London - Edward Rutherfurd [270]
“Would you believe me,” he said at last, “if I told you that Silversleeves was not what he seemed?” And he began to talk.
He told her, without mentioning Fleming by name, how he had discovered Silversleeves. He told her that the lawyer had defrauded people, and that he was a most accomplished liar. He told her all he could. He watched her bow her head and look deeply thoughtful. At last she spoke.
“You say terrible things about the man I am to marry. Yet you don’t say who his victims are. You give no proof.” She looked up at him with distress in her eyes. “How can I believe you?”
How indeed? Why should she? What had he ever done to make her trust him more than Silversleeves? And if she doubted him, what possible chance had he of convincing Bull or anyone else? As he gazed at her now and remembered that day when he saw her with Silversleeves on the bridge, he realized with a force which smote him so hard it hurt, that he loved this girl, completely unattainable though she was to a poor boy like him, more than anyone else in his life.
“If you come here tomorrow,” he said, “I will give you proof.”
Yet could he? This question occupied his thoughts as soon as she had gone. Silversleeves clearly had gambled that the grocer would not talk. He had to persuade him. If he swore Tiffany to secrecy, would Fleming talk? Surely he’d see he must save the girl from Silversleeves. But even that might not be enough. Bull would demand explanations. Would Fleming be prepared to tell him too? And would Bull believe him? There was no doubting Silversleeves’s bland ability to lie. He sighed. Just now, he could not think of anything better.
He waited for Fleming to return.
It was exactly noon when Fleming finished the letter he had been writing. It was not long, but he was satisfied with it. He placed it on the box of peppercorns, then went to the door of the storeroom and fastened it. The other piece of private business he had to conduct required some care and he did not wish to be disturbed.
He smiled. With luck, it seemed to him, he might have found a solution to everybody’s problems.
They found Fleming that evening, when Dame Barnikel and Ducket had tried to get into the storehouse. He was hanging by a rope he had tied to a rafter. His letter was very simple.
I am sorry about the Poll Tax money, and all the other money too. It was me that stole it. I was trying to make more for you and Amy. Please don’t ask any more.
I want young Ducket to take over the business. He has been a good friend to me, and very loyal. He tried to save me but it’s too late. You can trust him.
When Dame Barnikel read the letter she only glanced briefly at Fleming. Then she turned to Ducket.
“You understand all this?”
“Yes.”
“He says he stole the money.”
“He didn’t really mean to. I promised him I’d never tell.”
“I thought you stole it,” she said honestly.
“I know. I didn’t, though.”
“He didn’t have to do this,” she remarked. But Ducket understood that he did. For though the rope around poor Fleming’s neck was the visible cause, the apprentice knew that in truth his sad little master had died of shame.
“You’d better take over, then,” Dame Barnikel said gruffly.
None of this was any help to Ducket, the next morning, when Tiffany arrived. “I’ve lost the person who might have convinced you,” he told her simply. “I’ve no proof.”
“So I have to take your word for it?”
He nodded. “I’ve nothing else,” he said.
After Tiffany departed, he did not move for some time. He did not know what she would decide. But one thing he did know. He would never let her fall into the clutches of Silversleeves. If necessary, he thought, I shall have to kill him.
Dame Barnikel was not often contrite; but the next morning, as she sat on her great bed and talked to Amy, she was.
“I can’t get over how wrong I was about that boy,” she growled. “He’s a little hero.