A Traitor's Touch. Helen Dickson

Three

      In London, just when he thought that everything he had ever wanted was within his grasp and relishing the thought that he would have his heart’s desire at last, a sickening dread invaded Jeremy Lucas’s dark soul. He had long coveted his uncle’s wealth, but he was impatient. His uncle was in good health and likely to live another score years and ten. He could not wait and in the end he had triumphed and that was all that mattered. Until now. Everything around him had turned sour.

      It had never occurred to him that there might be a problem, but on his search of the house, when he failed to locate his uncle’s legal documents—his financial papers and deed to the house—he became frantic. His worries increased when Mr Goodwin presented himself at the house and asked to speak to Miss Brody. On being told that he was his uncle’s solicitor and the late gentleman’s entire estate had been left to Miss Henrietta Brody, without so much as a blink, Jeremy saw to it that the respected solicitor met a timely end at the point of his sword and his body was consigned to a watery grave in the River Thames.

      Securing his uncle’s documents from Goodwin’s satchel and intending to destroy the new will and abide by the old held by Braithwaite, Jeremy stopped when he saw in bold print that the new will had a copy.

      Of course there was a copy! Why hadn’t he realised that? How could he have been so unfamiliar with legal practices that he had stupidly thought the will in Goodwin’s keeping was the only one? But where was it?

      Smothering a cry of pure rage, he sought out Braithwaite. After much deliberation they decided there was only one person who could throw some light on the matter and that was Henrietta Brody. She might even have absconded with the copy of the will. He should have searched her before he’d thrown her out on to the street. It was imperative that he got his hands on it before she handed it over to a lawyer and her case was heard in a court of law.

      The calm Jeremy had felt after killing Goodwin reasserted itself. Hate welled up inside him as he thought of Henrietta Brody. The name was a curse. He was consumed with a vengeful quest to vent his wrath upon the girl. The chit would pay, and would pay dearly. Of that Jeremy was certain. Where would she go? She had no friends who would take her in and only one relative, an uncle in Scotland—Inverness or somewhere equally as remote. He’d find out. He’d leave no stone unturned to find her.

      * * *

      Simon and his companion had ridden through Northumberland, which lay between the Tyne and the Tweed, its countryside of rivers and forests, where Romans and Normans had left their own particular mark. Mile after mile they rode, over fell and vale, across long ridges to Cheviot and the Solway, where streams and burns meandered in timeless grace. Eventually they crossed the border into Scotland. It was a beautiful landscape of rolling hills which gave way to green and pleasant valleys. The historic abbey towns of Jedburgh, Melrose and Kelso bore witness to the cruelty and senseless destruction brought about by war and political reprisals down the centuries.

      Unfortunately the weather, which had been warm and fine for most of the time, broke with an alarming savagery, and since leaving the hostelry where they had stopped for the night, the heavy mists of early morning had coalesced to a soaking rain. Leaden skies pressed down on them and the crude road quickly turned into a muddy morass. On the more exposed areas the gale-force winds went searching along the landscape in a frenzied dance, threatening to blow them off their horses and into the soggy turf alongside.

      They pushed their animals hard, apparently attempting to outrun the storm, but the wind blew with an ever-deepening chill that made Henrietta shiver. A bolt of lightning seared the sky, closely followed by a loud clap of thunder. As she glanced at her companion silhouetted like some devil against the grey sky, the wind whipped his cloak out wide about him, lending wings to his form.

      A groan of despair slipped from Henrietta’s lips as she thumped her heels against the mare’s flanks to urge her on in the punishing downpour. The horse responded readily, quickening her pace, but the heavy, wet soil clung to her hooves, impeding her progress. They could barely see, much less move any measurable distance. The journey was already taking its toll on Henrietta. She felt utterly drained both in body and spirit. Her whole body was battered and bruised from the nine days of riding, and now her clothes became so thoroughly drenched that they were soon plastered like a second skin to her body.

      Seeing the youth’s distress, Simon peered around for the closest haven and, pointing to a group of trees growing close together, he guided the horses towards them. There was another sharp crack of lightning and for a moment the scene was brightly illuminated. Unable to believe that they could be so ill-favoured by the circumstances, Henrietta fought an urge to weep, but the impulse to relent to harsh, anguishing sobs was promptly forgotten as a blinding flash of lightning ripped through the trees, hitting a tall pine a short distance away. The fiery bolt snapped the trunk in half as easily as a dried twig, sending a dazzling spray of sparks flying in all directions. Shaken to the core of her being, Henrietta threw up her arms to shield herself from the blinding flares and, in terrified trepidation, looked up as the top of the tree plummeted to the ground with a crashing roar, in its rapid descent stripping off branches of nearby trees and scuffing a blow on the side of her head.