Ottilia tried to refute this and could not speak. Sybilla’s black eyes reproached her.
“You could have told me your suspicions. Why did you not?” The dowager’s gaze softened and she threw out one of her dismissive gestures. “You need not tell me. You thought you would repel me, that I could not believe Emily would sink so low. That was naïve of you, Ottilia. But then you have not moved in the circles in which I have lived.”
A glass appeared in front of Ottilia and she looked up to find Francis holding it out, a worried frown in his eyes.
Sybilla took the glass and urged it upon her. “Drink it, my child. It will recover you.”
Obediently, Ottilia took it and put it to her lips, sipping gingerly. The golden liquid burned her lips and sent fire down her throat. She coughed.
“Finish it.”
That was Francis, a peremptory note in his voice with which he had not previously addressed her.
“Let her take her time,” Sybilla said, and gave a dry laugh. “Francis is almost as shocked as you, my dear. It is not nearly as uncommon as you suppose, Fanfan, for ladies of high birth to amuse themselves with a handsome footman. Decidedly immoral, of course, and grossly unfair upon the victim. It takes him out of his proper sphere and gives him ambitions which can never be fulfilled.”
“Is that what you think happened to Abel?” Francis asked.
Ottilia, reviving a little, chose to answer this herself. “I think she gave him his congé, and perhaps she did not fulfil her promises to him.”
“What promises?”
She shrugged. “I cannot tell that. But the theft of the jewels and the fan suggests it. For some while I believed that was all he had done.”
“You think he took both?”
“Not at the time. I am sure then he thought only of escape. But in the morning, when the opportunity presented itself—”
“And I left the man to guard the door!”
“You are scarcely to blame for that, Fanfan. You could not have known. Besides, did you not suggest he had a key to the dressing room, Ottilia?”
She nodded and sipped a little more of her restorative. “I daresay he stole that, too. I doubt Emily would have given it to him.”
“But I have the key,” Francis objected.
“Yes, but Abel had been Emily’s lover for years. On and off, I daresay, like Quaife. And if the key was lost, she had only to have another cut. She had done it for the back door for a key to give her lovers.”
The dowager made a derisive sound in her throat.
“In any event, I am certain Abel took only the fan to begin with.”
Francis jumped in. “He must be the man Jardine heard about, who tried to sell the thing to a fence.”
“Just so. When I encountered him in the basement that first night, I suspect he had just come from there.”
“The man was masked, Jardine said. Then was it Abel you met last night in the dressing room?”
“Without doubt.”
The dowager was looking grim. “Do you say he only went for the jewels when he discovered the fan was too well-known to be saleable?”
Ottilia nodded. “But it may be he had it in mind for some time, before the murder even, for he certainly knew where the jewels were kept. They were moved from time to time, but he may well have kept track of them. When he thought he had succeeded in throwing us off the scent, he seized his chance, making us take the view that the murderer made off with the jewels.”
Francis let out a grunt. “He appears to have acted with remarkable coolness under the circumstances.”
“Oh no. He made several mistakes,” Ottilia said.
“Which is how you came to suspect him,” suggested Sybilla.
Ottilia shivered a little. “I did so almost from the first.”
“How?” demanded Francis. “You said nothing of it.”
“It was so distasteful, I found it incredible. Which is why I foolishly dismissed my suspicions.” She sighed. “At least, I tried to. But the possibility kept forcing itself upon my notice. There were little things, unexplained, that did not fit.”
“The mysterious voice?”
“For one thing, yes. Abel was guarding the door when the fan was abstracted. He made a point of hinting his eye was on the bedchamber door.”
“In hopes of making you think someone had slipped past?”
“Just so. Abel introduced discrepancies in the time. He was in the hall when his master came home. But a full hour after Emily? When Polbrook had been to the same ball and he clearly meant to accost her? I missed badly with that one, for Mary Huntshaw was witness to their quarrel, and she could not have taken so long to undress her mistress.”
Francis’s dark eyes lit with understanding. “That is what you meant last night when you blamed yourself. Do you say Abel lied about the time?”
Ottilia nodded. “He set the whole pattern on that lie. I now think it likely your brother began his preparations for departure no later than three. I suspect he was gone from the house by four or shortly thereafter. Abel said he went to the stables and did not think it worthwhile to go back to bed. Where did he go, then? What did he do? Then, too, Abel was ‘too toplofty’ for the kitchen maid. Abel’s name had an odd effect on Mrs. Thriplow, and her manner showed she knew the identity of Emily’s lover. Venner also gave me to understand that Emily had taken up with a servant. And Abel denied having been in the house the night I saw him in the basement.”
Ottilia realised her breath had shortened and saw that her free hand had curled tightly into a fist. She straightened it fastidiously and looked up to find Francis looking dumbfounded. When her eyes shifted to Sybilla, the latter threw up her hands.
“You make it sound obvious.”
A little laugh escaped Ottilia. “Sometimes it is the very thing that stares us in the face that we find hardest to see.”
“But it wasn’t obvious,” said Francis flatly. “You have put it together piece by piece. But it fits. He must have panicked several times. Why invent the mysterious voice unless he supposed Randal’s guilt would not hold water? Especially if he overheard Pellew’s supposition of the time of death. And then he must have put about the news of the jewel box disappearing in order to sow unrest and cast suspicion upon the other domestics.”
“But why put the jewel box back in the drawer?” asked Sybilla. “That seems inexplicable.”
“In a bid to puzzle me and muddle my thinking, I believe. He would have succeeded had I not caught him at it.”
“And yesterday,” pursued Francis, “it was Abel who laid the information, was it not?”
Ottilia nodded. “That was the last piece in the puzzle. He knew I suspected him, and when your brother came home, he took a last-ditch stand to try to throw the blame where it stood most chance of holding.”
“But why go after Bowerchalke?” asked the dowager, mystified.
“Because Abel listened to us talking in here.”
Francis started. “He answered the door to George.”
Sybilla looked horrified. “He heard it all?”
“And knew the game was up,” said Francis grimly.
Ottilia sighed deeply. “His last hope lay in silencing Bowerchalke. Without a witness, it is all supposition.” Then her mind leapt and she pushed herself up, setting her glass down on the mantel. “Except that he went to Bow Street. Grice will remember him. Francis, we must act! Where is Colonel Tretower?”
“I dropped him at Bow Street. I imagine the justices will have sent their men posthaste to Bowerchalke’s house.”
“But they don’t know about Abel,” Ottilia said, a rush of panic lending her wings. “It cannot be in doubt he disposed of the boy, in which case it is doubtful he will dare return to this house. But we must make sure.”
Francis was already making for the door. “I’ll do that. Cattawade will lead me to his chamber.”
“And then we will see if he has already removed the jewels from their hiding place.”
The dowager start
ed. “You know where they are?”
“I think so.”
“Then wait here for me.”
With which Francis left the room precipitately, shouting for the butler. Ottilia found her knees weak and sank back into her chair. She looked up to see Sybilla regarding her with concern.
“Are you yet fit to go on with this, my dear?”
Ottilia sighed. “I must. Justice Ingham will at least know that Lord Polbrook could not have murdered Bowerchalke, for he was in this house and under guard. But until Abel is found, your son’s innocence cannot be proven.”
Chapter 19
The odour was atrocious. Francis whipped out his pocket-handkerchief and clapped it over his nose. He glanced back to the doorway where Ottilia stood on the single step, well away from the noisome little area, and saw her with fingers against her nostrils to cut down the stench.
“Are you certain of this?”
She nodded. “It will possibly be wrapped in paper or rags, somewhere out of sight. In that little ditch along the wall perhaps.”
Francis eyed the noxious buckets with acute disfavour. They were set next to the cesspit wall, awaiting the coming of the night soil men. Bloodied and mutilated bodies were one thing; effluent from all the chamber pots in the house was something else entirely.
“Francis, you need not look inside the buckets.”
The mischievous note, which he had half thought quenched forever, caused him to throw Ottilia a fulminating glance.
“Do you care to assist me, Tillie?”
She chuckled. “No, I thank you.”
“Then be so good as to refrain from petty morsels of advice.”
To his mingled irritation and amusement, Ottilia covered the lower part of her face entirely, but the laughter was not wholly smothered.
“If this is the one occasion when you prove to be wrong, my girl, I promise you signal vengeance presently.”
But there was no help for it. The foul search must be effected. Tugging his gloves securely and holding his breath, Francis stooped to grasp the first of the buckets with the intention of moving them out of the way.
“Allow me, my lord.”
Francis stood up abruptly. “Cattawade? No, no, stand back, my friend. This is young man’s work.”
The butler drew himself up. “Quite so, my lord, which is why I have fetched Stibbs.”
The marquis’s groom was standing at Cattawade’s shoulder. He did not look to be enamoured of the prospect in store, but Francis was so glad to be relieved of the task that he moved aside with alacrity.
“You leave it to us, me lord,” came a fresh voice.
Turning, Francis beheld his brother’s head groom, turning in from the street and approaching down the narrow alley.
“Turville! In a good hour, man. For this reprieve much thanks, though I am sorry to burden you with such a mean task.”
“It ain’t nowise a burden, me lord, to aid in setting his lordship free. Now, what is it we’re looking for?”
Francis relayed Ottilia’s instructions and went to join her on the step, watching the burly grooms heave the buckets with their evil contents to one side.
“It is at times like this that one appreciates one’s position in life, Mrs. Draycott.”
Ottilia’s dancing eyes met his over her protective hand. “How very true, my lord. A lucky escape.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it.”
“What then?”
“Merely the advantage of having about one ancient retainers who have known one from the cradle. Cattawade would not suffer me to perform a task so ill-suited to my station.”
She laughed. “I suspect Cattawade is trying to make amends. He knew, like Mrs. Thriplow, but he dared not believe his own senses.”
Francis reflected a moment. “Now you mention it, I wondered at a look of remorse I thought I detected in his face when I told him the position of affairs.”
“What could he have done, poor man?”
Ottilia’s attention returned to the grooms, who had now cleared the wall of obstructions and begun upon their search. For several agonizing minutes nothing was found. Francis began to be restive.
“I’m beginning to be sure you are wrong. I can’t imagine why anyone would hide jewels in such a disgusting place.”
Ottilia’s clear gaze came around to his. “Would you think to look in such a place?”
“Not without the prompting of a madwoman.”
“Just so,” she said, ignoring the jibe.
“But what made you think of it?”
“Remember when we discovered the door to the garden must slam if you wanted to shut it? I think Abel escaped down the passage below. It was then I realised he must have followed me that night when Cattawade brought me down here.”
“And that gave him the idea?”
“Not then. He had not yet taken the jewels. But when he needed a secure hiding place, I suspect his mind jumped to that memory.”
“As yours did.”
“My lord!”
Francis looked quickly towards the men and found Cattawade’s pointing finger. Stibbs was holding up a dun-coloured roll. Excitement stirred in his breast as Francis heard Ottilia’s quick exhalation of breath beside him.
He jumped off the step and strode towards the groom. “Let me see.”
Stibbs held the thing up. It was bespattered with dirt and stank of its resting place. Francis refrained from touching it.
“Open it.”
The groom brought the thing to the step and laid it down. It was sausage-shaped, tied in several places with tapes, presumably to keep the contents from slipping out. Francis dropped to his haunches to watch, aware of the other men crowding round. He could feel Ottilia’s tension from where she stood above them all.
It took effort for Stibbs to undo the ties and Francis was tempted to tell him to cut them. But at last the tapes came loose. He thought the entire group held its collective breath as the groom carefully unrolled the cloth. Within there was a further, cleaner wrapping.
“Don’t open it!”
Stibbs looked up at Ottilia just as Francis did. “But they’re in there, miss. I can feel ’em.”
“Yes, but your hands are dirty. Let Lord Francis take it.”
Francis at once reached out. As Stibbs had said, the package was all unevenness and bumps and cold to the touch. He unfolded it with care and the mess of metal and stone winked and glittered in the weak sunshine.
A hissing of breath bore witness to the awe of lesser men at sight of such wealth. Discomfort ran through Francis and he quickly covered the jewels and stood up.
“Pray don’t move anything,” Ottilia said quickly. Her eyes went to Francis. “They must find stones and earth, enough to seem as close as possible to what you have in your hands. Then wrap it up and tie it, just as it was discovered.”
Francis was ahead of her. “And put it back? A trap?”
“Just so. We are fortunate he was too panicked to take them last night when he went after Bowerchalke.”
Francis set the men to do as she had asked, but he felt doubtful. “But will he dare come back? He must know we are on to him now.”
Ottilia’s hand reached towards the package he held. “If he does not, he will have done it all for nothing.”
“And he is now a fugitive. Yes, in his place, I think I would dare all.”
He spied a gleam in Ottilia’s eye and looked a question. She smiled.
“Now you are thinking like me, Fan.”
Francis quirked an eyebrow. “It must be catching.”
She laughed and a glow of warmth lit his chest. But a moment later she became serious again.
“Once they have done, you must go directly to Bow Street. Tell them everything.”
He nodded, the exigencies of the situation crowding his mind once more. “I had best set Stibbs and Turville to watch until Ingham can post his men.”
She nodded, and it pleased him that she did not attempt to tell him how
to do his business. Yet he felt humbled to have been in this predicament almost wholly reliant on her wits and ingenuity.
“And then, Ottilia?”
She looked up, the clear gaze darkening.
“We wait.”
Ottilia could not be still. With Francis’s departure, the lightness he invoked in her had vanished. The dark thoughts that had been revolving at the back of her mind came tumbling to the fore.
A modicum of relief had been obtained while she watched the dowager, together with an eager Mary Huntshaw, checking through the marchioness’s jewels. Mrs. Thriplow, grimfaced and with set jaw, had remained in attendance, crossing items off the crudely made up list.
It had scarcely been necessary. Mary knew by heart what items should be among the gems. She detected instantly the missing necklace, which Ottilia had been able to reassure her was safely in the jewel box.
“Was it paste?” Ottilia asked her.
Huntshaw shook her head. “No, miss, it was real, all right. It’s the one on the portrait.”
“Ah, I remember,” said the dowager. She glanced at Ottilia. “Too well-known.”
“He’d have been fly to that, my lady,” put in the housekeeper.
Her utterances were uniformly dour and Ottilia thought it would be long before Mrs. Thriplow could ease her conscience. She could not blame the woman, for her own was sorely beset.
“There’s three rings missing, my lady.”
“Are you certain, Huntshaw?”
“Oh yes, my lady. I know every one like they were my own. There’s an emerald, and the small diamond. The other is only glass, though it looks like a diamond.”
“Abel wouldn’t know that,” Sybilla said. “But it matters little. An emerald will have sufficed, assuming he sold them for ready money.”
Once the inventory was satisfactorily concluded, the jewels were left in the dowager’s charge while Mrs. Thriplow went away to “see if she couldn’t get some sense out of her girls,” as she put it. The discovery of Abel’s perfidy had jolted the domestics even more, the housekeeper claimed, than had the murder of the mistress. She had sailed out, but Mary had hovered.
“What is it, Huntshaw?”
The lady’s maid bobbed a curtsy. “If you please, my lady, it’s the French madame.”
The Gilded Shroud Page 31
