The Candlelit Coffin (Lady Fan Mystery Book 4)

by Elizabeth Bailey

  “Would you wish the brute to escape justice?” Ottilia countered. “Especially when Dulcie’s secret is evidently the reason she was thus murdered. It is horrible, yes, and perhaps unkind to your friend’s memory. But better that than the man who did this should escape the righteous vengeance of the law.”

  A blast of contemptuous air escaped the girl. “The law you say? And if the law is itself the murderer? If the vengeance is taken before there is a crime? Me, I know much of vengeance, madame, and of those who ask only to be permitted to live when the law speaks their very life to be a crime.”

  The words came with vicious emphasis and Ottilia was silenced, recalling Cecile’s background. Small wonder the argument for justice made no impression upon one who must have lost all her family to the travesty of justice perpetrated across the channel even now. The scythe of the newly formed Republique had swept away the lives of many aristocratic bodies in the last couple of years.

  She kept pace beside the émigré, whose steps had quickened, hoping she would not go too fast for too long. She was beginning to feel the strain when Cecile abruptly halted.

  “Pardon, madame. I intended not to speak of these things. It is well I accept these customs of my adopted country. C’est-à-dire, in regard to Dulcie, it is seen that justice must be done.”

  Ottilia accepted this without comment, returning to her question. “When did you learn of the babe, Cecile?”

  A faint sigh expressed capitulation, and Cecile resumed walking. Ottilia followed suit, not unhopeful.

  “It was perhaps since five or six weeks. I woke in the night to hear Dulcie is crying. With much persuasion I am able to find out her trouble.”

  “It shocked you no doubt.”

  “Yes, but she is my friend. She helps me when I do not know how to wash my clothes or where to purchase necessities of my toilette. Dulcie teaches me many things of which I am ignorant, and helps with my English when Madame Ferdinand gives to me an exercise.”

  “You felt indebted to her then.”

  “A debt, no! With a friend, if there is trouble, one must do all one can do. That is from the heart, madame, not from the — how do you say?”

  “Duty?” Ottilia supplied. She added in soothing tones, “I understand you, Cecile. It was not an obligation. You did not think of other than how you might succour your friend.”

  “It was so.”

  Ottilia went straight for the jugular. “And therefore you pawned your necklace. Did you mean it for a bribe to the man concerned? Or was it in your mind Dulcie might try to be rid of the child?”

  Cecile’s answer was swift and crude. “Abort an infant? Never! I am Catholique, madame. Such is a mortal sin.”

  “Then you hoped the man would be susceptible to a bribe? Or did you think he would marry Dulcie?”

  “I have thought only that with money, Dulcie can do something. Without, she is finished. But I do not know the man. Dulcie gives me no name, even though I plead with her to tell me. I thought perhaps it was Jasper, but he is one who is bad with women, he cares not which. Do you know this, madame?”

  “You mean he’s a womaniser, what we would call a rake?”

  “Yes. Dulcie is romantic. She does not wish to be one of many.”

  “She wanted love, and who shall blame her? I doubt the poor girl found it.”

  “Yes, but I believe she did,” said Cecile with sudden vehemence. “Or perhaps it is that she thought she found it. Or the man makes her believe.”

  It was Ottilia’s turn to anger. “Yes, that is only too likely. Poor girl. She is not the first to be seduced by false promises, and I doubt she will be the last.”

  Cecile halted again, earnest demand in the tell-tale gaze. “Think you he has promised to marry her? It is what I fear, madame. She will not say where is she going, but she looks — how shall I say? She is excited, her face it shines like a blossom. She puts on her good gown, the blue satin with the décolletage so low. It is one she had from a role no longer used, she tells me. She pins her hair and uses the colour on her lips and cheeks. She is like a star, that one, always, but this night, she is more. She is heureuse extraordinaire, and she does not know she goes to her doom.”

  The girl’s voice ceased, thickened by the end. Ottilia could see the tremble at her lips, the deep distress altogether genuine. The dark eyes were swimming and Ottilia took one of her shaking hands in a warm clasp.

  “It is hard for you to speak of it. My thanks, my dear. You have given me a most vivid picture and that helps enormously.”

  Cecile nodded but did not speak. Her eyes dulled a trifle and she withdrew her hand, turning to walk on. Ottilia reached to stop her.

  “Shall we turn back now?”

  A frowning gaze swept over Ottilia’s face. “You are tired, madame?”

  “A little.”

  Without a word, the émigré turned and together they began to retrace their steps. Ottilia smiled at Hemp, still dogging their steps, and signalled her intention. He came up to her.

  “Do you wish to take my arm, milady?”

  “Thank you, no. I shall manage.”

  He glanced from her to Cecile and a look of understanding entered the light brown features. Hemp was nothing if not observant. Evidently realising Ottilia had more to elicit from her companion, he stood aside and fell in behind again. Ottilia hoped he had been walking near enough to hear, for she had every intention of soliciting his help in her quest to find this elusive murderer. She gave Cecile a few minutes grace before putting her next question.

  “What did Dulcie do with the money you gave her?”

  Cecile’s head turned, question in her face. “Why, madame?”

  “It may be pertinent. Did she take it with her that night, do you know?”

  “You think she purposes to give it to the man?”

  “It’s possible if, as you say, she was happy and perhaps believed he meant to marry her. I am wondering if a flight was intended.”

  “Flight? But to where, madame?”

  “To Scotland. Or, more probably, to Dorchester where the couple might find a priest to marry them. Was Dulcie of age?”

  “She has almost two and twenty years, madame.”

  A pang smote Ottilia. Only two and twenty and hideously struck down. And for what?

  “Then, provided this man procured a licence, they might be married anywhere.”

  “Is it that you think the man told her they go to be married in the night?”

  “I should think it very probable from what you’ve told me of her mood. Did she take the money with her?”

  Cecile’s fingers were shifting at her sides, a sign of discomfort. Was this another matter she had thought to conceal? “I see that she puts a heavy purse in her reticule.”

  “What kind of purse?”

  “A purse of leather with strings to hold it tight shut.”

  “It was heavy, you said?”

  “Yes, but all the money is not inside.”

  “How much did you give her, Cecile?”

  “Forty guineas.” The girl’s intense gaze sought Ottilia’s. “She takes only twenty, for I have found the rest hidden in her clothes.”

  “You thought to look after her murder?”

  Cecile flinched at the repetition of the word. “Because I thought to see if one of the players has perhaps taken the money. Then I will know Dulcie has said to him it is there and that it is a player who kills her.”

  Not that the fact no one stole the remainder of Dulcie’s hoard proved the players to be innocent. But that thought Ottilia kept to herself. She bethought her of her promise.

  “Is there anything you have said that I may not relay to George?”

  Cecile’s eyes met hers, wariness in them now. “What shall he do with these matters, madame?”

  “I hope he may use them to find out the wicked man who took your friend’s life.”

  Ottilia had spoken with deliberation and she held the girl’s gaze, hoping to convince her of the need to tell G
eorge everything. That he would be hungry for any words that came from his émigré she could not doubt. But the girl surprised her.

  “He will be angry that I spoke not before.”

  Ottilia was betrayed into a laugh. “Not he. Heavens, George is the most even-tempered man I know.”

  Cecile withdrew her gaze, turning it instead upon a group of shrieking children playing chase with the waves at the water’s edge. “He was kind with me at the first. But I believe now he thinks I lie.” Her tone became fierce and her eyes too as they once more sought Ottilia’s. “I lie, yes. I say I do not know, but for the sake of my friend.”

  “I feel sure George will understand.”

  Came a tossed head and an unconvincing airy note. “It is nothing to me, madame.”

  Amused, Ottilia made a mental vow to discover if George was truly smitten or merely idly attracted to the girl. She might dismiss it for a pipe dream if she was not herself guilty of tumbling into love within a matter of days and Francis likewise. If she did not miss her guess, both parties here had been affected at their first meeting.

  But that was out of her hands and certainly no part of her present remit. She turned her attention to the second of her schemes. “I should very much like to meet the company, Cecile. Do you think that is possible?”

  Not much to her surprise, the girl regarded her with a good deal of suspicious comprehension. “You will ask of them such questions?”

  “Not directly as I have with you. There are ways of eliciting information without seeming to be other than curious.”

  Indignation leapt in Cecile’s face. “You would make me to be like a traitor, madame, to bring a spy among my people.”

  Ottilia suppressed a flush of irritation. Really, the girl was prickly in the extreme. “Would you prefer me to explain to them that I am trying to assist George?”

  “It is honest, madame.”

  “Dear me. And have you been entirely honest with them, Cecile?”

  Colour rushed into her cheeks, but to her credit she did not look away. “It is better so. They do not behave well, these players. In their heads and tongues it is all making the blame one to one and the quarrels. They think more of this and not of Dulcie.” She gave the peculiarly Gallic shrug. “I do not say they are not sorry. Hilde she grieves, I know. Also Kate and Madame Ferdinand, and perhaps Lewis. Also Rob, perhaps a little. But Jasper, I do not think so, or the other two.”

  “What of Mister Ferdinand?”

  Cecile wrinkled her nose in distaste. “He is sorry, yes, but perhaps more because Dulcie is very beautiful and therefore the people come to see her and there is money. Kate is pretty, but now it is only the play and Monsieur Ferdinand is afraid the people will not come. Already the performance does not happen since Dulcie died until today, and Monsieur Ferdinand he worries for the money and that he cannot find another actress si belle comme his little Dulcibella.”

  Ottilia’s interest was thoroughly aroused. “I must say your players sound like a most fascinating set of people. I do hope you will think of a way to introduce me.”

  Cecile frowned and did not answer. They were now back within easy reach of the centre of the town and the theatre. The girl halted almost opposite the house where the Fanshawes were lodging.

  “Where do you stay, madame?”

  Ottilia pointed across. “Right there.” She saw Francis in the window and waved. “There is my husband. I must go.” She held out her hand. “Thank you for trusting me. Pray do me the honour of calling upon me when you have the time.”

  The girl eyed her, still with that mix of wariness and doubt. “I will call, madame, perhaps.”

  With which Ottilia supposed she would have to be content for the present. Before she could say more, Cecile dropped a curtsey, turned and hurried away in the direction of the theatre.

  Ottilia watched her go and found Hemp at her elbow. She lost no time in eliciting his help.

  “Do you think you might discover the tavern the players frequent, Hemp? I’ve no doubt there is one.”

  Hemp, who had interested her almost from the start of the debacle that occurred in Willow Court months back, looked at her with the serious mien he had worn ever since that fateful time.

  “You wish me to make merry with the players, milady?”

  Ottilia smiled. Hemp’s quickness had impressed her at the outset. “Just so.”

  “What is it you wish to know of them?”

  “What sort of men they are in the main. Which of them are friends perhaps. And if you can contrive to listen in to their private discussions, anything they may say which is pertinent to the murder. From what Cecile said, do you not think they are likely to be loose-tongued?”

  One of Hemp’s rare smiles crossed his face. “Assuredly, milady. We had a company of players in Barbados who came to perform at the master’s plantation now and then. Flora Rum was a favourite with them. And they talked, milady. How they talked!”

  Ottilia laughed. “Then you will know just how to do. I rely upon you absolutely.”

  “If milord is suited, milady, I am happy to serve you in such a way.”

  Ottilia was tempted to tell him it had nothing whatsoever to do with milord, but she bit off the words. Francis could hardly object to her setting Hemp to spy for her. He was, after all, in her service rather than her husband’s. Moreover, Francis had brought her here for this purpose.

  Her attention drawn to her spouse, she spoke unthinkingly as they crossed the road. “Francis must have been delayed. I did not expect him to be home.”

  Hemp had his head on one side, listening as they approached the door. “If I mistake not, milady, this is his lordship coming down to meet you now.”

  So it proved. The door opened before they quite reached it and Francis left it open as he stepped into the street, his eyebrow quirking.

  “I see you managed it as I might have known you would. How did you fare?”

  Ottilia had to laugh. “With George’s émigré? She’s understandably cagey, but we learned something, did we not, Hemp?”

  “I do not know how valuable it may be to you, milady.”

  “She’ll make use of it, whatever it is, be sure.”

  Ottilia took Francis’s proffered arm, smiling at him. “You forget Hemp is somewhat familiar with my methods, Fan.”

  “But from the other side, milady,” said Hemp feelingly. “This mademoiselle had my sympathy, milord, that I swear to.”

  Francis grinned. “Yes, she drove you hard, I remember.”

  Ottilia rejoiced to see him easy with Hemp. He had been a trifle short lately, coming the lord somewhat while there was that uncomfortable distance between them. It crossed her mind he might have resented the ease of friendship she shared with Hemp. But a more urgent need superseded this notion.

  “Francis, we will need tickets for the play this evening.”

  “Oh, lord, must we go?”

  She opened her eyes at him. “Don’t you wish to see George’s suspects? I’ve asked Cecile to introduce me, but she is reluctant. And Hemp is going to find whatever tavern they use after the performance and see what he can discover.”

  “Oh, very well. What is the play?”

  “I forgot to ask. But it makes no matter.”

  Francis sighed. “I had best go and procure a box at once.”

  “Let me do that for you, milord.”

  “Yes, pray do, Hemp, for I must see her ladyship settles to rest.”

  Ottilia paused on the doorstep. “As close to the stage as you can get, Hemp, if you please. Oh, and say it is for the Dowager Marchioness of Polbrook. That should get us the best position in the house.”

  Hemp nodded and went off on his errand, while Francis ushered his wife into the hall, amusement in his voice.

  “Unscrupulous female that you are, my lady Fan.”

  Ottilia threw him a mischievous glance over her shoulder. “It is always well to use the advantages one has, Fan, and you made Sybilla my mother-in-law.” She reached
the top of the stairs and turned, caught by a stray notion. “Where is she, by the by? I thought you were escorting her to the Assembly Rooms.”

  Francis joined her in the vestibule. “We were forestalled. The fellow Rodber turned up with a prospective cook in tow. Mama is interviewing the woman as we speak.”

  Ottilia was heading for the parlour, but halted at this. “Then we had best not disturb her.”

  Francis slid an arm about her and drew her into a hug. “I’d as lief you lay down for a space after that long walk.”

  She snuggled into him, glad of the contact. “Well, I will if you wish it.”

  He released her, his lip quivering. “So obedient, Tillie?”

  She laughed. “Naturally, my darling husband.” And instantly frowned as a thought occurred. “Or no, stay! Is Mr Rodber still here?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Then we’ll go in. From Cecile’s description of Dulcie’s frame of mind that night, I find it hard to believe she was not in fact going to meet with a man outside the company.”

  “Isn’t that what you said?”

  “Yes, and if the man was an admirer and frequented the theatre, you may be sure the master of ceremonies will know of it.”

  The man Rodber was a garrulous fellow of advancing years in whom Francis espied a leaning towards pomposity, tempered with obsequiousness no doubt induced by his mother’s rank. He had evidently reigned for some years over Weymouth’s visiting elite and contrived to lard his conversation with references to the patronage of the King, whose sojourn in Weymouth for his health two years before had increased the resort’s popularity.

  “Her ladyship has kindly consented to give Mrs Horne a trial,” he informed Francis once Tillie had been presented. “I venture to think she will be found to be more than satisfactory.”

  He cast a patronising smile upon the plump little individual he had brought with him, who dropped a curtsey and murmured something only vaguely distinguishable on the lines of doing her best to please. Joanie was sent for and the new cook despatched with the maid to inspect the kitchens and settle into her temporary position.