An inescapable conclusio.., p.1
An Inescapable Conclusion (The Jane Pemberton Murder Mysteries Book 6), page 1
AN INESCAPABLE CONCLUSION
BLYTHE BAKER
Copyright © 2022 by Blythe Baker
All rights reserved.
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CONTENTS
Description
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
16. Epilogue
About the Author
Despite all the dark happenings she has experienced at Pemberton Heights, Jane cannot refuse a summons to rush back to the bedside of her dying uncle. As it becomes clear there is a shadow hovering over the manor, Jane is drawn one final time into a web of lies and danger...
1
The first whispers of autumn had fallen upon the world. The tips of the leaves on the trees we passed had begun to change from the emerald greens of summer to the golds and rubies of the fall. The night air held a bite as soon as the sun went down, creating a longing for moments by the fireside, and thick wool coats lined with fur, for hot soups and tea for soothing the soul, and taking advantage of indoor activities where one could enjoy the company of others.
It was a comfortable transition between the bright, sunny days and the dark, cold evenings. A warm, welcoming change.
I only wished I could have enjoyed it further…instead of traveling speedily to the side of my uncle, who had suddenly fallen ill.
Mr. Brookfield and I had left from Bristol only that morning. Having received the urgent letter just the night before, we made plans to catch the first coach out the following morning. We knew it was unlikely there would be any coaches leaving that night, and so we did our very best to get some sleep before heading out before the sun had even risen.
The first coach left for Southampton some hours later, but it was barely evening when we finally reached the town. From there, it only took Mr. Brookfield a short time to hire a carriage that would be willing to take us all the way to Ebonport. He assured me when we were closed up inside, safe and secure, that he had paid the driver handsomely.
“I must say,” Mr. Brookfield said, as we rattled along. “Your sister and husband are perhaps some of the most hospitable people I have ever met.”
“Well…thank you very much,” I said. Then my face flushed. “Not as if to say that I had any control over their behavior. I do, however, thank you for the kind words.”
He smiled. “I realize my arrival was rather…unorthodox. Mr. Randolph was very hospitable, regardless of my sudden appearance, welcoming me into his home as he did.”
“I am quite certain he would welcome anyone in, if my sister did not have a say,” I said with a small laugh. “I am curious…what did you say to them when you arrived?”
“I was perfectly honest,” he said, crossing one leg over the other. “I told them who I was, where I had come from, and my reason for coming.”
“And what was the reason you gave?” I asked.
“That I received your letter, and I worried you would be getting yourself into trouble,” he said, and then laughed once again. “Not entirely. I said I was worried, yes, and that I had come to help. It sounded as if you wanted my opinion, and I thought it would be better to come and help in person. I…hope I did not overstep my bounds.”
“It seems you know me better than perhaps I know myself,” I said. “I welcomed your presence, though never would have imagined asking you to come. I would have thought it a great inconvenience, which is why I simply wrote my thoughts in my letter. I knew I would have spoken with you had I still been at Pemberton Heights.”
“That was the same thought I had,” Mr. Brookfield said. “And I knew I would have done what I could to help. When I received permission from Mr. Pemberton, I did not hesitate in coming.”
“You arrived in the very nick of time,” I said with a smile.
He returned it. “Perhaps…though from how I saw it, I believe you had a handle on the situation. Had we not arrived when we did, I have every confidence you would have made it out of that situation, with Miss Abigail in tow.”
“I appreciate your confidence in me,” I said. “And your desire to help me.”
“And the time we had with your sister and Mr. Randolph was wonderfully pleasant,” Mr. Brookfield said. “Never have I enjoyed myself so much in such a short period of time.”
“Their kindness knows no bounds,” I said. “I felt quite at home as soon as I arrived. But I knew I would not stay forever, especially with their growing family.”
“Had you any plans for what you might do?” he asked.
“Not yet,” I said. “The ordeal with Miss Abigail distracted me from those matters entirely.”
“That does not surprise me,” he said.
“Regardless,” I said. “I shall have time soon to think about the future properly.”
He gave me a somewhat reserved smile. “You and your sister are a great deal alike, you know. And I mean that in the most generous of ways,” he added quickly, his eyes widening slightly behind his spectacles. “You and she both exhibit a great care for others. I have never felt so comfortable in the home of those I had only just become acquainted with.”
“My brother-in-law is indeed a kind man,” I said. “And I believe he has softened my sister. She has always been a little…difficult. A bit like my mother, I suppose. My father was never that way, you see…which might seem strange, given how strict my uncle is.”
“I suppose that characteristic is more defined in yourself, and perhaps in Felton, in a way,” Mr. Brookfield said, thoughtful. “It is easy to forget you are related to them, given how different you are…and yet sometimes, I feel as if I can see the resemblance in some ways.”
The color in my face deepened. “I do not know whether to take that as a compliment or an insult, Mr. Brookfield.”
He let out a small laugh. “Oh, I meant no harm. I admire Mr. Pemberton, of course. And his grown children have many strengths in their characters, strengths that I have seen exhibited in you. That is good. Very good, in fact.”
I pursed my lips. “I suppose…” I said.
I glanced out the window. The sea glistened in the setting sun, like an endless pool of molten gold stretching all the way to the amber horizon. My heart stirred within me to see it once again.
“It certainly is beautiful, is it not?” Mr. Brookfield asked, staring out the same window as I did.
“It has not been long since I have seen it, but it almost feels as if it has been an eternity,” I said.
“It was something I do not believe I could have ever understood unless I, myself, had done it,” Mr. Brookfield said. “Living near the sea, that is. It reaches into you, brushes against your very soul. It is difficult to explain.”
“The waves are like breathing, slowly drawing in and out, swelling and relaxing. To watch the rhythmic lull is the only thing in this entire world that immediately puts me at ease,” I said.
“Yes, I can understand why,” he said.
“I…missed it,” I said, my eyes sweeping across the sea’s vastness, drinking in every inch of it as if I would never have the chance to see it again. “I am beginning to wonder if I should have moved to Bristol at all.”
Mr. Brookfield shifted in his seat, and then cleared his throat. “I am certain that your sister was very pleased to have you so close once more,” he said. “But…you have no roots in Bristol. It is your choice, you know.”
“Yes, but she is my family,” I said. “And it is not as if I have any other prospects anywhere else – ”
The statement tumbled from my mouth before I had realized what I was saying.
I looked over at him regretfully.
He had lowered his head, his eyes searching the floor of the carriage.
“Oh – oh, good heavens, Mr. Brookfield, I did not mean – ” I began, the words tumbling out as quickly as I could say them, as if I might be able to repair the damage that had already been done.
“It’s perfectly all right, Miss Jane,” he said, and not unkindly. He drew in a deep breath. “I realize now is not the appropriate time for us to be discussing the question I asked you at your sister’s home. However…” He turned his gaze up to meet my own.
I felt the weight of his stare, of the emotion behind the words he spoke. His statement hung in the air, and I almost wished to protest it, because I feared what he might say.
However…what? I wondered. What did he mean to say?
“I cannot go on with wondering if you thought me serious,” he said, after summoning the courage he needed. “And so, I shall tell you that I meant every word.”
I stared at him, for the words, yet again, would not come, though they bombarded my mind, flashing and darting back and forth. I reflected upon the truth that he had proposed marriage to me, and I had never given him an answer.
“I do not expect an
My throat grew tight, and I could only swallow and nod.
Two thoughts fought against one another in my mind. One, I wished to know why I was not answering him at once. Would it not give both him and me comfort if I were to accept him? And was that not what I had wanted all along?
Caution, however, put the matter into perspective. Would my answer be nothing more than a reaction to the fear I was facing? Fear over what sort of future lay ahead for me?
“You have been through a great deal as of late, as I said last night,” Mr. Brookfield said. “I cannot expect you to think on a selfish request of mine when you already have such weight on your mind.”
“Mr. Brookfield…” I said.
For a moment, we only stared at one another as the carriage bumped along the road. I could see the genuine care in his gaze. He truly did mean every word he said. He wished to marry me, and that desire would not change.
I knew that in my own heart, I wished to marry him as well. And I believed he knew that, without me having to say the words. It was what gave him the confidence to watch me patiently from across the carriage. He knew, however long it might take, that I would very likely agree.
However, he and I both knew what tied us together were circumstances that many would rather forget. Our relationship had largely been based on witnessing death, time and time again…and not only death, but murder. I had not ever had that same sort of connection with anyone, and could not know whether or not it was something to be concerned about.
Did we share any commonalities apart from the dangers that had drawn us together? A great many of our conversations were surrounded by those bizarre happenstances. Would we have anything to speak about when life finally settled down?
A part of me worried that life never would entirely return to normal, that I might forever be followed by troubles.
With a sinking feeling, I realized no matter where I lived, or where I went, I would likely hear of some terrible event having taken place. A kidnapping, a death, an attack. Would I always feel as if I was responsible for discovering the truth behind them? For setting things right?
I could not be certain.
“Even now, I can see the conflicting thoughts in your eyes,” Mr. Brookfield said. “Which is why we shall put this matter aside for now. I shall not trouble you with it again.”
“Thank you, Mr. Brookfield,” I said, knowing that it would not do for me to share any more of my thoughts for the time being.
I knew it would be best to wait until I saw my uncle, as that was the situation that hung over us both. I must wait until I heard precisely what my uncle needed to say to me.
With a rather jolting bump, I did what I could to keep myself settled on the seat.
“Look,” Mr. Brookfield said, gesturing to the window. “Ebonport.”
I followed his pointing hand with my gaze. The town, painted red in the fading sunlight, was as quiet and quaint as I remembered. The large green, visible even where our carriage rattled along some distance away, was teeming with people enjoying the sunset. I imagined the bakery had been busy for most of the day, and I wondered how many people enjoyed the first brushes with autumn near the sea. The salty air always seemed to release its hold on summer at the very last possible moment.
“I never thought I would see it again,” I said, my heart stirring within me. “I never imagined I would miss it, either.”
Mr. Brookfield made a sound that reminded me of a small chuckle.
The carriage slowed and turned a short time later through the gates of Pemberton Heights.
I tried to swallow, but my throat was tight.
“It’s all right,” Mr. Brookfield said reassuringly. “You are not alone.”
It comforted me to know that was so, but he could not understand the true depth of my fear of this place. I had run from it for a reason, and yet, it still called to me and dragged me back against my will.
“Perhaps I shall simply hear what he has to say, and then leave,” I said. “I have no reason to stay. I owe him nothing.”
“No, you do not,” Mr. Brookfield said.
In a way, I had expected him to challenge me. When he did not, it made me question myself.
The carriage pulled up to the front, and Mr. Brookfield and I exited, he helping me down. After retrieving our baggage, we walked up the front steps, the menacing manor hovering above us.
Mr. Gray, the butler, met us at the door.
“Mr. Brookfield,” he said, somewhat dryly. “And Miss Jane. How good it is to see you once again.”
I could not confidently say the same in return.
“You have been expected,” Mr. Gray said. “They are waiting for you up in Mr. Pemberton’s quarters.”
2
I had not remembered the walk through the manor being so cold. The stone seemed to leech any of the warmth from the halls, sap any of the color from the tapestries that I used to see every day. How had I missed this? Had I been far too busy staring longingly at the sea out of these windows, ignoring what had been right beneath my nose for the entire length of my stay?
It startled me to see the lack of humanity within these walls. It might as well have been abandoned. I could hardly see any hint that real people lived here, let alone an entire family. There were items of great value, and paintings that had to be the envy of many collectors. But living with my sister had reminded me what it meant to have life within a house, and the very things that helped to make it a home. It was in the small details, like a coat hanging over the back of a chair, or a book set aside after taking some time to read it before bed. It was the imperfections that I saw there, the bits and pieces of life strewn about, that made a place feel lived in. By comparison, my uncle’s estate…it lacked any and all life…and it revealed so much about his lack of love for himself and his family. It was cold, unfeeling, and attempting to be perfect.
It was no wonder that Arabella and Felton struggled to connect with others, even their own family. They must never have felt as if their home was their own…and if they could not have that, then where would they ever feel safe enough to feel anything at all?
“Are you all right?” Mr. Brookfield asked as we continued down the halls. “Are you cold?”
I glanced down, realizing that I was absently rubbing my arms. “Oh, yes…” I said. “Thank you. I suppose I just felt a small chill.”
“This place is always quite cold come winter,” he said with a tight-lipped expression.
Mr. Gray took a familiar turn at the end of the hall, and my heart jumped. I would soon see my uncle, and I did not know what I would find.
I could count on one hand the number of times I had been in my uncle’s private quarters in the manor. He, like his children, had an entire floor of one of the towers to himself. The study where Mr. Payne had been found dead sat halfway down the hall, and memories of that dreadful time when Celia and I had sneaked up to see the dead body flooded my mind. I forced my eyes closed, doing what I could to push those memories aside before they drew up the fear once again, fear that I knew I did not need to feel.
Mr. Gray stopped at the door at the end of the hall, and gave a small bow to allow us to pass through.
Mr. Brookfield gave me a quick glance over his shoulder, his eyes meeting mine for the briefest of moments, before he stepped through the doorway.
The room, dimly lit, burned with a heat that I had not yet felt in the rest of the house. The only light seemed to come from the fireplace along the wall, and peeking through corners of the drapes drawn across the windows. A lone candle flickered from the end table beside the large, four poster bed.
At first, I wondered if my uncle was in the bed at all, given the number of quilts piled up on top. With further inspection, I could just make out the top of his head, propped up with many pillows toward the head of the bed.
