The Candlelit Coffin (Lady Fan Mystery Book 4)

by Elizabeth Bailey

  Francis grasped her shoulders and sat her upright. Then he gave her his handkerchief, smiling as she made use of it. “Feeling better for that?”

  She gave him a wan smile. “Much.”

  He kissed her lips and then hugged her close. “Don’t fret any more, my darling. Come back to me, sweetheart.”

  She broke into a sound half sob, half laughter. “I never left you, Fan. Will you forgive me for —?”

  “Do you need to ask? In any event, there is nothing to forgive. It’s married life, Tillie. One of the downs and we will weather it together and find ourselves an up soon enough.”

  She caught her breath and sighed it out. “Yes. Together, Fan.”

  “It is all I ever want, my dear one. And now you really need that coffee, I should think, and it’s probably gone cold.”

  Ottilia drank it anyway. A little revived, she bethought her of Francis’s friend. “I must go and apologise to poor George.”

  But when she re-entered the parlour with Francis behind her, she found only the dowager, who waved a dismissive hand.

  “No matter, Ottilia. I’ve invited him to dine. An excellent opportunity for him to tell you all about this murder.”

  Chapter Five

  Francis was a trifle dubious when his mother produced a copy of the local newspaper containing a somewhat lurid account of the “Coffin Murder” as the reporter had chosen to dub it.

  “Nonsense, Francis. This will save Colonel Tretower a deal of explanation. I secreted it out of the circulating library.”

  “Mama, for pity’s sake!”

  “I will return it, Francis, never fear. I can tell you the talk is of nothing else in the Assembly Rooms. It was almost the first thing this fellow Rodber thought to tell me.”

  “Rodber? Is he the master of ceremonies?”

  His mother inclined her head. “A rather pompous fellow, but he will give us no trouble.”

  “Not if you have cowed him already, ma’am, which I doubt not.”

  Francis looked across at Tillie, who was perusing the piece in the paper. She had been hustled by his mother into resting on the chaise longue with her feet up, a fresh cup of hot coffee at her elbow. She was looking a degree better in her spirits, if a trifle fragile after the bout of weeping. The revelation had both astonished him and made him wish he had taken the bull by the horns before, when he could have avoided the dreadful distress of misunderstanding and distance. The relief of resumed closeness was such that he wanted nothing to jeopardise it again.

  But Tillie appeared to be absorbed. Perhaps the scheme might not after all prove abortive. And there was no doubt she was desperately in need of a diversion to take her mind off the visions that had been worrying her.

  She came to the end and looked up, catching his glance with a faint echo of the old mischief in her clear gaze. “Did you know all this, Fan?”

  “George gave me the gist, yes. Enough to show me it was just the imbroglio to take your fancy.”

  “How well you understand me, my dearest. Fascinating!”

  He had to laugh. His mother uttered a cry of triumph.

  “I knew it. But let you get one whiff of this, Ottilia, I said, and you would be off like a bloodhound.”

  She smiled. “It is certainly fraught with possibilities.” Then she laid the newspaper aside and took up her coffee. “But I will confess it makes me tired just to think of how much work must go into finding out the culprit. I don’t envy George, I must say.”

  “Oh, you will be knee deep in the matter before we know it. Don’t tell me, my dear Ottilia.”

  Francis, a little unnerved by his wife’s dismissal, watched her sip the coffee and then set down her cup with a faint sigh. “Well, I will admit to curiosity about potential suspects. I wonder who George fancies for the deed?”

  She did not pursue the subject and Francis wondered at it, fretting that it might not answer his purpose. But Tillie had revived by the dinner hour and she made no objection when his mother invited George to open his budget, once the dishes had been set upon the table and Tyler and the maids retired on her orders.

  “Well, if you’ve read one of the accounts in a daily journal,” said George, serving himself from a dish of rather sorry-looking fish stew, “you’ll know we found the girl in some other poor fellow’s coffin. He’s been reburied now, but I’ll tell you it was a piece of work for our fellows to recover every bit of him thrown carelessly down into the grave. My lad Sullivan was wild with me in the end for making the offer to the parson.”

  Tillie frowned, her forkful of buttered crab, the only dish to tickle her vanished appetite, poised in the air. “Then it is true the original contents of the coffin had been tipped out?”

  “Carelessly done too,” said George with a grimace. “The whole thing was macabre in the extreme. Not to say dramatic, what with these infernal candles set alight around the coffin and the girl, looking, I may say, extremely lovely still with all that golden hair flowing about her head and shoulders.”

  A memory clicked in Francis’s mind and he looked up from his plate of roasted beef, having rejected the fish stew with loathing. “That’s why you went after the players you mentioned?”

  “No. I sought them out because my sergeant recognised the girl from a performance at the theatre here.”

  “Oh, she was an actress then,” said Tillie, betraying an interest faintly reminiscent of earlier times.

  “She was,” said George, “and I must have seen her myself when I went to the play last month, but I recalled her only vaguely.”

  “Why, if she was so lovely?”

  Pertinent as always. Francis rejoiced. Tillie was growing intrigued. Then he became distracted by the odd circumstance of George’s sudden high colour. What in the world —? But his mother was before him.

  “Good heavens, Colonel, what is the matter?”

  George, rather to Francis’s amusement, took refuge in his wine glass. Setting it down, he cleared his throat. “I had my mind on other matters at the time, ma’am.” He added with some haste, casting a glance decidedly apprehensive at Tillie, “To say truth, I noticed none of the players on that occasion except The Grand Ferdinando himself.”

  A trill of laughter escaped Tillie and Francis’s heart lifted.

  “The Grand Ferdinando? Dear me, George, is it he with whom you have had to deal? How delightful. Who is he?”

  “One of these actor manager fellows.”

  “Ah, an impresario then. Is it his company?”

  “Yes, and I have had to yield to his plaguing me to allow him to hold another performance tomorrow, so you may see them if you care to go.”

  “If she feels up to it,” Francis cut in swiftly with a darkling look at his friend.

  George took the hint and swept on. “But I have discovered it is Mrs Ferdinand who has the mastery of these infernal players. And if one of those fellows did not kill the girl, I’m a Dutchman.”

  The dowager, who had taken fish stew but eaten only a mouthful or two, nodded. “I imagine it must be so, what with the theatrical nature of the crime.”

  Tillie’s gaze was upon the colonel as she swallowed her mouthful. “Is that what you suppose, George?”

  “Well, not one of them can fully account for his movements that night. It’s my belief they have closed ranks, for I can’t get proper corroboration out of any of them, including Ferdinand, although his wife claims he did not leave his bed.”

  “That won’t fadge,” said Francis. “What is to stop him slipping out without her knowledge?”

  “I don’t know that, Fan. You always wake when I slip from the bed.”

  “Yes, but I’m a soldier. George will tell you one is ever on the qui vive. It’s an ingrained habit to wake at the slightest disturbance.”

  “True, Fan. And most of them had been drinking deep at the tavern. Not that the landlord remembers beyond the fact they were there. He couldn’t say who left at what time when Sullivan questioned him. I’ve spoken to the men several
ly and together, but to no avail. I learned little beyond their backgrounds.”

  “Which are?” Tillie asked.

  He shrugged. “Not of much interest. Lewis Payne has been acting from a boy and I can’t find that he had any particular interest in the girl. The Ferdinands are both seasoned players and have been running the company for some fifteen years or so. Despite the wife’s tendency to rule him, they seem a devoted couple, though I would not put it past Ferdinand to get up a flirtation with a young actress.”

  Tillie was merely toying with her crab, Francis noticed, but her apparent growing interest gave him hope. She pushed for more.

  “Who else is there?”

  “The young tearaway, Jasper, who was out all night.” George coughed in a way Francis recognised as delicacy, glancing at the dowager. “Saving your presence, ma’am, the barmaid at The Black Dog vouches for the boy’s whereabouts. He’s the son of an actor, I believe, but as he chose to be recalcitrant, I learned nothing more from him. I don’t much favour the stagehands, neither of whom seem the sort the girl might go off with, and the only other male is Robert Collins and he’s married. I gather his wife holds his purse strings and keeps a tight rein on him.”

  “Tight, how? Did he say so?”

  “He said very little. He’s a sullen brute. But Payne mentioned this Trixie has money and, as he put it, ‘keeps Rob short’. And that’s all. When it comes to sifting through that lot to find the murderer I’ve drawn blank.”

  Tillie abandoned her meal, setting down her fork and pushing the plate away a little, and Francis grieved to see her appetite still poor. On the other hand she had listened with close attention to George, as became obvious the moment she spoke again.

  “I wonder if this Dulcie had met with someone outside the company?”

  George looked struck. “I had not thought of that.”

  “Well, wherever she performs, a beautiful actress must be plagued by followers, do you not think?”

  Setting down his glass, George let out a groan. “As if I have not suspects enough. And who else, pray, would think of leaving the body in an open coffin with candles set alight around it?”

  “Someone who sought to cast suspicion upon these theatricals.”

  Francis’s spirits rose. If that was not Tillie all over. George was staring at her with his mouth at half cock, but the dowager struck her hands together, emitting an explosive sound of triumph.

  “There, what did I tell you?” She turned to George. “Now are you not glad you wrote to Francis, Colonel?”

  Recovering himself, he let out a laugh. “Indeed, ma’am. But, Ottilia, what makes you say that?”

  She shifted a little in her chair, a deprecating look upon her face. “From what you’ve said, I take it the scene was carefully staged. That does not sound much like the artistic temperament to me.”

  “But it must be exactly what these players know, particularly Ferdinand who manages these productions of his.”

  “I don’t doubt it. But that is pretence. I’ve no doubt they see false death every day when they are playing a tragedy. It’s a very different matter when the death is real, do you not think?”

  A shadow crossed Francis’s heart. Death was all too real for both of them in the recent past. Was that why Tillie saw the murder in this light? His mother entered the lists.

  “You are saying an actor would not be as clear headed as to set it up like a stage set, Ottilia, is that it?”

  “I’m saying it is out of character. At least for some, though perhaps not all. The act seems to be particularly cold-blooded. And with no attempt to cover up the crime.”

  “The reverse in fact,” agreed Francis. “I would say it is worth a look, George.”

  “Of course it’s worth a look, but I have no notion where to look, if you want the truth of it. Any number of men could have been enamoured of the wench, for all I know.”

  “But her friends will know, George.”

  To Francis’s astonishment, this remark had the effect of bringing the darker stain back to his friend’s cheeks. He glanced at Tillie and was not in the least surprised to see a look of understanding in the clear gaze. But her words shocked him nevertheless.

  “Who is she, George?”

  He had been gazing at his empty plate, but his eyes came up fast. “Good grief, Ottilia, must you be so acute?”

  The dowager pounced. “Aha! I said there was something. Don’t say you’ve fallen for one of these players, Colonel. That would never do.”

  “I haven’t fallen for anyone, ma’am,” he returned on a snap. “And Cecile is not a player. She’s an émigré. She’s with them because her mother approached the players when they were in France and begged them to rescue her.”

  “Oh, poor child. An aristocrat then?”

  “I imagine so, though I have no exact notion of her true status. I met her a few weeks ago when she was trying to pawn a necklace and that fool Throcking took her for a French spy and called me in. She told me her story perforce.”

  Francis could not resist. “So that’s what took you to the play, my friend. And explains why you didn’t notice the golden-haired Dulcie. You were hoping to see your émigré.”

  His colour considerably heightened, George gave him a look of deep reproach. “Traitor! As if it’s not enough with the women of your family quizzing me.”

  Laughing, Francis leaned across and gave him a buffet on the shoulder. “All’s fair in love and war, my friend. Besides, it’s a treat to see you caught at last.”

  “I am not caught. And for your information, Fanshawe, I can hardly start wooing the girl in the middle of a murder investigation.”

  “I don’t see why not. I did.”

  With which, Francis put out a hand to his wife, who set hers in it and gave him, to his inestimable joy, one of her warm smiles.

  “Only afterwards, Fan, if you recall.” She gave his fingers a squeeze and released his hand. “The point here is that George’s émigré is, or was, the murdered girl’s friend. Am I right?”

  He nodded, his high colour fading at last. “I think so, and I’m convinced she knows more than she will tell me. They were sharing a bed, and she knew the girl Dulcie was absent.”

  “Then perhaps she also knows whom she was with?”

  “Cecile denies it. But she knows something. She is peculiarly evasive. And, I may add, inclined to resent any implication she is concealing evidence.”

  Retiring with her mother-in-law to the parlour, Ottilia took the window seat, which afforded a view of the rolling waves. The days were long and there was still much activity on the Esplanade where the fashionables walked or paused to listen to the small orchestra playing near the water. Strains of a poorly executed symphony floated up through the open window together with the indistinct sounds of idle chat and laughter. Ottilia’s mind roved rather on the details of the murder, however, than the scene below.

  The dowager settled in a chair near the unlit fire, out of the direct line of the night breeze.

  “I wonder if Francis will manage to get more out of the colonel about this émigré of his?”

  Ottilia glanced across. “I doubt Fan will plague him. It is possible George may be more forthcoming in our absence, however.”

  “But not about the girl?”

  “About his findings.”

  “Why, when he knows very well you are the one who needs to hear it.”

  Ottilia gave a faint grimace. “Oh, because Fan has likely warned him not to burden me with the gory details for fear I may be distressed.”

  “You?” Sybilla gave vent to a crack of mocking laughter. “If the colonel doesn’t know you better, I don’t think much of his understanding. I don’t recall him being shocked by your candour when he was involved with Emily’s affair.”

  “Just so, but did you not note his reticence? He said little about the condition of the dead girl’s body beyond the fact she had been stabbed. Yet there must have been a post-mortem.”

  The dowage
r’s delicate brows rose. “What are you getting at, Ottilia?”

  “Motive, Sybilla. Why was she killed? And if I don’t miss my guess, George is worried that his Cecile knows.”

  Sybilla stared. “How in the world do you make that out?”

  “He did not say why she was pawning a necklace.”

  “And so?”

  Ottilia pursued her thought. “Does it not seem to you there may be a connection?”

  She watched Sybilla’s brow pucker as the notion penetrated. But the dowager blew out a dismissive breath at length and wafted a hand. “A trifle far-fetched, Ottilia. The necklace business was some weeks back, I thought he said.”

  “Yes, but that does not preclude it having a bearing on the murder. Or rather, the reason for the murder. We have it on George’s authority that Cecile was a friend of the victim and shared a bed with her — presumably when the girl Dulcie was not sleeping elsewhere.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  The door opened to admit the gentlemen before Ottilia had an opportunity to answer. Instead she rallied them. “You can scarcely have drunk one glass, either of you. Have you turned Methodist?”

  “George has an early start in the morning and wants to keep a clear head.”

  Francis came across and leaned down to drop a kiss on her forehead. Ottilia touched a hand to his cheek and let it fall as he rose again. It was bliss to be on better terms and her heart swelled with affection.

  “Are you leaving us already, Colonel?” Sybilla’s voice drew her attention and Ottilia saw that George had taken up a stance by the mantel.

  “I must, ma’am.”

  “Will you not at least take tea first? Ring the bell, Francis.”

  While her husband went over to grasp the hand bell on the table and sound a summons, the dowager kept her attention on Colonel Tretower.

  “You will be pleased to learn, Colonel, that Ottilia has already jumped to one of her startling conclusions.”

  A riffle of apprehension seized Ottilia and she could not refrain from casting a look at Francis. He caught her glance and quirked an eyebrow.