Margaret found baring up for the sake of her father to be a great strain. Mr Hale was restless following the loss of his wife, and although he knew that Frederick would have got off from Liverpool without hours of leaving Outwood station, he could not rest easy for his son until that first letter arrived from Cadiz, informing his father and sister of his safe return. Mr Hale, who had taken to sitting idle in a chair for one half of the day, was - that evening - listless.
'Frederick ought to have left a note at Liverpool - just to let us know that he had secured his passage - I cannot bear the wait.'
'Surely,' said Isabel, in a calm and soothing tone befitting any ailing patient, 'if Frederick had been delayed, he would have written, and if he had been apprehended, we should have heard of it? I am certain all is well, but the waiting is - I agree - a trial.' Mr Hale could only nod absent-mindedly. He was not reassured, and yet his rational, thinking brain, could not refute the logic of his goddaughter's words.
'And he did get off safely?' asked Mr Hale, looking eagerly to his daughter.
'Yes, Papa.' Margaret was only glad that she had not said anything of Leonards having been working as a station porter, for even though Frederick had not come into direct contact with the man, she knew her father would suspect that he had been sighted; that Leonards would have made for the nearest naval office, or perhaps moved to send a wire. Again, Mr Hale nodded - not wholly convinced - and took himself from the drawing room. There he ascended the stairs, only to aimlessly stand before the bedrooms, opening and closing each door with no discernible purpose.
'When Frederick's letter comes, I am sure your Papa will be easier in his mind,' encouraged Isabel, seeing the lines of stress upon Margaret's young face. In truth, she looked quite ill. Margaret's complexion was pale, and she looked lacking in sleep. She had a tendency to tremble in her hands whenever Mr Hale was before her, at his lowest - as though the strain he carried was felt in her ten-fold - and Isabel was quite certain that she had heard crying from Margaret's bedroom when she retired of an evening. And yet she could not reach out to her friend, for Margaret was proud and determined, and had assumed a mantle of restrained sorrow, which she would uphold indefinitely, for the comfort of her father. 'I believe Mr Thornton had intended to call to-day; that will brighten your Papa, shall it not?' Margaret nodded gratefully.
'Indeed. I am certain that if Mr Bell did not have the gout and he had come, Papa would not be so anxious; even if only because he had an occupation - someone to talk the classics with, or someone to share in his fond memories.'
'Then Mr Thornton shall have to do for the time being, and Mr Bell when he can come,' agreed Isabel; her heart beating wildly - despite her clear expression - at the very thought of his coming.
He came; walked directly to Mr Hale, and took up his hands in a wordless gesture of comfort. His look was so tender, so full of compassionate understanding, that words were needless - the salve was given in only look and touch. Mr Hale settled in his chair, with a look of resigned contentment at the coming of his friend, and sat with a directness of eye that he had not possessed in the past week. Mr Thornton turned to Margaret and offered her a few low and consolatory words in that becoming, quiet way of his, and he saw, with his usual directness of gaze and quickness of mind, that she was struck low by the loss of her mother, and suffering under a heavy burden.
Surprised was he, to see the down-turned curve to her lip, for he had thought her some reason to hope - amongst all the grief - having seen her with the handsome gentleman at the Outward station, only those few brief days ago. He had supposed her to have a lover; someone to offer comfort and a promise for the future, and although he thought the timing of their walking out unseemly, and the lateness of the hour improper, he had determined, that for the sake of his friend, Mr Hale, and for the sake of Miss Hale's friend - his Isabel - that he would say nothing and try not to judge her - for despite all Isabel's asserted independence, he saw in her a feminine vulnerability and maidenly demeanour, which he felt sure would be mortified, if she was to learn of her friend's loose ways; and when the mother still lay unburied!
His eye - ever mindful of where his Isabel sat - rested on her for a fleeting moment, and he saw the lines of concern upon her face, but felt them to be traces of emotion on behalf of another, and not of any personal melancholia. Content in the knowledge that she did not suffer that suffocating sting of loss which so clearly struck the father and daughter, he turned back to his friend, and engaged him in conversation.
He said only a little; Mr Hale content to take up whatever conversation sprang to mind, and when he lost his trail of thought and slipped back into that absent-mindedness of grief, Mr Thornton was able, in his careful and unassuming way, to take up where Mr Hale had left-off. And in doing so, he showed that he was attentive to his friend's words, and felt for his friend such a true and honest understanding, that words between them were unnecessary, for he already understood the lonely road of grief, and where it would lead.
The calming influence of Mr Thornton upon Mr Hale was almost instantaneous, and Margaret breathed a deep sigh of relief in seeing her father thus composed. She wished she could leave the room; steal this calming hour of solace for herself, and flee to her own room, where she may unlock her heart and release her own despair of knowing she no longer had a mother; that never again would she look upon that gentle face, nor hear the tender words of love which fell from her mother's lips. Gone, too, was dear Frederick; the reunion so bitter sweet, and the cause of so much fear, and yet the loss of him - not knowing if she was to see him again in this life - was a sting which bit at her from within. She looked about the room; her father placidly occupied by Mr Thornton, and Isabel sat across from her, with a book upon her lap. She would not be missed, she knew, and so quietly, Margaret rose from her chair and slipped out from the drawing room, making towards her own chamber - once her mother's, now hers.
'Miss Margaret!' called Dixon, upon seeing her young mistress walking across the hallway. Margaret stopped and looked upon the loyal servant; her posture was tense and her face laced with a nervous emotion which so seldom seemed to touch that indefatigable servant.
'Dixon! Whatever is wrong?' asked Margaret in alarm, for surely something grave must have occurred for the brash servant to be so discomposed.
'If you please, Miss Margaret, there is a police-inspector asking to speak with you. Martha let him in and called for me. I did speak with him to see if I would do, but he says it is you he must speak with. I have shown him to the Master's study, and he waits for you in there.' Margaret's blood ran cold. She had no reason to fall under the notice of a police-inspector; none at all but for Frederick.
'You do not think -' But Margaret was unable to voice her fears, and she did not need to, for Dixon understood them only too well; them being her very own, also. Still, she was bold and she sought to allay her young mistress's fears.
'I am sure it is nothing of consequence, Miss Margaret. Inspector Watson did not name his business, but I should think it is only a trifle that may be easily explained away.' Margaret nodded and looked cautiously towards the closed door to the drawing room.
'Papa is speaking with Mr Thornton, Dixon. You will ensure that he does not hear of this. He will only fear for Frederick, or for myself.' Dixon nodded stoically, and Margaret took a brief and stilling breath, before straightening her spine her lifting her chin in defiance. It was that proud and haughty creature which swept into her father's study, and greeting the waiting police-inspector.
Inspector Watson saw the imperious young woman enter the room, and thought he almost feared her. She came upon him with such outward confidence, and such an expression of defiant disdain upon her face, that he almost felt it was an impertinence for him to be stood before her, armed with the questions he must pose. She showed no surprise at his presence in her father's study; nor did she appear intrigued as to his purpose. She simply wore a look of bored ambivalence, as though she knew he had no business with her, and she would bear him with little patience.
'I beg your pardon, ma'ma, but my duty requires me to put to you a few plain questions,' began Inspector Watson. Still, Margaret did not react, but to lower her head a fraction in acknowledgement. 'A man died last night at the infirmary, as a repercussion to a fall he sustained at Outwood station between the hours of five and seven, on Thursday evening of the twenty-sixth instant. At the time, the fall seemed to be of little import, for the victim got up and walked away afterwards, but the doctors at the infirmary now believe that the fall was rendered fatal by an internal complaint that man had, and his habit of drinking.'
Margaret looked back at the inspector in her calm and haughty manner, but her expression of indifference belied the turmoil raging within her breast. She felt certain that the man he spoke of was Leonards, and she recalled to mind the words of the station-master she had overheard; he had spoken to his colleague of Leonard's complaining of having been pushed by a woman. Margaret's heart beat wildly at the realisation that it was Isabel who was caught up in this man's death. Inspector Watson watched her closely to see if she would give any reaction to the sorry tale, but her dark brown eyes only widened a fraction - as though surprised that he should bring such a matter before her - but he saw no look of concern or fear, and as though to prove this very supposition, when he did not immediately continue with his tale, she spoke impatiently, -
'Well? Go on!'
'It is likely that an inquest will be necessary - to determine the circumstances about the fall which led to his subsequent death - for there is reason to believe that the fall was in consequence of the tipsy fellow's impertinence to a young lady who was stood alone on the platform. The fall - or push or blow, as it seems it might have been - was witnessed by a person on the platform, who thought it to be of little consequence at the time. Now that the fellow is dead, and the questions have been asked, the incident has come to light, and after speaking with the witness, we have identified the lady involved in the scuffle to be yourself, in which case -'
But what could Margaret do? She could own that it was Isabel - and not she - who was caught up with Leonards, but Isabel had been such a dear friend to her family - almost a sister - and she felt sure that it was only the altercation between Isabel and Leonards which had prevented the dreadful man from happening upon Frederick and herself, and then only God knew what calamity might have befallen Frederick! If only it had been she who had fought with Leonards. Then she could own to it; Frederick was safely got off and if Leonards was dead, she had even less reason to fear for her brother, but Isabel! She could not - in all conscience - allow Isabel to face an inquest.
'I was not there!' interrupted Margaret, her voice clear and defiant. Her heart beat wildly, but she did not flinch, despite the lie. The necessary lie, she told herself, as she battled with her conscience. Inspector Watson bowed his head in acknowledgement, but did not speak. Miss Hale did not seem - to his expert eye - to show any anxious hesitation, no outward signs of guilt or dishonesty, but merely a proud distaste at finding herself questioned in such a way.
Then there was the evidence to consider; it was vague and circumstantial. A porter had seen - from the far end of the platform - the scuffle between Leonards and the young lady. He had not a chance to intervene - for the altercation had passed in moments - and seeing Leonards get to his feet, the porter had thought nothing of it until he had learnt of Leonards' death. It was then, upon the inspector making enquiries at the station, that the station-master had informed him of a young woman being present at the station at the specified hour; being seen purchasing a ticket on her own. The lady had been described as "remarkably handsome" and was said - by the grocer's assistant - to be a Miss Hale of Crampton. It was - of course - possible that the Miss Hale of Crampton was not the young lady seen caught up with Leonards, but it was very unlikely, for the hour was late, and the woman in question was alone, and Miss Hale had been seen alone, purchasing a single ticket.
Even Leonards himself, had been unable to give any clear account of the incident; rising from the fall only to complain to his colleagues of having been pushed, and complaining of a pain, before taking himself off towards what was thought to be a gin-shop. There, on his way to procure liquor, he fell down in the street, where the police had found him and taken him to the infirmary. He had not sufficiently recovered consciousness in order to explain what had befallen him, and in his fleeting moments of lucidity, spoke only of a woman and the one hundred pounds he thought to make from the navy. Still, the authorities had thought him sensible enough to send for a magistrate, who had come at once to take down the drunkard's deposition, but the magistrate had found Leonards incapable of telling him anything about the fall. Inspector Watson considered all these facts; Miss Hale's staunch denial, her ease of countenance, Leonards' own lack of account, and the vague statements of the witnesses, and he felt there was little to be gained from the interview.
'I have then, Madam, your denial that you were the lady in question who struck or pushed this poor man, causing his death?' And she could honestly claim it, for the lady the inspector looked for was not her, but Isabel. Oh! if only she could be sure that Isabel would not face a punishment for fending off that drunkard's impropriety. She did not wish to lie, but a complete lie she must tell, if she was to remove all doubt of her guilt and yet save Isabel from exposure.
'I was not there,' said Margaret, defiantly, resolutely. His suspicions were then aroused, by the way in which she chose to state her innocence. Again, she spoke those very same words, as though they were for her a mantra; a single lie she could tell, unwilling to voice another.
'I do not wish to be impertinent, but I must tell you that I may have to call on you again. If there is to be an inquest into this man's death, and my witnesses' (but only one had identified her) 'remain convinced of having seen you, you may have to be summonsed for an inquest.' He looked to her expectantly, as though waiting for the façade to crumble at the threat of an inquest, but her expression did not change; no hint of guilt or fear crossed that stony face. That regal bearing - under such damning questions - led him to think it perhaps a case of mistaken identity, and so he went on, in a consoling tone of voice. 'It is very unlikely that anything of the kind shall be necessary. I hope you will excuse my presumptive speech, but I am obliged to do my duty.'
Margaret lowered her head in acknowledgement - incapable of speaking - and moved to the door to see the inspector from the room. It was only as she made to walk those few brief steps, that she felt the frailty in her gait. Somehow - she knew not how - she saw him to the front door, and watched him walk off down the street, before returning to her father's study, locking the door behind her, and falling to the floor in a heavy swoon.
Isabel sat quietly in the drawing-room, listening to Mr Thornton speak low with Mr Hale. The interview had gone on above an hour, and several times had Mr Hale reached out his hand to his young friend, with the earnest entreaty of "do not go yet", or "stay a little longer". And with all the grace and goodness of a true and loyal friend, did Mr Thornton patiently stay; attending to all that was said, and offering those comforting words which only one with true insight into the deep and murky realms of loss and suffering, ever truly comprehend.
Isabel relished listening to that deep reverberation of his soulful, baritone voice; it was as a balm to her heart, and she felt she could greedily drink it in and bury it within her, so that she might listen to it in those dark and lonely hours that exist between wakefulness and repose. But then snatched was she, from the soothing bliss of listening to that tender, quiet voice, by the realisation that Margaret was gone, and had been gone for quite some time.
She knew that if she had not been accosted by Leonards at the station, that he would have come upon Frederick and Margaret; that Frederick would have struck at him, and knocked the drunkard down; much as she had, herself. She knew that following this, an Inspector Watson would have called upon Margaret, and told her of a witness having seen her with a gentleman at Outwood station; that the witness saw a scuffle between the gentleman and Leonards, and the subsequent fall of the drunk onto the tracks. She knew then that Leonards would have died, and now the inspector would be calling upon Margaret to ask of her involvement in the man's death, but Margaret had no involvement, and so Isabel had not feared for her. Now - sat alone without a female companion - Isabel felt suddenly less sure. Her stomach knotted in on itself, as a dawning sense of dread coursed through her very being, and she asked herself if it was possible that she had been seen - striking out at Leonards, and if Margaret had been seen; the two sightings put together, reasoning both ladies to be the very same person. She though it more than likely, and with a rapidly beating heart, stood quickly from her chair and slipped from the room.
Reaching the study, she found the door closed, and fearing that there was a police inspector within, Isabel knocked tentatively at the door. The gentle knocking roused Margaret from her swoon. First, she only fluttered her eyes. Then her lips parted a fraction on a tremble, and finally those lids fluttered open and a rush of guilt crushed down upon her, at the realisation of her falsehood.
'Margaret?' called Isabel, her voice a fragile whisper. 'Are you in there, Margaret?' Margaret rose from the floor on unsteady legs and turned to unlock the door with trembling hands. No sooner had she turned the lock than the door was gently pushed open and Isabel came in, closing it softly behind her. Isabel saw immediately, her friend's pallor and the burden of shame she carried, and her heart cried out to her honest and noble friend; certain that she was brought low over the burden of a falsehood she ought not to have borne. 'Did an Inspector Watson call round, Margaret? To speak to you of this man, Leonards?' asked Isabel, fearing the truth she knew would come. Margaret nodded slowly, her bosom rising and falling sharply with repressed emotion, and Isabel sensed the great war which wrought itself within her companion's breast. 'Were you seen at the station, Margaret? Is it supposed that you and I were one person, and that it was you who pushed Leonards?'
'It is,' replied Margaret, taking strength from Isabel's composure, raising her head in her proud way of old. If she had paused to dwell on it, she would have thought it strange that Isabel could know that Inspector Watson would have called; that she would have been suspected, but her mind was too firmly fixed upon her falsehood, to notice in her friend, that foresight she had come to expect, rather than feel surprise at.
'What did you tell him?' asked Isabel, swallowing thickly.
'I spoke nothing of you. I told him that I was not there. I lied to him.' And here, her eyes dropped to the floor with shame. 'He says there was a witness who saw me, and that if the witness persists in deposing to have seen me, I shall be called before an inquest.' She looked imploringly to her friend. 'I shall be forced to lie under oath!'
'No! you shall not!' insisted Isabel, defiantly. 'I will go to this Inspector Watson, and tell him it was I that pushed Leonards.'
'Oh! but I was seen at the train station!' said Margaret, her voice laced with desperation. 'And I cannot allow you to place yourself before their judgement. You did nothing wrong; that man accosted you quite violently - to have grabbed at you in such a way! - and if he had not come upon you, I am sure he would have come upon Frederick!' Isabel knew this to be true, of course, but she could not allow Margaret to feel any responsibility of undue gratitude towards her. And she, herself, would not allow Margaret to perjure herself for her own benefit.
'I will not allow you to lie for me, Margaret. I shall tell them it was I who caused Leonard's fall, and you shall not be called before an inquest.'
'No! I have told the falsehood; it cannot be undone. That is enough. Let us only hope that there is no inquest. Inspector Watson promised to call back later to inform me of his findings, so I suspect we shall know by this evening.' And that was the very crux of it; the inquest! For if there was no inquest, then Margaret would be saved from her own falsehood. Isabel was quite determined, and after calling Dixon to see to tea for Margaret, she took herself out to ensure that there would be no inquest.