Page 68 of A Treacherous Treasure

She put her arms in the sleeves and the coat seemed to swallow her up. How kind he was, and though her nightgown was her winter one, and so more substantial, she was grateful not to have to walk across the room to retrieve her wrapper. And his coat was quite warm from his body heat and smelled of the outdoors and his bergamot cologne, which once again smelled so good it made her knees weak.

“I wish I could have shot you myself,” Thomas went on at Fogg. “You tell us everything, now, or we will let you bleed to death.”

“It was Strader, I tell you. He forced me to do it. He said he would divide the treasure with me, and we wouldn’t tell Pursglove.”

It was the coroner’s responsibility to hold any treasure troves that were found until the authorities could determine who was the rightful owner.

“That was a pretty plan,” Thomas said wryly, squatting beside Fogg. “Why did he think there was treasure buried here? Where did he come to hear of such a ludicrous thing? Talk.”

“Ah! I’m dying, Westbrook. Have you no compassion? Not even enough to send for a surgeon?”

“Keep talking and we shall see.”

“Strader’s grandfather was a sailor. He used to tell his grandson tales of his time on Captain Heywood’s ship and how they captured the pirate’s treasure. He said he helped bury the captain’s share, but he couldn’t be sure where it was buried, as the captain blindfolded him and the other men who helped him carry it there. But he told him it was beside a big rock. We found a rock, and he made me dig for it.”

“You shot Arthur Heywood when he caught you digging.”

“I had no choice. Strader told me I had to. If Arthur Heywood saw me, I had to shoot him.”

“You keep saying Strader made you, forced you. How? How did he force you?”

“He . . . he has authority over me. He’s the Justice of the Peace.”

“Yes, but why did you not report him to a higher authority, to the Lord Chancellor?”

“I can’t tell you.” He sounded sullen.

“Then I can’t send for the surgeon.”

He moaned. “Can’t you see I’m dying?”

“You deserved what you got,” Mrs. Atwater mumbled. “Coming into our good lady’s room with a knife. I’m glad she shot you.”

The housekeeper’s words went down into Rebecca’s heart and filled her with warmth. She’d often wondered how the servants felt about her, after having Arthur’s mother as their mistress for so long. Perhaps they liked her after all.

“I suppose Strader had information about you that you didn’t want anyone to know about. Is that it?”

“Yes.” Mr. Fogg was starting to look around him. No one seemed to be paying him much attention. They were all talking amongst themselves, and even Mrs. Atwater had ceased applying pressure to his wound. She’d placed a bandage over the wound and let him hold it in place.

Margaret started chattering excitedly to her mother. “I cannot wait to tell everyone that my sister shot an intruder.”

Then Rebecca noticed Thomas Westbrook smiling at her.

“You did well,” he said quietly.

“All due to you showing me how to shoot.”

“But you had the courage to shoot him.”

“I thought you said you would send for the surgeon.” Mr. Fogg’s lips twisted as he started crying, actual tears spilling from his eyes.

Thomas called to a footman, who was standing in the hallway, then went out of the room. Rebecca heard him say, “Do the grooms know where to go to fetch the surgeon?”

A few moments later, Thomas came back into the room, with the two footmen following him. “Take him out of here. Mrs. Atwater? Where would you like them to take him?”

“I shouldn’t be moved,” Mr. Fogg blubbered.

“They can put him in the servants’ sick room next to the kitchen. There’s a cot in there.”