‘No, no, she was dead, I know she was dead!’ Bridget cried excitedly, her eyes wide and flaring. ‘I know she was dead!’ she insisted, verging on hysteria.
‘Do you not recall the pathologist’s report? Doctor Kenmarr said that when he did the autopsy he discovered an excessive amount of alcohol and barbiturates in her bloodstream and a quantity of water in her lungs. This led him to conclude that her death had been by drowning. And since her lungs were full of water she could not have been dead when she was placed in the lake. I don’t believe a dead body can take in water.’
As the implications of his words sank in, Bridget paled. She had loved Minerva like a sister, had mothered her from the first moment she had set eyes on her as a child.
‘No!’ Bridget shouted. ‘She wasn’t alive. She was dead. I would never have harmed her. I loved her. I loved her. You know I did. The water must have somehow seeped into her lungs afterwards.’
Anthony wondered if this was actually possible. He decided it might be, depending on the length of time Min had been dead before she had been submerged in the lake. He rubbed his forehead wearily, looked across at the housekeeper, asked in a quiet, very controlled voice, ‘Was her body still warm when Lamont took her out to the lake?’
Bridget nodded, not able to speak, shaken by the Earl’s horrifying suggestion.
‘Rigor mortis doesn’t set in for about two to four hours after death. I suppose she might have been able to take water into her lungs for a short time after she died. Maybe for half an hour. But no longer, I’m absolutely sure of that. Still, only a pathologist could give me a truly accurate answer,’ Anthony said softly, almost to himself, as if thinking aloud.
Bridget stared at him, twisted her hands in her lap.
There was a long and deadly silence. The strain between them was a most palpable thing, hung heavy in the air.
Eventually the Earl spoke. Pinning his eyes on the housekeeper, he said, ‘Why did you suddenly decide to speak up, to confide in me now, after so many years? Tell me that, Bridget O’Donnell.’
Bridget cried, ‘But I already told you…I couldn’t have it on my conscience any longer…I mean about you not knowing the truth, not knowing the real circumstances of Lady Min’s death. I realized how much it troubled you…the idea that she had committed suicide while the balance of her mind was disturbed. You’d blamed yourself for years, blamed her death on your decision to leave her and get a divorce. And I was sure you believed your relationship with your cousin Miss Sally Harte had been a contributing factor in your wife’s death.’
Anthony flinched. There was a certain truth in all this.
Bridget gave Anthony a hard stare. ‘I wanted to put your mind at rest, your lordship,’ she finished.
Like hell you did, Anthony thought, not for one moment believing her. And then, in a flash of sudden insight, he understood. There was no question in his mind that Bridget had been having an affair with Michael Lamont. But Lamont was leaving Clonloughlin in a few days. He was going away and he was never coming back. He was going to America to work for Mrs Alma Berringer, the young American widow who had recently returned to her horse farm in Virginia after renting Rothmerrion Lodge for the past year. Lamont and Mrs Berringer had been friendly, but Anthony had not realized just how intimate they had become until Lamont had given his notice a month ago, announced that he was moving to the States.
Anthony rose, walked over to the huge stone fireplace, picked up the poker and stirred the logs. His expression was ruminative. He was convinced he was right. Slowly he spun around, stood facing Bridget, studying her with infinite care. Never really pretty, she had, however, been very arresting when she was younger, with her blazing red hair and milk white skin and cornflower blue eyes. Her striking colouring and long legs and lissome figure had always caught men’s attention. But sadly she had not aged well. The red hair was a faded salt-and-pepper auburn rapidly turning grey, her figure had lost its willowy appeal. Only those bright blue eyes remained unchanged, vivid and youthful. And very calculating, he decided. Yes, Bridget O’Donnell was always manipulative and devious even when she was a child. And oh how she had dominated poor Min. Odd that he had never realized this until now.
‘There’s an old saying, Bridget,’ Anthony remarked in an icy, contained voice. ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not following you.’
‘You’re in love with him. You’ve always loved him since the first day he came to run the estate for me. That’s why you helped him, protected him since my wife’s death. And after she was dead, you became involved with him. And now, because he’s leaving you, going off, chasing after another woman, you want your revenge. You’re sticking the knife between Michael Lamont’s shoulder blades with a real vengeance, aren’t you? That’s what all this is about, isn’t it?’
She stared him down. ‘No,’ she said flatly. ‘It isn’t. I simply wanted to put your mind at rest. I didn’t want you to blame yourself for Lady Min’s death.’
‘But I don’t,’ Anthony said coldly, in all truthfulness, ‘and I haven’t for years. You’re pointing a finger at Lamont because he’s found somebody younger and prettier than you. Let’s face it, Bridget, your lover has passed you over.’
At these words she flushed deeply, looked down at her hands.
Anthony knew his words had struck home.
After a moment, she asked in a low, subdued voice, ‘What are you going to do about Michael Lamont? Are you going to have it out with him?’
Anthony looked at her with steadiness for several seconds, then slowly walked across the floor, resumed his position behind his desk. He leaned over it, looked deeply into those blue eyes so warily returning his penetrating gaze.
‘Obviously I shall confront Lamont. The facts you have given me cannot be ignored. As you know they cannot. That’s why you told me in the first place.’ There was a small pause before he said, ‘However, I may also go to the police, open up the investigation into my wife’s death again. And I wonder, Bridget, if it’s ever occurred to you that you helped to tamper with evidence in a sudden and questionable death. And that you perjured yourself under oath. Also, if my first wife was alive when Michael Lamont put her in the lake, then you are also an accessory after the fact. An accessory to murder.’
Once Bridget had returned to the kitchen to go about her duties for the day, Anthony made a telephone call to Cork. It lasted for ten minutes and mostly he listened. When he quietly put the receiver back in the cradle his face was white and his expression was grim.
Glancing at the clock on the mantel, he rose to his feet, left the library and went down the passageway to the indoor porch. After putting on his wellingtons and his barbour, he took his tweed cap off the coat stand and went outside.
He looked up. It had stopped raining but the sky was still overcast and a light mist persisted. Walking at a brisk pace, he took the path which led to Michael Lamont’s house. It was just a few yards away from the lake, set back against a copse of trees next to a field. When he reached the front door he barged inside without knocking, strode through the hall, across the living room and into the adjoining office.
Lamont, a dark-haired, heavy-set but good-looking man, was seated behind the desk, entering figures in a large estate ledger. He looked up in surprise as the door was flung open unceremoniously and a gust of air caused the papers on his desk to flutter and lift.
‘Good morning, Lord Dunvale,’ he said pleasantly, his weatherbeaten face breaking into a smile. And then the smile vanished as he became aware of Anthony’s dire expression, his angry stance.
‘Is something wrong?’ Lamont asked, rising.
Anthony did not at first reply. He stepped into the room, closed the heavy oak door behind him firmly, leaned against it. He studied the estate manager through icy eyes. Lamont had worked for him for almost twenty years, and he suddenly wondered what in God’s name made him tick. Anthony had always believed he knew Lamont inside out; app
arently he had not known him at all. He had considered him to be a trustworthy and devoted employee and a good friend. Now he was filled with loathing for him.
At last Anthony said, ‘Bridget had rather a strange tale to tell earlier this morning. About the late Lady Dunvale’s death.’
Taken by surprise, off guard, Lamont gaped at him, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He walked away from the desk swiftly, hovered near the fireplace, wanting to put distance between himself and Anthony. Reaching for a cigarette, he lit it, then pivoted to look at the Earl.
Lamont’s expression was one of uncertainty and his dark brown eyes flickered with apprehension. ‘What exactly are you getting at?’ he asked finally.
‘Bridget told me everything, confided every little detail about what happened here in this house that tragic evening.’ Anthony stepped forward, drew closer to the estate manager, let his eyes rest on him for the longest moment.
Lamont flinched under this intense and unwavering scrutiny. Blinking, he eventually glanced away, took a long drag on his cigarette, inhaling deeply.
‘How could you be so certain Min was dead after she collapsed?’ Anthony demanded in a hard voice. ‘You’re not a doctor, Lamont.’
Lamont’s face turned brilliant red and he cried out angrily, ‘She was dead! I’m telling you she was dead!’ Unexpectedly he began to cough, and it took him a few minutes to recover. When he finally caught his breath, he added, ‘I might not be a doctor, but I do know when somebody has stopped breathing.’ He puffed on the cigarette again with nervous intensity, then exclaimed in a shaky voice, ‘I tried to revive her, to breathe life into her with mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but she was gone. I loved Min. Which is more than you ever did.’
Anthony took another step forward. His hands were clenched tightly at his sides, his knuckles shining white in the pale morning light. He wanted to ram his fist into Lamont’s red, boozy face, smash it to a pulp until it was unrecognizable. But he resisted the impulse, hung onto his self-possession with a masterful control.
‘You don’t know the meaning of the word love, Lamont. You’re a philandering, double-dealing bastard, and a menace to any decent woman.’
‘You talk to me about philandering. What about you!’ Lamont snorted. ‘Certainly you drove Minerva into my arms with your constant womanizing and years of neglect.’
Anthony held himself very taut. He was once more afraid that he might do Lamont bodily harm. He said slowly, ‘Why didn’t you come for me when my wife collapsed? Or at least call a doctor? Why did you take matters into your own hands? Your behaviour was unconscionable and nothing short of reckless.’
Michael Lamont was not blessed with great intelligence, but he had sufficient native shrewdness to recognize that Bridget O’Donnell had done her work well. He decided there was no point in lying, and so he spoke the absolute truth when he mumbled, ‘I was afraid. Afraid that once you knew what had been going on between us you’d get rid of me. I couldn’t lose my job. It also occurred to me that you might blame me for her death. Circumstantial evidence has condemned more than one innocent man. Don’t you see,’ he finished in a whining tone, ‘I had no choice, I had to cover everything up.’
Disgust and revulsion swamped Anthony as he continued to observe the estate manager with a steely gaze. ‘I wonder how you’ve been able to look me in the eye all these years, knowing the terrible things you did, knowing how you lied to everyone to protect your own skin. You’re despicable, Lamont. Monstrous.’
Lamont did not respond. How stupid he had been not to leave Clonloughlin years ago. He had stayed because of Bridget O’Donnell, the terrible hold she had over him. He had never really trusted her. Apparently he had been right not to do so. When their long relationship had ended by mutual consent, he had believed himself to be finally free of her. There had been no rancorous feelings on her part, or so he had thought. He had been wrong. The minute he had taken up with another woman she had struck out at him like a viper, wanting to destroy him. She had succeeded.
‘I ache to give you the biggest thrashing of your life,’ Anthony was saying. ‘But I’m not going to lay a finger on you. I shall let the law do my work for me.’
Lamont started, drawn out of his thoughts. He peered at Anthony. ‘What? What are you saying?’
‘I fully intend to reopen the investigation into my wife’s death. I believe you killed Lady Dunvale. And I aim to see that you pay for it,’ Anthony said with cold deliberation.
‘You’re mad, stark raving mad!’ Lamont shouted, his dark eyes popping out of his face, his expression one of sudden fear. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, Dunvale. Min poisoned her system with all that muck she was forever swallowing. She died within a few minutes of collapsing.’
‘That’s where you’re quite wrong,’ Anthony said in a voice that was murderously soft. ‘She was in a deeply unconscious state, which was indeed induced by excessive amounts of alcohol and barbiturates. But when you placed her in the lake she was very much alive, and –’
‘I don’t believe you! You’re lying! Inventing all this!’
‘I am not!’ Anthony shot back with ferocity. ‘When Bridget confided in me this morning I was not absolutely sure about certain medical facts! So I telephoned Forensic at the hospital in Cork, where I located Doctor Stephen Kenmarr. The pathologist who did the autopsy on Min’s body, who discovered her lungs were full of water and testified at the inquest that she had died of drowning.’
Anthony paused, finished emphatically, and very slowly, as if to give added weight to his words, ‘Doctor Kenmarr confirmed to me what I already suspected…that water cannot be inhaled by a person who is dead. Therefore, Min was alive when you placed her in the lake. You drowned her.’
Michael Lamont felt his hackles rising, and he was so shocked, so stunned by Anthony’s dreadful accusation he could barely stand. He swayed slightly on his feet, reached out, supported himself against the mantelpiece. The idea that he might have actually caused Min’s death struck horror in him. Over the years he had suffered greatly, had been haunted by his deceit, the lies he had told, the cover up he had wrought, and he had never stopped wrestling with his guilt and his conscience.
Now he cried out in protest, ‘No, Dunvale, no! She had no pulse, no heartbeat!’ He choked on his words and tears came into his eyes and he broke down completely. ‘I could not have done anything to hurt her,’ he sobbed. ‘I loved her. Talk to Bridget again. Please. Please. She’ll verify that I’m telling the truth. Min was dead…and Bridget O’Donnell knows that she was.’
‘She was alive, Lamont!’
‘No! No!’ Demented, Lamont rushed at Anthony, his arms flailing in the air, his face apoplectic. He felt a sudden and excruciating pain shoot across his temple and along the side of his face, but he did not let it slow him down. He lunged at Anthony. As he did another searing pain blinded him. The blood rushed to his head and everything went black. He fell sprawling to the floor, and then was still.
Startled, Anthony stood looking down at him, momentarily rooted to the spot, unable to move. He had noticed the sudden and dreadful change when Lamont had rushed towards him, had instantly realized that the other man was having some sort of seizure.
Pulling himself together, Anthony bent down, felt Lamont’s pulse. It was erratic, faint, but it was there.
Hurrying to the telephone, Anthony dialled the cottage hospital in the village of Clonloughlin.
‘Dunvale here,’ he said to the duty nurse when she answered. ‘Could you please send an ambulance immediately. To the estate manager’s house. Michael Lamont has just had a stroke, I think. But he’s still alive. If you hurry we can probably save him.’
To see justice done, Anthony thought, as he hung up.
Chapter 30
‘I’ve really got to take it over!’ Paula exclaimed, tightening her grip on Michael Kallinski’s arm. ‘It would be nothing short of criminal if I let it slip through my fingers.’
‘Yes, I know it
would.’ Michael looked at her through the corner of his eye. ‘Six hundred and fifty million dollars is a hell of a lot of money, though.’
‘That’s true, it is. On the other hand, it isn’t really, not if you consider what I’m actually buying. A chain of department stores that has a fine reputation, great prestige, with invaluable real estate assets, and a balance sheet that’s in the black. And it’s a perfect chain for me, Michael, as you well know. That’s why you brought it to my attention in the first place.’ She leaned closer, added in an emphatic tone tinged with excitement, ‘Larson’s locations couldn’t be better for me if I’d hand picked them myself. Westchester, Philadelphia and Boston cover the Eastern Seaboard. Chicago and Detroit the Midwest. Los Angeles and San Francisco the West Coast. It’s a deal made in heaven, as far as I’m concerned.’
‘If you make a deal.’
Paula gave him a hard stare. ‘Is there a chance I might not?’ she asked, her voice instantly changing, rising slightly in sudden concern.
‘I suppose there’s always that chance, Paula. But I don’t think you have too much to worry about in this particular situation. As far as I know, there’s no one else after the company, and I understand from Harvey in New York that the chairman of the board is willing to start talking, to open negotiations whenever you’re ready. And what Millard Larson says goes, since he’s the majority stockholder as well as CEO. If I were you, I’d make plans to fly to New York as soon as possible.’
‘I agree with you, and I want to go. But I can’t…at least not for two weeks. Lorne and Tessa are both coming home from their schools tomorrow. It’s the Easter break, in case you’d forgotten. I just can’t be away right now.’