The Candlelit Coffin (Lady Fan Mystery Book 4)

by Elizabeth Bailey

  “You are come opportunely, my friend.”

  Because Cecile was here? George eyed Francis with question and received a cocked eyebrow in return and an amused look.

  “I am not referring to the obvious, George.” He looked to his wife. “Shall I tell him, or will you?”

  His attention caught as Ottilia waved a nonchalant hand. “Do so, by all means.”

  The air of mystery was potent, augmented in Cecile he realised. Urgency broke in him. “Good God, Fan, what’s to do? Is there some development?”

  “It is a very breach, George. We have a witness to the murder.”

  In astonishment and rising hope, George listened to Francis’s account of Hemp’s discovery of a boy called Perkin and a story Ottilia had dragged from him of the night of Dulcie’s murder. His awareness took in Cecile’s eagerness, and he could not doubt she was equally avid for the details.

  “Then this boy can identify the man?” He turned to Ottilia, who looked regretful.

  “I doubt it, George. From what he said, I suspect he wore a mask.”

  Cecile broke in. “Black? And in the night. It is perhaps why he is afraid of your steward?”

  “Just so. He fainted clean away at first sight of him, Hemp said. Although he has taken to him now as if Hemp is his protector, poor child.”

  George waved this away. “Nevertheless, can you cobble together a description, Ottilia?”

  She exchanged a look with Francis, who raised an eyebrow. “You think I jumped to a false conclusion?”

  Ottilia gave that knowing smile of hers. “Not necessarily false. Perhaps premature.”

  Impatience claimed George. “Ottilia, for the Lord’s sake, speak out!”

  “Pardon me, George. Yes, to answer your question, I think we may safely suppose, from Perkin’s observation, that our murderer is tall and well built. Strong enough at least to carry a dead weight from the coach to the grave.”

  “She was already dead then?”

  “No, indeed.” Ottilia threw an apologetic glance at Cecile. “Perkin gave a horribly graphic description of the killing. But Dulcie was unconscious.”

  “Drugged,” said George on a grim note. “I checked with Roffey as you suggested. He said there was a narcotic substance in the stomach.”

  He could not help a glance at Cecile. She was still, but peculiarly rigid, her hands white where they gripped the cup she was holding. George cursed inwardly. She ought not to hear all this.

  “For the rest,” Ottilia went on, “we know the man was cultured. Perkin speaks of a gentleman. And he employed two resurrection men to dig the grave. They go by the names of Truggery and Stowe, although the boy has not seen them in Weymouth since the murder. He says they sell bodies to the Dorchester surgeons.”

  Hope flickered in George’s breast. “Then if we can find them, they must certainly identify the man.”

  “But can you?” Francis asked. “I should think they must be long gone.”

  “I can set the Dorchester militia to make a search at least. They will leave no stone unturned if there is a chance we can locate these men.”

  Movement caught his eye and he turned to see Cecile setting her cup down. She did not look at him, but fixed her dark gaze on Ottilia. “It is well, madame. This man cannot be of the players, that is seen.”

  “Why not?” George demanded. “I am sorry to be obliged to say it, Cecile, but I do not see that this description exonerates them.”

  Her lustrous eyes turned on him, reproach in them. “But these are not gentlemen.”

  “But they may assume the carriage and voice of gentlemen, Cecile,” said Ottilia, expressing his thought. “Moreover, I am afraid the actor Robert Collins fits the description.”

  “Rob? Ah, no! He is tall, yes, but also he is thin. Alors, I do not believe he is strong, for he cannot prevent that his wife strikes him.”

  George was sceptical. “Cannot? Or dare not attempt it?”

  She gave him a furious look which could not but slice at his heart. He was grateful for Ottilia’s intervention.

  “I wish I might rule him out, Cecile, but if it comforts you, I would put him at the bottom of the list.”

  George’s attention was caught. “And the list? Who is on it, Ottilia?”

  She turned to her spouse. “You have met them, Fan, not I. Which of them fits, would you say?”

  Francis, who had taken a seat beside Ottilia, pursed his lips in concentrated thought. George waited, mentally reviewing the three he knew to be under consideration.

  “Not Charlton,” said Francis at last. “He is not of superior height and I would call him stocky rather than a big ’un, as the boy had it. Edgcott is big, but only in the shoulder. I suppose he might look tall to a boy. But he wears a three-cornered hat and Perkin specifically spoke of one.”

  “Did he? That’s interesting indeed.” George looked to Ottilia again. “Was he wearing anything else of note?”

  “A cloak. Yet I would have thought he might have removed it. Would it not hamper his movements?”

  “Well, did you ask the boy?”

  Ottilia raised her brows. “My dear George, the child was in no condition to think clearly enough to give me such details. His guilt about stealing the purse made him far too distressed, and he was already altogether terrified from thinking Hemp was the murderer and intended to kill him.”

  George curbed his irritation. “I’ll have to interrogate him thoroughly myself.”

  “You had better let Tillie do it if you want to get anything out of him,” Francis said.

  “Very well, very well, but what of the other fellow?”

  “Paglesham? Oh, he fits perfectly. Except that I doubt of his having the necessary authority to employ these resurrection men.”

  George took this without comment. “Then we need only add Fitzgerald to the list.”

  Cecile started. “Again you seek to accuse a man of the company?”

  “He’s not of the company,” George snapped, and at once regretted his tone. He softened it. “Fitzgerald is the theatre manager, and I am sorry to say his testimony is highly suspicious. Besides which, this description fits him like a glove. Personally, I would put him at the top of the list.”

  Cecile rose with a swish of her skirts, a flash at her eyes that made George’s heart sink.

  “Will you bring Monsieur Ferdinand to ruin, Georges? To lose Dulcie it is not enough? He must lose also another player in Rob, or if not, he must lose this venue where he brings his people every year.”

  The hurt would not be contained. “Is it my fault, Cecile? Am I to blame for the murder? What would you wish me to do? Leave the man who killed your friend to roam free?”

  She did not flinch. “That is not reasonable, no. But you can look to these men not of the theatre, is it not?”

  “Naturally I will do so. I would be very happy to be able to say neither Robert Collins nor Fitzgerald had anything to do with this affair, but I cannot. My duty is to the truth. If it ruins The Grand Ferdinando so be it. Though I cannot suppose it might for the man is nothing if not resilient. I think you are unnecessarily pessimistic.”

  She stood before him, uncertainty in her face, together with a look at the back of her eyes he could not identify. George was swept with a yearning to take her in his arms and kiss away the trouble. Forgetful of his surroundings, he dropped his voice to a murmur.

  “Cecile, don’t do this, I beg of you. Why do you wish to quarrel with me?”

  Her lips quirked and a smile came into her eyes. “C’est imbecile, non? I do not know, Georges.”

  He found her hand and raised it to his lips. Colour crept into her cheeks but she did not look away. She addressed him in French. “Settle this quickly, Georges, I pray you. I cannot endure the pain. These are my family now.”

  “I know,” he returned in the same language. “I will do my best. At least we are further forward. Think of it like that, if you can.”

  A rueful look came into her eyes. “I can thin
k only that I will soon be absent from Weymouth, Georges. Too soon.”

  He held her gaze. “Weymouth is at no great distance from Bournemouth, ma cherie.”

  She blushed at the endearment and withdrew her hand from his, switching to English as she turned to Ottilia. “Madame, I will go now. You do not object if I tell them of this boy?”

  George intervened swiftly. “No! For the lord’s sake, don’t mention that we have a witness.”

  “No, indeed, Cecile, pray do not speak of it,” said Ottilia, rising in an urgency George understood. “You may put the boy in danger of his life.”

  Cecile’s face was a study. “Quel horreur! You would say the evil one will seek to kill him also?”

  “It has been done before, Cecile, to my everlasting shame and guilt.”

  A jerky motion from Francis reminded George how he hated to hear Ottilia blame herself for that episode. He had himself been a party to that particular investigation. All three of them must take a share.

  “It’s true, Cecile,” he said, moving to flank her. “A young man lost his life because we were all indiscreet. Say nothing of this, I charge you.”

  “But what shall I say? All know why I came here. Madame Annie has said to them about this boy.”

  Ottilia was frowning. “Yes, of course, that is why you came.” She set a hand to Cecile’s arm. “I have it. Tell them it was all a mistake. The boy proved to be innocent of any connection with this business. You may say he was employed to dig ditches and that he believes black men are the devil.”

  The rare little laugh escaped Cecile and warmth crept into George’s chest.

  “Voilà une bêtise, but it may serve.”

  She made her farewells but refused the escort he offered, once again becoming a trifle agitated. “Ah, no, Georges, merci. I go alone.”

  He watched her leave and turned to find both Fan and Ottilia eyeing him. Too intent to care why, he threw up a hand. “Don’t say a word, either of you! I’m going after her, but I’ll be back in a moment.”

  In the periphery of his vision as he headed for the door he saw them exchange a glance, but he was past making anything of it. The need to speak with Cecile was paramount.

  He caught her up as she was opening the front door. “Wait!”

  She turned, her fingers still about the handle. George covered them as he reached her, possessing himself of her hand.

  “What is it, Cecile? Why are you shy of me all of a sudden? Is it this business of my wishing to send my men with the company?”

  She made no attempt to recover her hand, but her fingers quivered in his. Those eyes, so dark, so expressive, met his gaze, uncertainty in them. “It is not this, no.”

  He dropped his voice. “Tell me.”

  She sighed a little breath. “The players, Georges. They tease me because of you. I did not know. I did not think, but Kate…”

  She faded out, the colour again in her cheeks, her fingers shifting in his so that he could not but tighten his hold as his blood began to heat.

  “I have caused you embarrassment. I am sorry for it.” He tried to steady his voice which had become unprecedentedly shaky. Lord, what had this girl done to him? “Cecile, I did not intend to speak until this is over, but you cannot doubt of my regard.”

  At that, her chin went up and she pulled her fingers from his, a flash darkening her gaze.

  “Regard? C’est tout? I thank you, monsieur le colonel, but me I have no use for your regard!”

  He felt as if she slapped him. He drew back a little. “Have I then been mistaken? I thought — Cecile, I was sure you returned my regard.”

  “Then you have thought it wrong, monsieur.”

  Confused at the fury in both face and voice, George fairly blinked at this turn. He could not help the hurt in his tone. “Why do you say that? It is not how you have behaved towards me.”

  To his further confusion, Cecile tossed her head. “Then me I have been mistaken also.” With which, she turned from him, wrenched open the door, passed through and slammed it in his face.

  George did not know whether he was more infuriated or bewildered. Without thinking what he did, he walked slowly back up the stairs and into the Fanshawe’s parlour, where he found Ottilia and Francis with their heads together on the sofa. Exasperation seized him.

  “If you are going to bill and coo, the two of you, I’m done. Women!”

  Chagrined to see his friend’s amused look, he was relieved when Ottilia surveyed him with her usual warm sympathy.

  “What happened, George?”

  He was too wound up to withhold it. “I told her of my regard and she spurned me.” Memory hit. “C’est tout? Is that all? That’s what she said. And then she lost her temper and left me.”

  “Dear me, George, is that what you told her? You have a regard for her?”

  To George’s further chagrin, Francis put his oar in, throwing up his eyes.

  “Good God, man! Even I know better than that.”

  His bewilderment increasing, George looked from one to the other. “What the deuce do you mean, either of you? What should I have said?”

  Ottilia’s gurgling laugh came. “Poor George. Don’t tease him, Fan. Can’t you see he is upset?”

  “You are not helping, Ottilia. And while I am about it, what in the name of all the gods is the difference between asking how long she will be away and when they might return? Cecile said I should ask you, Ottilia, but if you can unravel that, you’re a genius.”

  “She is,” said Francis, giving his wife a fond look. “Well, Tillie?”

  The answer came without hesitation. “One is personal and the other is not.” Ottilia’s look was speculative. “I suspect she was teasing you, George.”

  “Oh, Lord! Then why is she being so unkind to me now? She actually said she had no use for my regard.”

  Ottilia exchanged just such a glance with Fan as proclaimed the understanding he would wish to have with Cecile. It was evident his friend had learned more of women than he had. Ottilia’s gaze came back to him.

  “The next time, George, speak rather of your affection or, if you will forgive me, your love. Regard has a colder ring.”

  Relief flooded him. “Good God, is that all? But she must know I am talking of affection.”

  “Knowing and hearing are two different things, my dear George. You have chosen a passionate girl. Moreover, she is French. Your English reticence will not do.”

  Goaded, he could not withstand a retort. “Well, she’ll have to take me as I am or not at all.”

  Ottilia tutted. “George, this is not worthy of you.”

  Conscious of being demonstrably in the wrong, George regarded his friend’s ill-concealed mirth with acute disfavour. But before he could express his mind, a knock at the door produced the steward Hemp, who gave him a slight bow.

  “I am glad you are still here, sir, for this nearly concerns you.” He turned to Ottilia. “Milady, I have been talking with the boy. He remembered more of what the gentleman said.”

  “What was it, Hemp?”

  The tease was quite gone from Ottilia’s voice and George felt his irritation dissipating as his attention returned to the murder.

  “The man was threatening the gravediggers, telling them not to say anything of their work for him. He had a pistol, Perkin says. This Truggery threatened him right back, saying he knew ‘summat of him’, as the boy put it. But what is more pertinent, sir,” added Hemp, turning his gaze upon George, “the murderer told them he was very well acquainted with the colonel of militia here.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “The difficulty is I know all the suspects.”

  “But how well, George?”

  Ottilia sipped her refreshed cup of coffee as she watched the colonel’s restless striding about the room.

  “For pity’s sake, sit down, George! You are fidgeting Tillie and I won’t have it.”

  “Hush, Fan,” Ottilia admonished, but she was relieved when George flung himself into t
he opposite chair. She still found vigorous action difficult to tolerate, despite the undoubted improvement in her health and spirits. George’s disquiet was patent, more so for the earlier contretemps with his inamorata. “I am sure he would much prefer to go a-courting than think about this horrid murder.”

  The colonel flung up his head. “I should. Infinitely. Though much good would it do me if I cannot give Cecile the satisfaction of knowing the murderer of her friend is behind bars.”

  “Then let us consider our options. You have been in Weymouth some months. Which of these men, do you suppose, might count himself well acquainted with you?”

  Francis eyed her. “What do they think? You suggest our man would claim more than his fair due for the purpose of frightening the gravediggers?”

  Ottilia could not withstand an appreciative smile. “Just so, my dearest quicksilver husband.”

  “Then it leaves us no further forward,” said George on a note of dissatisfaction, ignoring her spouse’s amusement.

  Ottilia put up a finger. “Don’t despair yet. The murderer may have spoken the exact truth.”

  A crease appeared between his brows. “Well, I don’t see how. I did not know the actor before this business, though I have had occasion for discussion with Fitzgerald once or twice. As for Paglesham, I’ve had little to do with him, and I may say I have studiously avoided Edgcott.”

  Francis snorted. “Not a man easily snubbed, if you ask me. He cuts his coat to suit his cloth, of course, but he struck me as adept at making himself agreeable. Or else he is almost as accomplished an actor as these Ferdinando players. I don’t know whether I was more disgusted with him or with Paglesham’s sycophancy.”

  He spoke with some distaste and Ottilia, who had listened to his accounts of both conversations with intent interest, picked it up at once.

  “Why did you dislike him so much? Edgcott, I mean.”

  Francis made a face. “Apart from his vulgarity, he was altogether callous about Dulcie. He was quite open that he had tried and failed, as I told you, but his attitude rankles.”