The Candlelit Coffin (Lady Fan Mystery Book 4)

by Elizabeth Bailey

  She gave a little shrug. “It’s just a thought.” She eyed him. “You won’t start fretting, will you?”

  “Hardly, when I let you in for this.” The expected frown came. “But why should you think so? Is it something horrid?”

  Ottilia drew a breath, aware that both the dowager and George had their eyes on her. “Yes, it may be.” She transferred her gaze to the colonel and brought it out flat. “George, was the victim pregnant?”

  The effect of her question on the assembled company was as troubling as she had anticipated. Sybilla stared at her in a dazed fashion. George’s face shut like a door and he shot a look at Francis, whose dark eyes in turn shot fire towards his friend. Ottilia hurried into speech.

  “Don’t look daggers at him, Fan. Though that is answer enough. I suppose George told you and you said he must not mention it before me.” Both men turned to her and Francis came across, putting out a hand which Ottilia seized and squeezed hard. “It is distressing, Fan, but we cannot be forever avoiding all mention of babies. Even —” adding with a little difficulty — “those as unfortunate as our own. Perhaps more so, for if Dulcie was with child, the poor thing never stood a chance.”

  Her vision misted a trifle, but she swallowed down the urge to weep and tried to smile up into Francis’s worried countenance.

  “Are you sure, Tillie? I would not have had you hear it for the world.”

  “I know, my dearest dear, but if we are to help George, it cannot be avoided.”

  He released her hand as the door opened to admit the footman Tyler and the maid Joanie, burdened with the accoutrements for tea. The business of preparation and pouring afforded a welcome diversion and an opportunity for Ottilia to recover her sangfroid. Truth to tell, her interest was roused and as Francis brought her tea and handed her the saucer, she was moved to murmur for his ears alone.

  “I am glad you brought me, my dearest.”

  He scanned her face, keeping his tone low. “Are you sure you are all right?”

  She smiled. “Don’t worry so, Fan. You caused me to discharge a deal of it today.”

  He nodded and dropped the subject, shifting a little away. Ottilia found the colonel moving in, cup and saucer in hand and apology in his face.

  “Ottilia, I cannot tell you how much I regret this circumstance. I was horrified when Doctor Roffey told me, for of course it immediately demonstrated the reason for the murder. I rather wished I had not sent for you, if you want the truth.”

  “So did I,” Francis put in on a rueful note. “Only it was not known when George wrote to me. And we had set out by the time he got the news.”

  To Ottilia’s relief, the dowager took a hand, setting down her cup. “Well, you may both stop being ninnies. I can’t bear this nonsensical notion held by the male of the species that their female counterparts are too weak to be given difficult news.” She threw up a hand as Francis made to speak. “Yes, I know the present circumstances are delicate, but Ottilia is nothing if not resilient. She will cope. Don’t you hold anything back, Colonel Tretower.”

  He shifted in her direction. “I need not now the worst is out.” A laugh escaped him. “I might have known Ottilia would be on to it in a flash.”

  “So you might. And if you wish her to assist you to unravel this mess, you had better tell her everything.”

  “I will, ma’am, but not tonight.” He supped the last of his tea and went to set his empty cup down on the tray. “I’ve to post off to Dorchester again in the morning to report to Justice Shellow. But I will call upon you late in the day, if I may.” With which, he made his farewells and left them.

  Ottilia found the dowager regarding her in mute question.

  “You need not look at me as if you expect me at any moment to fall into a heap of melancholy all over again.”

  “Perhaps not. Yet it will not be easy, Ottilia, despite what I said to the colonel.”

  “True, and I may not contrive to keep my countenance at all times, nor to refrain from sighing now and then.”

  “No one will blame you for that.”

  “Least of all me,” put in Francis.

  A trifle of mischief filtered into her breast. “No, you are more like to deprecate my involving myself too eagerly.”

  Francis lifted an eyebrow. “I know that look. What are you planning?”

  Ottilia laughed. “I was wondering how I might contrive to meet this French émigré without going through George.”

  Cecile sat quietly in the back of the auditorium, sewing to the accompaniment of the actors rehearsing Kate into the role vacated by Dulcie’s death. With a performance sanctioned by Colonel Tretower, Mr Ferdinand had lost no time in rounding up his disordered company and harrying them to the theatre at the earliest opportunity, calling upon his wife’s aid when too many of them dallied.

  If she had not been so oppressed, it would have amused Cecile to see once again how nothing of value occurred without madame’s intervention. The players were an unruly lot. None paid heed to their leader’s bluster, aware to a man of his tendency to take the art of the stage into his life. In her early days Cecile had been both awed by Monsieur Ferdinand’s grand manner and intimidated by his frequent forays into the towering roar which was his stock in trade. But his wife’s exasperated responses very soon taught her to disregard him.

  “Oh, do stop it, Arthur, for heaven’s sake! You are not fooling anyone.”

  Yet when Madame Ferdinand spoke in command, none dared gainsay her. She it was who had curbed the rising hysteria over the past days.

  “That will do, all of you. The colonel has arrested no one and there is no future in quarrelling amongst ourselves and apportioning blame. We must stand together and support each other. Moreover, it would become you better to mourn poor Dulcibella instead of indulging in a disgracefully ghoulish game of casting suspicion upon your fellows. I do not wish to hear one more word of accusation, do you understand?”

  The actors were not chastened for long. But thereafter confined their “ghoulish indulgence” to moments when Janey was absent. Cecile would not have engaged in any discussion but that she was continually questioned.

  “You must have some notion, Cecily, who Dulcie was meeting,” Hilde insisted.

  “Of course she has. We all know girls and their secrets in the bedchamber.”

  “Whose bedchamber knows your secrets then, Jasper?”

  “Or yours, Lewis,” he retorted.

  “Jasper didn’t do it,” cut in Rob. “We all know Dulcie wouldn’t warm his bed for him. Besides, he’s never sober enough for aught but a barmaid.”

  “Which is more than you can boast, my buck,” Jasper returned, not in the least put out.

  “I’ve a wife at home, I thank you.”

  “Well, Kate swears she knew nothing of Dulcie’s amorous dealings,” said Hilde, returning to her theme, “but I’m sure you do, Cecily.”

  “Where then is Kate?” Cecile asked in a bid to turn attention elsewhere.

  “Either closeted with our esteemed patriarch or learning her lines,” said Lewis, once again looking up from the book he was reading.

  Jasper groaned. “That means old sobersides will haul us off to the theatre to rehearse at any moment.”

  Since Kate had not before performed the role of Lucinda this was inevitable as Hilde was quick to point out. Their leader had dropped the scheduled piece, The Country Wife, as the female characters could not now be covered, in favour of The Conscious Lovers. Hilde already knew the role of Indiana Danvers and Jane Ferdinand slipped readily into Isabella in addition to Mrs Sealand.

  Rehearsals fortunately kept the actors too busy to plague Cecile. She had fitted Dulcie’s costume onto Kate and was stitching the alterations where she had pinned it. Her unofficial role as wardrobe mistress had come about because she was adamant in refusing to tread the boards. But helping Hilde became an exchange for her keep, although her mother had paid handsomely for her rescue. Her domestic skills were few, but she was an adept ne
edlewoman and while she sewed, mended and packed the costumes into the trunks, Hilde supervised the washing and cleaning, employing women for the purpose wherever they went.

  She was indebted to Dulcie for teaching her how to maid for herself since they were quartered together. Their friendship stemmed from the intimacy involved and Cecile’s grief was genuine, if muted. She knew too much of loss to indulge in despair. Better to find out the cruel offender. From wondering, along with the colonel of militia’s clear suspicions, which of the male players could have killed Dulcie, Cecile had passed to a conviction the murderer might be a man unconnected with the company. Why else should she be so cagey about the father of her unborn child?

  In vain had Cecile, thinking back to that whispered confession of the night some weeks since, been able to recall any little word that pointed towards any one of the players in particular. But there had been admirers. If only Dulcie had confided in her! Not that she could have prevented this terrible murder, but a sneaking suspicion the colonel of militia meant to question her set her mind running on identities.

  She had barely brought a couple of possibilities to mind when the theatre manager came into the auditorium.

  Fitzgerald was a darkly handsome man with an aloof manner, rather older than Rob, Cecile thought, but younger than Lewis. She scarcely knew him and was surprised when he paused at the row in which she sat and beckoned. Setting her work carefully over the back of the seat in front, she made her way along the row.

  “You want me, monsieur?”

  He jerked his head towards the entrance. “There’s a lady asking for you.”

  Considerably taken aback, Cecile stared at him. “I do not know any lady.”

  A rather saturnine look came over his face as he smiled. “She evidently knows you. She asked for the French émigré.”

  Cecile was taken with a wild conjecture. Could this be family? “She is French also?”

  Fitzgerald lifted one eyebrow. “Not that you’d notice.”

  The faint hope died. “Then I know not why she seeks me.”

  “I suggest you go and ask her. She’s waiting in the foyer.” With which, he proceeded along the aisle towards the stage and stood watching the progress of the final rehearsal before the evening performance.

  Cecile, realising she was foolishly staring after him, gathered her scattered wits and turned towards the auditorium door in a little trepidation. Who could it be? And why should this lady wish to speak with her?

  She entered the foyer to find a lady indeed there, engaged in examining a painting of Mrs Sarah Siddons set in one of the niches within the walls reserved for portraits of the great. The foyer was a handsome apartment with much gilding in evidence, a huge chandelier hanging from the ceiling despite the light coming in from high windows, and a quantity of gilt-edged chairs set against the walls.

  “Madame?”

  The lady turned her head, presenting a countenance unremarkable except for high cheekbones and a pair of clear grey eyes which regarded Cecile with an appraising gaze for a moment. Then a smile appeared and her features lit with warmth as she moved forward, holding out a hand.

  “You must be Cecile. How do you do?”

  Cecile took the hand and found its grip firm. She nevertheless entered an immediate caveat. “Yes, but I do not know you, madame.”

  The lady laughed. “That is easily remedied. I am Lady Francis Fanshawe, but more commonly known as Lady Fan.”

  Mystified, Cecile did not take her eyes from the woman’s face. “Yet I do not know what you wish with me, madame.”

  Lady Fan met her gaze without flinching. “I have heard something of you, mademoiselle.” She smiled again. “I should mention perhaps that my husband is a close friend of Colonel George Tretower.”

  A flurry disturbed Cecile’s pulse as the image of the colonel leapt into her mind. Then she recalled his present preoccupation with Dulcie’s murder and eyed her visitor with rising resentment.

  “He has sent you? Why does he not come himself if he has more of the questions?”

  Surprise flickered in Lady Fan’s eyes. “George does not know I am here. But I do indeed have questions of my own.”

  “Vraiment? And what has the matter to do with you, madame?”

  The visitor hesitated, seeming to ponder. Then a sigh escaped her. “You are very acute, my dear, and that is a good thing. Well, let me be frank. You have every right to be wary, my dear Cecile — if I may? — but I assure you I have no ill intention. I would like, if I can, to help you discover who it was who so cruelly killed your friend.”

  Thoroughly taken aback, Cecile ignored the tiny shaft that went through her at mention of Dulcie’s horrible demise. “You, madame? Mais pourquoi? What is it to you?”

  She found her hand taken in a warm clasp, a look of understanding in the clear gaze. “I have had some success in that line in the past.” A rather attractive little gurgle escaped and Cecile’s bristles smoothed a trifle. “Officially I am here for my health, but it seems poor George is anxious for a helping hand. Will you not take pity on him, mademoiselle?”

  Bewildered, Cecile fairly blinked at her. “I? To have pity for this colonel? I do not understand.”

  “Help me to help him, my dear. I can do nothing without your assistance.”

  Cecile released herself, stepping back. “You would have me tell you of Dulcie, c’est ça?”

  “Just so.”

  “And then you will tell this George?”

  “As much as he needs to know. Between women, my dear Cecile, there may be candour unnecessary to be passed along to the male ear, do you not think?”

  Cecile could not withstand a crack of crude laughter. “That is seen. For myself, I say nothing with ces hommes. They are apt to make judgement, vous savez?”

  “Indeed they are, as well as supposing we women less capable of making judgements for ourselves,” said Lady Fan in a confidential manner. “We will decide together what George should or should not hear, is that agreed?”

  Still wary, Cecile eyed her. “I do not know what I can tell you.”

  Surprisingly, Lady Fan laughed. “Nor do I, my dear, but I feel sure there is something. It often happens that we do not realise how pertinent a little thing we have in our heads may be. I dare say you know a great deal more than you suppose.”

  “How could that be, madame?”

  “Well, think of it a little, Cecile. When one shares the intimacy of a room and a bed, one speaks with a freedom hardly possible in public. Anything Dulcie said to you is likely to be more personal than she might say to anyone else, do you not think?”

  Cecile was only too aware of her earlier preoccupation, but she was still conscious of reluctance. “It becomes me not to betray the secrets of my friend.”

  “Of course not, in the ordinary way.” Once again that warm hand clasped hers. “But your friend is no more, and the manner of her loss is a betrayal in itself. If you are able to redress the balance, to give poor Dulcie justice, do you think it is permissible to speak out? Would Dulcie herself not urge you so to do?”

  Wavering, Cecile again withdrew her hand. This female was all too persuasive.

  “You debate well, madame.” She made up her mind. “I will speak. But you will remember your promise.”

  “To filter what I relay? You have my word.”

  A small sigh escaped Cecile as an icicle in her heart began to melt. She had hardly realised how painful it was to her to keep in all she knew.

  “A moment, madame, while I secure my work, and I will come.”

  Strolling along the Esplanade, Ottilia kept to neutral topics until the knots of fellow walkers thinned as she and her companion headed out of the centre of the town in the direction of the bridge. She noticed Cecile cast several furtive glances at Hemp keeping pace a little behind.

  “You are wondering about the man? He is my steward. My husband insists I am accompanied at all times, you must know, for my strength is yet uncertain.”

  The Fre
nch girl’s gaze turned upon her, lifting to Ottilia’s superior height. The dark eyes were both large and deep with mystery. Coupled with the lush black locks, Ottilia had no difficulty in understanding why Colonel Tretower was so powerfully affected.

  “You are unwell, madame?”

  Ottilia chose to waive the truth. “Oh, I am markedly better, but not as robust yet as I could wish.”

  It was plain the girl would have asked more but was too polite, or too reticent to do so. Ottilia turned her attention to the matter at hand, choosing the direct approach.

  “Will you tell me when you learned that Dulcie was with child?”

  Startled distress flashed in the eyes before they were veiled. Cecile turned them upon the ocean and her tone became sharp. “I do not know why you ask such a thing of me, madame.”

  “Come, my dear Cecile, did you suppose Dulcie’s secret would remain undiscovered?”

  It was a moment before the girl answered, her gaze apparently following the path of a small ship tacking in the bay. “How comes it about that this is known, madame?”

  Ottilia became apologetic. “I’m afraid it was inevitable. Perhaps you do not know that in the case of an unexpected death there is usually a post-mortem required by the authorities.”

  The sudden intake of breath at her side told Ottilia this was news to the girl.

  “Ah, no! You would say the doctor cuts la pauvre in pieces?”

  “With as much respect as he can use, my dear. Doctors are ordinarily sensitive to the perceived cruelty of the undertaking.”

  A fierce stare was turned upon her. “How comes it about that you know so much, madame?”

  “My brother is a doctor, mademoiselle. Before my marriage, I learned much of his trade, both by observation and assisting in his work when he would let me. I may tell you with certainty that Dulcie’s body will have been returned to its proper form once the investigations had been completed.”

  Cecile continued to regard her with an eye both fascinated and horrified, if Ottilia read it aright. “I did not wish ever to betray this secret of Dulcie. Why can they not permit her to go in peace to her grave? Is it not enough she is killed in this — this fashion of a brute?”