The Candlelit Coffin (Lady Fan Mystery Book 4)

by Elizabeth Bailey

  “Desist! Look no more, if you know what’s good for you. Understand?”

  The blood drummed in Ottilia’s head and a fleeting thought of Dulcibella’s fate sent fear pulsing through her. Yet her innate common sense kicked in, despite the clouds beginning to thicken in her mind. It was a threat, no more. She must answer before she lost consciousness. She tried to utter, but the constriction at her throat would permit no words to form.

  As she struggled for breath, she felt herself roughly shaken and the voice came again.

  “You hear me?”

  Ottilia was near to swooning and she tried to nod. Anything, if only he would let of her throat. But his grip was too strong and it passed through her mind that she was going to die as Emily had died. And Francis would lose her after all.

  “Milady!”

  The shout from within was followed by immediate thumping footsteps on the wooden stairs. Ottilia was released so abruptly, she lost her balance. Flailing for a purchase that did not exist, she fell to the cobbles. The impact left her gasping, struggling for breath. She heard feet running and knew the murderer was making his escape. And then Hemp was kneeling at her side.

  She tried to point in a bid to have him go after the man, but if he understood, her steward ignored it.

  “Milady, are you badly hurt?”

  Ottilia gestured at her throat, still dragging her breath in and out. Now she was freed, the pain of the fellow’s grip began to impinge. To her annoyance, wetness seeped from her eyes. Hemp set an arm under her shoulders.

  “Come, milady, let me help you up. We will attract notice.”

  Highly undesirable. The thought gave Ottilia courage and she tried to help as the steward lifted her to her feet. Once there, she found her knees shaking and leaned heavily into his support. But the late contretemps filtered into her consciousness.

  “Did you see who it was?” Her voice was a croak and she cursed in her head.

  “No, milady. I saw only that he had you by the throat.”

  He sounded distressed and she struggled to express her observations. “Cloak … three-cornered hat … mask. What Perkin said.”

  He hissed in a breath. “The murderer?”

  “I am certain it was he.” He began to urge her into the house and she summoned the effort to walk. “I hoped you might have … recognised him.”

  “You are not well, milady. I can carry you.”

  “I may be slow but I will manage if you give me your arm,” she croaked, although her voice came a little easier now despite the soreness inside.

  It took all her strength to cope with the stairs, even with Hemp taking most of her weight. She was obliged to grip the bannister and pull herself up step by step. She had no room for speech and heard only in the periphery of her mind Hemp’s voice calling for Joanie. He helped her into the parlour and she sank, with gratitude, back down onto the chaise longue.

  “You should lie down, milady.”

  “In a moment.” She took several deep breaths as her lungs began to work more normally. But she was glad at last to lie at her length, resting her head on the rolled end. She put her hands to her throat, massaging gently. “Drat the man. He has bruised me to pieces.”

  “Yes, I can see, milady. You are severely marked.” His tone changed. “Here is Joanie, milady. She will take care of you while I go for his lordship.”

  A hitherto unforeseen danger leapt in Ottilia’s mind. Francis would be outraged. Furious with her for foolishly going out alone. She spoke without thinking.

  “No, pray! There is no need, Hemp. I am better now. Or I will be.”

  But Hemp, poised to leave, looked down at her with a frowning countenance. “Milady, I have seen how milord is with you. I would not for my life delay in bringing him to you upon such an occasion.”

  With a few swift words to the hovering maid, he was gone. Ottilia’s heart plummeted and tremors shook her frame. The aftershock, she told herself, but anticipation of the coming thunder gave the lie to this comforting thought. Not that it was in the least comforting. She truly was in shock. She could feel the blanket of numbness descending.

  “Water, Joanie.” The words came out shakily and the maid did not immediately obey the request.

  “Hemp says a ruffian set upon you, my lady. You look terrible, if I do say so as shouldn’t.”

  Ottilia could not withstand a choke of laughter, which hurt her throat. She put up a hand to hold it. “I thank you, Joanie. That is all I needed to hear.”

  But the maid was not paying attention. “Here’s Tyler, my lady. He’ll fetch water for you. Though if you ask me, it’s a dose of brandy you need. I know as his lordship would say so if he were here.”

  “My throat is already on fire, I thank you. I will take water only.”

  Tyler was already out of the door and Ottilia relaxed back again, striving for calm. But the thought of what Francis would have to say to her kept her pulse in disarray, even as she tried to bend her mind to the problem of the identity of her attacker.

  He was tall and very strong. The cloak gave an impression of size, but she thought he was not a big man beneath it. That he dared to come out into the open thus argued a member of the Ferdinando company. Although that was not necessarily the case, she decided, recalling her suspicion of a conspiracy between Paglesham and Edgcott. According to Francis’s description, the man could not have been the captain. But Paglesham was tall. As also was Fitzgerald, the theatre manager, according to George. He might well have heard of her involvement. Indeed, who knew how far that information may have travelled?

  Tyler arrived with a jug of water and Joanie poured out a glass and gave it to her. The relief of its cool descent was palpable, even though it hurt to swallow. She had not downed more than half the contents when the sound of pounding footsteps outside sent her heartrate into high gear. Francis! She set down the glass in haste.

  The steps thundered up the stairs and seconds later her husband burst into the parlour. He stopped in the doorway, his gaze shooting across to find her. Ignoring everyone else, he flew across the room, dropped to his haunches beside the chaise longue and seized Ottilia into a fierce embrace, holding her close enough as almost to deprive her of breath all over again. His voice came hoarsely in her ear.

  “My darling, my darling. Oh, dear Lord, my precious one!”

  Moved beyond words, Ottilia caught her breath on rising sobs, feeling her bruised throat constrict as she tried to croak out a response. His hold loosened and he leaned back, looking intently into her face, his own white and strained.

  “How badly did he hurt you? My dear one, why? What possessed you to leave the house without me?”

  Ottilia found her voice, albeit quivering with tears. “Don’t be angry with me, Fan, pray. I know it was foolish of me, but —”

  “Angry? I’m far too upset to be angry!”

  “— I swear I only took two steps outside. He came at me right in front of our door. Don’t scold me, Fan!”

  “My darling heart!” He found her hand and pressed it to his lips. “I never want to leave you again. You must promise me now, this instant, that you won’t again go outside these doors without an escort.”

  She was weeping, but she disregarded the tears seeping down her cheeks. “Fan, I’m so sorry. Forgive me, pray.”

  He paid no heed, gripping her fingers. “Promise me, Tillie! I can’t bear it if you don’t promise.”

  She threw herself back into his arms. “I promise, I promise. Oh, Fan, I love you so very much.”

  Presently he drew her away from him again. “Don’t weep, sweetheart.” His fingers brushed the wet from her cheeks, but his gaze was shifting down. “Let me see. Oh, dear Lord in heaven, he bruised you, the villain!”

  Gently he touched the wounds, bent his head to set his lips first to one side, then the other, and gave her a smile quite as shaky as her own. She sank into him, allowing her limbs to go limp. Presently, as the murmured words of tenderness calmed her, Ottilia recalled that the
servants had been in the room and she pulled back.

  “Oh, they have gone, thank heaven.” She relaxed against the rolled end of the daybed, allowing her hand to rest in her husband’s protective grasp. “I see now how poor Emily must have suffered.”

  She told him how it had felt briefly, but moved on to her description of the man which tallied so well with what Perkin had told them. Francis cursed softly.

  “I would give much to know which of them did this to you. I should know how to deal with him.”

  “He did worse to Dulcibella, my dearest. We must let the law give him his due.”

  “If the law can catch him.”

  She squeezed his hand. “We will find him out. I am now doubly determined.”

  His brows lowered a little. “But you won’t run your head into danger again. You gave me your word.”

  “I did, and I will not go back on it, Fan. I promise my role will be entirely passive from this moment.”

  For the first time since his entry into the room, he laughed, his eyebrow quirking. “If I believed that, my dear one, I should count myself a looby.”

  She was obliged to smile. “Well, I will confine myself to thought without a vestige of action. Will that content you?”

  “It will, but I shall make sure George knows of this. He may add it to his indictment when the scoundrel is behind bars.”

  George arrived back at the barracks on Monday afternoon after an abortive journey which had yielded little or nothing by way of result, either at the theatres or the livery stables, and cost him two nights and a whole day away. The theatre manager at Lyme had been away in Exeter, which gave him no choice but to follow, by which time it was too late to do anything but find a suitable inn for the night. When he finally ran the two men to earth in a tavern on the Sunday, neither could recall anything more than that Edgcott was a regular visitor. He was, however, pelted with questions since the news of the murder had spread to both towns. He was thoroughly out of temper and wishing he had never been saddled with the riddle of Dulcibella’s demise.

  He left his vehicle in the charge of a groom and headed for the officer’s parlour, with the intention of demanding coffee and found his junior already partaking of the beverage.

  Sullivan jumped up on his entrance. “You’re back at last! I’ve been waiting to catch you, sir.”

  George eyed the coffee pot. “Is that still hot?”

  “I’ll ask for some fresh.” The younger man went to pull the bell, but his gaze remained on his senior. “Sir, I’ve had the devil’s own luck.”

  Dragging his mind from his own failures, George recalled the man’s mission. “You’ve found something out? I hope to God it’s of use because I don’t mind telling you I’ve wasted my time. Is it about the coach? Did someone hire one for the night in question?”

  “Not exactly, sir, no.”

  Eagerness showed in the young face, but he paused as the batman entered to ask for a fresh pot of coffee. George, too hungry to wait dinner, put in an additional request for beef slapped between slices of bread in the manner of Lord Sandwich at the gaming tables and waited with impatience for Marsh to remove the tray and leave the parlour.

  “Well?”

  “One of the ostlers at the livery stables here saw our man’s coach standing outside a private house.”

  “But how can he know it was our man’s?”

  “I’m coming to that.” Sullivan’s excitement was manifest. “He saw the murdered girl carried out of the house and set into the coach.”

  George fairly started, his tiredness evaporating. “Good God, is it so indeed? Why did he not come forward before? This damned murder has been talked of all over the town.”

  “Just what I thought, sir, but I didn’t ask him, fearing to set tongues wagging.”

  “Yes, fair point. But if he recognised this Dulcie —”

  “He didn’t. Seems he was pretty owlish at the time, having spent the better part of the night in a tavern. And this was in the early hours, around two or thereabouts.”

  George cursed. “But such an odd occurrence? He did not think to question it?”

  Sullivan grinned. “Well, he says it did seem odd to him, which was why he mentioned it when he heard me asking about coaches on that particular night.”

  “Well, what exactly did he see?”

  The lieutenant’s eyes sparkled. “A fellow in a cloak and a three-cornered hat carrying a blonde girl who looked to be asleep.”

  There could be no doubt it was the murderer. Questions teemed in George’s head, tumbling out of his mouth. “Does this fellow remember which house? Can he identify it? Do we know who lives there? Did he notice anything about the coach that might help us? Did he see the man’s face?”

  Sullivan threw up a steadying hand. “None of all that, sir, unfortunately. He has a vague recollection of staggering home via a different route than normal and losing his bearings, but he claims all those houses look the same.”

  “All which houses?”

  “The ones towards the edge of town, heading out towards the coast road.”

  “Which is the one leading to the cemetery also,” said George, his mind running over the suspects. “But why there? None of these fellows lodge that far out, for we’ve checked their directions.” Grimness settled in his mind. “Damnation. I was almost sure we had it settled, but this throws out all our suppositions.”

  Sullivan looked crestfallen. “I’d hoped it would help, sir.”

  George threw up a hand as Marsh entered bearing a replenished tray and a full plate. “Of course it helps. It’s another eyewitness.”

  He held his tongue while his batman was in the room, seizing upon the food with relish and watching his second-in-command pour black liquid into two cups. Accepting one, George swallowed down his mouthful of beef and took a draft of the sustaining brew, setting his mind to cogitation. He thought aloud as soon as they were alone.

  “We’d best find out if there are any lodging houses out there. I suppose it’s possible our man took another place for the purpose. Rodber will know, so I’ll take that.”

  “What can I do, sir?”

  Sullivan was plainly eager and George regretted having quashed his find.

  “I didn’t mean to disparage your contribution, lad. You’ve done extraordinarily well. We’ve just got to think again.”

  His junior eyed him over the rim of his own cup. “Will you put this to Lady Francis, sir?”

  George raised his brows. “Why, do you doubt her ability to bring us off?”

  Sullivan shifted his shoulders. “From what you’ve said, sir, I can’t really tell.”

  “Ah, but what you hear, my partner in arms, is my dilution of her observations,” said George with a grin, picking up his beef and bread again. “Left to myself, I’d have arrested one or other of those fellows days ago. Ottilia has a knack of noticing details and she understands how people think. She’s something of a student of human nature, which I freely admit I am not.”

  The younger man frowned a little. “It’s odd, sir, that’s all.”

  “Because she’s a woman?”

  “Well, yes.”

  George wagged a finger, speaking a trifle thickly through a mouthful of beef. “Never underestimate the sex, Sullivan. It’s a fallacy we men live under to imagine ourselves better thinkers. Women are far superior in that line, especially when it comes to what goes on in the male mind as regards females.” He winced as he recalled Cecile’s insights. “You’ll find it out when you become attached, I warn you.”

  Sullivan coloured and laughed in a self-conscious fashion. “I can’t say I’ve noticed it.”

  “Then you’ve not been in serious pursuit.” He pulled his mind from the image of Cecile’s furious eyes and took another draft of his coffee. “However, that’s neither here nor there. I’ve another task for you, Sullivan. I need this boy Perkin under my protection.”

  “Isn’t he better where he is, sir?”

  “Not once it’s k
nown he’s there. Moreover, I can’t risk him taking off. You’ll come with me tomorrow and fetch him away. Choose one of the older fellows to take care of him here, and detail others to take it in turns to guard him at all times. Make him comfortable, but give him something to do to keep him from thoughts of escape.”

  “Well, I suppose he could polish boots or brass, sir,” said his junior doubtfully, “though from the sound of it he’s not skilled at much of anything.”

  “We’ll train him up. Fig him out with a uniform and turn him into a soldier. He doesn’t know it, but it’s that or be hung for thieving.”

  “Poor little beggar.”

  “That’s why he gets a choice. Lady Francis’s steward has him in charge at present and was detailed to get him to give up the purse he stole, so if he has done it, you’ll take care of that too.”

  “Right, sir.”

  “And once you’ve settled Perkin, see if you can get this ostler to lead you to the house in question. Or at least the street or the general area.”

  His junior was doubtful but willing enough to try. George toyed with the notion of going to see Cecile and dismissed it. Much as he longed for a sight of her, it was late, she was likely busy and he was uncertain of his reception.

  The bustle of the final preparations provided Cecile with a semblance of normality. The impresario had determined to finish at Weymouth after all with The Country Wife, making some drastic cuts, having his wife double up her roles. While Cecile pinned and tacked, adjusting the bodice of Dulcie’s costume to fit Kate’s smaller bosom, those intrusive regrets could be relegated to the back of her mind. They scarcely penetrated the hubbub, what with Kate running her lines with Rob as Cecile worked, Jasper protesting Monsieur Ferdinand’s various prohibitions against excess before the night of departure, Lewis and Hilde involved in some sort of altercation and the stagehands bumping scenery across the wooden boards.

  Yet she could not entirely suppress the sneaking dismay. Where was George all this time? She had found herself missing him all through the incessant grumbling rehearsals on Sunday and Monday while her hands were busy with sewing, but her mind unoccupied. Why had he not attempted to see her? To try at least to placate her wrath? It had dissipated all too rapidly, leaving her with a yearning for a chance to retract her hasty words. She cherished the endearment he had used, but it alone had not power to assuage the fear she might have alienated his affection.