The Major and the Country Miss. Dorothy Elbury

      ‘The vultures are gathered, I perceive!’ wheezed Roger Billingham, momentarily raising his consumptive body from his pillows, only to fall back in weary resignation as he gave way to another helpless fit of coughing.

      ‘Try not to distress yourself, Roger,’ his sister Eleanor beseeched him, motioning to the elderly manservant to mop the beads of perspiration from his master’s brow. ‘I have merely followed Hornsey’s instructions—only those he named have been summoned—my son Jeremy, Jane’s sister Marion and her son…’

      She stopped as the old man struggled once more to rise.

      ‘Young Maitland’s here?’ His bleared eyes eagerly raked the group at the foot of his bed.

      ‘I’m here, Uncle.’

      Will Maitland stepped forwards, his tanned and pleasant face full of concern as he bent over Billingham’s bed.

      ‘Got back without a scratch then, I see?’ croaked his uncle, with a twisted grin, putting out his hand and gripping the younger man’s. ‘Ye’ll do something for me, lad?’

      ‘Of course, sir, if I can,’ replied Maitland instantly and, without removing his hand, he lowered himself into a bedside chair. ‘What is it that you require of me?’

      Billingham flicked a glance at the listening group before carefully studying his nephew’s open countenance. ‘I have to put right a terrible wrong I’ve committed,’ he cried, gasping for every breath. ‘Otherwise there will be no peace for me beyond the grave! But answer me this, lad—are you prepared to forfeit your inheritance?’

      Will Maitland frowned. ‘I’m not after your money, Uncle Roger,’ he said stiffly, his colour rising. ‘Aunt Jane would have wished us to come—and you did have Hornsey send for us,’ he gently reminded the old man. ‘Now, what is it that you would have me do?’

      As Billingham struggled to speak, he broke into another paroxysm of coughing. Just then another figure stepped forwards from the group.

      ‘You may be assured that I, too, would be most happy to be of service to you, Uncle Roger.’

      The Honourable Jeremy Fenton approached Billingham’s bed, his handsome features carefully concealing the fastidious distaste he was feeling as he contemplated his uncle’s death throes. He remained standing, his tall, rather too-slim figure meticulously attired in the current fashion, albeit that the calves within his buff-coloured pantaloons had been assisted with a little padding, as had the shoulders of his exquisitely cut, blue kerseymere jacket. Nervously fingering his intricately arranged neckcloth, he feigned a sympathetic smile at his dying relative.

      Billingham took a sip from the glass that Maitland was holding to his lips and eyed his eldest nephew with undisguised contempt.

      ‘Needn’t tell me why you’re here,’ he snorted. ‘In Queer Street again, shouldn’t wonder—well, you’re not getting at it without a bit of effort…’

      ‘I’m sorry you feel that way, Uncle,’ said Fenton, with a pained expression on his face. ‘Mother considered it my duty to attend—as your eldest heir…’

      ‘Idle wastrel!’ The old man struggled to rise, brushing away Maitland’s attempts to pacify him. ‘Already planning how to fritter away my hard-earned cash, are you? Well, let me tell you, you’re in for a shock—all of you!’

      He glared at the assembled company, then, twisting himself to face Maitland, he entreated him in urgent tones.

      ‘Find the boy—please, Will—find Melandra’s brat—if he lived! Help me make proper restitution for my sin—do this for me, lad—I know I can rely on you!’

      At his nephew’s puzzled but quite distinct nod, the old man’s face contorted as he gave a little whimper and, breathing his last, he slumped back heavily on to his pillows.

      Maitland laid his fingers over his uncle’s face, gently closing the eyelids over the now sightless eyes before bowing his head in silent prayer. He then rose swiftly to his feet as Marion Maitland approached her brother-in-law’s bedside. She stroked back the white, unkempt hair before bending to press her lips upon his brow.

      ‘Poor Roger,’ she said sadly. ‘At peace, finally.’

      ‘I’m somewhat confused, Mother,’ frowned Maitland, standing back as one by one the rest of the little group came to pay their last respects to their dead relative. ‘What is it Uncle Roger wants me to do? He mentioned Cousin Melandra—but she died over twenty years ago, surely? I can barely remember her.’

      ‘Mr Hornsey will doubtless explain,’ said Mrs Maitland. ‘We are to attend him in the drawing-room—Eleanor tells me that Roger had instructed him to provide us with whatever information is