The Gilded Shroud

by Elizabeth Bailey

  “Well?”

  “She’s taken bad, my lady. I can’t rightly understand what she says, but I think as it’s because the master has been got by the justices. She’s been crying herself into hysterics, my lady, and I don’t know how to do.”

  This speech ended in a rising tone that showed the woman to be on the verge of hysteria herself. Ottilia looked a trifle apprehensively at Sybilla, recalling last night’s altercation in the library with her elder son.

  There was a shadow in the dowager’s eyes, but she rose, straight-backed as ever. “Very well, I will go to her directly. You run along, Huntshaw.”

  Mary curtsied and went out, and Sybilla looked at Ottilia.

  “I had best do what I may. I had hoped to avoid giving her an account of the happenings here, but it can’t be helped.”

  Ottilia had been at first glad to be left alone with her unquiet thoughts. But they became rapidly too oppressive to be borne. She got up, pacing the room, only half conscious that she did so.

  She could no longer take the slightest delight in the game she had undertaken. She yearned for that objectivity, which at the outset had served her so well. Francis had been right when he said that time had overtaken them. She could not even work out for how many days they had all been thus engaged upon what had begun for her as an adventure. A stark and horrid one, but an adventure nonetheless.

  How had she become so deeply involved that every new development, every fresh occurrence, had all too much meaning? By degrees at first, and then in leaps and bounds. She was now so thoroughly enmeshed that she felt it as if these were her people, her very family. Their misfortunes, their distresses, had insensibly become hers.

  Would that she had been able to remain aloof! Her vaunted common sense would have remained in play, and she would not have neglected to take those ordinary precautions she had criminally missed.

  “Ottilia?”

  She blinked out of her reverie and found the dowager had come back into the room.

  “What is the matter, child? You look utterly riven.”

  Blindly, Ottilia gazed at her. Without will, she spoke the churning riot of her mind. “It is of no use. I cannot absolve myself. I am palpably to blame for that young man’s death.”

  For a moment Sybilla stared uncomprehendingly. Then light entered her face. “Bowerchalke? But, my dear Ottilia, how so? You did not kill him.”

  Ottilia had neither power nor will to prevent the tears that trickled down her cheeks. “I might as well have done. I never thought—I kept it back when I knew—”

  “No, you did not know.” Sybilla came to her and seized her hands. “I will not allow you to do this, Ottilia. You are in no way to blame for Abel’s deeds.”

  “But don’t you see? I did not look for him. Despite having my suspicions of him. But I became so engaged with the puzzles presented to me, I forgot the most elementary precautions. I know, we all know, how servants listen at keyholes. I knew at once it was how Mary heard what she did.”

  “I remember.” The dowager’s grip was hard and comforting. “But you are not thinking, my dear, and that is so unlike you.”

  “I am thinking too much, and I cannot bear my thoughts.”

  “Come, come sit.”

  She found herself pushed and ushered, thrust into the sofa, with Sybilla beside her, still holding her hands.

  “My dear child, one does not notice footmen. Even had you done so, had any of us, we would not have ‘seen’ him, do you see? He had only to stand or walk away, and one would think nothing of it. Abel had business in every part of the house. That is the nature of a footman’s work.”

  Ottilia’s overcharged nerves began to settle a little. “You are right in that, of course. But last night, when we were discussing matters of such import? I had seen him open the front door!”

  “Yes, but the news Colonel Tretower brought was enough to distract anyone. Ottilia, you may charge yourself with neglect if you so wish, but it is absurd. What, were we to spend every moment looking out for spies? Even had we done so, only look at this house. There are a thousand places to hide. It would take an army to cover every avenue.”

  Obliged to see the sense in this, Ottilia’s heart lightened a little. “Yes, I see that.”

  “But you are yet in the dumps.” The dowager loosened her grip and began an absent stroking of the hands she held. “I think you are overwrought, my child, which is hardly surprising. You have taken the troubles of this whole family upon your shoulders and it has grown too burdensome.”

  A shaky sigh was drawn from deep within Ottilia’s chest. “Perhaps. But I would not have had it otherwise.”

  “Nor I, believe you me. How we would have done without you, I cannot endure to contemplate.”

  At this, Ottilia let out a laugh. “That I cannot allow. I have only done as my mind dictated.”

  “As your heart dictated, Ottilia. I am not blind, my child.”

  Startled, Ottilia whipped round to stare at her. Had Sybilla divined it all? She felt the warmth rush to her cheeks and struggled to avert the shame of giving herself away.

  “It is true, I have grown fond—of all of you.”

  “And we of you, be sure.”

  The dowager fell silent and Ottilia willed her to remain so. Her hopes were not in any shape to be thrown beneath the light of exposure. Indeed, within the last four and twenty hours they had fluctuated so crazily that she had begun to doubt her ability to maintain composure in the presence of their object. So far she had held herself well in hand. Helped, it was true, by the undoubted bond of friendship and a shared sense of merriment. But to look beyond, into the veil of an unpredicted future? No, she could not. The whole was dependent not upon her, but upon Francis. And she could not answer for his affections being engaged.

  As if the thought of him had the power to bring him to her, the door opened and she heard his voice.

  “In here, if you will, Sir Thomas.”

  Confusion sent Ottilia shooting to her feet. She shifted out into the room and turned in time to see Francis usher in a gentleman of scholarly aspect.

  “Sir Thomas Ingham, ma’am. My mother, the Dowager Marchioness of Polbrook, sir.”

  The Bow Street justice! Neither Ottilia nor Sybilla had been present when he had arrested the marquis earlier. Ottilia had opportunity to observe him as he bowed over Sybilla’s hand. He was of middle years, bewigged and soberly dressed, with a pair of spectacles on his nose.

  “And this is Mrs. Draycott.”

  “Ah, the very lady I am anxious to meet.”

  Ottilia liked the firmness of his handshake and was immediately struck by his air of calm assurance.

  “Sir Thomas has questions, Mrs. Draycott, that I am not equipped to answer.”

  The resumption of formal address hurt her, although she knew Francis held to it merely because of the presence of a public official. She tried for her habitual composure and was relieved when it came quite easily.

  “Indeed, sir? I shall be happy to tell you anything you wish to know. Although I trust Lord Francis has told you enough to set you on the path of the right man.”

  He nodded, rubbing his palms together in a curiously unbusinesslike way. “Yes, yes, you need have no fears on that score. My men have been despatched.”

  “And Colonel Tretower has sent his own troop scouring the town,” Francis added. And, with a look at Ingham, “Not that I suppose they will be needed, but George was very willing and I wished to leave no stone unturned.”

  “My lord, indeed we are very glad of the help. Our men are first rate, but we lack manpower. Funds, sir, always the question of government funds.”

  “Was it Abel who laid an information?” asked the dowager.

  “He gave no name, my lady,” disclosed Sir Thomas, “but Grice, in whom he confided, was satisfied from his lordship’s description that it is the same man. He brought something by way of evidence.”

  Reaching into a capacious pocket in his coat, Justice Ingham brough
t out a small object and held it up. Ottilia stared at the oval frame in which a woman’s face was depicted.

  “Lord Polbrook’s miniature?”

  Francis started forward, seizing the little portrait. “It is the image of Madame Guizot. Evidence, you say? Confound his impudence!”

  Sybilla was looking from the item in her son’s hand to Ottilia. “Is that the one you found under Randal’s pillow? Do you say the villain had the temerity to purloin that as well as everything else?”

  “And dared to present it to Bow Street to strengthen the case against Polbrook,” said Francis, his tone savage with fury.

  Justice Ingham held out his hand. “If you will be so kind, my lord, I cannot yet allow it to be returned.”

  Ottilia watched Francis hand the frame back as, with an obvious effort, he overcame his ire and gestured the visitor to a chair.

  “Will you sit, sir?”

  Sir Thomas politely indicated that Ottilia should first seat herself, and then took the chair opposite, in the dowager’s usual place. Francis joined his mother on the sofa.

  “Now, Mrs. Draycott, I will be much obliged if you will tell me the whole.”

  Ottilia gave a mirthless laugh. “The whole? I don’t know where to begin, there is so much.”

  To her relief, Francis came to her rescue. “I have already related most of what we found and what you told us earlier. But I was unable to give Sir Thomas a precise account of what happened that night.”

  “Well, neither can I,” Ottilia pointed out. “I was relying on poor Mr. Bowerchalke for that.”

  Sir Thomas coughed, drawing everyone’s attention. “Naturally none but the participants can know just what occurred. What I am after, Mrs. Draycott, is an account of your suspicions. You see, until we have this footman apprehended, I have nothing at my disposal which may justify allowing the marquis to go free.”

  Ottilia nodded. It was just as she had foreseen. “It is supposition, of course.”

  “So much I had understood.”

  “But I think there is sufficient to show that it must have been Abel who murdered Lady Polbrook.”

  Sir Thomas gave her a prim smile. “I am open to persuasion.”

  “You will find her a remarkably acute woman, sir,” cut in the dowager.

  A gentle laugh was cast in her direction. “Ah, feminine intuition.”

  “Nothing of the sort,” snapped Sybilla. “Ottilia would scorn to stoop to anything so paltry. She has a fiendishly clever mind.”

  Justice Ingham was not noticeably abashed, but he put out a deprecating hand. “Assure you I intended no offence, my lady.”

  “Shall we allow Mrs. Draycott to tell it as she will?” Ottilia threw Francis a grateful glance, and though the dowager grunted, Sir Thomas inclined his head in her direction.

  “Mrs. Draycott?”

  She gathered her thoughts for a moment. Then she looked up towards Justice Ingham.

  “This is what I think happened. Bowerchalke accompanied the marchioness home from the ball that night. They did not leave together, but he was seen to enter her coach. When they arrived, Emily—the marchioness—”

  “Emily will do, ma’am,” said Sir Thomas. “You need not interrupt your narrative for trifles.”

  Ottilia smiled and thanked him. “Emily sent him round the back armed with the key and instructed him to wait for her signal.”

  Sybilla was regarding her intently. “The candle in the window?”

  “Just so. It had been, sir, an established pattern with the marchioness, as I found out from her former lady’s maid.”

  Sir Thomas rubbed his hands. “We will take your sources as read for the moment, ma’am. Pray continue.”

  Ottilia retraced her thoughts in her mind. “Was this his first visit? Again, we cannot know. But I suspect it was.”

  “What makes you think so?” asked Francis.

  “Remember that Emily applied fresh paint and powder to her face, and she wore a silken dressing robe. I think she had seduction in her mind.”

  Francis was frowning. “But when? And how signal the fellow when Randal was there?”

  “I think the boy was in the chamber throughout. Emily had told her maid not to wait up, but Mary disregarded this. She had fallen asleep in the chair in the dressing room. I suspect Emily gave her signal before ever she knew Mary was there.”

  He sat back. “Yes, I see. Go on.”

  “While Emily was being undressed, Lord Polbrook came in. Bowerchalke hid himself behind the bed-curtains. He heard the row. When the marquis slammed out of the room, perhaps Emily went to get rid of Mary. Bowerchalke may or may not have come out of his refuge, but then Lord Polbrook returned and he necessarily hid again.”

  The dowager let out a snort. “It sounds like one of these absurd French farces.”

  “I was thinking just that, Mama.”

  “Yes,” Ottilia agreed, “it would be funny if it were not so tragic.”

  “Go on, Mrs. Draycott.”

  There was sharpness in Justice Ingham’s tone. Ottilia wondered if he was impatient of these divagations.

  “At last they found themselves alone. Emily ensured Mary had gone, and hastily rid herself of the encumbrance of extra clothing and applied rapid aids to beauty. By this time, Bowerchalke must have returned the fan, for her throwing it carelessly down shows her impatience.”

  “And then she proceeded to seduction,” Francis said.

  “One assumes so. She may even have taken the precaution of locking the door. Evidently they sat together on the chaise longue, where Emily perhaps removed her garters and divested herself of her dressing robe.”

  “At which point,” put in Sir Thomas with a preliminary cough, “they—er—indulged in criminal conversation, I take it?”

  “No.”

  “But surely—”

  “They may have got as far as the bed. Indeed, I am certain they must have done. Emily was likely on the bed when Bowerchalke was encouraged to unroll the stockings from her legs, for he was in possession of them when they were interrupted. But no act of intimacy took place.”

  Sybilla reared up in her seat. “Ottilia, what in the world can you mean? At the outset you made it plain Emily had so indulged.”

  “Yes, but not with Bowerchalke. Pardon my plain speaking, Sir Thomas, but her thighs were bruised. As I understand it, the boy was slight. He could not have inflicted such damage.”

  Francis was looking appalled. “Then you imply it was Abel who—? But if she had given him up, and with her new lover just a hairsbreadth away—”

  Ottilia clasped her hands tightly together and looked down at them. “I think Abel forced himself upon her.”

  “Dear Lord!”

  “She is right,” uttered the dowager in accents of suppressed agitation. “She is right, as always.”

  Ottilia looked up, facing them now that the worst was said. “When Abel came in—”

  “How, if she had locked the doors?” demanded Sir Thomas.

  Francis took that one. “He had a key to the dressing room. It is how he managed the theft.”

  “Almost certainly through the dressing room,” said Ottilia, “because he may then have taken note of the fan. But I doubt Emily thought of locking that door once Mary had left the place. It was likely habitual for Abel to enter by that way. However that may be, when he came in, he was heard. The door opening, or perhaps he called out. Bowerchalke, already in a highly nervous condition, naturally assumed it was Polbrook back once more and hastily concealed himself again.”

  “Then he must have heard it all?” Justice Ingham was beginning to look a trifle grim.

  She nodded. “Which is why Abel killed him. There will have been some sort of argument between Emily and him. She had given him up and I daresay had reneged on her promises to him. Abel was in an excitable state; perhaps he had been drinking while he took the porter’s chair in the hall. He was certainly a good deal the worse for wear in the morning, but that is hardly surprising in th
e circumstances. He had seen the marquis leave the house and thought himself safe to take his chance and make his protestations. Emily repudiated him, as she must do with Bowerchalke in the wings. Abel lost control and forced her to coitus. She fought him, but was overcome. Maddened, fearful perhaps of the consequences of what he had done—she may have threatened him—he strangled her.”

  “And then walked away,” Francis said.

  “Ran away, more like,” suggested Sir Thomas.

  “I suspect he wasted some time in panic and remorse. Not knowing what else to do in the middle of the night, he went to his chamber, there to think desperately how he might avoid retribution.”

  “And Bowerchalke?”

  “One can only imagine his repugnance and dismay, Sybilla. When at last he dared to emerge, what did he see? How dreadful was his situation. Emily brutally murdered, he a witness throughout. Who would believe him? He could not even identify the perpetrator, for he did not know him. All he had was a voice. The poor boy must have been terrified. What would you? He fled.”

  Ottilia sat back, as exhausted by the telling as if she had participated in these events herself. Her auditors were silent. She stole a glance at Francis and found him regarding her with a distant look. Was his imagination playing over the scene for him? Sybilla’s disgust was patent. Ottilia allowed her gaze to shift to the magistrate from Bow Street.

  Sir Thomas’s eyes crinkled at the corners and his lips lifted a fraction. “I am inclined to side with her ladyship, ma’am, in reference to your powers of observation and deduction. A pretty tale! If true.”

  Ottilia shrugged. “It is as near as I can judge it, sir. Sadly, the witness upon whom I had relied is unable to assist us.”

  He nodded. “But the principal is still alive.”

  “And at large,” Francis pointed out.

  “Not for long, I hope. Once we have him, we will endeavour to unravel this history.”

  The dowager let out one of her characteristic snorts. “What need, when Ottilia has done it all for you?”

  “Ah, my lady, but hearsay is not evidence. A conviction rests upon testimony or a confession.”

  A horrid premonition seized Ottilia. She sat up. “You will not torture him to get it?”