Nowhere Man

by Sheri Cobb South

  “I fear you are mistaken.” The butler’s nose twitched, and Pickett realized with some indignation that his breath was being tested for any trace of alcohol. “This house has been the Town residence of the Dowager Countess of Wakesworth for the last twelve months and more.”

  “But—but that’s impossible! My wife bought this house not long after her husband died.” Realizing the illogic of this claim, he added, “Her first husband, that is; not me, obviously.”

  The butler’s expression conveyed the information that he saw nothing “obvious” about the situation, whatever Pickett might say to the contrary. To Pickett, there was only one possible explanation: Julia knew. Somehow she had discovered the truth about his “investigation,” and had settled on this method of punishing him for his deceit. He wasn’t quite certain why, or what she hoped to achieve by it, but he had to admit she had done her work well. The butler’s demeanor was perfect, while as for the house...

  He glanced over the butler’s shoulder to the marble-tiled hall and the drawing room just visible beyond it. How in the world had she managed to refurnish the house in the time since he’d left after nuncheon? Even the walls were a different color, although there was no smell of fresh paint. Had they been papered, perhaps? Still, to accomplish such a task and then remove every trace of it must have taken a considerable time—more time, surely, than had elapsed since he had taken his leave of his wife.

  “Look here, can I just see Julia—er, Mrs. Pickett, that is?”

  “I regret that I cannot oblige you, sir, but there is no one here by that name.” The butler’s tone was clearly calculated to inform the caller that he saw nothing amusing about a joke in very poor taste. In this, at least, Pickett found himself in complete agreement with the man.

  “The mistress of the house, then,” amended Pickett, rapidly losing his patience. “Whatever she chooses to call herself.”

  The butler gave him a reproachful look, but left to carry out this request. He returned a few minutes later with the information that “Her ladyship, the Dowager Countess of Wakesworth, will see you.”

  Upon being instructed to “follow me,” Pickett was led into a salon which he knew as the drawing room. But instead of the sunny chamber where he’d made a habit of joining his wife for tea whenever his Bow Street investigations took him to Mayfair, he found himself in a room whose heavy crimson velvet curtains completely shut out the light, requiring the use of candles even in the middle of the day. Paintings in heavy gilt frames covered the walls, and Julia’s delicate Hepplewhite furnishings had been replaced by the elaborately scrolled and gilded pieces of the previous century. But the most disturbing part of this rococo nightmare was the woman rising from the sofa to greet him—a gaunt, silver-haired lady with fully three quarters of a century in her dish, clad in the boned bodice and panniered skirts of her younger days.

  “Good afternoon, Mr.—Pickett, was it?” She held out a gnarled hand upon which a large green stone glowed. “What may I do for you?”

  “I—I’m looking for my wife,” Pickett stammered, no longer so certain of his footing.

  “And you have some reason to believe she might be here?”

  “It’s a long story,” Pickett confessed with a sigh.

  “I’m sorry I can’t be of more assistance, but I’ve been here alone all day. What is your wife’s name, pray?”

  “Julia. Julia Pickett.” Seeing no sign of recognition in the woman’s expression, he added, “Before our marriage, she was Lady Fieldhurst.”

  Her reaction astounded him.

  “In that case, I have nothing more to say to you.” She reached for the bell pull and gave it an emphatic tug. “Good day, sir.”

  “Look here, I’m sure this has all been very amusing,” said Pickett, who was sure of no such thing, “but I’ve had my fill of it.”

  “Then I suggest you drop this very ill-bred play-acting at once, and leave this house before I summon the constable.”

  The butler entered the room in answer to the summons. “You rang, your ladyship?”

  “Indeed, I did. Pray show this man off the premises.”

  “Certainly, your ladyship. Come along, sir.”

  “But—what—Julia—I don’t—”

  He might have saved his breath. The butler was surprisingly strong in spite of his advanced years, and Pickett, unwilling to risk injuring the fellow by fighting back as he might have done against a younger man, found himself seized by the arm and frog-marched out of the room and through the front door.

  “But—Julia—”

  “If it’s Lady Fieldhurst you’re looking for, I suggest you begin with the newspapers,” Lady Wakesworth called after him, but before he could ask her to explain this cryptic utterance, the butler closed the door in his face.

  “But—but—what just happened here?” Pickett asked of no one in particular, staring at the door.

  The door, unsurprisingly, offered no assistance, but a faint, metallic click gave Pickett to understand that the key had been turned in the lock, forestalling any further attempts at invading the premises.

  Thus forced to concede defeat, he turned away and staggered down the steps and onto the pavement. He looked wildly from one end of the street to the other, searching for someone—anyone!—who might offer some idea as to where Julia had gone, but the street was almost deserted. The only sign of life was a short, stout woman pushing a wheeled cart—a common enough sight in Covent Garden, but a rare one in this genteel residential neighborhood.

  “Hey! You there!” Pickett shouted as the hem of her dark skirt disappeared around the corner. Breaking into a run, he reached the corner and turned, half fearing to discover that she had disappeared without a trace. But no, there she stood, watching the street corner as if she were waiting for him.

  “You were in Covent Garden less than an hour ago,” he said, panting from exertion. “I bought an apple from you.”

  “And paid me very well for it, too,” she agreed, nodding.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Selling apples, of course.” She picked up one, and turned it over for his inspection. “Would you like another?”

  He shook his head impatiently. “No, that’s not—I mean—you said—” He broke off, and tried again. “Something strange is happening here, and you seem to know something about it. About me, I mean.”

  “My dear boy, what could I possibly know about you? After all”—she gave him a wink—“you’ve never been born.”

  3

  In Which John Pickett Encounters

  an Old Lover and a Dead Man

  Leaving Pickett to ponder the significance of this bizarre statement—if, in fact, it possessed any significance at all—she turned and walked away, and was soon swallowed up in the crowd.

  “Wait! Come back!”

  Pickett pushed his way through the pedestrians choking the pavement, to the annoyance of several, and once almost tripped over a beggar—a veteran, to judge by the ragged uniform jacket that offered his only protection against the cold—seated on the ground with his back against the wall and his one remaining leg stretched out before him. Pickett muttered a hasty apology and would have dropped a few coins into the man’s tin cup, but when he reached into his pockets, he came up empty. He had not long to wonder at this curious circumstance, for his thoughts were all for the apple seller. She obviously knew something, and he fully intended to collar her and have the truth out of her. She couldn’t have got far, not while trying to push a cart down a crowded street, and she could hardly have vanished into thin air.

  It soon appeared, however, that that was exactly what she had done. Certainly there was no sign of her, although Pickett twice embarrassed himself by accosting short, plump women who, when they turned their bonneted heads to him, proved to be complete strangers.

  Clearly, the woman, whoever she was, did not wish to be found. It was obvious, then, that he could look for no assistance from that source. Still, the fact remained that Julia was n
ot in the Curzon Street house. Where, then, might she be? Pickett didn’t know, but he bethought himself of someone who might: Emily, Lady Dunnington, whose husband held a seat in the House of Lords, and who must surely have returned to London for the autumn session. And where Lord Dunnington went, Pickett reasoned, Lady Dunnington and their infant daughter would undoubtedly follow; after years of estrangement, the recently reconciled couple appeared to be making up for lost time, if Lady Dunnington’s letters to Julia were anything to judge by.

  Now that he had a plan, Pickett lost no time in setting out for the Dunnington house in Park Lane. He would have sent up one of his cards, but these, too, had vanished from his coat pocket, and so he was obliged to convey his request by word of mouth. The butler nodded, and a moment later Pickett was ushered into the presence of not Lady Dunnington, but her lord and master, a dignified gentleman of about fifty—and one, moreover, whom Pickett was clearly interrupting just as he was prepared to go out.

  “Mr. Pickett, is it?” Lord Dunnington asked, glancing rather pointedly at the long-case clock standing against the wall. “What may I do for you?”

  “Your lordship.” Pickett executed an impatient bow. “I’m sorry to impose on you, but I had hoped for a word with your lady.”

  The earl heaved a world-weary sigh. “I see. I daresay I can hazard a guess as to the nature of your business with her.”

  “I rather doubt it, my lord. I, er, I seem to have misplaced my wife, and wondered if Lady Dunnington might offer some assistance—”

  “ ‘Assistance’? Is that what they’re calling it these days?” asked Lord Dunnington with a bitter little laugh. “Well, it’s original, I’ll grant you that. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Lady Dunnington is not at home.”

  “Oh?” The claim was innocent enough on the face of it, but a prickling on the back of Pickett’s neck signaled a warning nonetheless.

  “In fact, Lady Dunnington has not been ‘at home’ in almost ten years,” continued his lordship. “If you wish to discover her present whereabouts, you would do better to ask Sir Reginald Montague.”

  Pickett started at the familiar name. “But—but Sir Reginald Montague is dead!”

  “Dead?” the earl echoed sharply. “Since when?”

  “Almost a year ago.” Seeing his lordship’s memory was in need of prompting, Pickett added, “He was shot to death at close range.”

  Lord Dunnington shook his head. “A charming thought, I’ll admit, but I fear you are misinformed. For the last year, Sir Reginald Montague has been in blooming health, as evidenced by the intimate connection he currently enjoys with my wife.”

  “But—the baby—” Pickett protested.

  His lordship’s eyebrows rose in an expression indicative of mild curiosity. “Is there to be a child, then? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, under the circum-stances. I daresay I won’t be the first man in London obliged to feed, clothe, and house another man’s child. Thank God my wife and I have the two boys, so I need have no fears of my family’s heritage going to a cuckoo in the nest. Now”—he glanced at the clock again—“if you will excuse me, the Lords will be convening soon, and I must be present for the discussion on how best to respond to this business at Carlisle.”

  As one of his last cases with Bow Street had uncovered a plot by Irish sympathizers to seize Carlisle Castle, the mention of the town that shared its name caused Pickett’s hackles to rise. “What business?” he asked, and this time there was no trace of a stammer.

  “High treason, to begin with. As you may be aware, Carlisle Castle was seized by Irish rebels over the summer. The timing couldn’t be worse. We must quash the revolt before the rebels can enlist France’s aid—which they would be eager to give, as it would land Bonaparte on our very doorstep—but most of our forces are engaged on the Peninsula and can’t be spared. Whatever Parliament decides, the casualties on both fronts are bound to be high.” He took Pickett’s elbow and steered him toward the door. “I regret that I could not be of more assistance, but if I hear any word of your wife—Mrs. Pickett, was it?—I will send word. I must caution you not to be optimistic, but if I should chance to learn anything to the purpose, where may I reach you?”

  This was a matter Pickett had not considered. Strangers were living in the house he shared with Julia, and his prospects of hiring lodgings for the night were dim, as his pockets were to let. He stammered something about not wanting to put Lord Dunnington to any trouble, and turned his attention to the task that had just become urgent.

  He had to find Julia before nightfall.

  SINCE LADY DUNNINGTON’S reconciliation with her husband had apparently been short-lived, Pickett lost no time in seeking her out in Audley Street, where she had maintained an independent establishment during their long estrangement.

  “Yes, sir?” prompted Jack, the footman who answered the door.

  Granted, the fellow did not seem to remember him, but this, Pickett told himself, was hardly surprising; it had been almost a year since Jack had fetched him from Bow Street to investigate the murder of Sir Reginald Montague, and the footman had been suffering from the ague at the time. In fact, he had been rousted from his sickbed only long enough to carry out his errand to Bow Street before Lady Dunnington had sent him back to bed with a drop of brandy laced with lemon—an unexpected kindness which had given Pickett to understand that her ladyship was not so callous has he had previously supposed. It was that unexpected tenderness of heart to which he was determined to appeal now.

  “I should like to see Lady Dunnington, if you please,” he told Jack.

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but her ladyship is not receiving,” was the unpromising reply.

  “I understand, and I’m sorry to impose on her, but the matter is—is one of some urgency.”

  Pickett had never quite mastered the ability to conceal his emotions behind a mask of indifference, and if the footman had any doubts as to the truth of the caller’s claim, he had only to look at Pickett’s face to decide that the “matter,” whatever it was, was indeed desperate.

  “If you will excuse me, I will inform her ladyship,” Jack said with all the eagerness of a man announcing his intention of having a tooth drawn. “Who may I say is calling?”

  “John Pickett.”

  Jack departed with some trepidation, leaving Pickett to cool his heels in the front hall while his message was delivered. He had not long to wait before the sound of a door opening indicated that he was no longer alone. Shifting his gaze from its contemplation of the floor (which he’d been examining in vain for some trace of Sir Reginald Montague’s bloodstains), he saw that the new arrival was not Lady Dunnington, as he had expected, but a woman standing in the doorway that led downstairs to the servants’ domain, a doe-eyed young woman whose flaxen hair was imperfectly concealed by a starched mobcap.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed in a startled voice. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t realize—”

  “Dulcie?” Pickett interrupted, stunned into forgetting his manners. “Dulcie Monroe?”

  “Why, yes, sir.” She smiled timidly up at him. “Should I know you? I’m afraid I can’t quite place you.”

  “John Pickett. I—” Here, however, words failed him. How did one say I thought you were in Newgate without sounding demented, or boorish, or both?

  Fortunately, he was spared the necessity of a reply by a voice that hailed him in somewhat impatient accents.

  “Yes? What is it?”

  Jack had clearly not lied when he’d said Lady Dunnington was not receiving. In fact, her ladyship was not even fully dressed, but was clad in a very fetching dressing-gown of frivolous and feminine design. Her dark hair was disheveled, either escaping from, or hastily put up with, its pins.

  “I’m sorry to inconvenience you,” Pickett began gamely, “but I’m looking for Julia.”

  “Julia—?” prompted her ladyship, clearly expecting some further enlightenment.

  “Julia. Lady Fieldhurst.” He wasn’t quite sure wh
y he hadn’t said “Julia Pickett,” except that the entire world seemed to have run mad, and in this world where nothing made any sense, the idea of his having married a viscountess—the only part that was actually true—somehow seemed maddest of all.

  “Who wants to know?” Lady Dunnington asked warily. “You’re not one of those men who writes gossip for the scandal-sheets, are you?”

  “Good God, no!” Pickett answered impatiently. “Surely you must remember me—I’m John Pickett; I’m with—that is, I was with Bow Street.”

  Her ladyship gave a peal of laughter. “I wasn’t aware that Bow Street was in the habit of engaging babes in arms.”

  This, at least, was Lady Dunnington as he remembered her. “I was called in to investigate Lord Fieldhurst’s murder,” he reminded her.

  In an instant, her humor faded and her smile grew wintry. “That goes a long way toward explaining her present whereabouts.”

  As his wife’s present whereabouts were exactly what he had come to discover, Pickett let the insult pass. Lady Dunnington remembered her friend’s mésalliance, and for the moment, that was enough. It was with some relief that he said, “You know, then, that I married her.”

  “Married her what?” Lady Dunnington asked. “I should have thought her lady’s maid was too old for you, besides being entirely too high in the instep.”

  “No, no!” Pickett insisted, realizing his relief had been premature. “She—Julia, I mean—Lady Fieldhurst —she married—”

  “What the devil is taking so long, Emily? I haven’t all day, you know,” a new voice put in querulously, as a middle-aged gentleman with silver hair and cold blue eyes descended the staircase.

  He was clad in a loose-fitting banyan of burgundy-colored silk, and the faint tuft of chest hair just visible at the top gave Pickett to understand that he wore nothing underneath. Pickett, left in no doubt as to exactly what he had interrupted, blushed crimson. He had never seen the man before—at least, he had never seen him alive—but he knew exactly who this was: Sir Reginald Montague, who had somehow survived being shot at close range a year ago in this very hall.