The Candlelit Coffin (Lady Fan Mystery Book 4)

by Elizabeth Bailey

  He became aware his clipped tone was having a deleterious effect upon the company who were, to a man, staring with ill-concealed surprise or dismay, which was not helpful if he wanted to get any sense out of individuals he might have to question again later. Moreover, he did not need Cecile too frightened to speak to him. He tried for a milder note.

  “Since Miss Benoit knew Dulcibella Ash better than anyone here, she is best placed to give me the information I need.”

  Mrs Ferdinand looked from him to Cecile and back again. “Then I insist upon being present at this interview.”

  It was the last thing George wished for, but he saw no way of preventing it. “Certainly, ma’am, if mademoiselle desires your presence.”

  He looked at Cecile as he spoke and found her watching him, her gaze narrowed and a furrow between her brows. Was she wondering what he wanted? She rose and came not to him, but to the matriarch. She spoke in a low tone, in French, but George just caught the words under the murmurs that had started up again among the players.

  “I will see him alone, madame.”

  “It is scarcely convenable, my dear. A young girl like you and in a state of undress. You ought to have a chaperon.”

  “Who is to know outside of our people? Besides, he is a militiaman, madame, and I do not think he proposes to make advances.”

  Mrs Ferdinand eyed George and he attempted to appear unconscious. Then she turned back to Cecile. “I don’t like it, but I see you are determined. Are there secrets you have to tell him?”

  Cecile’s cheeks flushed a delicate shade. “Perhaps.”

  “Well, I will not pry. Dulcie’s ugly demise is punishment enough, poor girl.”

  Relieved, but a little apprehensive of what Cecile might say to him, George led the way out of the parlour, crossed to the room designated as the players’ workroom and opened the door.

  “Mademoiselle?”

  Cecile passed him with lowered eyes, her small figure stiff with resentment. George braced.

  Smarting with embarrassment and hurt, Cecile could barely endure the sight of the colonel’s grave countenance. Yet his very presence was disturbing to her in a way she had forgotten in the press of anxiety and grief. She determined no inkling of that should show in her face and moved to the window, looking out into the street below where the usual straggle of early risers were heading towards the Esplanade and the beach or the fish market.

  All too aware of the brooding colonel somewhere behind her, Cecile waited for him to speak. When he did not, she felt compelled to turn and confront him.

  He was standing by the mantel, leaning an arm along it, but his gaze met hers across the plethora of grouped chairs between. Cecile could read nothing in it, but there was expectance in his silence.

  “Eh bien, monsieur?”

  “Won’t you sit down?”

  He nodded towards the sofa ranged to catch the heat from the small fire in the grate. It was becoming chill in the mornings and Madame Ferdinand had requested of Annie that fires be laid.

  Cecile did not choose to be disadvantaged by his standing over her. She threaded a way to a position behind the sofa and faced him across its barrier, finding its high back a useful grip to prevent her shaking hands from being noticed.

  The colonel’s eyes did not leave her face and a muscle twitched in his cheek. He switched to French. “You may as well say what you have to say, mademoiselle. I believe you have reason to be angry.”

  That was enough to loosen her tongue. “I am betrayed.”

  He flinched but he did not speak. Perversely, Cecile’s righteous fury began to dissipate. She whipped it up again.

  “I told this Madame Fan of Dulcie’s purse only yesterday and you use my words in such a way? How does it make me to look, monsieur? I am now a traitor to my people and if I will confess it, I must lose the only friends I have in the world.”

  His face changed and he sucked in a breath. “I had not thought of it in quite those terms.”

  Cecile released the sofa back and banged closed fists on it instead. “Naturally you do not. You think only of your need, your duty. Oh, I know how it is, monsieur. It is duty which drives the informers to denounce my father, no? A man who did no harm in the world, but much good. But duty needs sacrifices, yes?”

  There was a flare at his eyes. “Your father’s fate bears no comparison to these circumstances, mademoiselle. I seek to right a wrong here.”

  “So also did they. Or so they believed. That makes it not just or fair. Nor is it just that you took my words for this — this humiliation.”

  He flung away from the mantel, an expression of severity in his face though his tone was quiet, if clipped. “What would you have me do, mademoiselle? Ask them to show me their purses? Do you think if one of your players had stolen Dulcie’s gold that he would produce it for my inspection?”

  Ignoring the bulk of this very reasonable demand, Cecile pounced on the one thing that caught her attention. “How do you know it was stolen?”

  “It wasn’t in her reticule. I checked with the doctor.”

  “But how do you know she did not give it to the man?”

  “Whether she gave it or he stole it, the point is whether he has it, is it not?”

  Triumph lit in her breast. “But he has it not, that is seen. You did not find it.”

  “Unfortunately not.”

  “Then you have wasted your time and embarrassed me to no purpose,” she accused with relish.

  His eyes, usually so mild, kindled. “Is that all you care for? I thought your grief was genuine, Cecile, but it appears I was mistaken if it is nothing to you that Dulcie’s murderer is caught.”

  Heat flooded her face and her bosom raged with a fury she knew was born of guilt. Her voice turned husky. “You have no right to say this of me.”

  For a moment the spark held. Then it died out of his eyes and he sighed, throwing out a hand. “No, I have not. I apologise.” His hand turned, the palm now an invitation. “Come. Sit, if you please. Let us begin again.”

  She felt grudging, but her innate sense of justice would not permit her to maintain her recalcitrant attitude. She came around the sofa and, pulling her wrap about her, sat on the edge of it. Looking up, she found the colonel’s large frame all too intimidating and pointed to the chair opposite as, without thinking, she switched to English.

  “Please to sit also, monsieur. It is uncomfortable for me to have you tower like this.”

  He dropped into the indicated chair and grinned suddenly. A sliver like the shock of ice shot through Cecile’s veins.

  “All too apt a word, Cecile. My name is Tretower.”

  It was a mild coincidence, but she could not prevent the tiny smile. His use of her name had an odd tingling effect upon her senses.

  “But I wish you will call me George.”

  She did not at once avail herself of the invitation, though the name echoed in her head as he said it. She knew she would find it difficult to manage the hard “G” and was conscious of a fleeting hope he would not mind her using the French pronunciation.

  “It is for this you wished to see me?”

  The humour died out of his face. “That, and a few details you neglected to tell me before.”

  Her warmer feeling towards him vanished. “Yes, you would have me betray Dulcie.”

  He eyed her in a fashion she could not read. “You set an inordinate store by treachery and betrayal, mademoiselle. I dare say you have reason enough.”

  She did not know whether to be annoyed or placated. “It is of all things what I detest.”

  “Understandably. But I must beg you to consider this. The more you withhold, the more difficult you make it for me to discover who killed your friend.”

  Again she could not prevent herself from smiling. “Eh bien, it is a difficulty for me, Monsieur Georges, that your sense common makes me to become hot inside when I know the words you speak ought instead to make me reasonable.”

  He laughed, the lines creasing
at the corners of his eyes in a way she found peculiarly attractive. “I am sorry if that is the case. I’m afraid my commonplace mind jumps always to the reasonable response.”

  She was conscious of softening within her. “I do not think your mind is common, Georges. I would say it is keen.”

  To her amusement he reddened. “Well, I must thank you for that concession at least.”

  “Concession?”

  His mouth twisted in a wry fashion. “I had not looked for compliments from you, Cecile, matters being as they are.”

  All vestige of resentment had left her, rather to her own surprise. “But did you not say we must begin again?”

  “I did and I am glad you are willing.”

  “Peutêtre.”

  “I’ll take perhaps. May I ask you what I wish to know?”

  She was touched that he made it a request. There was no denying he was a gentleman in the true sense, even if duty forced him into a tougher mould. Truth to tell, she was not wholly averse from the strength that mould depicted. He was a man one might rely on, that was seen.

  “I am ready, monsieur. Ask as you will.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “French or English?”

  “As you please. I am good with English. Madame has made me learn and Dulcie…” She faltered, drew a breath and spoke in a firm tone. “Dulcie has helped me. She is very much my friend, even that her conduct is against those principles I have myself learned from a child.”

  Why she told him Cecile did not know. It slipped into her mind she could not bear him to think her morals were of the ilk of the players, although she did not despise them for it. It became imperative to make this clear.

  “I would not have you to suppose I blame Dulcie. Nor the others. Even the players who behave without care of their reputation, like Jasper. This life of the vagabond it is difficult for them. They live strangely and do not have opportunity as do people who stay in one place. Alors, and men, they have a bad idea of the actrice, you understand? Even that they do not fall, the men suppose they will do so and they do not scruple to make the seduction.”

  To her surprise, George made no derogatory remark. “That’s exactly what I wanted to ask you, Cecile. I have learned of several gentlemen, followers we call them, who favoured Dulcie. It is possible one of these seduced her. Is there anything you remember that might help me? Anything at all. Something she said perhaps? A name she may have mentioned. Or did you ever see her leaving the theatre with a man?”

  Flashing images sang through Cecile’s head. Without pause for thought she caught at them, spilling their content.

  “Ah, oui, y voila. The one with the nose large, I think of the military as you, but he wears no uniform. A big laugh he has and makes words well so that Dulcie is flattered. Once I heard him, but Dulcie does not answer, only blushing and she hurries me away. She whispers then that he tries to make her go with him but she will not.”

  She looked across to find George intent, frowning. “When was this, do you recall?”

  She shifted her shoulders, unable to place the time. “I do not remember précisement, but perhaps some weeks since.”

  “Did Dulcie meet him at any time after that? He is here in Weymouth at the moment.”

  Startled, she stared. “I cannot say. If she does, she does not tell me. But he is here? What man is he then?”

  “Captain Edgcott, though I should doubt of his ever having seen active service.”

  There was contempt in the tone and Cecile’s interest caught. “Ah, you do not like this man.”

  Surprise flickered in his eyes. “No, I don’t. He’s a Captain Sharp, if I don’t miss my guess, as ready to inveigle young men into dangerous play as to use his dubious military title to flatter and seduce women. I should be delighted to pin this murder on him.”

  Cecile warmed to him, the more pulled by this evidence of right thinking. The man had integrity. She could not let it pass nevertheless.

  “Alors, it is not proven Dulcie was with him at all.”

  “No, more’s the pity. Anyone else?”

  She smiled. “But yes, mon colonel. You have said, no? Dulcie, she is si belle and the gentlemen will try for her, is it not so?”

  He gave a sigh that sounded quite exasperated. “Unfortunately, it is so. Can you think of any individual in particular other than Edgcott?”

  Another flash of memory cut in. “I do not know the name, but Dulcie speaks of one who is kind, as she says. Perhaps older? I remember she said if she was of a better birth perhaps she becomes belle-mère — I do not know the English word.”

  “Stepmother?” He snapped his fingers. “Charlton! Yes, I understand he was an admirer. A good fellow. Not my first choice for a murderer, I must say.”

  She smiled at that. “You would say this wicked one cannot be a man you like? In this case, Georges, how will I bear it if it is one of our people?”

  His brows snapped together. “These players? You are fond of one of the men?”

  Quick to hear the note of jealousy, Cecile’s pulses quickened. Then this colonel liked her more than a little. She opted for truth. “Not in such a way, Georges, as you think.”

  “You don’t know what I think.”

  She met his eyes, unblinking and direct. “Yes, I know it.”

  He did not drop his gaze, but his colour darkened slowly and a rueful look overspread his countenance. “Feminine intuition, I suppose?”

  She did not answer, feeling perfectly certain for the briefest moment that George Tretower was her future. And then the certainty left her and her heart hammered a rapid retreat as she dropped her gaze. She felt acutely conscious of his maleness, all at once remembering her unconventional state of undress. Unable to help herself, she folded her arms across her breasts and pushed back into the sofa.

  He sat in frowning silence for a moment, and she watched him from under her lashes, taking an odd pleasure in the strength in face and body both. His figure looked well in the regimentals. She could not help wondering how he would look in civilian clothes. Decidedly inviting, she would guess. She banished her inappropriate thoughts as he spoke again.

  “Did you ever hear of a fellow named Paglesham? Or perhaps only Sir Peregrine? Not well to do, but assiduous in pursuing Dulcie, as I understand it.”

  Puzzled, she stared at him. “How is it you know these things?”

  He gave one of his sudden grins. “I am indebted to Ottilia — Madame Fan as you call her — for the information. She found it out from Rodber. You know of the master of ceremonies?”

  She shrugged. “I know only the players, monsieur. I do not mingle with any other. Madame Ferdinand she keeps me close, you understand? She does not wish that any should know me for a player. When Monsieur Ferdinand he tries to make me go upon the boards, it is madame who tells him I will not. It is not my wish to do so, and I have said, but only madame makes him to stop.”

  His brows were drawn together as he studied her, as it seemed to Cecile.

  “She supported you because of your rank? She did not think it fitting?”

  Cecile gave an unhappy little sigh. “She thinks one day perhaps someone will come for me. She says it cannot be that all my family are taken. We travel, you understand, and she hears much news. Madame Ferdinand says there are more who escape, émigrés as you say. She supposes one may look for me.”

  “But you don’t think it, do you?”

  His voice was curiously harsh and Cecile all but flinched. She answered with truth.

  “Non. Me, I think all are gone. I know of my father, my brothers, cousins, all. Men, women, children. They do not care, the canaille. They take everyone. That is why my mother tries to save me. She has seen what happens in the chateaux nearby. Immediatement, she packs for me a valise and she dresses me in the guise of a servant and she takes me to the players. Me voici.”

  “And thank God you are here, Cecile.”

  The low-toned comment was accompanied by a hand put out towards her. She laid hers into it and it
closed warmth about her fingers. She did not dare look into his eyes until the pricking in her own subsided. He did not say a word more, only held her hand with gentleness and she was again struck by his innate kindness. Impelled, she looked up at last.

  “You are not a man upon whom this duty sits well, Georges. You do not like it that you must catch a murderer, n’est-ce pas?”

  His grip tightened all at once and he let her go. “I don’t at all. Nor am I equipped for the task. That’s why I asked my friend Fanshawe to bring his wife here. She is practically an expert.”

  Astonished, Cecile stared at him. “How can this be?”

  He grinned. “Ottilia will have it she falls into these things by accident. But if you ask Francis, he is convinced she hunts them out by some sort of mysterious sixth sense.”

  She was amused. “But she is a lady.”

  “An unusual lady. Rather like you. One does not expect to find an aristocrat among a company of players.”

  Shock threaded through her. “How is it you know I am of them?”

  “I know your class has been targeted. At this time I believe the citizens of France are prepared to denounce anyone at all, but they were originally after the elite.”

  “It is true. You will not speak of it if I tell you my name?”

  “Certainly not, if you will entrust it to me.”

  “I am Mademoiselle de Benoit-Falaise. My father he was le Marquis de Falaise. But now I am only Cecile Benoit, you understand.”

  “I understand perfectly.” He rose and gave her a deep bow. “Mademoiselle.”

  Cecile took his proffered hand and rose to her feet, feeling ridiculously as if she was in a ballroom instead of bare-toed in a shabby lodging in a seaside resort.

  George smiled, that warm smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and sent a flush of heat through her veins all over again.

  “I must go.” He half turned and then frowned, snapping his fingers. “The deuce! You did not say if you remembered anything of Sir Peregrine Paglesham.”

  Regretfully, Cecile shook her head. “I do not think so. They were many, these men who admired Dulcie.”

  The colonel looked a trifle cynical. “So I would suppose, given the general praise for Dulcibella’s beauty.”