The Gilded Shroud

by Elizabeth Bailey

  Sir Thomas’s brows shot up. “My dear lady, we are not in Spain. I trust we have more civilisation than to conduct ourselves in the manner of our forefathers.”

  “But why, Ottilia, does it concern you?” Sybilla demanded. “Don’t you think the fellow deserves punishment?”

  “Due justice, yes. But responsibility does not rest with Abel alone. We are not always master of our fates.”

  “You mean he was led astray by Emily,” said Francis.

  “Partly. And the inequities of our society.” She brushed off an unaccustomed feeling of depression. “But this is hardly the moment to indulge in political debate.”

  Sir Thomas Ingham rose. “Quite right.” He dropped his head a little and looked quizzically at her over the top of his spectacles. “A pity you cannot run for Parliament, ma’am. I should certainly support your candidature.”

  Ottilia was obliged to join in the general laughter, although Sybilla was looking thoughtful, as if she seriously considered the possibility. Sir Thomas bowed in her direction.

  “I will take my leave of you now, my lady.” And to Ottilia, “There are one or two points upon which I may need clarification, for I have not all the background to your reasoning. But that can wait until we have the suspect apprehended.”

  His departure signalled the breakup of the circle, the dowager declaring she was famished and it was high time a repast was served. Francis elected to go back to Bow Street with Sir Thomas to find out, if he could, what progress had been made and to confer with Colonel Tretower, with whom he would take refreshment at a convenient inn.

  Ottilia found the day dragging. She ate with Sybilla, and then there was nothing to do.

  “It seems excessively odd not to be pursuing our investigations,” remarked the dowager presently.

  Ottilia sighed. “I was thinking the same thing, ma’am. I cannot imagine how we are to fill our days.”

  Sybilla threw up her hands. “For my part, I can think of nothing I would welcome more than the tedium of my former life.”

  Ottilia was aware of her employer’s eyes following her around the room. At length the dowager broke into testy speech.

  “Sit down, child. You are fidgeting me to death.”

  Ottilia threw herself into her accustomed chair. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. It is this waiting I cannot endure.”

  “That is it exactly. Have no fear. When the matter is settled once and for all, there will be all manner of problems besetting us.”

  Ottilia thought of the complications arising from the marquis’s actions, not to mention the ensuing scandals gathering about the family’s head, and was silenced.

  But her eyes crept obstinately time and again to the case clock on the mantel as the hours crawled by.

  Chapter 20

  The only sound was the scratching of his pen. On George’s advice, they had closed both blinds and shutters and doused all the candles bar the single one by the light of which Francis was writing a letter to his sister. That it was merely to provide himself with an occupation he did not deny. It seemed preferable to fretting the hours away.

  His mother had refused to go to bed and was asleep on the sofa next the wall. Ottilia was, he hoped, dosing in one of the chairs. She had been fretful and uneasy. So unlike herself. She had told Francis it was the inactivity she could not endure. Once she had begun, inexplicably, upon some foolishness of being in some way to blame for Bowerchalke’s death. Francis had scotched that without compunction.

  “That is absurd, Tillie. How could it be your fault?”

  She had clenched her hands into fists. “If I had spoken last night of my convictions of Abel’s guilt, we might have acted sooner.”

  Francis had taken her fisted hands and held them. “It would have made no difference. According to the doctor, Bowerchalke had been dead for hours when he was found.”

  She had regarded him with painful anxiety. “You mean Abel went there directly? It was done at night?”

  “Did you think he had gone in broad daylight for such a purpose?”

  “I don’t know. I had not thought. I only know he did it.”

  Francis had tightened his hold. “This is not like you, Tillie. Think it through. He had to take time to realise his position, to decide to act. I imagine he knew where Bowerchalke lived, for the boy had been known to Emily some weeks. It is likely Abel was sent with notes for the fellow.”

  “Doubly galling to him,” Ottilia had said, and he’d known from her expression that her quick wits were in play, following his reasoning.

  “Indeed. He goes to the house, but he is precipitate. That is probably why he neglected to take his booty with him. There are too many comings and goings. Perhaps Bowerchalke is not yet home. He must wait for the place to quieten, and perform the deed under cover of deepest night.”

  “How did he get in?”

  “Bowerchalke’s chamber was on the first floor. An easy climb for a man of Abel’s size and agility. The window must have been open, for it had not been broken. He slipped in and murdered the poor fellow while he slept.”

  To his satisfaction, Ottilia looked immeasurably relieved. She did not refer to it again, and he hoped the matter was closed in her own mind. Nevertheless, he was increasingly anxious about her. She seemed distrait, and once or twice he caught a glance from her of something unfathomable, but acutely disturbing. What could have distressed her? Unless she was at the point of exhaustion, as his mother had earlier suggested.

  He resumed the account of events he had started. After all, Harriet would wish to know, and it might as well be written now as later.

  It was eerily silent. The servants had long gone to bed, but he wondered how many of them were able to sleep in this house of unrest. Outside he knew there were men on the qui vive. It was uncannily like camp in wartime, with soldiers snatching those few precious hours while others stood guard.

  When the watch had last called, it was two o’clock. Francis sighed. God send they would not all of them sit ’til dawn, and then in vain!

  As if in answer, muffled sounds without the house came to his ears. He could not make them out beyond a grunt and a terse command.

  Francis pushed back his chair and got up, shifting to the window and listening intently. Nothing. Of course he was on the wrong side of the house. All the action, if there was any, must occur in the back.

  Somewhere a door slammed. Francis crossed quickly to the parlour door and opened it. Now he could hear something. Men’s voices coming from without, low with an occasional louder warning. Francis toyed with the notion of heading for the domestic stairs, but he had not been a soldier for nothing. One did not butt into an action in which one had no part. Thus were errors made.

  Straining to hear, Francis thought he made out the sound of several pairs of feet deep in the recesses of the domestic quarters below, accompanied by indistinct mumbling and the stamp and grunt of effort.

  “He came back.”

  Francis turned quickly. Ottilia was standing in the open doorway. An outline only. He moved to her.

  “It seems so from the commotion yonder. I daresay it will take some moments before all is settled.”

  He saw the shadow that was Ottilia clasping and unclasping restless hands, her attention held upon the darkness in the vestibule. Francis was scarcely less in suspense and could think of nothing to offer in the way of comfort. He wanted to draw her to him and enfold her in the warmth of his embrace, but the very intensity of this desire withheld him. He had not yet won the right to cherish and protect.

  His startled mind threw the thought back at him, and he almost laughed aloud. What a moment to choose to recognise the state of his heart! Or would Ottilia say that it needed just such a moment of tension to jolt a man into knowledge?

  “Someone is coming.”

  At once alert, Francis turned his attention to the matter at hand. Footsteps were coming up the stairs. As one, Francis and Ottilia moved towards the vestibule. Seconds later, a man swiftly rounded
the landing. Francis started forward, Ottilia at his heels.

  “George?”

  Tretower was a mere shadow in the darkness, but Francis could almost see the triumph in his face.

  “We have him!”

  “Oh, thank God!”

  Ottilia sank back, holding on to the newel post at the top of the stairs. Francis moved quickly to her, putting a supporting arm about her back.

  “Into the parlour with you. Come, George.”

  He guided Ottilia back through the vestibule and into the parlour, obliging her to sit. In the dim light thrown by the candle, Francis saw that his mother was sitting bolt upright.

  “What’s to do?”

  Tretower crossed the room towards her. “He has been taken, ma’am. He fell straight into the trap.”

  “Oh, bravo, Ottilia! Clever girl.”

  Francis echoed the words in his head and watched his friend move to where Ottilia sat, looking dazed.

  “You were right, ma’am. He came back for the jewels. Ingham’s fellows know their business, I’ll say that for them. They let him scrabble for them and the moment the package was in his hands, they pounced.”

  His mother was all approbation, but Francis had his eyes on Ottilia. She yet wore that strangely distant air, as if she were not truly there.

  “Where is he now?” she asked.

  “Ah, there’s a tale,” said George. “There was something of a scuffle, for the man fought like a madman.”

  “Is he much hurt?” Francis asked.

  “He has taken a little punishment.”

  “Was the fan in his possession?” Ottilia asked.

  Francis had forgot the fan. Without doubt, she had the wit. He looked expectantly at his friend.

  “I don’t know, ma’am. To my knowledge they have not searched him.”

  “Lord above, they don’t know!”

  “Or it did not occur to Sir Thomas to advise them to look for it,” Ottilia suggested.

  “It must be found!”

  “In due time, Mama,” said Francis, putting out a hand to stay his mother’s wrath. “Yes, yes, I know it is an heirloom, but first things first.”

  “Perhaps, Mrs. Draycott,” George cut in, “you may discover where Abel has secreted it.”

  “I? How, pray?”

  Francis glanced swiftly at his friend. Tretower’s manner was diffident, a sure sign he had something distasteful to impart. “Out with it, man.”

  George threw him an apologetic glance and turned back to Ottilia. “The fact is, ma’am, that Abel made no real resistance until they tried to take him off to Bow Street. Grice had his orders, but in view of the man’s attitude, the Runners chose instead to keep him here. One of them has gone to Ingham for orders, and a couple of my men are assisting the other to guard the prisoner. He has been put in the butler’s pantry.”

  “But why in the world should he wish to remain here?”

  Francis was glad his mother had voiced the question, but Tretower’s silence troubled him. “George?”

  His friend let out a sigh. “The thing is, Mrs. Draycott, the man insists he will speak to none but you.”

  “The devil he does!” Infuriated, Francis watched Ottilia shrink back. “Tell the fellow to go hang.”

  At that, she looked up at him. “No, Francis. They need a confession.”

  He cursed under his breath. “I was forgetting that. Very well, if it must be. But you are not going alone.”

  “Gracious, I should hope not! You must go with her, Francis.”

  “Try if you can stop me.” He looked down at Ottilia, whose face was still upturned. He could not read her expression in the uncertain light. “You are not going to try, are you?”

  There was no mistaking the warm smile. “No, indeed, Fan. I need you too much.”

  She held out her hand as she spoke, and Francis, a glow racing through his body, took hold of it and drew her to her feet. But he did not release her hand as he turned with her to follow George from the room.

  The footman was seated, tied to the back of a chair with his hands behind him. Several candles had been lighted, and Ottilia saw the dark splotches on his face where bruises were beginning to show. He was unshaven, and the once smart crop was lank with sweat. Unsurprisingly, he was not wearing his livery, but a somewhat battered greatcoat over a greasy frock and waistcoat. A disguise? Or had his recent activities reduced him in this way?

  His eyes held all the old insolence, and something more. Defiance? There was fierceness there, Ottilia thought. She took the chair opposite that Francis pulled out for her and saw Abel cast a resentful glance at him.

  Francis had obviously not missed it. “You need not attempt to have me depart, Abel. If you want Mrs. Draycott, you get me as well.”

  The footman did not answer, instead transferring his gaze to Ottilia’s face. She summoned all her habitual calm and faced him as coolly as she could.

  “What do you want with me, Abel?”

  He let out a harsh laugh. “That’s rich, that is, madam, coming from you. It’s your doing I’m here.”

  Ottilia felt Francis’s motion and threw up a hand without looking at him. “No, it is your own doing, Abel.”

  “You set them onto me,” he growled.

  Ottilia nodded. “That is true. But I could not have done so had you stayed your hand.”

  For a moment he shrunk into himself, his eyes going dim. But then he rallied, and in his look Ottilia thought there was an echo of the passion that must have held Emily in thrall for so long.

  “She deserved it, she-devil as she was!”

  A satisfied sigh drew her attention to the Runner Grice, who was standing out of Abel’s sight line. He produced a stubby pencil and began to write into a grubby notebook.

  Ottilia felt a surge of anger. “And what of young Jeremy Bowerchalke? Did he deserve it?”

  Abel’s gaze shifted, and he looked this way and that, biting his lip. “Silly young chub.” It was a mutter only, but Ottilia caught the words. “He’d took my place, hadn’t he? That was reason enough.”

  “But that was not your reason,” she said, and his head came up. Did he think she had not heard him? “You killed him because he could bear witness against you.”

  “Didn’t even know he was there. I knew him. Knew all her pretty gentlemen. Pah! Gentlemen!”

  Ottilia’s innate curiosity got the better of her. “What did she promise you, Abel? What was it she did not perform?”

  He threw up his head, his mouth contorting in a species of agony as he groaned. “She said she’d see me right. She meant money. I thought she did. But it never come. I thought to set myself up in the world. You can’t be a footman forever.”

  “Is that why you went in to her that night?”

  He meant to lean forward, she thought, but his bonds prevented him. He shoved his face towards her, a snarl in his voice.

  “It was the last chance. I knew his lordship were going to France, and I knew his purpose.”

  Francis, who had been standing back a little, slammed forward, his fists landing on the table. Abel jerked back.

  “How did you know? How the devil could you know what his family did not?”

  “Servants talk, my lord,” came the sullen reply. “I’ll not say who or how, but I knew.”

  With an oath, Francis flung up and away. Ottilia could not blame him, but there was a task still to do here.

  “You knew about Madame Guizot?”

  “Aye, and that he meant to bring her to England. I knew there’d be the devil to pay. I knew my lady would have no time for me after.”

  My lady. An intimacy that was no real intimacy. Ottilia was conscious of a pull of sympathy for the man—a toy to gratify an idle fancy.

  “So you demanded money?”

  “I asked for what she’d promised.” A glare came into his eyes. “She denied she said it. She made me wild.” He shuddered then. “I don’t know what happened. I was overtook by rage, I know that. When I came to myself..
. there she was.”

  The image in his mind was etched in his face. A pathetic end to a sordid tale.

  Ottilia stood up. “I am sorry for you, Abel.”

  He did not answer. Francis went to the door and held it for her, but Ottilia did not move. She held out her hand.

  “Give me the fan, if you please, Abel.”

  For a moment the footman stared with eyes sunken as if in pain. Ottilia wondered if he failed to understand her, or if he sought a last futile rebellion. Then a fierce anger overlaid his features and he jerked his chin towards his bonds.

  “I can’t, madam, thanks to these. But you may take it from me if you like. If you care to search me.”

  And he threw his head back and let out a roughened guffaw. Ottilia flinched, but she held her ground. With a few swift steps Francis was back at her side, his furious glare fixed upon the footman.

  “She will not touch your vile carcass!”

  Ottilia feared he might lay violent hands upon the man, but Grice the Runner was before him, raising a threatening fist.

  “You keep your tongue sheathed, unless you want another dose of home-brewed.” He glanced at Ottilia. “I’ll find it, miss.”

  “The rings, too, if he has not sold them. There are three rings missing.”

  It did not take the Runner above a moment to extract a long object from an inner recess in Abel’s coat. It was wrapped in a pocket-handkerchief. The Runner held it out to Ottilia.

  “Me hands ain’t none too clean, miss. Obliged if you’ll take a looksee and identify the object inside.”

  Ottilia took it automatically. “But I cannot. I have never seen it.”

  But she knew her reluctance to handle the thing stemmed rather from revulsion. She was not ordinarily squeamish, but the thought of the part the fan had played in the drama was one she found singularly distressing. Wordlessly, she passed it to Francis and watched him unravel its covering. He spread the fan and Ottilia saw it glitter in the gloom. Francis looked up.

  “Yes, this is it.”

  Benjamin Grice gave a grunt of satisfaction. “Stolen goods an’ all. You’ve a mighty long indictment coming to you, my lad.”