Would a man truly give up his life for the honor of others? And were those others so lacking in honor that they would allow him to do it?
"He was ready to admit to it," I said as gently as I could. "And he was the ranking officer."
She turned on me in fury. "Those three damned aristocrats cared nothing for rank," she snapped. "It was they who murdered Captain Spencer, you can be certain of it."
"Your husband told you this?" I asked.
"No. Nor would he. The honor of the regiment must be preserved at all costs, even when speaking of it to your own wife." Her mouth turned down. "But imagine it--three pampered, inebriated aristocrats let loose on the streets of a conquered town. They must have been delighted. Then when Captain Spencer tried to spoil their amusement, they killed him. I know it in my heart. My husband would have tried to prevent it, but they would not have listened." Her eyes sparkled, defiant, bitter.
"But Colonel Westin never confided in you."
She glared at me. "My husband was a moral man, Captain. Moral in the real sense of the word, not in the manner in which some preach morality while beating their servants black and blue with the other hand! He no more would have shot Captain Spencer than the Thames would flow backward. He abhorred violence and violent acts."
"If he abhorred violence, why did he purchase a commission in the cavalry?" I asked.
"He was a colonel because his father was a colonel. The honor of the regiment again. Following in his father's footsteps. Roe was like that. He would sacrifice his happiness, his peace of mind--everything--for honor."
"Many do," I said dryly. "We live in honorable times."
"My husband's honor was true. It was the most important thing in the world to him."
I could not tell if she had admired or despised her husband. Both, probably.
"He was prepared to admit to the murder," I pointed out.
"Oh, yes. How could he stand by and let those with great names be sullied? They asked it of him. When they heard that John Spencer was near to discovering the truth, they visited him. Here. Upstairs in his chamber for hours and hours. They played upon his sense of honor, knowing he'd agree. And he did it. He was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice. For them."
"But if he were willing to do so," I pointed out, "why do you believe they murdered him? Surely they would want him to go on to be arrested and tried."
"I thought of that." Her brow puckered. "It is one thing to agree to take the blame for a crime. But another when one actually stands in the dock. Who knows what he might have said? Would he have told the truth about what happened to Captain Spencer? Perhaps he would not have been believed, but then, some magistrates are quite canny. They might have asked awkward questions." Her look dared me to tell her she was wrong.
I sat silently. Again I was struck by the incongruity of this woman traveling to the dark bridge in the rain. She believed her husband's innocence, would fight like a lion to preserve the honor he'd held so precious. This was a woman who would glare down her enemies and dare them to stop her. So would she, in despair, decide to walk to an unfinished bridge and fling herself from it? Or had she gone for another purpose? Either action simply did not fit.
"Find these gentlemen, Captain Lacey" she said. "And make them admit that they committed murder."
