The Candlelit Coffin (Lady Fan Mystery Book 4)

by Elizabeth Bailey

  “No … get away…”

  “It’s all right, boy. No one’s going to hurt you. Drink this.”

  Cool glass at his lip made him open his mouth. Fiery liquid burst into his throat and he choked.

  Someone pulled him up. “Sit up, boy, come. Try again. Sip it.”

  Presently the boy was able to do as he was bid. This time the liquor went down more smoothly.

  “Pale as a sheet he is, poor lad.” Missus Tetsy? The voice was back to the old sympathetic tone he knew. Perkins struggled to open his eyes. His gaze, still hazy, fell upon the landlady’s well-known features, creased with concern. “There, lad, that’s better.”

  It was better. His head was no longer swimming and though he still felt weak, Perkin was beginning to revive. He glanced about and found he was in a pantry he found vaguely familiar. Missus Tetsy’s bulk obscured most of a pattern of shelving and he was sitting on a bench or box.

  “A little more and you’ll do.”

  It was the deep voice. Memory hit. Perkin turned his head and found the black face still there. The man’s arm was around his shoulders, holding him fast, a glass in his other hand which he brought close to the boy’s mouth.

  “Drink, boy.”

  Perforce, he took another sip, feeling the strength in the arm that held him. He was too weak yet to run. There was no escape. Perkin began to whimper.

  “Don’t, sir … please don’t kill me! I didn’t mean nothing by it.”

  “Lord ’a mercy, what’s he saying? He’s lost his mind!”

  Perkin was beyond making sense of this. He was crying now, unable to think of anything except the hideous nightmare of the visions that had come back to plague him.

  “Don’t kill me, sir… I won’t tell no one, I promise. I ain’t said nothing to no one and I never will. Please, sir…”

  “Hey, hey, what’s this? No one is going to kill you, boy.” The deep voice was soothing. “There’s no need to be afraid of me. I won’t hurt you.”

  Perkin struggled in his grasp and the hold about him relaxed. The boy tried a leap for freedom. His legs buckled and he almost fell.

  “You’d best sit down again, lad,” said Missus Tetsy. “You ain’t fit to go anywhere yet.”

  Sniffing, Perkin allowed himself to be recaptured by Hemp and sank back onto the hard wood with a sob in his throat.

  “What do you want with him, sir?” A trifle of belligerence had entered Missus Tetsy’s voice, but it did not appear to be directed at Perkin. “I’m thankful for your help, yes, carrying him and all, but it seems to me as you ain’t cutting in for his sake.”

  “No, madam,” came the calm reply. “From what he was saying back in the taproom, I believe the boy may have valuable information.”

  This struck at the heart of the boy’s nightmare and he began to tremble.

  “What, Perkin? What could he possibly know that might be of use to anyone, I should like to know?”

  A hand was rubbing at the boy’s back, but the tremors kept coming.

  “I can’t tell you that, madam. But milady will wish to question him.”

  Perkin’s rising fear and astonishment was echoed in the landlady’s voice.

  “Milady? Gracious heaven, whoever do you mean, sir?”

  “Lady Francis Fanshawe, madam. I am her steward. I cannot swear to the boy’s usefulness, but I must insist upon taking him to milady.”

  A strangled cry escaped the boy. “No! I won’t go!”

  The arm came about him again, but this time it was a cuddling hold. The deep voice was gentle. “Come, boy. I mean you no harm. Milady is very kind. There’s nothing to be afraid of. She’ll likely give you a meal. Are you hungry?”

  He was in fact starving, Perkin realised, as the smell of cooking permeating the pantry from the nearby kitchen curled into his nostrils. His mouth watered and he found himself nodding.

  “Excellent. You come along with me, then, and we’ll feed you first.”

  Missus Tetsy laughed. “Fattening the lamb for the slaughter, eh?”

  Perkin wriggled and whimpered again.

  “Don’t frighten the boy more, madam. It’s nothing of the kind. Milady will ask him a few questions, that’s all. See, boy? Will you go with me quietly? I don’t want to have to drag you there.”

  “I won’t have him bullied, sir. He’s not a bad lad. Or leastways, he wasn’t before he took to thieving as I’m certain sure he has.”

  Feeling as if he was between the devil and the deep blue sea, Perkin began to lose all sense of purpose. He was for it, whichever way you looked at it. No point in battling. If he wasn’t for the rope, or if the black fellow didn’t mean to kill him, he’d get a beating for sure. Wouldn’t be the first time.

  “Can you stand, boy?”

  The black man was urging him onto his feet. Perkin sniffed, dragged his sleeve across his nose and got up. He was a trifle shaky still, but the grip on his arm seemed like to keep him from falling over. Giving himself up to fate, Perkin allowed the man to lead him forth.

  Listening with only half an ear to Monsieur Ferdinand’s voluble protestations, Cecile struggled with a recalcitrant conscience. With hindsight, the abrupt change in George could not but pique her vanity. Had he an inkling of how easily she read his moods? Or how she knew on the instant each effect she had upon him?

  No, poor George could not be aware how two years association with the players, watching them work, had honed her ability to see behind mere words to the thoughts beneath. Both Kate and Jasper had this trick of subtle change in voice, in look, in face and manner to convey a swift alteration of mood or intention. She had known upon the instant how the flush of shocked ire in her had made George turn stiff and cold. He cared more for her opinion than Monsieur Ferdinand’s, that was seen.

  It was true she was enraged. What, to be hedged about with soldiers in uniform wherever they went? It was affreux. An embarrassment scarcely to be borne. Moreover, it was hard to forgive that still he suspected one of their own to be guilty. After she had fallen in with Lady Fan’s request to meet with the women, she had hoped concentration had turned upon outsiders. All questions, much discussed afterwards, were of Dulcie’s beaux. But it shocked her to realise George still suspected the players enough to be sending gaolers to keep any from running away.

  “Cecile, are you all right?”

  The murmur came from Kate in the seat beside her. She turned her head, forcing a smile.

  “Merci, yes. And you? It was painful, no?”

  “Much worse than I expected.” Kate’s mobile features half crumpled. “I had not realised how much I miss Dulcie. It was not fully real to me that she is…”

  Kate’s voice failed and Cecile sought for her hand. It gripped hers and she was grateful for the shared support. Presently the other girl’s hold relaxed and she spoke again.

  “I wish that colonel of yours would solve this and put us all out of our misery.”

  Cecile stiffened, withdrawing her hand. “He is not my colonel.”

  “Well, if he isn’t, he would like to be.”

  The sly note made Cecile turn to look at her again. Kate was smirking. Indignation rose and Cecile could not withstand a whispered protest. “You speak of this, all of you?”

  Apology flashed in Kate’s face. “Only with Janey and Hilde.”

  “Pah!”

  The explosion was involuntary and drew Madame Ferdinand’s attention from across the carriage. Cecile sunk further into her corner in the forward seat, glad Hilde had elected to travel in the other coach with the rest of the men. All well for Kate to say only the women spoke of it, but from Hilde to Lewis was but an ear away and from there to the other male players no distance at all. She twitched Kate’s sleeve.

  “Do they all know? Tell me true.”

  Kate opened wide eyes. “There is no need to sound so fierce, Cecile. If you want to know, it was obvious from the first, only we were all so shocked by the horrid news and the idea your wretch of a colonel had that o
ne of our boys had done it, none of us took notice to begin with.”

  “I desire you would cease to take notice,” said Cecile with some heat. “En effet, there is nothing to see, nothing to be thought at all.”

  A giggle emanated from the girl at her side and Cecile eyed her with annoyance. To her relief, Madame Ferdinand took a hand, her tone an admonishment.

  “Kate!” Cecile watched Kate take her underlip between her teeth and turn her gaze to the opposite window. Chagrined, she looked across to find Madame Ferdinand’s gaze upon her. “I don’t know what she’s been saying to you, Cecile, though I suppose I may guess.” A frowning glance at Kate accompanied this, but her quarry did not react. “Rest assured, child, none will interfere.”

  Now Cecile could not doubt but that the colonel’s interest in her was common property. She seethed in silence, but was honest enough to acknowledge her own conduct must be partially to blame. She had not thought of how it would look to accost him as she had done in the cemetery. If she was honest, the only thing in her mind had been to snatch a moment in his company. She had not failed to note his observation of her during the service, and been gratified by it. She was glad to think it had not held her attention to the exclusion of Dulcie’s obsequies. She was not so far gone as to have the colonel incessantly in her mind. At the back of it, yes perhaps. But to know the players watched her, laughed perhaps, was galling. Worse to realise she disliked the thought of being away from Weymouth and out of his reach.

  Ah, this was too much. She must appear wholly unconscious if she did not desire to be unmercifully teased. Once Hilde knew Kate had spoken, Cecile could not doubt she would prick at it. Hilde could never hold her tongue.

  For an instant, Cecile wished she might magically move ahead in time, to be removed from this period of uncertainty and upset to an era of safety in the comfort of George’s charge.

  Shocked at where her thoughts were tending, she made an effort to suppress them. But a niggle of remembrance crept into her head. ‘I would I had a like pleasurable duty for a deserving woman.’ Her toes curled in her shoes and warmth cascaded into her bosom. Such words! Who could doubt their portent?

  Yet her spirits drooped as she recalled George’s demeanour at the last. He would not seek her out. What excuse had he? There could be no more questions for her. But she might find questions, might she not? Was it not within her right, before they departed for Poole, to seek to know the progress of this Lady Fan? Such a visit might be permissible? And if so, might she not contrive to let it be known she would welcome a chance to bid George farewell?

  Weaving and discarding a variety of messages in her head occupied Cecile for the remainder of the trip back to the lodgings where Annie, serving refreshments suitable to the ordeal of the funeral, greeted the company with a startling piece of intelligence.

  “My man overheard a commotion in The Old Fiddler with that black fellow.” She nodded to Cecile. “You know, miss, the one who serves the lady who’s making enquiries about poor Miss Dulcie’s murder. Something’s afoot, I’ll warrant.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “How in the world did you find him, Hemp?”

  Ottilia observed the boy as her steward told his story, noting his evident fright in the intermittent tremors that shook him and the darting fearful glances at Francis and herself.

  “Sheer luck, milady. I had not meant to go back to the tavern for I spent hours in there last night without result.”

  “Do you mean that seedy place you showed me yesterday?”

  “That’s right, milord. Young Jasper forgot his hat and I said I would check for it since he had to go to the funeral today. I was waiting to ask the landlady when I heard Perkin here talk of being paid to dig a hole.”

  The boy shrank back, as if he would conceal himself behind Hemp. Ottilia smiled at him.

  “Pray don’t be afraid, child.” She patted the cushions on the chaise longue. “Come, sit here beside me.”

  The boy Perkin appeared reluctant. He glanced up at Hemp, who had a firm hand on his shoulder. “Milady won’t hurt you, boy, I told you.” He gave Ottilia an apologetic look. “He’s scared witless, milady, say what I might. He bolted the food I gave him and tried to run off again.”

  “Well, I don’t blame him,” said Ottilia, returning her gaze to the boy’s white face. “We must be altogether alien to the poor child. What is all this about digging a hole, Perkin? What sort of hole was it?”

  The boy’s features whitened visibly and he twisted his fingers together. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Hemp let out an exasperated sigh.

  “He said he dug it as a job for a gentleman, milady. I’m bound to state, however, that the landlady, who knows him well, did not believe he got the money doing any sort of job.”

  “What money?”

  “He’s plump in the pocket with silver. The woman Tetsy thinks he stole it.” At this, the boy gave a whimper, pulling away from Hemp, who grabbed his arm. “What is more, milady, much was made of his new clothes which he says he got at the pawnbroker’s.”

  The boy twisted as he tried to get away, his face agonized. Ottilia, her pity aroused, but her mind afire with conjecture, intervened.

  “Let him go, Hemp.” She lowered her voice. “Stay by the door.”

  Released, Perkin shot backwards and fetched up against the wall as Hemp moved quickly to the closed door and took up a stance before it.

  “It doesn’t look to me like you’ll get anything out of him, Tillie,” Francis murmured. “Skinny little runt, isn’t he? He can’t be much older than your nephews.”

  “He is probably older than he looks.” Ottilia rose and went swiftly across, dropping down before the boy and taking hold of his hands. She smiled at him. “My poor boy, I am so sorry you have been frightened. I promise you will come to no harm in this house.”

  He made no attempt to pull his hands away, but his chest rose and fell in clear agitation. He shot a glance at Hemp.

  “I thought it were ’im! I thought as he’d kill me.”

  “That is so, milady,” her steward cut in. “As I told you, he swooned at sight of me.”

  “Hush, Hemp! Let the boy speak.” But the child, shaking again, said nothing. She encouraged him. “What man is it you fear, Perkin? Who is it you think will kill you?”

  “Him!” It was a cry, the terror potent. “The gennelman. Nor I never thought he seen me, fer I were well hid.”

  Excitement rose in Ottilia’s breast, but she concealed it, gently drawing the boy towards the chaise longue as she picked up on his words. “Why did you think Hemp was the man? Did he look like him?”

  “It were ’is face. Black it were. Leastways the top half.”

  “Then he was not a black man like Hemp?”

  “Dunno, missus.”

  An idea occurred. “Could he have worn a mask perhaps?” Ottilia released one hand and gestured. “To here, so you could not see his eyes?”

  “Mebbe. I dunno. He were big like this ’un.”

  “Tall, you mean?”

  “Aye, and big too.”

  “Broad in the shoulder?”

  “Dunno. He were big is all. Had a cloak on and one o’ them old hats all corners.”

  Ottilia saw her spouse start, and threw him an admonitory glance before he could open his lips. She made a mental note of his interest.

  Pressed onto the chaise longue, Perkin perched on its edge, still shaken with tremors. Ottilia sat beside him, in such a position to oblige the boy to turn towards her so he would not see either Hemp or Francis. She signed to both to keep silent, passing a finger across her lips. She kept the boy’s hand in hers.

  “Is that the man who paid you to dig a hole?”

  “I never done it, missus.” Perkin’s breath came in gasps. “It weren’t me as dug it, I swear. It were Truggery and Stowe. I seen ’em. Them noises o’ digging woke me.”

  Ottilia kept her tone soft, infusing sympathy into her voice. “How dreadful for you. What did you d
o?”

  “Watched ’em at it. Heard ’em saying as how the gennelman wanted the grave dug up, ’cos Stowe were arsting fer why. Nor Truggery didn’t know neither, nor he didn’t care long as he were paid fer it.” The boy shuddered and his eyes became rimmed with moisture. “Don’t fink even Trug ’ud have done it if he knew. Nor Stowe don’t ’old wiv violence, tho’ Trug ’ud beat me blue if he knew I seen ’em.”

  His tongue loosened, the boy’s words poured out. Ottilia hesitated to put her urgent questions, fearing to stem the flow. She chose simplicity.

  “What happened after they dug up the grave?”

  Perkin began to shake again. “He come, din’t he? Mean he were, like as nowt ’ud trouble him.”

  “How did he come there?”

  “Come in a coach.” Another shudder. “If I knew as she were in it and what he meant to do, I’d have scarpered quick, ’cept as I dursn’t show meself for fear of Trug. An’ after, I dursn’t utter a squeak nor move ’til he’d gone. He’d ’a done me in and throw me in that there grave, for two pins he would.”

  Elated, Ottilia listened with rising hope. To stumble on a witness to the murder was unbelievably fortunate. It was evident this boy had seen everything. But she must tread with care. Let him tell it in his own way.

  “It sounds to have been worse than a nightmare, Perkin.”

  The boy dipped his head several times. “It give me bad dreams, missus. Nor I dursn’t go back there, an’ St Mary’s ain’t safe neither, being as it’s in the middle o’ town. Nor I din’t want to spoil my new togs. I were hoping as I could get a room at The Old Fiddler, only Missus Tetsy —” He broke off in sudden consternation, throwing a leaping look across his shoulder at Hemp by the door and Francis standing by the fireplace and leaning an elbow on the mantel. The boy’s pointed elfin features flushed and he snatched his hand out of Ottilia’s, huddling into himself and whimpering.

  “Hush, child, hush now.” She leaned across and stroked his lank hair. “You are doing very well. You need not fear retribution, I promise you. I won’t allow anyone to harm you, do you understand?”