Lady Anne and the Menacing Mystic

by Victoria Hamilton

  “What does that have to do with Courtland, who died?” Lady Harecross said.

  Curses, Anne thought, her mouth twitching in irritation. She hadn’t wanted to explain, just to learn more. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “Probably nothing.”

  The maid stowed the other pieces of false hair in their boxes along with various feathers, lengths of ribbon and hair combs, then assembled the countess’s clothes for the day, laying the various pieces on the bed behind Anne.

  “All right, I will tell you what I know.” Lady Harecross turned to face Anne. She wore her daytime hair, but still had on her nightgown, an oddly disparate look to which Anne was unaccustomed. “Mr. Cleveland Courtland was a widower with two children, both of whom are married and settled in London. He came here two years ago for the waters, taking a home on Upper Church.”

  “Was he wealthy?”

  “Anne, that’s vulgar to ask!” She shrugged, then said, “Of course he was. Moderately. Perhaps more than moderately. He had a woolen factory that has contracts with the military. And his children were independent, one in government, and the eldest manages the manufactory . . . owns it now, I suppose, since Courtland’s death. I knew him because Clary had some hopes in that direction. You don’t realize it but she’s lonely, and Roger is not a good companion in many ways. What son is? Besides, he’ll marry at some point and no doubt expect her to find her own house.

  “I held a soiree and a literary afternoon—so tedious!—because she asked me to. Mr. Courtland fancied himself a poet. Poor Clary.” She sighed but then shook herself and straightened. “At least she now has some hopes of this Mr. Smythe, though I am doing my best to run to ground any information about him; it is vaguely said he is also a woolen manufacturer with deep pockets. However, no one seems to know him, or his background or his people. I prefer someone with anchors in society. I prefer proof that someone is who they say they are.”

  “Indeed you do,” Anne murmured.

  “Don’t be snide, Anne.”

  “Mother, I actually agree with you. A proven history is the safest bet, in marriage and otherwise.”

  Lady Harecross eyed her daughter with suspicion, but then continued. “Anyway, about Courtland . . . ten months ago or so he met a widow, Mrs. Breckenridge, and within weeks they were engaged to be wed, and in two months they were married. He then proceeded to buy her an extravagant number of gowns, and jewels, a horse and carriage, even a townhouse in London, in her name! No woman was as showered with gifts as she. It was the talk of Bath for a time.”

  “Really? Generous man.”

  “He was besotted. She was, he claimed, perfect for him. She enjoyed poetry, especially the poetry of Goldsmith; she quoted ‘When Lovely Woman Stoops to Folly’—you know, from The Vicar of Wakefield—when first they met, if you can believe it.”

  “What an odd choice to quote to a gentleman.”

  “Easy to memorize and hinting at a tendency to, shall we say, stoop to folly?” Lady Harecross raised her eyebrows with a significant look. “For gentlemen of a certain age who have been without female companionship for a time but are too fastidious to stoop to conquer,” she said, quoting another Goldsmith work, “that would be enough to heat his blood and hasten his footsteps down the aisle.”

  “Mother! You are being unusually outrageous.” Anne bit back a smile, which she easily defeated when she thought that the gentleman was now dead after hastening down that aisle. “It sounds as though you do not believe the random nature of their meeting. Who introduced them? Do you know?”

  “I do. They met through a lovely young fellow . . . ingratiating. I know him but slightly. He was especially kind to your grandmother in the Pump Room when her Bath chair would not go over the door sill. Rushed to our aid when those lazy attendants could not bother to stir themselves.”

  “A young man? Unusual one would be bothered with two . . .” She was about to say two elderly ladies, but she stopped herself. Her mother was on the wrong side of fifty, but she was still attractive and spirited.

  “He was absolutely charming and stayed by our side, fetching water for your grandmother. She was quite taken, I must say. He sat beside her and gossiped the afternoon away. It gave me some time to myself to spend with friends. When I came back, she still was in no hurry to depart.”

  “Grandmother?” What a little male attention could do, Anne mused.

  “She was flattered by his interest. Such a nice-looking fellow: beautiful golden hair, nicely dressed, enjoyed all the tittle-tattle and gossip most men do not.”

  “And his name is . . . ?” Anne asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Mr. Thomas Graeme.”

  • • •

  It was enough, Anne thought as she evaded her mother’s further questions and returned to her room, to go on. Graeme’s name was everywhere, entwined in Bath society like a parasitic vine to such a degree that she could imagine where he got enough information, if what she suspected was true, to fuel his marriage brokerage, arranging introductions guaranteed to lead to the altar. There was a sick feeling at the pit of her stomach. What she feared was too fantastical though, and surely could not be true.

  As Mary dressed Anne’s hair for the day, she said, “Mrs. McKellar sent some of the new gowns this morning, milady. And along with them, she sent a note, addressed to you and sealed.”

  Anne held out her hand, Mary gave it to her, and she broke the seal. It was short and to the point: she had met with Bridie. The girl was frightened but willing to tell what she knew if it would gain her a better position. Should Mrs. McKellar arrange a meeting of some sort? She thought the girl would be able to give Anne much information that would interest her.

  Once her hair was dressed, Anne sat down at her desk and wrote a note to Mrs. McKellar, who had rooms with her sister on Catherine Place, around the corner from Margaret’s Buildings. Anne would arrange to be at Lolly’s Margaret’s Buildings rooms at noon, if Mrs. McKellar could get word to Bridie. It was a great risk the child was taking, and one for which Anne must be ready to compensate her.

  She sat for a moment, tapping her teeth with the pencil, then recorded what she knew of Alfred Lonsdale’s day and the possible places he could have ingested poison. Breakfast with Roger and Clary Basenstoke, with Roger pouring his tea, then speaking to him privately. Lunch—perhaps with Thomas Graeme, if that young gent was indeed Tulip, for another bout of blackmail?—or perhaps with someone else. Water, possibly, in the Pump Room. Wine at the Birkenheads’. She had to fill in the rest.

  Other than that she jotted down a list:

  Club? Who belonged to the Sacred Theban club?

  Why did Roger dislike Alfred?

  Is Graeme Tulip?

  Did Alethea and Bertie know about Alfred’s secret life?

  How does Mother Macree know what she knows?

  Given what she had learned of her grandmother’s gossipy chat with Mr. Graeme, she had a feeling she knew the young gentleman’s best source of information: every elderly lady or gent who spent time at the Pump Room and who spoke to him. But there had to be more to it, because the mystic appeared to know about Quin’s dead sister, about whom none of them ever spoke. It would not be a topic of conversation. Was it a case of an extraordinary guess, or was she adept at reading people? Also, she jotted down:

  How are Graeme and Mother Macree connected? (Maybe find out from Bridie?)

  What benefit in helping men find wives?

  Is Lonsdale’s death connected to his secret life, or was he poking into the same thing I am, the matchmaking?

  She folded the list, telling her maid the contents of it as Mary helped her into her gown. Whether it was all interwoven—Graeme seemed, to her, to have his thumbs in so many pies that he was the center of all that was going wrong in Bath—or whether there were pieces of the puzzle that had other sources, was yet to be established. Alfred Lonsdale’s murder was by far the most serious event, however . . . was his the latest in a line of suspicious deaths? Mr. Courtland�
�s untimely demise, which had enriched his tailor-made bride, troubled her. There were, it seemed to her, far too many perfect spouses, all coincidentally foreseen by the mystic, but unless there was some manufactory somewhere turning them out, she could not imagine where they came from. Mr. Lonsdale’s murder was out of keeping with the others, in any case, and there were suspects in his suspicious death that had nothing to do with the mystic, suspects like the victim’s own cousin.

  But her first priority had become Lydia, and the poor girl’s belief that she and her baby were cursed. What had the mystic told her about how to defeat it? What had Lydia already done, what potions had she taken, what talisman had she bought? Anne decided a visit to the mystic was in her immediate future. Maybe the woman already knew she was coming, she thought, with a grim smile.

  As Mary tied the last bow and pinned the last pin, Anne picked up her pencil and list and said to her, “If you would, please be ready to go with me if I need you. I am going to get to the bottom of all of this nonsense or know the reason why.”

  “Aye, milady,” Mary said with a smirk.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  “I’d no’ like to be the culprit who thinks himself—or herself—safe from discovery when you’re on the job, milady. I’d bet on you every time.”

  “I am the nag most likely to win,” Anne said with a grim smile and a tug at her waist. “I will not rest until this is satisfactorily concluded.”

  She sent a note to Osei to meet her at the Pump Room, for she valued his astute regard of people, and was interested to know if the doctor had found anything more out. The day was brilliant and brisk, with a limitless sky across which clouds scudded, like horses across a blue meadow. Above all things she would have enjoyed a good long ramble in the park of her home in Kent, or the wilder environs of Darkefell’s moody, sullen castle, which she had come to adore. Living there with her husband for most of the year was going to be a challenge, though, despite her love of it. She was a social creature, and the castle was lonely.

  She would have to write to her father; the marriage settlements must include language that allowed her the freedom to spend some time at her father’s estate, visiting him and her brother and even, as much as she had dreaded it, time in Bath to visit her mother and grandmother. Freedom was an illusion, especially for women. That which she had so far experienced had come about because of a lack of entanglement. In future her life was about to become very entangled indeed, and as much as the idea of that kind of bondage frightened her, being Tony’s wife would inevitably have rewards that would have to make up for it.

  Enough gloomy wonderings; she must go to the Pump Room for an early meeting with Osei, assuming he had received her note. He had, and awaited her outside. He bowed, then took her arm, guiding her in as she explained her various tasks that day. She had attended in the morning, knowing that several of those who came to partake of the waters would be there to begin their mineral regimen for the day.

  “There, my first quarry,” she murmured to Osei, nodding toward Baron Kattenby, who stood alone. “My lord,” she said, sweeping toward him. “I saw you last night at the concert, but you were otherwise engaged. How do I find you today? Taking the waters, I see,” she said as he was handed a glass of the warm murky liquid.

  “My lady,” he said, bowing. He held the glass up and peered at it nearsightedly. “Yes, you find me taking the first of the three my doctor has advised for the day.”

  “May I introduce to you Mr. Osei Boatin, secretary to the Marquess of Darkefell? Mr. Boatin is in Bath engaging a house for his lordship and arranging his subscriptions.”

  “Good day, sir,” the baron said, bowing. If he was startled to be introduced to a secretary, he did not show it. “You must be sure to write your name in the book here, in the Pump Room, Mr. Boatin.”

  “Thank you, sir; I will.”

  “I am so happy for you and Mrs. Venables. Have you decided on a wedding date yet?”

  “No, I would not say that,” he answered, his tone full of caution. “We have some time.” They had three months after the reading of the banns in which to marry. “I am still anxious to wait until Christmas. It seems to be happening so swiftly, but I see no reason to jump into it.”

  Anne wondered how Mrs. Venables felt about that. The woman was anxious for an establishment away from the Birkenheads, and who could blame her? Marriage, for her, would mean more freedom than what she now had as a poor relation of sorts. “Sir, I have noticed you are friendly with the people of Bath. You appear to have established yourself here. Tell me, did you know a gentleman by the name of Mr. Courtland?”

  “I certainly did; we were ardent foes across the whist table. Poor fellow! Recently deceased.”

  “Was it unexpected?”

  “Unexpected?” He frowned. “I suppose so. He had been unwell, but nothing that any of us thought would take him.”

  “What were his symptoms?”

  An expression of uncertainty became bewilderment. “I . . . surely that is . . . he was unwell. I think that is enough to know.”

  “I understand from my mother, Lady Harecross, that Mr. Courtland was recently wed.”

  “Recently? Well, early in the year. A lovely lady, Mrs. Breckenridge she was, before their marriage.”

  “Is she still in Bath?”

  He shook his head. “No. Poor lady. They were so deeply in love.” He sighed sentimentally. “Never saw Courtland so happy in those first days, though he was not feeling quite the thing, you know. His experience with his lady wife was what made me think I should try marriage again.”

  “But she is not still in Bath,” Anne said, persistent.

  He frowned. “She moved to London after his death.”

  “But he died just a couple of weeks ago?”

  “That is so but his son came to Bath and took possession of his townhouse. There was some disagreement between him and the widow, so rather than quarrel she departed. So sad.”

  “But not unavoidable. She had a right to stay in the house while in mourning, surely, do you not think?”

  “Perhaps she did not wish to face the opprobrium the young man threatened. We may think the son was being most unreasonable, but grown sons and daughters do not always understand that a parent still wishes for companionship.” He frowned still and stared at her. “See here, my lady, why are you asking about Courtland’s death?”

  She had pushed too hard too fast. “Conversation, sir; I was passing the time of day.” She made some light comment about another topic, and they spoke for a minute about the weather, if rain was expected, and what assemblies both would attend. But Anne still had questions. “Tell me . . . do you know if Mr. Thomas Graeme introduced Mr. Courtland to Mrs. Breckenridge? And had Mr. Courtland been to the Mystic of Bath?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Was anyone a closer friend to the late Mr. Courtland? Perhaps his son is still in Bath settling his estate?”

  “I’m sure I do not know, my lady, and I am most concerned at this line of . . . this gossip! You must excuse me, madam, if I halt our conversation here.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  She had offended him with her clumsy questioning. There was nothing to do but be gracious. “Sir, I wish you and Mrs. Venables both well.”

  He bowed. “Thank you, my lady.”

  As she walked away with Osei she could not resist saying to him, “I wonder if the new Mrs. Courtland escaped Bath just ahead of the magistrate?”

  “What do you suspect, my lady? You appear to be on the trail of some mystery, and yet surely there can be nothing wrong between the baron and your friend Mrs. Venables?”

  “I don’t suppose so,” she mused. “It’s not the same at all as these other marriages and engagements.” She explained her suspicions regarding the Courtland marriage and the Doyne/Noakes engagement, both examples of aging gentlemen and genteel widows who appeared to be eerily perfect, as if made for their tastes. “The baron and Bella’s engagement is differe
nt, of course. Bella is Bertie’s cousin, deeply loved by him; marriage, for her, will be a welcome relief to her penury, but that’s no rare thing in this world where women have no ability to work in a profession, and so no alternative but to marry for financial security. It’s no wonder if she perhaps pretends a little more love than she feels.”

  “You think that’s the case? That she doesn’t love the baron as much as she seems?”

  Anne frowned. “I don’t know. She is an interesting woman. She has traveled and seen life; I suppose I assume the prosy baron would bore her.”

  “Perhaps her idea of a good life has changed from the excitement a younger person would welcome to one with security and comfort.”

  “You are likely correct, Osei. She said as much the first day I met her, that she only wished for a quiet life. The baron’s lineage is impeccable and his income comfortable. She is a handsome woman and he a lonely man; it’s an ideal match in many ways.” She sighed. “Sorting my suspicions from reality is a difficult task. My curiosity has been aroused because of the several ‘perfect’ matches foretold by the mystic. I am likely suspicious without cause in most cases.”

  “It is said that once one has encountered a snake in a tree, every vine becomes a snake.”

  She smiled up at him. “How perfect a proverb that is! Tell me, Osei, what more have you learned from the doctor? Does he still doubt that Lonsdale would have committed suicide?”

  “His conclusion is that death by ingesting yew poison would be an unlikely way to kill oneself.”

  “I agree. And so, we are still left with murder.” She glanced around the room, then turned to walk with him.

  The Pump Room was beginning to fill with the usual gentlemen and ladies there for their daily mineral water and exercise, walking about chatting and ogling the others. She had been hoping to get her astute friend’s opinion of Graeme, but he was unfortunately absent. Anne had a busy day ahead, so she and Osei parted ways. He had a plethora of duties to see to, to ensure that the townhome was fitted up for Lord Darkefell.