinised by a pair of dark eyes.

‘But how did you come here, sir?’ she asked. ‘I saw no carriage on the street.’

‘I walked from Hindlesham.’

She looked wary and he could not blame her. He had been travelling for over a week, his clothes were rumpled and he had not shaved since yesterday. There was no doubt he presented a very dubious appearance.

The parson coughed. ‘Mr Peregrine will be staying in Arrandale for a few days, my love.’