The Candlelit Coffin (Lady Fan Mystery Book 4)

by Elizabeth Bailey

  Tillie had chosen her usual place on the window seat, to all intents and purposes divorcing herself from these proceedings. But Francis knew his wife too well to be deceived. A certain glint in her eye as she watched and listened to Rodber told him Tillie was assessing the fellow’s character to judge how best to tackle him.

  As soon as he came to the end of his assurances to the dowager of his confidence in the cook, Tillie drew Rodber’s attention, going directly to the heart of the matter.

  “We are going to the play this evening, Mr Rodber. One really ought to show support for the company, do you not think? Such a terrible tragedy.”

  The master of ceremonies at once assumed a mien suitable to the shocking occurrence. “Indeed, indeed, Lady Francis. A dreadful thing. Most distressing to have such a happening practically in our midst. Several of our ladies have been seriously disturbed.”

  “The girl so young too. And very beautiful, so I have heard?”

  The interrogatory note in Tillie’s voice invited confidence. Francis’s heart soared. His darling wife was rapidly returning to her old self.

  Rodber succumbed at once. “Very true indeed, ma’am. Dulcibella Ash was the jewel of the company of The Grand Ferdinando. Such hair! Such a complexion!”

  His mother’s dry tones entered in. “Are we to understand this peerless creature’s acting matched her physical attributes?”

  “Ah, your ladyship is in the right of it,” said Rodber, shaking a regretful head. “One can scarcely praise the poor girl’s prowess in quite the same terms. She was adequate, mind you, quite adequate. Indeed, I venture to think His Majesty himself, had he attended a performance, would have approved her. For you must know she had a — shall we say, a shining quality to her, ma’am, so that one did not notice the lack in her acting, if you understand what I mean.”

  His enthusiasm was palpable and Francis cast a questioning glance at Tillie. She met his eyes briefly and he read the merriment there, coupled with the unmistakeable gleam of interest he had not seen for some time.

  “I understand you perfectly, Mr Rodber,” said the dowager, a touch of contempt in her voice. “I take it Miss Ash’s admirers were largely of the male sex?”

  A dull red crept into Rodber’s countenance, but to his credit he did not buckle. A deprecating smile appeared. “Ah, indeed, ma’am, indeed we are a sorry lot.”

  “It is natural for men to admire a lovely female, do you not think, Sybilla? I protest I am disappointed not to see her myself.” Tillie’s glance swept the master of ceremonies, her warm smile in place. “I dare say there were gentlemen among your acquaintance who did more than admire, Mr Rodber. Personable actresses do tend to draw a coterie of followers who are eager to waylay them at the stage door.”

  The master of ceremonies fell straight into the trap, rather to Francis’s amusement, his manner becoming confidential as he stepped across to take up a stance near Tillie’s position at the window.

  “Too true, alas, Lady Francis, too true. Like a moth to a flame indeed when it came to Dulcibella Ash. My lord Charlton was particularly épris and is, I believe, beyond distressed at this horrific taking off.”

  The name was familiar. Francis cast a look towards his mother. “Isn’t he the man who lost his wife a few years back, ma’am? I’m not much acquainted with him, but I believe he frequents White’s.”

  “Quite right, Lord Francis, the very man. He is here with his children, though I believe they commonly reside with an aunt during his absences from home.”

  “Well, he will not be looking for a new wife amongst a company of players,” stated the dowager with a glance at Tillie that spoke volumes.

  Surely she did not take Charlton for a suspect? His wife looked thoughtful, but she moved Rodber on.

  “Was Lord Charlton favoured, sir?”

  The fellow puffed out his cheeks. “I could not say, Lady Francis, indeed I could not. He had rivals enough, that I do know.”

  “Indeed? Many of them?”

  Rodber frowned in concentration. “Let me see now. There is Captain Edgcott. Not that he is presently in the services, but he fought in America, I think.”

  Tillie looked at once towards Francis and he shook his head. “I don’t know him. We must have served in different regiments. George might, if he’s in the habit of hobnobbing with the gentry here.”

  “Ah, you are speaking of Colonel Tretower, sir? An estimable man. We are lucky to have him posted with our militia here. He tells me he has the unenviable task of unmasking the villain of this piece.”

  “True. Tretower is a friend of mine, sir. He recommended this place to us to speed my wife’s recovery.”

  “Yes, but what of this Captain Edgcott?” Tillie again, ruthlessly dragging the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Is he a young man and personable? Might he attract a female as universally popular as this Dulcibella?”

  “You would hardly credit it from his person, but a devil of a fellow with the ladies is Edgcott.” Rodber gave a somewhat prim laugh as he turned to the dowager. “If you will forgive me for speaking so free, ma’am.”

  She waved a dismissive hand in the habitual way she had. “Don’t mind me, Mr Rodber. I am not of this namby-pamby generation who refuse to call a spade a spade.”

  “Indeed, ma’am, indeed, there is a want of candour in these days of mealy-mouthed talk. I myself have been most conscious of the need to curb my natural tendency to talk as I see fit.”

  No doubt, since he was clearly adept at suiting his utterances to his company. A required attribute for a master of ceremonies, one must suppose. The cynical thought faded as Francis noted Tillie’s increasing interest.

  “Well, we must certainly include Captain Edgcott. Who else, Mr Rodber?”

  The fellow looked startled. “Who else, ma’am? I protest I am at a loss. Include, did you say? Include the captain how, ma’am?”

  Tillie raised her brows. “Oh, did I not say? I am trying to discover which of the gentlemen who followed Dulcibella had succeeded with her.”

  Rodber stared, speechless. Tillie smiled at him. “Come, sir, she was an actress. Sooner or later she was bound to succumb.”

  “Lady Francis! I declare, ma’am, I do not know what to say.”

  “Speak openly, man. My daughter-in-law, sir, is not one of these modern misses who pretend ignorance of matters thought to be outside the province of a female.”

  “No, indeed, ma’am, so I perceive,” said Rodber, recovering himself and bestowing an ingratiating smile upon Tillie. “You took me a little by surprise, Lady Francis.”

  “Curiosity is my besetting sin, Mr Rodber, I confess it freely. Will you satisfy it? Was there any other gentleman quite as assiduous as either Lord Charlton or this Captain Edgcott?”

  Rodber gave a rather artificial laugh. “I must say I cannot altogether recall any other.” His face changed. “Stay! There is that fellow Paglesham. A young man, not of the first stare, I regret to say, but perfectly respectable. Ah, and Mr Fawley, rather too old one would have thought for such philandering, but he was used to hang around the stage door some weeks ago. Of course he has gone home now.”

  “Then we need waste no time upon him. Tell me about Mr Paglesham, if you will.”

  “Sir Peregrine Paglesham, a mere baronet, and one cannot but wonder how he came by the title. Inclined to give himself airs. I have been obliged to depress his pretensions more than once, but I will admit him to be a comely enough young man.”

  “How young, sir?”

  “Oh, five or six and twenty. Thirty at the most.”

  Himself only a year or two past thirty, Francis could not help lifting a quizzical eyebrow at Tillie. To a man of Rodber’s age, he dared say thirty might appear young. But it was quite old enough to impress a youthful girl like this actress.

  Tillie evidently thought the same. “He sounds to be just the sort of fellow to interest Dulcibella. Is he a bachelor?”

  “Indeed he is, ma’am. I should doubt of his being ab
le to afford a wife.” Rodber gave a discreet cough. “I do not mean to denigrate the fellow, but one cannot help but notice a certain — shall we say shabbiness? — to his vestments on occasion.”

  Tillie’s sharpened gaze told Francis his wife’s interest was, for some reason he could not fathom, thoroughly aroused by this, but it was his mother who pounced.

  “Do you mean frayed cuffs and a threadbare coat, Mr Rodber? Or are his clothes merely of poor cut and inferior material?”

  The visitor threw up his hands, approaching the dowager’s chair. “Heavens, no, ma’am, I have given you a false impression of the man if that is what you suppose. No, no indeed. Nothing of that nature. It is merely what one might call a je ne sais quoi about his clothes.”

  “Well, if you don’t know, I cannot imagine why you should say they are shabby,” came the dowager’s tart response.

  Rodber bowed in a deferent way. “You are in the right of it, ma’am, I should not have spoken. In my position, however, one acquires an instinct for these things.”

  “You condemn a man on instinct?”

  “No, no, you mistake, ma’am. I express myself badly indeed.” Which was all too true, if Francis was to judge by his mother’s irritation. But the fellow’s pomposity peeped through nevertheless. “It is perhaps a sense rather of a dingy sort of background. Sir Peregrine lodges in one of the less salubrious streets of the town, and although his dress is of quality, it is obvious to me that it is well worn, a trifle stale.”

  He wrinkled his nose as if the victim of his criticism was a bad smell. Francis wondered what Tillie made of this and, glancing across, saw what he thought of as her absent look in her face, as if her mind were elsewhere. A pang smote him. She had worn the look for weeks past. Or had she? No, not this look. That one had been absent, but empty. This was Tillie at work in her head. She had come back to him indeed.

  Without thought, he moved across to her and she looked up, blinking. A smile came and she lifted her hand and brushed a finger across her lips as if to enjoin his silence. Francis’s heart warmed. Remarkable how she read his mind as well as he was able to read her expressions. He had forgotten, in the distresses of this period, how attuned they had become in the relatively short time they had been married.

  Tillie turned her attention back to Rodber, who had fallen silent under the dowager’s sceptical gaze. “Do you think Sir Peregrine is in hopes of securing an advantageous alliance? Is that perhaps his purpose in coming to Weymouth?”

  The master of ceremonies returned, with obvious relief, to Tillie’s less intimidating company. “I am certain of it, Lady Francis. Since His Majesty chose to honour our little town, we have indeed opened our doors to an increasing number of fashionable persons. Otherwise I dare say he might have chosen Brighton.”

  “Or Brighton might be a little above his touch if, as you say, he is purse-pinched?”

  “Oh, I think we may afford all and more of the amenities provided in Brighton, ma’am. Especially with our particular royal patronage.”

  It was plain Rodber was offended by the suggestion his little ‘kingdom’ was inferior to that patronised by the Prince of Wales rather than his father the King, despite the undoubted popularity of the former amongst the fashionable set.

  “For my part,” cut in the dowager, “I am well suited with your amenities, Mr Rodber. I should hate to be racketing about Brighton at my time of life.”

  This concession sent the fellow back to her at once and the remainder of his visit was enlivened by a recital of the entertainments on offer and a hope the ladies would take advantage of the next fine day to sample the sea-bathing, which, he ventured to say, was as fine and invigorating as any in the whole of the South Coast.

  The moment the parlour door shut behind him, Francis wasted no time.

  “What about this fellow he talks of, Tillie? Are you inclined to add him to your list of suspects?”

  His mother snorted. “What, only because this Peregrine does not meet with Rodber’s approval?”

  “Not for that reason, Sybilla, but his situation certainly fits the circumstances of the murder. According to Cecile, Dulcie may have been fooled by a promise of marriage.”

  “You contrived to meet her then? This Cecile, I mean.”

  “Indeed I did, and had but just come back from a walk in her company when I heard Rodber was with you. But about Sir Peregrine: if he is hanging out for a rich wife, he would scarcely take poor Dulcibella with her forty guineas. A pregnant actress too. Unthinkable he would see her right if it was his seduction that put her in the family way.”

  “Is that all the necklace realised? Forty guineas?”

  “She pawned it, Fan, she did not sell it. And Dulcie only took half of the money with her.”

  “But you cannot be putting this Peregrine fellow at the top of your list, Ottilia,” the dowager protested, “without discovering if he did indeed succeed with the girl. You have only Rodber’s word for it after all that he was courting her.”

  Tillie smiled. “True, and I had not got as far as that. Merely, I wished to widen the net beyond the members of the company.”

  “You’ve done that all right,” Francis commented on a dry note. “You may add at least four of these wretched followers.”

  “Three. I think we may discount the man Fawley, but Lord Charlton and Captain Edgcott will bear investigation. I must contrive to meet all of them.”

  “There is no difficulty about that, Ottilia. You have only to come to the Assembly Rooms and you are bound to run into the lot.”

  “But not today.” Francis had no intention of allowing Tillie to overdo it. “You’ll rest until dinner if we are to go and see this infernal performance.”

  His mother’s delicate brows rose. “Oh, yes, I had forgotten Ottilia spoke of it to Rodber. So we are to go to the theatre?”

  “Tillie insists. Hemp has gone to procure a box. Using your name, may I add, since my darling wife does not scruple to employ it for her own ends.”

  The dowager laughed. “Why not, if it helps?”

  “Well, I want to get as close to the stage as I can, Sybilla.”

  “You will miss the colonel then, unless he reappears before the dinner hour.”

  Tillie smote her thigh. “I had forgot George.” She looked at Francis. “If he is not back in time, Fan, you must leave a note for him, for I must speak with him.”

  The dowager sat up. “That means you found something out from this émigré of his.”

  “Of no little importance, Sybilla. If Dulcie’s purse of guineas was not on her person, it may provide a vital clue.”

  Having finished his ablutions and tied his hair back in its queue, George was half dressed and in the act of adjusting the stock about his neck when his lieutenant knocked and popped his head round the door.

  “Come in, Sullivan, I’m almost done.”

  His second-in-command, fully dressed and freshly shaved, if a trifle blear-eyed, entered and closed the door, nodding at Marsh who was brushing George’s scarlet coat. “I’ve four men waiting, sir, and I’ve sent Puckeridge off with two.”

  George moved to the bed and sat down to pull on his boots. “You told him to search the houses even if the villagers deny all knowledge of this purse?”

  “Yes, sir, though it may take him some time to find out which of them actually got to the coffin first.”

  “That’s why the search,” said George, tugging at his left boot. “You don’t suppose they’ll tell him if they took the damn thing, do you?”

  Sullivan gave a short laugh. “Hardly, sir. Seems to me, though, whoever got there first would have been too shocked to go stealing a purse from the body.”

  “Well, someone did, my boy.” George stood up and settled his feet into the boots. “Roffey is adamant there was no purse in the reticule when the body got to his surgery, so where is it?”

  He allowed his batman to assist him into the red coat with its multiple trimmings of gold braid and began fastening the brass b
uttons, casting a glance at his junior, who was frowning. “What’s on your mind, Sullivan?”

  “Just wondering why the murderer would take it, sir? Seems a bit of a risk. It was bound to be discovered that she had it, and if there was only a matter of twenty guineas in it…”

  “That’s a lot of money for most, my friend. You could purchase a horse for that. We’ve no reason to think our man is wealthy enough to ignore it.”

  “Not if it’s one of the players, sir, no.” Sullivan gave his chief a dubious glance. “You do know they were performing last evening. I’ll warrant none of them will be up yet.”

  “Precisely, Sullivan. I want to catch them unawares. My shako, Marsh.”

  His junior looked from the furred and braided headgear to George. “You’ve not breakfasted yet, sir.”

  “We’ll have it when we get back. I can’t stand eating on the run. Besides, I’ve had coffee. Have you eaten?”

  “Just coffee, sir.” He grinned. “I’m barely awake yet. Couldn’t swallow a morsel.”

  George laughed. “Wait ’til you’re on bivouac, my boy, with a battle in the offing. You’ll eat at any hour and sleep on the run instead.”

  “God help me!”

  “Pray the French don’t invade and He won’t have to. Let’s be off.”

  By the time George and his band, all armed, arrived at the players’ lodging, a few hardy souls were already trailing down towards the beach, attired in the customary loose wrappers which were acceptable wear preparatory to bathing. George’s imperative knocking with the hilt of his sword brought the landlady, puffing with effort, her eyes popping at sight of the scarlet and white soldiery.

  “Gracious heaven! Is it you, Colonel? Oh, dearie me, whatever is it now?”

  “Stand aside, madam. We are here on a mission.”

  The woman’s ample form remained in the doorway. “Mission? Oh, no! You’ve come to arrest them!”

  “Stand aside, I said.”

  The sharp tone had an effect and the landlady fell back. George entered the house and led his men directly up the stairs. In the vestibule, he stood back and signed to his junior.

  Sullivan turned to the men. “Knock ’em up, boys!”