Page 47 of These Violet Delights
“N-no! Listen, please, brother, just listen to me. The only reason I was at the Florizel to begin with was because Danforth sent me there. He wanted to deliver a crate of his bloody pamphlets for distribution the next morning, and of course, he couldn’t do it his bloody self because Mother’s physician diagnosed him with ‘weak hands,’ whatever that is. Probably got it from writing all of his stupid pamphlets!” Freddie paused in his diatribe to slam his fist down on the desk, sending more inkflying. “There was some sort of grease on the crate, and there were jars rattling around with the pamphlets, which I did think was odd—”
“And yet you didn’t consider telling anyone?” Alasdair didn’t know whether to be enraged or relieved that his brother was apparently this bird-witted. “Why would Danforth need those jars?”
“I don’t know! Sometimes he gives out jams and vegetables to the poor,” said Freddie, defending himself breathlessly. “Maybe…maybe he’s resorted to bribing people to take his literature!”
Alasdair closed the gap between them, laying a careful, gentle hand on Freddie’s shoulder. He had to know. He had to be sure. “Swear it to me, Freddie. Swear on my life, on Mother’s, on Emilia’s, swear that you did not set the fires at Pressmore and the Florizel.”
“I swear!” Freddie cried. “I swear…I was only doing what Danforth asked of me.”
“And he has far more cause to destroy the theater,” said Alasdair. “His vendetta against their so-called vulgarity got him nowhere, the play was still going to happen. And you…” His words trailed off as a knot of thoughts unraveled before him. “And you are in position to take the living from him. He would have to move to another parish, lose his influence here, and his hold over Mother. Come, he’s not here at present, we should search his room.” They left Freddie’s chamber, retracing Alasdair’s route outside and to the east pavilion, stopping to alert Eades, the butler, that they would need keys for Danforth’s accommodation. Besides his living at Anselm, Danforth had access to the spacious guest housing that he currently shared with Gordon. Each man had his own suite of rooms, Gordon occupying the downstairs and Danforth above.
The winter gloom of early twilight darkened the skies. Lights twinkled merrily in Gordon’s rooms, the pavilion chimney smoking. Once inside Danforth’s apartment, Alasdair ushered Eades forward with his lantern. He expected to find everything in good order, tidy and faultless, but nothing could prepare him for the chaotic mess overtaking every nook and corner. Even the butler couldn’t suppress his gasp of revulsion.
“The state of it,” Freddie breathed. “Mother would be furious if she knew.”
“She doesn’t,” said Alasdair. “She doesn’t know anything about Danforth, not really. None of us do, and that’s how he preferred it.”
He took the lantern from the butler and pushed deeper into the disorder. Crates of empty jars were stacked near the door. The vessels had recently been sealed with wax. Alasdair lifted one of them, smelling.
“Lantern oil,” he murmured.
“Do you think he meant to start fires elsewhere?” Freddie asked, taking his own sniff and recoiling.
“Maybe, or he didn’t like that most of the Florizel is still standing.” A darker idea bloomed like spilled ink, and he wondered if this demonstrated a readiness to punish those who helped anyone affected by the blaze. The Richmonds. Himself.
Violet and her sisters.
Alasdair turned away from the crates, shuffling over the papers that littered the floor until he found the small office off the main sitting room. It was partially a library, and all the likely books were present, including those Alasdair had warned him not to keep on his little painted table. The desk was piled high with correspondence and drafts of his pamphlets.Alasdair picked up the topmost paper, squinting down at it in the grim lantern light.
“He means to attack Miss Bilbury next,” said Alasdair. When Freddie did not respond, he pivoted and glared at his brother. The evidence was written on his face in a pale grimace. “You knew about this.”
“He had me write to some of his fellow clergymen in London,” Freddie replied, hoarse. “And yes, he was searching for any hint of scandal around her. There was some, I’m afraid.”
“She’s an artist, of course there was,” Alasdair grunted. “What did he find?”
“A squabble with a jilted lover,” Freddie began in a croak. “That…ended in a fire.”
So that’s what Robert had been on about. Alasdair sifted through the other papers, searching for anything relevant. His eyes flashed across Freddie’s name. He snatched up the letter while Freddie huddled close, reading over his shoulder.
“Cambridge? He—Why! The rotten weasel, he was trying to get the chancellor to admonish me.” Freddie’s mouth dropped open as he yanked the letter out of Alasdair’s grasp. “He blames me for the fire! He set me up!”
“You would have taken the living at Anselm from him,” Alasdair pointed out.
“It’s only a draft. Do you think he sent it?”
“Looks unfinished to me, but we have to assume he’s been plotting against you and this family for some time now. This pamphlet about Miss Bilbury seems to be complete. Did Mother already fund the printing?”
“He’s been railing about her on Sundays for weeks,” said Freddie, downcast. “Her and the Florizel.”
“And he no doubt thinks he can blame you and her for the fires at Pressmore and the theater, point the finger anywherebut at himself, the man of God.” Alasdair gathered up the relevant letters and drafts, tucking them under one arm. “I’m afraid we have to show these to Mother.”
“Oh.” Freddie drooped. “Oh, God.”
“Yes, exactly. She won’t like it, but we cannot let Danforth escape justice for his crimes.”
Freddie lifted his head, perking up. “So…you believe me, then? You believe that I didn’t knowingly help him start that fire?”
“I don’t need to believe you; the evidence of Danforth’s guilt is here before us.”
