The Wicked Widow Read online

  Author’s Note

  Many Castles in England have secret passages, one reason being that if the owner had a mistress, he could go to her without being seen.

  Another was that at the time of King Henry VIII and the Dissolution of the Monasteries, the Monks could hide in them and not be slaughtered by the King’s men.

  It was because of Henry’s desire to be free of a barren wife that he turned against the Roman Catholic Church, having been refused permission to divorce and remarry so that he could produce an heir.

  This was a turning point in England as far as religion was concerned and resulted in the reigning Monarch becoming the Head of the Church of England.

  The highwayman of the eighteenth century became a romantic figure in a great many novels.

  Mounted usually on a fine horse, which could carry him away quickly from the scene of the crime, his dark clothes and his rakish appearance made him the ‘Gentleman of the Road’.

  There were, however, other highwaymen who were forced into obtaining enough money to live, simply because they had been so badly treated after the War with France was ended.

  Men who had fought valiantly for their country came home to find that there were no jobs for them to do, their wives had often died or run away with another man or their cottages were inhabited by someone else. There were no pensions for them, not even for those who were wounded.

  These men, like Bill in my story, were rough but not cruel nor were they in the same category as the romantic highwaymen written about by Alfred Noyes,

  “And he rode with a jewelled twinkle.

  His pistol butts a-twinkle.

  His rapier hilt a-twinkle.

  Under the jewelled sky.”

  Chapter One ~ 1821

  Standing in the shadows on the landing, Kyla heard the old butler shuffling over the hall to the front door.

  She had been waiting for some time.

  Now at last the bell had rung and he had come as raidly as he could from the pantry.

  She knew that he could not move quickly because he had arthritis in his ankles.

  He had hoped when her father died that he would be retired on a pension. He was in fact provided for in her father’s will, but her stepmother had insisted that old Dawkins stay on.

  It was not that she had any affection for him but she knew well that she would not find another butler as well up in his duties so cheaply.

  Stumbling a little because the hall was only dimly lit, Dawkins opened the front door and let in a man.

  “You have been a long time,” he said in a disagreeable voice.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Dawkins replied, “but it is quite a way from the pantry and I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  George Hunter, who Kyla knew was always rude to the servants, did not answer him.

  He merely threw his hat down on a chair and walked without being announced into the sitting room.

  He closed the door sharply behind him and, as Dawkins went back to the pantry, Kyla tiptoed down the stairs in her stockinged feet.

  She crossed the hall without making a sound and, reaching the door of the sitting room, she bent down to listen intently at the keyhole.

  Lady Shenley had also been waiting but much more comfortably in an armchair with a glass of brandy beside her.

  When the door opened and George Hunter came in, she sprang to her feet with a cry.

  “How could you have been so long?”

  “I am sorry, Sybil,” George Hunter replied, “but the man I wanted to see was in Court and then I had to take him out to dinner and fill him up with wine before he would tell me what I wanted to know.”

  “That is what I am waiting for, George,” Sybil Shenley said, “and, of course, you.”

  She put her arms round his neck and he kissed her rather roughly.

  Then, putting her aside, he went to the grog table in a corner of the room and poured himself out a large brandy.

  Sybil Shenley was watching him closely.

  It was obvious that she was impatient for him to come back to her side to tell her what she so wanted to know.

  George Hunter, however, drank quite a lot of the brandy before he finally threw himself down in a chair.

  It was on the other side of the fireplace and he stretched out his legs.

  “I am damned tired, if you want to know,” he said. “Hanging about a Law Court, where there is nowhere to sit, is not exactly a picnic.”

  “I was afraid you would be delayed,” Sybil said. “But now you have seen this Counsel, who is supposed to be so clever. What did he say?”

  George Hunter took another gulp of brandy and then he started slowly,

  “He told me that there was no chance in Hell of your breaking the Will and, as long as there is a Lord Shenley in existence, the money is his for life.”

  He paused for a moment and then went on,

  “In the event of his death, without leaving an heir, everything goes to the girl.”

  Sybil Shenley gave a cry of horror.

  “Is that true? Is there really no way out?”

  George Hunter shook his head.

  “None at all, unless the boy dies and the girl is disposed of.”

  There was a long poignant silence.

  The silence seemed almost to vibrate round and round the room.

  Then Sybil Shenley muttered,

  “I suppose, although it is unpleasant, that is what we shall have to do.”

  George Hunter sat up in his chair.

  “What are you talking about, Sybil, or are you joking?”

  “I am not joking,” Sybil Shenley replied, “for I have no intention of being a pauper or living on the charity of my stepchildren.”

  “You are their legal Guardian until they reach the age of twenty-one, which, where Terry is concerned, will not be for many years.”

  “You have not read the Will as carefully as I have,” Sybil Shenley snapped. “There are Trustees to interfere, all tiresome men whom my husband trusted. One of those, as you well know, is the Solicitor.”

  There was silence and then George Hunter asked,

  “And what do you intend to do about it?”

  “What you have already told me,” Sybil Shenley said. “The boy will have an unfortunate accident and we can marry the girl off. What is the name of that Lord you told me about who has a passion for virgins?”

  “He could not marry her,” George Hunter pointed out. “He has a wife.”

  Sybil Shenley shrugged her shoulders.

  “Then she can be his mistress.”

  “I should imagine that, seeing that Lord Frome is such a very unpleasant chap, she will refuse.”

  Sybil Shenley laughed.

  “Really, George, you are so naїve. You don’t suppose that I shall ask the girl’s approval to marry her to anyone who I think is suitable?”

  She paused and, as George Hunter did not speak, she carried on,

  “You always underrate my intelligence. I know where Madam Bassett, who keeps that ‘House of Pleasure’ at the corner of Leicester Square, buys the drugs that she gives the girls when they first enter her establishment.”

  “How the hell did you find that out?” George Hunter asked in an amused voice.

  “I patronise the chemist where she goes for a reason of my own,” Sybil Shenley replied. “And while I was talking to him, Madam came in. She asked him for what she wanted in a whisper, but I am very sharp of hearing.”

  “I must admit, Sybil, that you never miss a trick,” George Hunter declared.

  “A nice mess we would both be in if I did,” Sybil Shenley sneered.

  She thought for a moment before she added,

  “That tiresome girl, Kyla, will take enough of the drug to
make her amenable and when she does not know if it is Christmas or Easter, you can take her to Lord Frome.”

  “It is certainly a good idea,” George Hunter said, “and I will see to it that Frome pays up handsomely for the privilege.”

  “Of course” Sybil Shenley agreed, “and that leaves us with the boy.”

  “I am not doing anything,” George Hunter stipulated firmly, “that could mean ending up on the gallows.”

  “Of course not,” Sybil Shenley agreed. “You know, dearest, that I have no wish to lose you.”

  “Then just be very careful in what you are planning where the boy is concerned,” George Hunter said sternly. “Remember he is now Lord Shenley and people have a nasty habit of keeping their eyes on a young Lord even if he is only eight years old.”

  “That is exactly what makes it very much easier,” Sybil Shenley explained. “Small boys climb up on roofs and it is very easy to slip over a parapet. They also swim in lakes or fall into them from leaky canoes. Really, George, you should learn to use your imagination.”

  “It is not as active as yours,” George Hunter admitted, “and, quite frankly, you make me nervous.”

  He finished his brandy, rose from the chair and walked over to the table to refill his glass.

  Then he stood in front of the fireplace. There was no fire, but it was filled with flowers because it was summer.

  Slowly, as if he was thinking everything through, he said again,

  “You are making me feel nervous and we must consider it all very carefully before we do anything.”

  He drew in his breath before he went on,

  “Quite a number of people will think it damned strange if Terry has an accident and Kyla takes up a life of sin with that dissolute Frome.”

  “Really, George, you are being positively ridiculous,” Sybil Shenley exclaimed. “You don’t suppose I have not thought of that?”

  She gave a haughty laugh before she went on,

  “Of course you will have to suggest to Frome when you hand the girl over to him and God knows, she is very much more attractive than the Cyprians and milkmaids with whom he usually spends his time that he must take her to France or some other place where no one will ask questions.”

  “You are making it sound easy,” George Hunter said in an irritated tone. “But Kyla has a will of her own as I learnt when she slapped my face.”

  “As I will slap it if I find you playing about with her again,” Sybil Shenley said sharply.

  “I was only giving her a fatherly kiss because she was unhappy about the death of the old man,” George Hunter said defensively.

  “There is nothing fatherly about you,” Sybil Shenley retorted. “You keep your hands and your lips to yourself or rather for me. Otherwise I will not pay your debts and the duns will be after you.”

  “All right, all right,” George Hunter said. “I have the message and I will do what you tell me about the girl. But I warn you, the boy is going to be much more difficult.”

  “Not if we are sensible, George,” Sybil Shenley said. “We will go to the country at the end of the week and by that time I shall have decided whether I shall buy a horse, which is guaranteed to kick him off or whether, as I have already suggested, he explores the roof and accidentally falls off it.”

  She appeared to be thinking before she continued,

  “Alternatively he can drown in the lake. There is no reason for you to be involved in any of that.”

  “Thank Heavens for small mercies,” George Hunter said. “But, if you ask me, I think it is too soon. Let’s wait for a month or two and see what we can sell in the meantime.”

  Sybil Shenley gave a shriek.

  “Sell?” she said. “There is nothing worth selling that is not entailed to that tiresome little boy. I have gone through the inventory word by word. The only things that are exempt are not worth a five shilling piece.”

  “Are you sure of that?” George Hunter asked. “I was going to ask you tonight for some money.”

  “I remembered that,” Sybil Shenley answered. “I have fifty pounds for you upstairs, but it may be difficult to get much more for a week or so.”

  George Hunter scratched the side of his face.

  “Fifty quid is better than nothing,” he sighed. “The tradesmen are being most unpleasant and so is my landlord for that matter. Why the hell cannot I move in here?”

  “Because I don’t want to be talked about,” she explained. “You know as well as I do that the Beau Ton would be horrified at my taking a lover so soon after poor old Arthur’s death.”

  She spoke in an affected tone and George Hunter laughed.

  “Poor Arthur! He never had the slightest idea of what was going on under his very nose.”

  “I don’t suppose that everyone else was quite so blind,” Sybil Shenley warned him. “As I have told you, George, it is sensible for us to lie low and for me to be a mourning widow until it is possible for us to be married.”

  “I am damned if I am going to be barred from coming with you to the country,” George insisted.

  ‘That is different,” Sybil Shenley said. “Of course you will come with me to Shenley House. I have asked two other people to make it a party.”

  “Who are they?” George Hunter demanded.

  “The half-witted Lady Briggs, who is always fawning on me,” Sybil Shenley replied, “and her husband, who is a bore but very respectable.”

  “Oh, my God!” George Hunter exclaimed. “Do we have to have them?”

  “It is so essential that they should be there as eyewitnesses to the tragedy that will occur when small children have no sense and are quite incapable of looking after themselves.”

  “I see the point,” George Hunter muttered.

  “Of course, as we are both very devoted to dear little Terry, I shall cry on Lord Briggs’s shoulder while you weep on Violet’s.”

  “I shall have to be blind drunk to do that,” he retorted.

  “Well, there is plenty of good claret in the cellar,” Sybil Shenley informed him.

  “That, at least, is some consolation,” George replied. “And talking of drink, let me fill up your glass.”

  “There is a bottle of champagne in the ice cooler” Sybil said. “I was only calming my nerves with brandy until I knew what you had found out.”

  “Which is damned all!” George growled.

  He walked towards the table in the corner.

  On reaching it he started to pour the champagne, which was open in the ice cooler, into two glasses.

  “Now that problem is settled, George, dear,” Sybil Shenley said in a cooing voice, “we can enjoy ourselves.”

  George Hunter handed her a glass of champagne.

  “Let us hope this calms my nerves,” he said, “but I have an uncomfortable feeling, Sybil, that you thrive on crime.”

  “That is a very unkind thing to say,” Sybil complained, but she did not sound angry.

  “I have been wondering,” George replied, “if poor old Arthur really died a natural death. It certainly puzzled the doctors as to why he should pop off at sixty.”

  “Then let it puzzle you too,” Sybil said. “All you have to concern yourself with is me and me and me! I love you, George. If I have ever done anything wrong, it is because I love you.”

  George drank down half his glass of champagne.

  “I suppose that is the truth,” he said. “All right, come here. Come here!”

  He put out his left arm and Sybil Shenley moved close to him, lifting her red lips to his.

  As he kissed her, Kyla, outside the door, straightened herself.

  She had heard enough.

  The sooner she was back in the safety of her bedroom the better.

  She was, however, not so foolish as to hurry.

  She now moved on tiptoe just in case by some mischance her stepmother and her lover should hear her.

  She had been able to hear quite clearly everything that they had said.

  Only as she cr
ept upstairs did the horror of it sweep over her like a tidal wave.

  How could anyone be so wicked, so cruel and so brutal?

  How could her stepmother plan to kill her brother Terry and to force her into the arms of a ghastly old man, who she knew was a byword for debauchery?

  She reached the top landing.

  She was just going to her own room when she remembered that her stepmother had said that there was fifty pounds waiting for George Hunter upstairs.

  She hesitated.

  Then she told herself that if she was to save Terry and herself she had to have money.

  Although she had been anticipating that something like this would happen, she did not have enough in her possession.

  She slipped into her stepmother’s room, knowing that there would be no maid on duty.

  When the champagne was finished, they would both come up the stairs and drunkenly fall into bed. It was what they had done almost every night since her father’s death.

  The first time was the night when they had returned from the country after the funeral.

  Kyla thought that she must be imagining the sounds that they made stumbling along the passage.

  Then the door of the bedroom closed and she knew that they were both inside.

  She had lain in bed awake, shocked and horrified that even her stepmother, whom she had always hated, should behave in such an outrageous fashion.

  Then, before five o’clock when the housemaids came on duty, she had heard George leaving.

  He was moving more quietly now because he was obviously sobering up.

  He went downstairs and let himself out of the front door just as dawn was breaking.

  Then she went into what had been her mother’s bedroom.

  She was trying not to think that the woman who had married her father would soon be occupying it with a despicable man who was prepared to go to any lengths for money.

  She guessed that the fifty pounds that her stepmother had for him would still be in her handbag.

  Sybil would have gone to the Bank when she was out driving today and cashed a cheque.

  It was not at all difficult to find the handbag, the lady’s maid had put it tidily away into a beautiful French chest of drawers inlaid with ivory.

  Kyla opened it and saw that the money had been placed in one of the little canvas bags provided by the Bank.