Page 117 of Rivals at Ashmore Castle

‘Why on earth should he want to do that?’ Mawes asked, clearly disbelieving.

‘He thought I’d made approaches to his wife.’

‘Oh, Richard, no!’ Aunt Caroline exclaimed.

‘I didn’t, Auntie.’

‘Darling boy, of course you didn’t, but what a dreadful accusation! The man must have been unbalanced.’

Richard was following his own thoughts. ‘I’d seen him earlier, with a gun. At least, I think it was him. Then when I was riding back through the plantation, it was getting dark, and foggier, and someone hit me from behind with something, and I came off. I think…I think he must have reversed his gun and hit me with the stock. My horse ran off. Then, when I was lying on the ground, he hit me again and I passed out.’

Aunt Caroline made a sound of distress, and Mawes said, ‘But did you see him?’

‘I saw someone looming over me with what I thought was a stick or a club, but it could just as well have been the shotgun. I suppose he meant to finish me off.’ He shuddered. ‘Thank God he used the gun as a club, instead of shooting me.’ He paused, staring hard at his memories, trying to make them yield more detail.

‘Could have been a poacher. Or a vagrant,’ said Mawes.

‘Not a vagrant, not with a shotgun,’ Wigston corrected. ‘A poacher, maybe. Aiming to rob you. Were you robbed?’

‘Not as far as I know. I didn’t have anything on me of value, apart from my watch, and I still have that.’

‘But, Richard, you must go to the police,’ Aunt Caroline said, distressed.

Richard looked at her blankly for a moment, then said, ‘But, Auntie, he’s dead.’

‘Oh! Yes, I’d forgotten.’

‘The same evening,’ Richard said. ‘An accident with his gun.’

‘Was there, by Jove!’ Mawes said, exchanging a knowing look with Wigston. ‘He wouldn’t have known you had no memory, of course.’

‘If the lad was unconscious, he might have thought he had killed him,’ said Wigston.

‘Struck him in a rage without meaning to kill him.’ Mawes took it over. ‘Took his own life in remorse, and fear of the consequences.’

‘If it was him,’ Richard said. ‘I can’t be absolutely sure. Anyway, we shouldn’t discuss it any more. We’re upsetting my aunt.’

‘Quite, quite,’ said Wigston. ‘Just what I was thinking. Subject closed.’ He bowed to Aunt Caroline. ‘Your good nephew, Lord Stainton, has invited Lady Wigston and me to stay for Christmas, ma’am. And Lady Stainton has most kindly asked us to bring my daughter, too. Shall we have the pleasure of seeing you there?’

‘Oh, yes, I shall be going,’ Aunt Caroline said, glad of the change of subject. ‘And his grandmother will.’

‘Nothing like family! Can’t beat it! When are you going to start in that direction, young man?’ he asked Richard jovially.

‘When there’s a special fund set up for the financing of second sons,’ Richard replied.

Richard had a good night’s sleep at his own little house in Bolton Street, ate a large breakfast with the first proper appetite he’d felt since the accident, and made his way to Stafford Terrace to be shown into Mawes Morris’s business room. Although he also had a large studio upstairs at the back of the house, the walls were covered with his paintings and framed copies of his better-known cartoons, and there were sketching-pads and drawings on every surface, along with an eclectic scattering of objects that he was using, or had once used, as props, like tennis racquets, golf clubs, saucepans, umbrellas, a trident, a Roman helmet made of painted cardboard, a papier-mâché royal orb…

He greeted Richard warmly. ‘How are you today, young man? You properly scared us yesterday. Head injuries are tricky things, you know. Have you seen a specialist?’

‘I’m perfectly well, thank you,’ Richard said. ‘I’ve felt under the weather since the accident, but getting my memory back has turned the trick. I slept like a log last night.’

‘Well, that is good news. But if you should get a headache or any other unusual symptom, do seek medical advice, won’t you? You can’t take chances with—’

‘Yes, sir, I know, so everybody tells me,’ Richard anticipated. ‘That business yesterday – what I said about Lord Shacklock—’

‘I shan’t repeat it,’ said Mawes. ‘It was probably for the best that you got it out, part of the recovery process, but neither Wigston nor I is a talker, so rest easy. It’s fogotten.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Richard said. He saw Alice’s drawings spread across Mawes’s cluttered desk, and changed the subject firmly. ‘You have something to tell me about my sister’s illustrations?’