“Do you see anyone who answers to Theo or Jeremy?” he asked his friend during a lull.
“Not that I recall. But I am dubious about that altogether. The information from this previous lady’s maid appears sadly out of date.”
Impatience gnawed at Francis. “This is useless. I believe we are wasting our time. No one has so much as hinted at Randal’s involvement.”
“Except Quaife.”
“Obliquely, yes.”
He finished the last of his coffee and looked about for a waiter to ask for his cup to be replenished. Abruptly he became aware of being under scrutiny. A pair of eyes in a youthful countenance were darting towards him and away again. He nudged Tretower.
“Do you know that young fellow over by the fire?”
George glanced round. “The pretty little fop with the yellow hair standing alone?”
Francis would not have described the boy as a fop, but he was undoubtedly a devotee to fashion. His green coat was moulded so tightly to his slim form, one must suppose it required the efforts of a couple of men to remove it. His breeches clung to a pair of shapely thighs, and his boots were polished to perfection. The epithet “pretty” scarcely did justice to a face made for the sculptor’s art, though it wore just now an expression of severe anxiety.
“He looks worried to death and he’s been watching me. Not now, of course, but he was.”
While he signalled the waiter, Francis kept a surreptitious eye upon the young man, aware that George did likewise.
“What do you think of him?”
“Behaving like a cat on a hot bakestone,” said Tretower, interest in his voice. “Shifting from foot to foot and keeps clenching a hand, did you notice?”
The waiter took his request and Francis turned, giving his profile to the boy. “If we affect not to notice him, we may force him to come up to us.”
“I doubt he has the courage,” said George, “though he is making it obvious that is precisely what he wants to do.”
By the time the waiter returned with his second cup of coffee and another tankard of ale for Tretower, Francis was growing restless.
“Does the wretch mean to make his move or not?”
“Patience, my friend. He does not know either of us, which complicates matters for him.”
“I’ve a good mind to go over and ask him what he means by staring at me.”
“You will ruin all if you do.”
Francis looked at him. “Then you think it significant?”
“Don’t you?”
He sighed. “I think our minds are so full of this event that we can think of nothing else. For all I know, there may be a perfectly legitimate reason for his conduct, utterly unconnected with Emily’s decease.”
As if to confound him, at this moment the young man started across the room. Francis turned to await his approach. The boy came up, his cheeks reddening as he coughed with obvious embarrassment.
“I beg your pardon, my lord, but I—I wished to—to offer my heartfelt condolences on your—on your loss.”
His hesitant speech, interrupted by a battery of swallowing and dipping of the head, argued an unquiet mind. Francis eyed him with acute suspicion.
“I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, sir.”
The boy shook his head with vehemence. “No, my lord. But I—I knew her ladyship. Lady Polbrook, I mean. She was—she was excessively kind to me.”
“Indeed?”
Francis felt himself bristling. Was this meant for euphemism? The fellow was half Emily’s age. Disgust roiled in his gut.
“I am but newly come to Town, my lord. Emily—Lady Polbrook—was kind enough to—to smooth my path a little.”
George was noticeably silent. Francis glanced at him and found him studying the fellow. Was he making the same assumptions? He shifted his gaze back to the young man.
“You still have the advantage of me, sir.”
The boy looked perplexed. And then flushed deeply. “Oh! I beg your pardon. My name is Bowerchalke, sir. Jeremy Bowerchalke.”
Francis all but exclaimed aloud. And then confusion beset him. Six years? It could not be the same man. He broke into speech.
“You are new in Town, you said?”
Bowerchalke nodded. “These three weeks.”
“How did you meet Lady Polbrook?” asked George, entering the lists for the first time.
“Through my godfather, sir.”
“Ah. Is it possible you share the same name?”
The young man’s eyes widened at Tretower. “How did you know?”
George gave his peculiarly teasing smile. “It is a common courtesy. Who is your godfather?”
“Sir Jeremy Feverel.”
“And Sir Jeremy felt Lady Polbrook would be a useful acquaintance, I take it?”
Red chased into the boy’s cheeks once more and he stuttered cruelly in his response. “She—he—it was a matter of—of introduction. The marchioness knows everyone. She was—she was graciously pleased to—to present me. I am indebted—wholly indebted. I cannot bear to think—a hideous thing! It has utterly overset me.” He thrust a hand into the interior of his coat and brought out a pocket-handkerchief, pressing it tightly to his lips. “I must beg—excuse . . .” came muffled through the cloth.
And then he turned quickly, thrusting wildly through the chattering groups and out into the smaller saloon beyond.
Francis fairly gaped after him, feeling stunned. Beside him, Tretower clicked a ruminatory tongue.
“Well, well. Fascinating, wouldn’t you say?”
Francis turned to face his friend, speaking the immediate thought in his mind. “He couldn’t have done it. He’s far too slight a man. He wouldn’t have the strength.”
George nodded slowly. “But he knows.”
Arrested, Francis eyed him. “Knows what?”
“A great deal more than he is saying. Did you remark his aspect at the finish? I believe he was about to be violently ill.”
Shock ripped through Francis. “You mean he saw it?”
“Hideous, he said. Now wouldn’t you say that fairly describes the sight we have all been obliged to witness?”
Having lain in wait unseen in the Blue Salon while the servants cleared away the remains of breakfast and tidied the dining parlour, Ottilia seized her moment to catch the butler alone, hissing at him through the connecting door.
“Psst! Cattawade!”
The elderly servant visibly jumped, turning quickly from his position at the round table by the window and dropping the cloth he was in the act of folding. At sight of who called him, his brows beetled and an austere look entered his face. Ottilia became impatient.
“Do not frown at me, if you please, but come in here for a moment. I must speak with you alone.”
Cattawade cast a brief glance towards the door to the vestibule, which remained firmly closed, and crossed in his stately way to where Ottilia awaited him. Without ceremony, she grasped his sleeve and pulled him through the aperture, closing the door behind him. His severity intensified.
“What can I do for you, madam?”
“Keep your voice down, for heaven’s sake! And come away from that door.”
Thus adjured, he followed her into the centre of the room. Ottilia turned back to him and was relieved to note a glimmer of change in his aspect. The urgency of her manner must be affecting him at last.
“What is the matter, madam?” he asked, in a lowered tone.
“A great deal,” Ottilia answered at the same level, “but this will suffice. Have you any notion whence came the story of your mistress’s missing jewel box?”
His brows parted and lifted sharply. “How did you know the news had broke, madam?”
“From Sukey. She could not tell me who had begun the tale, however.”
Cattawade eyed her warily. “I take it the story is true?”
Ottilia nodded. “Mary Huntshaw and I discovered the theft on Sunday. But Mary promised to keep mum, and I believe she did. I
ndeed, she came to my room this morning while I was dressing expressly to assure me she had said nothing of it.”
“You may trust to that, madam. Mary is a very truthful girl.”
“Then who is not, Cattawade? Who could have set the story about?”
The butler looked grave. “I cannot tell that, madam. This is a large household.”
“I am aware. And a great deal goes on behind the scenes, no doubt, to keep everything afloat.”
“Precisely, madam. Mrs. Thriplow and myself encourage the staff to be about their business as unobtrusively as possible.”
Ottilia let out a frustrated breath. “Which means anyone might have been within earshot of the marchioness’s dressing room when Mary and I were in there. I have not overlooked that possibility, Cattawade. But why wait until now to pass on such a piece of news?”
The butler looked struck, and his frown reappeared. “Because it affects each one of us, do you mean, madam?”
“Just so.” Ottilia watched the implications sink in and reinforced them. “It smacks less of indignation than of mischiefmaking, do you not think?”
From his expression, Ottilia saw that her words had gone home. She thought she read a trace of alarm in the man’s eyes and judged the time ripe to pounce.
“By the by, Cattawade, was it Abel’s evening off that night you found me downstairs? Saturday, was it not?”
Something flashed in the butler’s eye, but it was veiled so swiftly that Ottilia could not be sure she had seen it. She waited, letting her steady regard remain upon his. Cattawade endured her scrutiny for several seconds and then averted his gaze, flicking across the room and back.
“Saturday, madam?”
“The first night Lady Polbrook and I stayed here. Was Abel off that evening?”
The butler now looked frankly puzzled, as if he wondered why she asked. Ottilia did not enlighten him. He appeared to have difficulty adjusting his mind to the change of subject.
“Let me think, madam. The routine having been thrown out of kilter, Mrs. Thriplow and I have been obliged to make adjustments.” He was silent for a moment, and then his face cleared. “It should have been Abel’s evening off, madam, yes. I don’t recall as I sanctioned it, but if he took it, he was within his rights.”
Ottilia digested this. “I see. And does he sleep out on such occasions, do you know?”
“I’ve known him to do so, madam, yes. His mother resides at some little distance from the metropolis.”
“But he is usually back at his post in the morning, I take it?”
“I have never had reason to complain of his absence, madam.”
An evasive answer, but Ottilia thanked him with a smile, adding, “I am sure you will keep your eyes and ears open, Cattawade.”
The butler assented to this, if with a degree of bewilderment, and Ottilia allowed him to return to the dining parlour, while she whisked herself out of the salon via the door to the hall where she stood for a moment in silent contemplation.
It was conceivable, then, that Abel had spoken the truth. In which case Ottilia had to have been mistaken in thinking she saw him that night. She was obliged to concede that her nerves had been on edge, and she could think of no perceptible reason for the footman to have concealed himself had he been there. Was she grasping at straws to lend to the suspicion there was a thief in the house rather than outside it? She chided herself for clinging to suppositions that failed to play out and thought how willingly she would lull such unwelcome thoughts to rest, if only Lord Francis was able to supply a satisfactory alternative.
She was about to cross the hall to join the dowager in the parlour when a heavy tread stomping up the servants’ staircase caught her attention. It was followed by several lighter feet, which so surprised Ottilia that she moved towards the vestibule to investigate.
The housekeeper presently hove into sight, halting as she reached the top of the stairs, one hand clutching the banister rail, the other at her weighty bosom. She was red-faced and panting and had clearly taken the stairs at a pace unsuited to her girth. Ottilia saw several peeping capped heads, perforce brought up short on the stairs behind. She took a step towards them.
“What in the world is this, Mrs. Thriplow? A deputation?”
The housekeeper drew a painful breath and surged forward, closely followed by her acolytes, among whom Ottilia was glad to note the absence of Mary Huntshaw.
“That it is, Mrs. Draycott, if you’ve a mind to call it so.”
“Dear me,” said Ottilia mildly. “May I ask the nature of your complaint?”
A vigorous shake of the head was accompanied by the setting of the woman’s arms akimbo. “It’s for her ladyship to hear, ma’am, not you.”
“I am her ladyship’s companion, Mrs. Thriplow, and I must partake of anything that promises to distress her, particularly at such a time.”
The housekeeper glared. “Well and so you may, if you choose, but I’ll speak to her ladyship and that’s that.”
Ottilia raised her brows. “I see. Then let us repair instantly to the parlour.”
With which she turned at once for the hall, knowing Mrs. Thriplow, the wind taken out of her sails, would follow with a lessening of belligerence.
Entering the parlour, Ottilia left the door open and approached the dowager, attempting to signal with her eyes as she spoke with exaggerated calm.
“Here is Mrs. Thriplow, ma’am, with a matter she feels bound to take up with you. Oh, and several of the maids have come along in support.”
Sybilla’s black eyes snapped dangerously, but she had evidently taken note of Ottilia’s silent warning, for she did not immediately break into her customary harangue. Instead, she surveyed the housekeeper from her head to her heels and allowed her gaze to take in the three maids at her rear—Sukey, Jane, and a third unknown to Ottilia—who were now looking a trifle apprehensive.
“Well, Thriplow?”
The housekeeper put up her chin. “I take leave to tell you, my lady, I’ll not have my girls put in fear of being took for thieves.”
To Ottilia’s delight and approbation, the dowager’s stare was a masterpiece of incomprehension. “Who has so taken them, Thriplow?”
Discomfited, the housekeeper fidgeted a little. “Well, no one ain’t, not yet. But that ain’t to say as they won’t, and I tell you straight, my lady, as none of my girls would dream of touching them jewels. Nor none wouldn’t go snooping in the mistress’s chamber to look for ’em, neither.”
“How did you know the jewels were missing?” asked Sybilla, wholly ignoring this protestation.
“I didn’t know it, my lady. But someone did, and everybody does now. And if suspicion is to fall upon—”
“Peace!” The dowager flicked a hand towards the three young women. “Have you anything to say?” Three pairs of eyes exchanged agonized glances. “Any of you?” There was a biting of lips and an assiduous studying of the carpet. “Has anyone accused you?” Three heads shook denial. “Very well, you may go. I have no doubt Mrs. Thriplow will speak for all of you.”
From her stance by the mantel, Ottilia watched the clearly thankful maids shuffle out as fast as they could, closing the door softly behind them. But the dowager’s gaze darkened as it fell once more upon the housekeeper. Her voice was vibrant with anger, but her tone was level.
“How dare you, Thriplow? What do you mean by it?”
Ottilia expected a violent comeback, but instead the housekeeper’s shoulders drooped and she let out an overwrought breath.
“I had to, my lady. There weren’t no other way to quiet them. I thought as I’d have a riot on my hands if I didn’t. I knew they wouldn’t say nothing of it to you, but I’ve had my ears dinned from the moment I got up out of my bed.”
For an instant, the outcome held in the balance. Then the dowager let out a cackle. “Serves you right, you crafty old besom!”
Mrs. Thriplow’s broad features broke into a grin. “It’s well for you to be calling me names, my l
ady, but it’s tried enough I’ve been these past days.”
“Goodness, I should think you have,” said Ottilia. “I am so glad to know it was a ruse.”
Trouble entered the housekeeper’s face. “Aye, but there’s truth enough to the business, ma’am. If them jewels has gone, what else is to be thought but they’ve been took by someone in the house?”
Conscious of a frowning glance from Sybilla, as if she sought guidance on what might be said, Ottilia took an ambivalent stance.
“It would seem to be the natural explanation.”
Mrs. Thriplow sighed gustily. “Never did I think to see the day I’d be shamed by one of our own.” Her distressed gaze sought her erstwhile mistress. “I’d have sworn myself black and blue for the honesty of my girls, my lady, but now . . .”
“Temptation may attack anyone, Thriplow. We are none of us immune.”
“Yes, for a pretty paste gewgaw or a bit of discarded lace, my lady. But them jewels is a hanging matter.”
The housekeeper was a good deal upset, but Ottilia decided it was impolitic to palliate her distress with the notion of the murderer having perpetrated the theft. She returned to the nub.
“Mrs. Thriplow, can you remember who first mentioned the matter this morning?”
A pair of chubby hands were thrown in the air. “I couldn’t tell you, ma’am. They was all talking at once, and it took a deal of trouble to understand what the fuss was about in the first place.”
“Were any of the male servants involved in the discussion?”
“All of them, barring the outdoor fellows, though Jem and Turville came in from the stables in the midst.”
Sybilla let out one of her impatient snorts. “You will never get to the bottom of it, Ottilia. Let it be. Anyone might have overheard us talking of it.”
“My lady’s in the right of it,” said the housekeeper. “I’d have vouched for my girls as honest, but I’d not put it past one of them to be listening at keyholes. Nor Cattawade’s lot, neither. If I catch them at it, they know as they’d get a box on the ear as they’d listened with, but I can’t be everywhere at once.”
The Gilded Shroud Page 20
