The boy’s lip quivered. “Do yer swear it, missus?”
Ottilia smiled and put a hand to her heart. “On my life, Perkin.”
He eyed her with uncertainty. Ottilia kept her gaze steady upon his. Then a long sigh escaped him and his thin shoulders relaxed a trifle.
To lend colour to her assertion, Ottilia addressed Hemp. “Pray ask Joanie to see a truckle bed put up for Perkin in one of the servant’s rooms. Tyler’s perhaps. He must stay here with us for the moment.”
Her spouse’s brows shot up. “Have you run mad, Tillie?”
“For his own safety, Fan. If this story is accurate, and we have no reason to suppose otherwise, you know very well how vulnerable that will make him.”
Her husband’s frown told her he had taken her point, recalling she hoped as she did, though it was never far from her mind, the fate of the only witness to the murder of his sister-in-law nearly two years back.
Perkin’s sharp glance was following the direction of her gaze. Ottilia hoped he had not understood all, though it was evident he got the gist.
“Stay here, missus? In yer house?”
“Why not, Perkin? Would you object?”
His glance swept the elegant proportions of the room and came back to her. For the first time, a beam lit his face. “Not likely, missus. Bang up I calls it!”
“I will arrange for him to sleep in my room, milady,” said Hemp. “Best if I keep an eye on him.”
The boy did not look to be enamoured of this scheme, but he said nothing, beyond casting another of his darting looks at Hemp.
“You have not told me what happened when this man arrived after the grave had been dug,” said Ottilia in as matter of fact a tone as she could find, judging Perkin’s initial fright to have subsided a good deal.
He frowned. “Trug were peeved as he made ’im open the coffin and throw them bones into the grave. He ain’t one ter waste bodies, Trug ain’t. Sells ’em ter them orspital surgeons he does down Dorchester way.”
“He and Stowe are resurrection men, I take it?”
Perkin confirmed this with one of his jerky nods. “Aye, an’ Stowe din’t think them old bones ’ud be of use to no one, least of all the gennelman. Nor they weren’t neither.”
“No? Why then did he want the coffin?”
The boy’s breath caught. “For to put the leddy in, missus. She were in the coach. I seen him carry her and put her in.”
“Was she asleep?”
“Dunno. She weren’t dead yet, fer I heard her sighin’ and mutterin’ after he put her in.”
Ottilia’s stomach clenched for the coming relation of the fate of the wretched Dulcibella. But her task must be to keep the boy talking.
“Did he light the candles before he brought her to the coffin?”
Perkin’s eyes flew to hers and he gasped. “’Ow come you knowed that, missus?”
Though she was far from feeling like smiling, Ottilia forced a curve to her lips. “That is why Hemp wanted you to come to see me. I am trying to find out what happened to the poor lady you saw in the coffin.”
“He killed her. He had a big knife and he — he lifted it up high like this —” demonstrating with his hands making a fist — “and then he brings it down and sticks it right in her pudding house!”
Plunged it into the girl’s stomach? Ottilia could picture it all too horribly. Unsurprising the boy was shuddering again.
“Horrible it were, missus. She bounced like a ball, and it were enough to make me cast up me accounts, what with the noise and the blood and all, only I dursn’t. An’ them candles burning so’s I could see it clear as clear. Nor I din’t hardly dare shift a muscle, missus, for fear as he’d find me and serve me as he served the leddy.”
“Very sensible, Perkin. But did you stay there all night?”
“Not me, missus. Waited ’til I couldn’t hear the coach no more, an’ made off fast as I could.”
But his gaze, which had been steady up to now, had turned shifty. Moreover, he was fidgeting where he sat, his fingers fiddling in a manner as telling as it was involuntary. Ottilia had not spent years minding her two lively and mischievous nephews without learning to know the signs of prevarication. An inkling of the probable nature of his lie could not but obtrude, but she must tread warily.
“Perkin, did you get a good look at the lady in the coffin?”
He bit his lip and would not meet her eyes. Ottilia persisted in a gentle tone.
“I ask because you may be the only person to have seen her at night. You see, by the time she was found, the candles were burning down and it was beginning to be light. No one can tell me just what she looked like lying in the coffin there.”
An inaccurate statement, for she’d heard George’s impression. Might it lend importance to the boy’s participation and appeal to his pride?
“I understand that she looked very pretty,” she pursued.
“Aye, missus,” the boy agreed, his voice jumping, “only I never seen her afore. Folks say as she were one wi’ them players, but I dunno.”
“She had golden hair, I believe. It must have looked particularly lovely in the candlelight,” Ottilia prompted.
“Ay, if she weren’t all over blood,” the boy blurted, and then threw a hand to his mouth, his eyes popping at her over it.
Ottilia lowered her voice to a whisper. “Did you take a closer look, Perkin?”
He nodded, his hand fixed firmly across his lips as if to stop any more incriminating words from coming out.
Ottilia hesitated, not yet willing to pounce. She must draw him out a little more. “What did you see?”
He began to shake again, bringing his hand down and gripping it together with the other, shoving both between his unquiet knees. A timorous whisper came.
“Blood … all over. Turned her dress red it did. It were even in her hair.”
“But you saw something more, did you not?” Ottilia probed with care, hoping not to break his confidence. He was kneading his fingers in his thin thighs. “Her reticule? A bag she had?”
The joined hands dropped suddenly as he jerked. His head came up.
“I din’t open it. Seen it ready open, I did, I swear it. Wouldn’t ’a looked otherwise.”
“I believe you.” Ottilia drew a breath and set a hand on the boy’s knee. “Come, Perkin, it is useless to deny it. You found her purse, did you not?”
Sudden rage flared in the boy’s eyes and he threw off her hand with violence, shooting to his feet. A concerted movement from the men made Ottilia throw up a hand to stop either from interfering.
“It were jus’ lyin’ there,” cried Perkin, sobs catching in his throat though his eyes blazed. “No one din’t want it. He never took it. She din’t need it no more. But I did, missus, I did! Never ’ad nowt my whole life long and there it were … more gold than I never did see. I ’ad to take it, missus. I couldn’t nowise leave it, could I? Walk away from good fortune? More’n flesh and blood could stand it were.”
He was sobbing as he sank to the floor, knuckling his eyes. Her heart wrung, Ottilia glanced at her husband, who gave a wry smile.
“Poor little devil. He’s likely more terrified of the rope than the murderer.”
“Between the hammer and the anvil,” said Ottilia.
She looked down at the pathetic heap the boy made, clearly too desperate now to be further questioned for the present. Before she could decide how to act, Hemp left his post by the door and came across to the boy.
“Hey, boy, get up now.”
His tone was gentle as he plucked the child bodily from the floor and set him on his feet. To Ottilia’s astonishment, the boy flung his arms about Hemp’s thighs and clung. An image swept into her mind, of the pitiful mad girl Tamasine, who had clung to Hemp in a similar fashion, as if he was her whole dependence and support.
Hemp pulled the boy off and hoisted him up into his powerful arms, settling him there as he looked at Ottilia. “I will look to him, milady.”
“Thank you, Hemp. Try if you can get him to tell you where is the rest of his hoard. But don’t let him run off, if you please. I mean to keep my promise to him.”
Hemp nodded and retired with the boy, murmuring soothingly to him the while.
Ottilia watched them leave as her husband came across and sat down beside her, pulling out his pocket handkerchief. To her astonishment, he applied it to her cheeks and the corners of her eyes.
“Good heavens, Fan, was I weeping? I did not know it.”
“Yes, so I gather.” He kissed her and slipped the handkerchief back into his pocket. “I doubt you know how in the world you are to keep your promise either.”
Ottilia sighed, tucking her hand into his. “Will George insist on our handing him over, do you suppose?”
“What, when he is a material witness to the murder? I imagine he will want to take him into his own custody.”
“But he won’t hang him, will he?” Despite herself, she caught a breath on an escaping sob.
Francis rubbed a soothing hand across her back. “I can’t speak for George, but I should think he will be loath to proceed to criminal charges, as long as the money is returned.”
Ottilia let out a shaky breath. “Poor child. He can scarcely be blamed for the theft. He must have been petrified and shocked. No one could wonder at it that he crept to the body to have a closer look.”
“Morbid curiosity? I noticed you pressed him on it.”
“Because he was clearly concealing something. And it would be a natural thing to do, for anyone.”
Francis cocked an eyebrow. “Natural to steal a purse full of guineas?”
Ottilia met the scepticism in his eyes. “For Perkin, yes. In the circumstances. His collapse shows him to have a conscience. I doubt he is a habitual thief. How he lives I know not, but you heard him. It was more than flesh and blood could stand, he said. I wonder if you or I could resist, had we lived as he does?”
Her spouse smiled. “You have no need to argue the point with me, my love. Save your eloquence for George.”
“I am persuaded he will understand how it was. How could he not?”
She was unable to help an anxious note and was grateful for the hug she received. Releasing her, Francis rose and went to pick up the hand bell.
“Coffee!” He gave it a vigorous ring.
Ottilia had to laugh. “Coffee is ever your remedy for me, is it not, dearest?”
He gave a mock bow. “I am merely serving your addiction, my lady Fan.”
She smiled and held out her hand to him. “I need you, my darling lord.”
He grinned. “You want me to pave the way with George?”
Ottilia clicked her tongue. “Wretch! Have you taken to reading my mind?”
He came across to sit beside her again, putting an arm about her. “It’s not very difficult, my loved one. You are all too transparent on occasion.”
“I love you,” she said, leaning her head on his shoulder.
“Gratifying, but if you are hoping to persuade me into taking that boy into our household on a permanent basis —”
Ottilia sat up in a bang, indignant. “Did I say so?”
“I know you too well, Tillie. And I tell you here and now I won’t do it. Hemp is one thing. A ragamuffin boy is something else again.”
Ottilia sighed. “Well, perhaps George will have a notion of how to help him. He ought to be set to some trade, but…”
She faded out as the door opened to admit Joanie, who curtsied. Releasing her, Francis rose from the sofa.
“Coffee, if you please, Joanie.”
“Yes, my lord. Only there’s a visitor, my lord. Mademoiselle Benoit, my lady.”
She stepped away from the door to reveal Cecile waiting without.
Out of breath, Cecile could barely stand to wait for the maid to leave and close the door before breaking into agitated speech.
“Is it that you have news, madame? La concierge she speaks of a boy et cet homme qui vous —” She broke off, struggling for her English, registering in a vague way the astonishment in Lady Fan’s face. “Pardon! I forget. It was in a tavern, you understand?”
“You heard this from the landlady, you say?” cut in Lady Fan.
“Good God, we might as well inform the town crier!”
Cecile had not taken in the presence of her hostess’s husband. She dropped a curtsey. “Pardon, monsieur, I did not see you.”
He waved a hand, crossing to take up a stance at the mantel. “It makes no matter, mademoiselle. But I wish you will explain how this landlady of yours comes to be first with this news.”
Cecile drew an unsteady breath and advanced into the room. “Forgive, I beg. I cannot wait to come, though Madame Ferdinand obliges me to eat first, but of little use is this for the food it chokes me when my heart is on fire to know.”
“Won’t you sit down, Cecile?” Lady Fan patted the seat beside her. “The maid will bring coffee presently. You will take a cup, I hope? It will help to calm you.”
Moving towards the sofa, Cecile thanked her. “It is well, madame, but all my desire is to know what has transpired.”
“Wine, perhaps?” offered Lord Francis as she passed him, an eyebrow cocked. “Brandy?”
She let out a tiny laugh. “Merci, but it is not necessary for the liquor, monsieur. I will remain calm.”
“Coffee it is then.”
He smiled and Cecile caught an inkling of why he and George were friends. Just that amused twinkle in the colonel’s eye had caused more than one little disturbance in her breast. Another came as she recalled the uncomfortable way he had frozen as they parted company earlier at the cemetery. Taking a seat, she was glad when Lady Fan dragged her mind back to the present moment.
“May I know just what the landlady said, Cecile?”
“It was not she, but the husband who was in the tavern. It was he who heard and saw. There was a boy, is it not? An argument, I think? He saw the boy carried in the arms of this man. And after, when he went out, he saw again the boy was with your servant and he followed.”
“Ah, he saw the boy brought here?”
“It is so, madame. Thus his wife thinks there is news.”
“And you are anxious for news, no doubt.”
Cecile could not withstand a shiver. “We have buried la pauvre today. And next week we must go to Poole for Bournemouth.”
“What, do you say George permits the company to leave Weymouth?” demanded Lord Francis.
Resentment returned. “He sends soldiers with us that the villain shall not escape. But me I do not believe it is one of our people and therefore I come to you, madame, with hope that you may assure me it is so.”
The Lady Fan looked regretful. “Alas, I cannot, Cecile. What we have heard today is extremely interesting, but so far it does not identify the murderer.”
Lord Francis spoke again, his tone curt. “We’ve not had time to sift the information, mademoiselle. You have come upon us when we have only just ourselves heard what the boy has to tell us.”
Eager now, Cecile ignored the clear dismissal in his words. “But something he has told, no? It is of use? It may assist to find the man?”
“Perhaps.”
He glanced at his wife as if for corroboration. Cecile at once turned to her, unable to help a trifle of irritation creeping into her voice.
“Madame? You do not speak. Is it that you do not trust in me? You ask of me the questions and I answer, no? You wish to speak with the women and I bring them. Why then am I to be left in ignorance?”
Lady Fan’s brows rose. “Have I said I will not tell you?”
“Non, but there is that in your face which tells to me you do not wish to speak of it,” said Cecile frankly.
“Dear me. I appear to be less adept at concealment than I had realised. My husband was saying so only a moment ago.”
Lord Francis exchanged a glance peculiarly intimate with his wife, causing Cecile to suffer a curious pang. She watched as he crosse
d to the window.
“Perhaps Cecile is also a mind reader, my love.”
“Evidently.” Mischief flitted across Lady Fan’s face. “Or perhaps you have been studying Kate’s player tricks?”
Cecile had to laugh. “Without intent, madame. But tell me, I beg.”
A sigh escaped her hostess. “I ought to reserve it for George’s ears first, but as you are so nearly concerned —”
“Do not wait, madame. It is not certain Georges will tell me what I wish to know.” Realising from the other’s look that she was giving herself away, Cecile amended her tone. “For Georges, it is a duty, which I understand. He may not speak of it. But you, madame, you have not the duty militaire.”
“True, but I am acting for George.”
“Don’t disturb yourself, Tillie,” came from her husband at the window. “If I mistake not, this is George approaching our door at this moment.”
A flurry in her pulses sent Cecile to her feet. “Ah, non, is it so? He is here?”
Lord Francis turned a questioning face upon her. “Yes. Do you not wish to meet him?”
She did not. Yet the urgent image of his features in her mind belied her. She headed for the door. “I will go now.”
Lady Fan was on her feet. “Don’t go, Cecile. Of all people, George will least wish to prevent you knowing what has transpired today. Besides, it is too late for escape. You will run into him on the stairs.”
The patent truth of this struck Cecile with some force. Veering away from the door, she fetched up at the mantel and gripped its edge with one hand. “He will wish to know why it is I am here.”
“He will understand your reasons, I am sure,” said Lady Fan, her tone soothing. “Will you not sit down again?”
Cecile shook her head, the suspense tightening her breast. It occurred to her she would give a ridiculous impression of disquiet if she remained where she was. Without thought, she dropped into the nearest chair, gripping the arms with her fingers and staring at the door.
George accepted the cup and saucer Francis handed to him without comment, his eyes on Cecile. She was sipping with delicacy, avoiding his gaze. He could see she was agitated and did not doubt his presence was the cause.
The Candlelit Coffin (Lady Fan Mystery Book 4) Page 25
