The Darke Chronicles Read Online Free Page B

house where the husband treated his wife miserably and on occasion, struck her with some violence. Hard for a man who loved his mistress and wanted to protect her. Here you were, an old military man used to action, used to fighting for what you believed in, but unable to do anything about the injustice going on under your nose. But, oh, there are straws – there are straws, apparently insignificant, puny little straws, which yet have, as the proverb has it, the power to break a camel’s back.
    ‘On the day of the murder, Wilberforce was in a foul mood. Probably he had seen the guest list and noticed Armstrong’s name. He lost his temper and behaved abominably. The bruises that are now fading from his wife’s arm were, I am sure, administered on that day. For you Boldwood, late of the 101st Bengal Fusiliers, this was your last straw. You conceived a plan to rid your mistress of this troublesome husband. It was a well-wrought plan indeed.’
    Boldwood made to rise, but Thornton, who had manoeuvred his way around the back of the butler’s chair, placed both hands on his shoulders and gently pressed him back into his seat.
    ‘I cannot be sure how accurate I am as to the minutiae but I am sure that my broad strokes paint the true picture. Boldwood bought a bolt from the local ironmongers. We found the bag in which it was wrapped and the receipt stuffed in the drawer in his room. I am sorry, Boldwood, but with Mr Stavely’s connivance we searched your room just now, while he busied you with other chores. Like many murderers before you, you were confident that you would never be suspected or that your room would be searched. We also discovered the screwdriver you used to fix the bolt on the inside of Wilberforce’s study. Then you waited. Waited until your master had dressed for dinner, before you entered his dressing room armed with a knife. You told him, no doubt, what a despicable creature he was. How he was a monster ruining the life of one of the finest women you had known. And he, no doubt, laughed at first…’
    ‘Hedid laugh. Until he saw the knife.’ Boldwood uttered these words in monotone, without a trace of emotion showing on his face. ‘And then the coward stopped laughing.’
    ‘You stabbed him once. That was all that was necessary. And then with the knife still lodged in his stomach, you pushed him into the study. You stood outside the room, uttering curses and threats about how you intended to finish him off. In desperation, he attempted to shut the door on you, and you let him. One can but imagine his surprise and delight to find that the door now possessed a bolt. His disordered brain would not question how it got there. For Wilberforce it was a Godsend. His desperate hands slammed it home, thus trapping himself within his own tomb.’
    Boldwood said nothing, but a fevered light illuminated his eyes as, through Darke’s narrative, he relived the moment.
    Darke continued: ‘Although badly wounded, Laurence Wilberforce now thought that he was safe. What he didn’t know – what no one knew or suspected – was that the tip of the knife had been tainted with a strong poison which brought about death within five minutes or so. The stain on the carpet suggested to me that Wilberforce’s blood loss was not that great as to bring about his death with such alacrity. He had to be helped on his way. A blade tipped with poison was the most obvious device. No doubt the deadly concoction was one of the prizes that you brought back with you from India, along with the knife. I know of few soldiers who served out there who did not bring back one of those long-handled knives as a rather gruesome reminder of their Indian sojourn. The bazaars were full of them. “A souvenir, sahib?”’
    ‘Is this all true, Boldwood?’ asked Beatrice Wilberforce, her voice no louder than a harsh whisper.
    ‘It is all true,’ came the solemn reply.
    The woman rose to her feet, her face suddenly flushed with anger. ‘You fool,