The Candlelit Coffin (Lady Fan Mystery Book 4)

by Elizabeth Bailey

  “I am sure it must have been a shocking blow to you, sir. Particularly when you had known the girl in the flesh, so to speak.”

  The man’s hand dropped, his eye suddenly keen, all trace of distress vanishing. “What are you saying, Lord Francis?”

  Francis pretended surprise, spreading his hands. “Why, nothing untoward, sir. I assumed, from your words, that you had succeeded with the wench. Forgive me if I presume too far.”

  Sir Peregrine appeared to recollect himself. His mien of dismay returned. “No, no, you are right, of course. Perhaps I should not feel it quite as strongly had I not taken matters to their natural conclusion.” He looked apologetic. “Villainous to have done so, as it now seems.”

  Villainous indeed, if his was the hand that wielded the fatal knife. But he was at least confessing to having bedded the girl. If he spoke truth. Francis fired a broadside.

  “It would appear you were not the only man to make the conquest, sir.”

  It missed the target. Paglesham sighed. “Yes, that rather leaps to the eye. Is it callous of me to feel chagrined? I believed she had developed a tendre for me alone, but the wiles of women can never be fully plumbed.”

  “You think she played you false?”

  “I would have kept her, sir.”

  Evading the question? “As your mistress?”

  He sighed again. “She would not give up the stage. Dulcibella enjoyed the adulation, you must know. My persuasions fell upon deaf ears, I fear.”

  Francis dared a step further, adopting a confidential manner as unpleasant in the doing as the whole of this conversation was proving to be. But needs must.

  “You don’t suppose she was holding out for a ring upon her finger, do you, Paglesham?”

  There was no mistaking the fellow’s distaste. A haughty look overspread his features. “My dear Lord Francis! As if I could contemplate such a union.”

  “Though such has been before known, sir.”

  “Not by me, I assure you, sir.”

  “Yet would your Dulcibella have known that? Might she not have cherished hopes, once she was certain of your regard?”

  Discomfort entered the fellow’s eyes. He blustered a trifle. “Well, there is no accounting for the whims of females, after all. No, no, I cannot think it. She was naïve, yes, but not as foolish as all that.”

  “Foolish enough to trust someone ill-disposed, however,” Francis said on a tart note before he could stop himself.

  Sir Peregrine’s round cheeks flew colour and his gaze veered between fear and fire. “I do not know what you imply, sir, but —”

  “Good God, sir, you take me up wrong,” Francis cut in swiftly. “One cannot but be dismayed at the manner of this poor girl’s having been taken in. You, sir, have said how deeply you feel it.”

  Paglesham relaxed again. “I do, my lord.” He seemed to gather his dignity. “I, too, have wondered, as do we all. Who did this thing? I venture to think it must have been one of her colleagues.”

  “Because of the theatrical nature of the undertaking?”

  Sir Peregrine gestured in a vague way. “Jealousy can be a powerful urge, Lord Francis. You must be conscious of it.”

  “Not personally, no.”

  The fellow’s mouth worked and a faintly bitter note entered in. “It is unlikely you would, sir, dare I say? With all your advantages.”

  Francis produced a spurious look of sympathy. “I have been fortunate perhaps. It is certainly unlucky for you that such a promising liaison was cut short in so brutal a manner.”

  A return to the murder appeared to afford Paglesham little satisfaction. His discomfort became apparent when he once again dug into his fob pocket for his watch. He consulted it and gave an apologetic cough.

  “You must excuse me, Lord Francis. I have stayed beyond my time.” He managed an obsequious smile as he replaced his pocket-watch. “I must count myself honoured by your lordship’s kind interest in my affairs, but I fear I may have been indiscreet.”

  Francis gave a slight bow. “You may rely upon my discretion, Sir Peregrine.”

  He received a punctilious bow in return. “I do not doubt it for a moment, my lord. I will wish you good day.”

  Francis replied suitably and watched the man hurry out of the library. He was certainly rattled. Was he regretting having admitted so much? Whether the man was a fool or a murderer remained a question. No doubt Tillie would have an opinion.

  It was likely too early to return to the lodging. His wife had warned him to give them a couple of hours. Having no desire to waste his time in the Assembly Rooms, Francis opted to search out a coffee house. He bethought him of the place mentioned by Charlton. Mrs Horniman’s? He might with advantage discover how to find it.

  With this end in mind, he left the library and headed for the nearest tavern, which proved to be The Black Dog, a little way along the road from the theatre. Entering the taproom with the intention of asking for directions, Francis was brought up short as he spied his employee Hemp, deep in conversation with a set of men he vaguely recognised. He recalled Tillie’s scheme for her steward to befriend the players. Had he found out anything of value?

  At that moment, Hemp turned his head and saw him. A slight frown creased Hemp’s brow and Francis gave him a nod. He turned away, murmured to the good-looking young fellow who was engaging his attention and, rising from the settle, came across.

  Francis saw the youth’s eyes follow and catch upon him with a look of blatant interest.

  “Did you want me, milord?”

  Francis turned his attention to Hemp. “Is that insolent young fellow one of the players?”

  A slight smile appeared. “Jasper Jefferies, milord. A miscreant boy, but one cannot help liking him. He is a major talent and an enfant terrible at one and the same time.”

  Francis regarded Hemp with a rise of reluctant interest. Hitherto, although he had known the man was both intelligent and educated, Hemp had not been forthcoming, treating him with the distant deference due to his employer. Was this how he spoke with Tillie? Francis was obliged to suppress a faint resentment. There could be no occasion to be stupidly irritated because his wife enjoyed a comfortable relationship with the fellow. Tillie had never thought of him as a servant. Easy to forget he had means of his own and had agreed to take the position for reasons that escaped Francis. He changed tack.

  “I came in to ask directions to Mrs Horniman’s coffee house.”

  Hemp’s frown reappeared. “I know it, milord. I cannot think it an establishment milord could enjoy.”

  Francis cocked an eyebrow. “I thought as much. I’m not going there for enjoyment. It figures in this business and I might as well inspect the place.”

  Hemp gave a slight nod. “Would milord wish me to take him there?”

  “Why, do you suppose I need protection?”

  Hemp cracked a smile. “I doubt it. I am certain milord could give a good account of himself at need.”

  Irritation pushed Francis into speech. “Will you cease this oppressive punctilio, Hemp, for pity’s sake! You’ll drive me mad.”

  The grin widened. “As milord pleases.”

  Francis threw up his eyes. “Very well, if you are done with these players, you may as well show me this coffee house.”

  “Let me make my excuses, milord, and I will be with you.”

  Relieved he had dropped the affectation of extreme servitude in his address, Francis watched him take leave of the group, with evident bonhomie as he slapped the boy Jasper on the back and shook hands. Exchanging banter? The laughter suggested as much. He had clearly taken Tillie’s request to heart and seemed in danger of becoming the life and soul of the party.

  Hemp led him into the back streets of the town, which, like certain areas of the capital, were dingy, dirty and ill-kept. So far he had known only the fashionable end and it was quite a revelation to see how Weymouth changed within a couple of streets.

  “You would hardly think it the same town,” he remarked.


  “True, milord. We approach the belly of an underworld in this district.”

  “How far down? Thieves and prostitutes? Or is it merely the haunt of lesser men?”

  “Mrs Horniman’s is respectable, milord, but within a short distance there are taverns of less repute.”

  “You have visited them?”

  “One or two, where it is best to keep your purse well down in your pocket. I would not advocate your venturing there, milord.”

  “To make myself a target? I doubt I should find what I was looking for, in any event.”

  Hemp gave him a curious glance as he took a turn into a narrow street, its kennel unkempt and dirty, the huddled buildings smoke-stained with grimy windows.

  “May I ask what it is you wish to find, milord?”

  Francis looked about him with disfavour. “Is Mrs Horniman’s here?”

  “No, milord. I took a short detour to show you this tavern.”

  He stopped by a dingy building with a swinging sign proclaiming its calling. The Old Fiddler looked to be just the place where one might expect to be robbed or cheated.

  “How in the world do you come to know this appalling establishment, Hemp?”

  Hemp grinned. “The boy Jasper led me here. He is ripe for any mischief and the barmaid is both pretty and accommodating.”

  “Good God! Disease-ridden too, I should think.”

  “Indeed, milord. I advised him to leave well alone, but he’s a reckless lad and hot at hand.”

  “He’ll come to grief soon enough if he follows that path.” But his interest in the player Jasper was but tepid. “It’s providential you know the place, Hemp. Her ladyship wants to find the fellow who dug the grave for our murderer.”

  Hemp eyed the tavern. “I could try, milord, but later perhaps. I would think such persons are more likely to slip in under cover of darkness.”

  “Very well, but don’t run your head into danger, my friend.”

  “The one advantage of my colour in this country, milord, is that I fright the lower orders.”

  Francis had to laugh. “So you may, though by my reckoning few would care to tangle with a young fellow of your height and obvious strength, Hemp.”

  “Except Jasper, who has not given up his ambition to take a few punches from me.” He began to retrace his steps. “Mrs Horniman’s is on the main street a little farther down from where we turned off, milord.”

  The coffee house proved to be a reasonably well-kept establishment with a large, open area in front of the fireplace as well as a series of booths along the walls, several of which were occupied. The proprietress cut a matronly figure, bustling to and fro with pots and platters and exchanging the time of day with patrons of the middling sort, tradesmen and the like. Smoke wafted from a couple of elderly fellows seated on a settle near the fire, sucking long pipes and engaged in desultory discussion. Behind the counter, a thin man of middle age took orders, calling out to a couple of waiters who toiled in and out of a green baize door with kettles and filled trays.

  It was a comfortable scene which lacked the formality of places he might in general frequent, and Francis understood why Charlton chose it for a discreet rendezvous with an actress.

  He picked a booth near the centre and slid onto the bench on one side, signing to Hemp, who was hovering, to do the same on the other. “Don’t stand on ceremony, my friend. I’m no slave master and you’re a man of independent means, are you not?”

  “I am still your servant, milord.” But he slipped into place opposite.

  “In fact you are my wife’s servant, if anything. It was her idea to offer you a place.”

  “For which I am ever grateful, milord. I owe milady more than I can say.”

  “That’s why you stay, I take it.”

  Hemp gave an odd laugh. “Also because it is good to be again part of a family, milord.”

  Francis warmed to the man. He had not taken time before to draw him out. He had given in to Tillie’s request with reluctance, but perhaps Hemp was more of an asset to his household than he had supposed.

  Their arrival in the coffee house had not gone unremarked, but there was a perceptible pause before Mrs Horniman, if the bustling woman was she, stepped up to enquire their pleasure. Was it Hemp who caused the hesitation? Some people were inordinately wary of persons so obviously different from themselves.

  “Good day to you, sir, and how may we serve you?”

  The practised words tripped off the woman’s tongue with ease, but her eyes slid from Francis to Hemp and back again. Wondering at their being in company together?

  “Coffee, if you please. No cream or sugar. Hemp?”

  His dark gaze slid to the proprietress. “I will take the same, madam, I thank you, but with a little sugar.”

  The deep voice with its cultured accent visibly took the woman aback. She blinked, turned back to Francis with an obvious effort, and dropped a curtsey.

  “Would you care for anything with it, sir? We have a variety of cakes and buns.”

  “Nothing, I thank you.” Francis seized his chance. “Are you Mrs Horniman?”

  Surprise flickered in a pair of pale blue eyes. “I am that, sir.”

  “Lord Charlton recommended your establishment.”

  Her face showed immediate consternation. “Did he, sir?”

  A trifle tart? Interesting. Had she disapproved of Charlton’s liaison? Or was it the murder she was thinking of? Before he could decide how to bring up the subject, Mrs Horniman cut off the opportunity.

  “I’ll fetch the coffees, sir.”

  She bustled off and Francis looked across at Hemp. “She knows about the girl’s death.”

  “Indeed, milord. A few days since there was nothing else talked of in here.”

  “I forgot you had been here before.”

  “Not to drink, milord. Jasper showed me the place because Lewis Payne — he is the older player — said he would not come here again until the murder was forgotten. He and another called Aisling were subjected to much question and a good deal of lurid speculation.”

  Francis regarded him with some severity. “I trust you have not repeated such to her ladyship?”

  A wry look crossed the other’s face. “Only what is pertinent, milord. I do not trouble milady with unnecessary detail.”

  “Thank the Lord for that.” Not that Tillie would turn a hair, but he could well imagine the gist of that sort of gossip. Despite her ease with people from all walks of life, his wife had a prudish streak. He knew also from their whisperings in the night, when Tillie’s guard was down, that the unfortunate fate of the dead girl’s unborn baby was distressing to her.

  With his mind back on the murder, he seized opportunity. “Have you gleaned anything valuable from the players?”

  Hemp’s gaze narrowed in thought. “My suspicion still runs on Robert Collins, milord, although milady does not credit his involvement.”

  “So I understand, and her reasons are sound. Why do you think him guilty?”

  “He alone of the players cannot move on from the death. Wat tells me he is habitually morose, but his mien is woeful to my mind.”

  “That may mean only a strong attachment to Dulcie,” Francis objected.

  “Or strong remorse. He is also shaky and nervous. I remarked it particularly. Lewis did also, for he jibed at the fellow to take his own counsel and dose himself with something.”

  “Laudanum?”

  “I do not know, milord, but Lewis tells me it is Rob who quacks the company for any minor ill or injury. Apparently there are unseen hazards behind the façade we see upon the stage.”

  “Do not all the men realise they are under suspicion?” Francis asked, pursuing his own thought.

  “The others tend to dismiss the possibility of the colonel bringing the deed home to them, milord. Rob alone fears his claim of being in bed at the time cannot be proven.”

  Hemp’s harping on Rob, whom he clearly disliked, was interrupted by the arrival of Mrs Horn
iman, who set down on the table between them a coffee pot with two cups, a jug of cream and a bowl of sugar. The woman curtsied and her tone was more mellow.

  “I hope you will find it to your satisfaction, sir. Pray call me if there is anything amiss.”

  “I thank you, I shall do so, though it does not look as if we will want for anything.” A bonhomous smile was cast upon Francis and the woman was about to turn away. “Stay a moment, if you will.”

  She turned an enquiring look upon him. “Sir?”

  “Are you acquainted with Sir Peregrine Paglesham?”

  The name appeared to make no impression. “If I am, sir, I do not know the name.” Her tone became pointed. “Not all my patrons see fit to tell me who they are.”

  Francis gave a wry smile, but did not enlighten her. “But you know Lord Charlton, I think?”

  Mrs Horniman sucked in her cheeks. “I cannot be expected to keep note of all who come here. We are a busy house, sir.” With which tart utterance, she nodded, unsmiling, and moved away.

  Having served Francis, Hemp dropped sugar lumps into his cup. “May I ask, milord, why you enquire of this man? Paglesham, was it?”

  “Why, do you know something of him?”

  Hemp shook his head, stirring his coffee. “Nothing, milord.”

  “He’s a suspect, Hemp. One of the girl Dulcie’s admirers. I talked with him just before I met you.” He saw surprise in the other’s face. “Did you think I had no task to perform as well as you? I am detailed to question the gentleman falling into my own sphere.”

  Hemp regarded him steadily. “I remember you participated before, milord.”

  He had almost forgotten the occasion of their meeting when Hemp was of the household where Tillie had become involved in a suspicious death. Francis grinned.

  “I get dragged in willy-nilly, my friend. However, on this occasion I can blame none but myself.”

  A large shadow fell across the table, interrupting them. A heavy-set man had paused by the booth.

  “Lord Francis Fanshawe, is it not?”

  Francis looked up into a harsh-featured countenance with wide jowls, a jutting nose and a pair of thick brows over deep-set eyes. Recognition flashed, and his interest flared. He feigned ignorance.