The Gilded Shroud

by Elizabeth Bailey

  “How are you coping, Mrs. Thriplow?” Ottilia asked by way of an opener.

  Mrs. Thriplow sighed deeply. “If I’d only myself to think of, ma’am, I’d be back on my feet in no time. But half the girls seem to find reasons to fall into hysterics for naught, and the other half can’t keep from gossiping with every Tom, Dick, and Harry who comes to the area door. I’m trying to keep their minds on the work in hand, but it ain’t nowise easy, and I can’t say as I blame them, poor things.”

  “What an excellent person you are, Mrs. Thriplow,” said Ottilia, seizing the opportunity to butter the woman up. “I can tell you take your duties towards the female staff to heart.”

  A red stain rose to the woman’s cheeks and she puffed them out. “Kind of you to say so, ma’am, I’m sure. I like to think I’ve learned a trick or two over the years.”

  “I imagine your late mistress must have found you invaluable.”

  Mrs. Thriplow pursed her lips at that, looking dubious. “As to that, there’s no saying what she thinks—thought, I should say. She’d her standards, like any lady, and it paid a body to learn them and abide by them.”

  This was intriguing, to say the least, and Ottilia took the cue. “She was exacting?”

  Watching the changing expression on the woman’s face as she hesitated, Ottilia guessed she was struggling between the urge to speak out and a sense of loyalty. Ottilia applied a spur.

  “I hope you will forgive my blunt speaking, Mrs. Thriplow, but if I am to unravel the mystery behind her murder, it behoves me to learn as much of Lady Polbrook’s character as I can. And you are very well placed to help.”

  A moment more the housekeeper’s resistance held. Then, with an air of reckless abandon, she tossed off the contents of her glass and reached out a pudgy hand for the bottle.

  “Well, if it’s the truth you want, Mrs. Draycott, the mistress was a worse tartar than old Lady Polbrook, and that’s saying something.”

  “Ah, I wondered.”

  “You might well, for you’re at the old one’s beck and call. But the bigger difference between them, ma’am, is you couldn’t speak your mind to my late mistress as you could to t’other. It were ‘yes, my lady’ or ‘no, my lady’ and she wouldn’t stand for nothing else.”

  Ottilia smiled. “I find it hard to believe you were able to abide by that.”

  The housekeeper let out a guffaw. “Well, I weren’t, of course. I’d tell her what’s what if I had to, never mind she didn’t like it. I knew she wouldn’t shoot me out the door, for I run the house like clockwork and it ain’t easy with a place this size.”

  “And I daresay she recognised that such a good housekeeper is hard to come by.”

  Mrs. Thriplow chuckled, setting several chins wobbling under the ties of her cap. “More like she didn’t want the bother of doing too much herself. Hated being obliged to think of domestic affairs, did my lady. Unless it were for one of them soirées, as she liked to call them.”

  “She was fond of entertaining?”

  “Not if it meant she had to work at it. But in her position my lady was obliged to entertain. She’d name the day and give out a list for the invitations. Then she’d say how she wanted it to be and that was all. But woe betide you if it weren’t just how she’d said.”

  “Dear me, it sounds as if she had a temper,” Ottilia opined.

  “Tantrums more like. Neither Cattawade nor me took no account of them, but she’d put the fear of God into some of the maids. Such a one for throwing things. Poor Mary was terrified of her. Kept everything in apple-pie order for fear my lady would ring a peal over her.”

  Ottilia thought of Huntshaw’s meticulous care and her mistress’s careless abandon and had a silent curse for the departed Lady Polbrook, who demanded what she was not willing to give. She sounded a spoilt and pampered creature. Little wonder both the dowager and Lady Dalesford had disliked her.

  “Did you think her beautiful, Mrs. Thriplow?”

  The housekeeper blinked. “Ain’t you seen the portrait?”

  “Yes,” said Ottilia, noncommittally, stirring her tea.

  “It was done a long time ago, but she hadn’t changed much. Used to be in his lordship’s library, but it was moved to the Blue Salon years back. Striking, that’s what people used to say.”

  “Yes, that was rather my impression,” said Ottilia. “But it is difficult to relate the portrait to life. How was she striking?”

  Mrs. Thriplow took a swig from her glass and smacked her lips. “She was that kind who’d walk into a room and have everyone looking at her.”

  “Gentlemen especially?”

  A sharp glance came Ottilia’s way from the housekeeper’s intelligent eyes. “Why yes, ma’am. But she’d a way with her for the ladies, too, had the mistress. She’d one of them laughs that tinkled like a chandelier. If you ask me, it were there for show most of the time.”

  Much to Ottilia’s gain, the woman’s tongue was loosening. No doubt the ratafia was partially responsible. Ottilia sipped at her tea and dared a little further.

  “Did you despise her, Mrs. Thriplow?”

  The housekeeper pursed her lips. “It weren’t my place to judge her ladyship, ma’am.”

  “Come, Mrs. Thriplow,” Ottilia said gently. “You are scarcely a nobody in this house. Why, you were here long before the late Lady Polbrook. For my part, your opinion is one to be wholly relied upon.”

  The woman eyed her with suspicion, but the flattery had done its work. She sighed gustily. “This ain’t to go no further, ma’am.”

  “Nothing you say to me will go outside these four walls, Mrs. Thriplow.”

  For a moment the housekeeper hesitated. Then she set down her glass and took up the bottle with a determined air. With her drink again replenished, she settled back and surveyed Ottilia in a considering way.

  “You’d not have liked her one little bit, ma’am, I can tell that. Highty-tighty was my lady, every bit the marchioness. The likes of me weren’t nothing to her. Just part of the background that kept her where she was. Always astonished her ladyship when I answered her back, you could see that.”

  “Then I really am surprised she didn’t turn you out.”

  A smug look crept over the housekeeper’s face. “She daren’t. For all her temper tantrums and high-and-mighty ways, my lady was afraid of his lordship’s mama. She knew the old one would cut up something terrible if she were to try to be rid of Cattawade or me. And for why? His late lordship, the dowager’s husband that was, left us both a home on the estate and a lifetime annuity to be paid when we was to leave service with the Polbrook family. She knew the old mistress wouldn’t have stood for them wishes to be laid aside.”

  The housekeeper took a defiant swallow from her glass and fairly glared at her visitor.

  “I am sure you are right,” Ottilia soothed, and shifted direction. “What of the relationship between her ladyship and the marquis? I have gathered there was some bone of contention between them.”

  Mrs. Thriplow snorted. “Bone of contention? If you ask me, they hated each other.”

  “Dear me, as bad as that?”

  “Almost from the start, barring a year or two. Well, you know how it is with them as is born high. They’ve to marry to suit, not from choice. And from what I heard, my lady was promised to the master from her girlhood.”

  Ottilia could appreciate this. Marriage at the Polbrook level of society was a matter of business. Affection must be counted a bonus, although many couples, she believed, grew into a degree of mutual tenderness through sheer propinquity. Evidently this was not so with the marquis and his wife.

  Following the housekeeper’s example, Ottilia fortified herself with a swallow of tea before tackling the most important aspect of her investigation.

  “Pardon me, Mrs. Thriplow, but I have to ask you this. To your knowledge or belief, was the marchioness involved with another man?”

  The other’s plump features became suffused and for the first time she looked d
iscomfited. Her gaze drifted away from Ottilia’s face. Why, when she’d spoken freely up to this moment? Ottilia pressed the point.

  “I would not ask you if it did not promise to make the difference between Lord Polbrook’s possible guilt or innocence.”

  The housekeeper gasped. “You ain’t never going to say he done it? I’ll stake my life the master wouldn’t, not for fifty lovers!”

  “But if it was not he, Mrs. Thriplow,” pursued Ottilia ruthlessly, “it must be another. Whoever it was, there can be no doubt that he and the late Lady Polbrook had been amorous together.”

  The woman’s hand shook, and she was obliged to set down her glass for fear of spilling its contents.

  “No, ma’am, no. I’ll not believe the master done it. If he’s been next or nigh my lady’s bed for such a purpose these many years, you may call me a dunce and welcome.”

  “Then who, Mrs. Thriplow? Who could it have been?”

  The housekeeper put her hands together and wrung them, setting them at her lips and then down again. Ottilia noted these signs of discomfort with growing suspicion. Without doubt the housekeeper knew, or suspected, something. Someone?

  Chapter 9

  “Mrs. Thriplow?”

  The housekeeper’s eyes were now desperate as they looked into Ottilia’s. “I don’t know, ma’am. Oh, I wouldn’t discount what you say. I daresay there may be more than one man to be looked for. But I couldn’t tell you no name.”

  Couldn’t, or wouldn’t? “You have your suspicions perhaps?” She got nothing but a violent shaking of the head. Ottilia affected to accept this.

  “Well, it can’t be helped. I daresay your path would not run in the direction of finding out such a thing.”

  Mrs. Thriplow fiddled with the stem of her glass. “Was there anything else, ma’am?”

  The gruffness of the tone told Ottilia she had lost the woman, for the time being at any rate. She gave her a warm smile as she rose.

  “Nothing at all, Mrs. Thriplow. I will not trespass on your time any longer. I must thank you for being so extremely helpful.”

  The housekeeper looked a little mollified, not to say surprised, and she thawed a little. “Was you meaning to talk to anyone else?”

  “Why, yes. I am extremely anxious to interview Abel the footman.”

  Mrs. Thriplow’s glance met hers. Was that a frown in her eyes? And did her lips tighten a fraction?

  “Abel, is it?”

  Was there a matter of conflict here? Some servants’ hall tiff?

  “He was guarding the bedchamber door, if you remember,” Ottilia said mildly.

  The housekeeper’s face cleared. “Ah, I’d forgot that.”

  “I asked him at the time if he would talk to me and he agreed.”

  “He’d better,” muttered Mrs. Thriplow, belligerence surfacing once more. “Likely if anyone knows who came and went that night, it’s him.”

  Ottilia noted this without comment. “Can you suggest somewhere as cosy as this where I might pursue these enquiries?”

  Mrs. Thriplow cast her a sharp look, but Ottilia, not unhopeful, kept her expression blandly questioning.

  “I don’t know as there is anywhere, Mrs. Draycott. But I’m sure you’re welcome to stay here. I’ve duties to attend to.” She hoisted herself to her feet and picked up the bottle. “I’ll just lock this away.” Recalling her role as hostess, she offered to replenish Ottilia’s cup from the little silver pot she’d made.

  Ottilia declined and thanked her with every appearance of gratitude and pleasure. “Would it be possible to send for Abel?”

  The footman stood in an attitude of stiff attention. He had refused the proffered chair, regarding Ottilia with a mixture of hostility and suspicion. She felt at a distinct disadvantage being seated, lessening the possibility of putting the fellow at his ease. She tried what a soft approach might achieve.

  “You do remember that you consented to talk to me, do you not, Abel?”

  He did not shift, nor did his eyes waver from hers. “I remember, madam.”

  Ottilia hesitated. Should she weigh in at once, or would it serve her better to break down his resistance at the outset. She opted for attack.

  “Then why are you looking at me as if you thought I represented some danger to you?”

  At that he flinched and looked quickly away. His eyes darted about the room and came back to her. With reluctance?

  “It’s not you, madam. It’s this place.”

  Ottilia recalled the housekeeper’s belligerence towards the man. “You mean Mrs. Thriplow’s room? You do not get on with her, I think.”

  His mouth set in a straight line, and he did not answer. Ottilia assumed a confidential air.

  “I assure you, Abel, she is not within earshot. I understand she is busy in the still room.”

  There was a fraction of relaxation in the set features. He eyed her briefly, then suddenly went quickly to the door and flung it open, looking up and down the corridor outside. Apparently satisfied, he closed it again and came back to the table. Ottilia noted the drop at his shoulders. Now they were getting somewhere.

  “Do sit down, Abel,” she said in a friendly way. “You are giving me a crick in the neck.”

  A faint laugh was drawn from him, and he drew out the only other chair besides the large comfortable cushioned affair that was reserved for Mrs. Thriplow. Setting it a little way apart from the table, he perched on its edge, clearly still ill at ease.

  “That’s better,” Ottilia encouraged him. She sought for a way to loosen his stiffness. “Do you think the household has calmed down a little? I know everyone was dreadfully stunned.”

  Abel frowned. “I don’t think anyone has calmed down, the reason being they won’t talk of nothing else.”

  “We had hoped the presence of the dowager would serve to keep them busy.”

  “They’re busy all right, busy as market day. You’d suppose everyone in service in London has business in this part of the town.”

  Ottilia smiled. “Visitors to the area door? Yes, I gathered as much from Mrs. Thriplow.”

  The footman shook his head in a disapproving fashion. “They won’t be satisfied, they won’t, not ’til they see the master hang.”

  Ottilia seized upon this. “Do you think he did it, Abel?”

  His gaze shot back to hers, and Ottilia could not interpret the hard look within it. “If he didn’t, who did?”

  “That is precisely what I am trying to establish.”

  “But there weren’t no one else. Least, if the voice I heard weren’t his lordship—”

  Startled, Ottilia threw out a staying hand. “What voice?”

  The man looked puzzled. “In the bedchamber, madam.”

  A flurry of apprehension started up in Ottilia’s chest. “Whose bedchamber? Her ladyship’s?”

  The frown deepened on the footman’s forehead. “That’s right.”

  Ottilia drew a breath. “Let me understand this, Abel. You heard a voice in her ladyship’s chamber, which you think belonged to the marquis.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  She eyed him. “At what time was this?”

  He looked away from her, seeming to ponder, biting his lip. “It was before Foscot came for me.”

  “Then you were up already? At four o’clock in the morning?”

  Abel shook his head. “I was stood in for the porter that night. I’d been asleep in the hall, waiting for the master and the mistress to return from their engagements. He came in last, and after I’d let him in—”

  “At what time?”

  Abel scratched his head. “I’ve been trying to remember, madam. I’d heard the watch call two of the clock, I know that, but I must have slept again after, so I can’t be sure.”

  “But it was before three?”

  “I can’t say, madam. I went straight to my bed, only then I couldn’t get off to sleep. And I don’t hear the watch from my side at the top of the house.”

  “Very well.
What happened then?”

  The footman shrugged. “I hardly know, I was that befuddled. I tossed and turned, trying to get off, for I’d to be up again at six.”

  “But you got up out of your bed?”

  For the first time, Abel’s eyes showed a tendency to shift. Embarrassment? Or was he lying? To what purpose, if he was?

  “The case is, madam,” he said at length, “I had such a thirst on me, there was nothing for it but to go down to the pantry. But I never reached there, for as I was going downstairs I heard this—this noise.” He moved restlessly in the chair. “I suppose I now know what it must have been, but at the time it was just—odd, madam.”

  Odd indeed. Odder still that he had failed to mention this in the first place, Ottilia thought with a surge of annoyance. She held it down, forcing herself to speak calmly, without a vestige of reprobation in her tone.

  “Can you describe the noise, Abel?”

  Something like a spasm crossed his face. “Sort of gargling.”

  “What did you do?”

  “That’s just the trouble, madam,” he returned, dismay growing in his eyes. “If I’d done more—if I’d thought—”

  Ottilia carefully remained silent, intent upon forcing him to push through to the end of his tale. She knew he would feel impelled to continue if she said nothing.

  “I went back up the stairs and crept through towards my lady’s chamber. I’m ashamed to confess that I listened. That’s when I heard his voice.”

  “Did you hear any words?”

  Abel shook his head. “I couldn’t make anything out, madam. But it was a man’s voice all right.”

  “Could you make out something of the tone? Was it angry perhaps?”

  He thought for a moment. “Gruff, madam. Not shouting or anything.”

  “I see. And then?”

  Now there was definite embarrassment. “After a bit, I thought I heard the door handle being turned. I didn’t want his lordship to catch me there, so I scarpered, madam. Made the best of my way back to bed. I was just dropping off when Foscot came for me to get round to the stables.”