Caught in a Cornish Scandal by Eleanor Webster (top novels of all time .txt) 📗

Millie was jolted from her confused tangle of thought as the landlord pulled her hands back, winding the rope tight about her wrists.

‘Feet, too, remember,’ Mrs Ludlow said.

The landlord bent, squatting down and winding the rope about Millie’s ankles. He had a white fringe of hair. It circled his head, leaving the centre shiny and bald.

‘Very good,’ Mrs Ludlow said. ‘Now lead them out.’

‘What? Me?’ the landlord asked. He voice rose and Millie saw apprehension flicker in his expression. ‘Where?’

‘Down to the ocean,’ Mrs Ludlow said with a benign smile, as though offering a child a weekend treat.

‘Well, I...um... I have the pigs to feed. And the cows to milk. I mean, Betsy usually does that, but you had me send Betsy home.’

‘The pigs and cows will have to wait. Unless, of course, you want me to have that little chat with the excise men. Here.’ The benign tone turned sharp as she tossed a coin to the landlord. ‘Any more concerns?’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘Good.’

They stumbled forward, walking through the corridor, stuffy with the smell of stale food, and into the brisk air outside. The darkness of night was broken by the silvery luminescence of the full moon and the flickering light of Cartwell’s lamp. The air was cold. Millie heard her teeth chattering as they moved across the courtyard, towards the trail that they had so recently climbed. The heavy ropes made walking difficult. Millie fell once, sliding on to her rear, just able to save herself while a cascade of rocks clattered downwards.

‘It would be quicker and easier with our legs untied,’ she said.

‘Yes, it would, wouldn’t it,’ Mrs Ludlow agreed equitably.

They did not take the path towards the fishing village, instead veering to the left. This trail was so overgrown that branches snapped against their faces, arms and legs. Even with the lamplight they were constantly stumbling over twisting roots threading the path.

At last they burst from the cover of foliage and on to the shale beach. Millie felt both a relief and dread. There was the thankfulness that the long, painful walk was over, but also dread of what was to come.

It was a circle, one that had begun on the ship and ended here. The ropes around her arms and legs felt oddly familiar. The moon shimmered. It seemed more beautiful than Millie had ever seen it, like liquid silver splashed across inky waters.

‘Took you long enough!’ The strident male voice violently shattered the dark silence.

Millie jumped. She twisted, losing her balance and almost falling on to the pebbled beach.

Jason Ludlow strolled towards them. ‘Rumours of my demise have been grossly exaggerated.’ His speech was slurred, his movements unsteady. ‘Mother, why the hell have you brought these fools?’

When Millie had last seen him, he had appeared the gentleman. Now, his clothes were dirty, his face unshaven and he looked every inch the hardened criminal he had become.

It was a circle and now they would die, not by fire or drowning, but by execution on the shale beach.

Jason came up to her, so close that she could smell the alcohol on his breath and the stink of his soiled clothes. ‘Tom’s little sister. Decided to join the party? Grown prettier, I see. But too serious. You were always much too serious. Do not like my women serious.’

‘I am not your woman!’ Millie snapped.

‘Feisty, too. I remember that. I rather liked it...’

‘Jason,’ Mrs Ludlow said with more sorrow than anger. ‘Jason, you couldn’t stay sober even for a day? You did not go into the village to get more, I hope?’

He yawned. ‘Good gracious, enough with the nagging, Mother. Always you nag and bother me with ludicrous rules and admonitions. No, Mother, I found your stash of food and beverage and, while not overly generous, there was a sufficiency. Did you find a vessel for me?’

‘Yes.’ Mrs Ludlow glanced towards the sea. ‘It will be here soon and will take you to France.’

‘And what of them?’ He nodded towards Millie and Sam.

‘Murder, then suicide, I think.’

‘Jason, for goodness sake, this is crazy. No one will believe that,’ Sam said.

He shrugged. ‘I’ll be in France.’

Sam looked towards Mrs Ludlow. ‘Right now you have committed no irreversible crime. I can talk to the magistrate, plead clemency. You are desperate to save your son, that will be understood. But if you kill us, you will be guilty of murder.’

Mrs Ludlow gave an odd laugh. ‘No irreversible crime? And what crime is exactly reversible? Haven’t you realised that there are no criminals: just the rich and the poor, the winners and the losers, weak and powerful. I have it all worked out. It is not what happens that matters, but what people believe.’

‘What do you mean?’ Millie asked.

‘Let me enlighten you,’ she said, as though sharing a pleasant narrative. ‘You see, we have dear Mr Garrett, the loving brother, who came down from London and was so distressed by the cruel treatment of his sister that he killed the cruel husband. The local magistrate is easily convinced that the death was largely accidental, a skirmish between men with unfortunate results. But the grieving widow stays with dear, sweet Miss Lansdowne and tells her that the brother, Mr Garrett, actually plotted to murder the cruel husband. You have such a sympathetic ear, dear. And nice skin.

‘Miss Lansdowne accosts the loving brother. She accuses him of murder. A hangable offence. Furious, the brother kills the grieving widow’s dear friend. Or maybe they have an argument and she falls off a cliff. Mr Garrett, tortured by guilt, commits suicide. Very tragic. It could be an opera. You like opera, as I recall, Mr Garrett?’ She stopped again, her voice raised and at odds with the rest of the recitation, which had been spoken in a peculiar singsong manner.

‘Do not!’ Sam snapped out the curt command. ‘No one in their right mind is going to believe such nonsense. It is a load of drivel.’

Mrs Ludlow gave a graceful shrug. ‘Maybe. I do find being