The Candlelit Coffin (Lady Fan Mystery Book 4)

by Elizabeth Bailey

  Ottilia could not be surprised Cecile had not confided all this. It was evident her upbringing had imposed a very different morality upon her than she found amongst the players. Horribly embarrassing, to be obliged to speak of it to the colonel of militia investigating the murder. That she did so now was an indication of a growth of feeling towards George, which must gratify him. If he realised it.

  But she was at one with him that this piece of the puzzle threw suspicion on a man resident in Weymouth rather than one travelling with the company. Yet one with knowledge of it, enough to set the scene in a distinctly theatrical fashion. The thought led her back to the earlier exchange.

  “Tell me more of this Fitzgerald, Cecile.”

  She shrugged again. “I cannot. It is better you should speak with Monsieur Ferdinand. Or perhaps Madame, for she it is who helps him with arranging matters of the theatre. Moreover, I think he is like a friend with both.”

  Ottilia looked to George. “Too much older than Dulcie then perhaps? Is he of an age with The Grand Ferdinando and his wife?”

  “Good Lord, no. I should not think Fitzgerald is much above forty. Perhaps a year or so less.”

  Ottilia was dubious. “In which case, he would need to possess a deal of charm to beguile a girl as youthful as this Dulcie.” She saw a shadow cross Cecile’s face and reached to lay a hand on hers where it rested in her lap. “Whoever he is, we will find him out, I promise you.”

  Cecile looked from Ottilia to George and gave a tiny sigh. “You desire to meet with Kate, madame. Is it that you will also speak with Madame Ferdinand?”

  Cheered by this ready acquiescence, Ottilia agreed. “There is also the older actress, is there not. Hilde, was it?”

  “It is for Hildegard. She has been for many years with the players.”

  In which case, she might well be a useful resource. “Do you think all three ladies would accept an invitation to drink tea with me? You may say you met me by chance perhaps.”

  The fire leapt back into Cecile’s eyes. “But no, madame. I will ask them, but I will tell them why it is you wish to speak with them.”

  With which Ottilia was obliged to be content, reflecting that it might after all save a deal of awkwardness.

  Chapter Seven

  The dowager Lady Polbrook was found to have abandoned her prey in favour of a rubber of whist with several valetudinarians of advanced years. Francis, with his wife’s request in mind, hunted for Lord Charlton.

  The spacious Assembly Room was fairly crowded, with sea-bathing and breakfast well over for the day and the weather being a trifle inclement for excursions. The Room’s lofty and elegant proportions allowed the noise of chatter to dissipate somewhat. A deal of light came in from the windows, which made it easier to look among the patrons, either promenading, standing in shifting groups or sitting in the chairs provided about the walls or, like his mother, at the card tables in the adjoining room.

  He spotted Paglesham, who was talking with a young lady chaperoned by a dragon of a female, and then saw Charlton just coming in from the door leading to the entrance hall. Francis moved across to intercept him.

  “A little chilly out, is it?”

  Lord Charlton was older than Francis by a year or two but had an air about him of middle age. His figure had begun to thicken, although he carried it well, and a slight plumpness to his cheeks did not detract from a countenance generally held to be well-looking, if unremarkable. He appeared ready enough to talk.

  “Yes, there is a trifle of breeze. I was checking to see if their nurse has taken my girls back inside.”

  Francis registered the anxious note. A good subject to begin with. “How many girls have you?”

  “Just the two. Delightful monkeys they are, but young yet. I would not trouble my head over Sophy, she’s a robust creature, but little Lizzy is susceptible to colds.”

  Struck by the fellow’s evident affection for his daughters, Francis was conscious of an impulse to dismiss any possibility of his being Dulcie’s murderer. But he had not witnessed Tillie in action for nothing. She would say, and rightly, that fondness for his children did not preclude an act of callous disregard for the life of an importunate lover. A sneaking regret for his own loss crept into Francis’s breast, but he suppressed it. Time enough for him and Tillie to beget another babe.

  “How old are your girls?”

  “Five and seven.”

  Sadly young to have lost their mother. But Francis did not say so. He took the bull by the horns. “I imagine you would be glad to give them a stepmother.”

  Charlton shot him a narrow look. “Yes, if opportunity offers.”

  Francis threw up a deprecating hand. “I meant no offence.”

  “None taken, Fanshawe.” A wry smile came. “It is not for want of applicants, you understand.”

  “I imagine not,” returned Francis with a laugh. “You are scarcely ineligible.”

  “And thought to be hanging out for a second wife, since I have no direct heir. I would, however, be loath to inflict the wrong sort of female upon my girls.”

  Like Dulcibella Ash? Although no man of Charlton’s stature would marry an actress. Unless he was besotted and heedless of her reception amongst the ladies of the ton. There seemed no way of introducing the subject without speaking of it directly. Francis abandoned pretence.

  “I wish you will tell me what attraction there was in this deceased actress.”

  Charlton’s pleasant expression changed. “You raised this subject before, Fanshawe. May I ask why?”

  “I will tell you,” said Francis, giving him look for look. “Let us retire to somewhere more quiet.”

  Frowning, the other followed him as he threaded a path to the main doors and slipped into the entrance hall beyond. It was occupied, but large enough to admit of a degree of privacy in a quiet corner by the window that let onto the street outside.

  Charlton’s eyes held a less friendly light and a trifle of challenge. “Well?”

  Eyeing him now with interest, Francis took the plunge. “You know Colonel Tretower of the militia here, I take it?”

  “What of it?”

  “He’s a friend of mine.”

  A riffle of something — dismay? — passed across the fellow’s face. “Hence your interest? I had not supposed a civilian might be called upon to assist Tretower in his task.”

  Unwilling to throw his wife to the lions by spreading her involvement abroad, Francis prevaricated. “Hardly that. He merely supposed a discreet word between equals might clear up a couple of details.”

  Charlton’s air remained distant. “Such as?”

  Checking with a swift glance round that they were not overheard, Francis lowered his voice. “You are known to have been one of the girl’s admirers, sir.”

  “Among many, sir.”

  “But only a few who ventured to approach Dulcibella Ash via the stage door.”

  The man’s face hardened and his tone was icy rage. “Are you accusing me, Fanshawe?”

  “I am pointing out that you would do better to reveal the extent of your involvement with the girl.”

  “Or I may find myself standing trial for this singularly unpleasant murder, I take it?”

  The confrontation began to feel dangerous and Francis’s soldierly instincts kicked in. He was not here to do battle. “I did not say so. Nor did I imply any such outcome.”

  “Then?”

  “You may prove a valuable witness.”

  The other’s rigid pose relaxed a trifle. “How so?”

  “Your candour, if you will allow me to say so, will likely exonerate you. Remaining obdurate can only make it more certain Tretower will be obliged to approach you directly. I cannot think you would relish an official request.”

  There could be no doubt, from his expression, that this rang with Charlton in no small degree. Nevertheless, he hesitated, his mouth pinched, his cheeks sucked in. Francis held his gaze, waiting.

  At last he blew a resigned breath. “What
do you wish to know?”

  Relieved, and a little surprised at his acquisition of a trifle of the ruthlessness Tillie employed in such circumstances, Francis reverted to a tone of friendly interest.

  “You are spoken of as having been kind, a quality this Dulcie appreciated, which suggests you spent time with her. When and how much time?”

  The direct question flustered Charlton. “How the devil should I remember how much time?”

  “An approximation will do.”

  The other shifted his head in irritation. “An hour or so perhaps. I gave her a supper after a performance.”

  “Where and when?”

  “Good God, I don’t know. A few weeks ago? There’s a neat little coffee house situated out of the way of the fashionable quarter, if one can call it that. Weymouth is a dirty little town once you move away from the Rooms and the vicinity of this famous Esplanade. But if you are prepared to negotiate ill-lit streets you may find the odd gem amongst the dross.”

  “Where is this gem and what is it called?”

  “It is Mrs Horniman’s place. You’ll find it a few houses down from the pawnbroker’s shop.”

  Francis asked for no more directions since George was bound to know the place. “Did you take the girl there more than once?”

  Charlton’s annoyance grew. “Yes, if you must know. I had met her last year, by accident. She was running in the rain and nearly came to grief and I happened by. I recognised her from the theatre and … well, one thing led to another.”

  Deeply suspicious now, Francis pressed him further. “How far did it go, Charlton? You had much better speak out.”

  “How the devil do you suppose it went, man? Lord knows I’m no saint, but I’m no lecher either. I sought no favours, if that is what you seek to discover.”

  “Never? She was, as I understand it, eminently desirable. And, by all accounts, available.”

  Charlton bristled, speaking in a low but vibrant tone. “That’s where you’re wrong, Fanshawe. Dulcibella was an innocent. Oh yes, I know there are men who consider actresses fair game, but I’m a father of daughters. I know what I would do to any man who defiled one of mine. As for that poor girl, she was little more than a child. I tell you, I’d like the chance of a dark night to meet the villain who killed her. I’d send him straight to hell!”

  There was no mistaking the fellow’s sincerity. His face had turned ruddy, his breast heaving with emotion.

  “God willing, that is exactly what Tretower will do,” said Francis lightly. “I must thank you for your frankness.”

  “I’ll be franker still, sir. I tried to discourage Dulcibella from going apart with any of her so-called admirers. I would not trust that fellow Edgcott to hold the line. And as for Paglesham —”

  “Why do you say that? What do you know of him?”

  “More than I wish to, I can tell you. A jackanapes lionising among the ladies, who encourage him merely for his pretty face.”

  Was this jealousy? Had he cut Charlton out with a prospective leg-shackle? But that was scarcely germane.

  “Do you suppose Paglesham was granted favours by this Dulcibella?”

  A troubled look came into Charlton’s features. “I fear it. She was a trifle dazzled, I believe. And there is the old adage, like to like. She was not a female of great intelligence, though one could hardly expect a chit of her age to recognise a coxcomb’s flattery.”

  “But you don’t know for a fact that she spent time with the fellow?”

  Charlton shrugged. “I saw him hanging around the theatre on more than one occasion. He was by the stage door when I escorted Dulcibella the night we had supper. But Edgcott was quite as assiduous. Of the two, I thought she preferred Paglesham, and who can blame her?”

  Who indeed? “This was when you tried to get some sense into her head, I take it?”

  “With little success, I fear. She laughed and blushed and protested she could take care of herself.” A deep sigh escaped the man. “A manifestly false assertion as it turns out, poor child.”

  It was worse than he thought perhaps, since he did not appear to know about the pregnancy. George had evidently kept that piece of scandalous news out of the public consciousness. A wise move, since it could only increase the sensationalism of the murder.

  Francis was inclined to eliminate Charlton from the list of suspects. Either he was sincere or he was a better actor than Dulcibella had been an actress.

  “I will thank you again, Charlton. An enlightening discussion.”

  The man’s gaze narrowed. “May I take it that Tretower will not pursue me?”

  “I cannot answer for him, but I will relay all you have told me.”

  A shrewd look came his way. “You are a cautious fellow, Fanshawe.”

  Francis thought it prudent to refrain from comment. “Shall we return to the main room? I must ascertain whether my mother has need of me.”

  The other took the dismissal in good part, which rather enhanced Francis’s opinion of his innocence than otherwise. He decided, as they returned to the crowded assembly, to refrain from treating with Paglesham until he knew just what the dowager had discovered. She was forthcoming enough once Francis had managed to extract her from her absorption at the whist table, which he did with a fictitious reminder.

  “If you wish to take that walk along the Esplanade, ma’am, it will be well to do so before this breeze gets up any sharper.”

  The dowager gave him one of her eagle looks and Francis returned it with a meaning one of his own. She nodded.

  “Presently.” Then she addressed her companions. “This must be my last rubber, gentlemen.”

  “Just as well,” barked the crusty old general who was playing against Lady Polbrook. “Ruining me you are, m’lady Syb.”

  His mother’s black eyes regarded the fellow with irritation. “I wish you will not address me with that ridiculous appellation, Leo.”

  “Address you any way I choose, m’dear girl. Earned it at my time of life.”

  “I am not your dear girl either.”

  “Yes y’are. Always were.” He threw a twinkling look at Francis. “I might have been your father, boy, if this stubborn female hadn’t turned me down an eon ago.”

  “That will do!”

  “Hoy! Back to the game, if you please.”

  This from his mother’s partner, another of the elderly trio who as she had told her son, had hailed her with enthusiasm upon her first visit.

  “A set of rascals I had the misfortune to know in my youth.”

  Francis had laughed. “What, your cicisbeos?”

  “One of them was. As if your grandfather would have countenanced a marriage with a mere captain of the guards, even had he not already arranged an alliance with Polbrook.”

  But Leo Godfrey had risen high in the ranks and was known to Francis by reputation from his soldiering days. His gallantry towards the dowager would have had Francis bristling if it was not touching, for the old man suffered from an arthritic condition and depended upon an attendant who wheeled him wherever he wanted to go. He was a regular in Weymouth and it occurred to Francis he might know something of the dubious Captain Edgcott.

  “Why do you not accompany us, General?” he suggested when the rubber came to an end with his mother and her partner triumphant.

  The dowager cast him a black look, which he met blandly. She frowned as the losers emptied their pockets and counted out the shillings owing into a convenient receptacle in the table. The general dumped his coins and signalled to his flunkey.

  “No use waiting on me, m’boy. Lidsey will get me out. Catch you up on the Esplanade, Syb, m’dear.”

  No sooner had his mother exited the Rooms on his arm, than Francis found himself under fire. “What in heaven’s name possessed you to invite that wretch, you ninny? Do you suppose I wish to encourage him?”

  Francis cocked an eyebrow. “Are you not enjoying his attentions, Mama?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Attentions indeed. Beside
s, I thought all this jockeying was because you wished to speak to me alone.”

  “I do, but it occurred to me I could usefully pump the general about Edgcott.”

  His mother gave him a shrewd glance. “Ottilia has set you on to sound out the men, has she?”

  “Charlton, yes, which I’ve done. And he directed me to Paglesham, but I wanted to know what you found out before I tackled him.”

  His mother gave out one of her rude explosions of contempt. “A sycophantic coxcomb, who suits his tongue to his company. You know the type.”

  “All too well. What did he tell you?”

  “Nothing to the purpose, the young saucebox. He turned everything I said to suit himself and gave little away.”

  “But did he admit to having courted this Dulcie girl?” asked Francis, impatient.

  “Readily,” said his mother, preparing to step onto the wide spread of the walkway and releasing his arm to pull her shawl more securely around her against the salty wind. “Is that idiot Godfrey on his way? I’ll not remain here to be buffeted at his convenience.”

  “No matter, ma’am. I can take you back to the lodgings, if you prefer, and meet him on my own.”

  The dowager, settling herself once more with a hand in his arm, dismissed this suggestion. “Let me tell you of this Paglesham fellow first. Or rather Sir Peregrine. He had the temerity to correct me, if you please, on the pretext of supposing I had it wrong.”

  Francis grinned appreciatively. “Did you give him pepper?”

  A wry glance came his way from her black eyes. “I would have if I was not on a mission to extract information.”

  “Well, and what did you find out?”

  His mother puffed out another snort. “He would like me to think he was favoured, but he admitted to having a rival or two and was unsurprised at it. According to Paglesham, the girl had few equals.”

  “In looks?”

  “So he claimed. But she had also a deal of charm, an air of innocence — I am quoting the man — which would have done credit to any debutante.”