“Yes. I comprehend you must feel some loyalty to them, but the fact of the matter is Feckenham is dead, and someone killed him. That someone could conceivably have been a family member.”
At this, Hotchkins seemed to balk, his mouth tightening in disfavor. “The fact of the matter is that Feckenham was a brute and a blackguard, of the highest order. I am not surprised he was killed. Someone should have done so long ago.” Seeming to recall himself, he straightened his jacket. “But as for it being a family member, I don’t believe it. Not in the manner it was done. It would have been far easier to do so quietly and without fuss. No need for such a messy charade.”
He did have a point. But what if something had happened to force the killer’s hand? What if they had needed him dead now, leaving little time for careful planning? So they had seized upon the distraction the London burkers had caused.
Letting him go, Gage turned to me with a frustrated grunt. “Well, it’s clear we’ll be getting no information from him on the family. And you can be certain he’ll instruct the rest of the staff not to share gossip as well.”
“Yes, well, there’s more than one way to inveigle information from a servant.”
His lips quirked. “Bree?”
I leaned forward to pour myself some tea. “My maid is remarkably good at convincing people to confide in her.” As evidenced from the number of people she’d gotten to talk to her about their anger and distress over the London burkers. “And perhaps if Anderley can be spared from the other inquiry, he can work his charm on some of the maids.” I glanced up to see that Gage’s brow had clouded again. “Or perhaps not.”
His gaze shifted to meet mine, but he did not speak. He didn’t have time to before the footman who had been on duty after Hotchkins retired was shown in to the morning room.
He was young, perhaps no older than twenty, and struggled to sit still in the chair indicated to him. Tall and pleasing to the eye, as all footmen were desired to be—especially in the best households—he at least showed enough poise not to stammer his responses to the questions Gage put to him. Though he did sneak glances at me from time to time, whether out of curiosity that a lady should be present, or because my reputation preceded me.
“Yes, sir. I’ve been a footman here for two years.”
“Do you often mind the door in the evening?” Gage inquired casually, attempting to put him at ease.
“Yes, sir.”
His eyes twinkled with humor. “Given the fact there are two young gentlemen in this household, I imagine you’ve witnessed your fair share of amusing sights. I suspect my footmen have tales to tell about my salad days.”
The footman’s mouth cracked a smile, but he did not rise to Gage’s bait. “Yes, sir.”
My husband cleared his throat. “Last night, then. Either before or after Lord Feckenham departed, did you happen to see anyone, or hear anything out of the ordinary?”
When he squeezed his hands together in nervousness, it became apparent he had. “After I took over for Mr. Hotchkins, I peered through the window to see if all was quiet,” he began hesitantly.
“And was it?” Gage prodded.
“Yes. Except . . . I saw Lord Feckenham cross the road to speak to someone.”
I sat a little taller.
“Did you recognize who it was?”
He shook his head, but his gaze dropped to Gage’s chest. “They were too far away. And the fog. No, I didn’t recognize him.”
Gage didn’t say anything for a moment, contemplating the same thing I was, no doubt. That the footman’s mouth said he hadn’t recognized the man, but his eyes seemed to communicate that he had.
“How long did they stand talking?”
“I don’t know. I never peered out the window again. Not until you knocked, sir.”
“So you didn’t hear Lord Feckenham shout?”
His eyes widened. “No, sir.”
Given the dampening effect of fog, if the footman had positioned himself even a short distance from the door, this was possible. The shout had not been overloud. Which also meant that if he hadn’t heard it, then it was doubtful anyone in this house had. But what of the townhouses nearer to the altercation? Had their servants witnessed anything?
The earl’s and Feckenham’s valets and the countess’s maid couldn’t tell us anything helpful, or perhaps more accurately, wouldn’t tell us. It was true enough they hadn’t seen or heard anything of the attack on Feckenham, but they were not telling all. Of that I was certain. Whatever secrets this family held, they were not going to be given up lightly, and that made me all the more anxious what they might be.
Jonathan Poole, the earl’s secretary, was slightly more forthcoming.
Though rather unremarkable in appearance, he still had a pleasing countenance nonetheless, and a quiet, prepossessing demeanor. Which I supposed was an asset for a man of his position. While educated and of gentle address, he could not call himself a gentleman, because he worked for his living. Yet I suspected he came from a nobler family, perhaps a branch fallen from wealth and distinction. I gauged him to be approximately thirty years of age, older than Feckenham, but younger than my husband. However, fine lines radiated from the corners of his eyes and scored his forehead from squinting over his work by candlelight for so many years.
I had grown accustomed to men of his station during my time wed to Sir Anthony. Most of his colleagues, and the anatomy students he mentored from time to time, were of this ilk, including the dresser and apprentice he employed for a short duration. Though not all of them spoke as genteelly as Mr. Poole.
“How long have you served as secretary to Lord Redditch?” Gage asked him, beginning in much the same manner as he had with the others, garnering their background and familiarity with the family.
Mr. Poole glanced upward, giving this some consideration. “Just over two years. Prior to that I was employed by the elder Lord Vickers before he passed away.”
“The social reformer?” I asked in interest.
“Yes, Lord Vickers was greatly concerned with the welfare of the lower classes, and enfranchising more of the population to vote. He was a great advocate for reform.”
That was putting it mildly. Some had even accused him of being a revolutionist, eager to follow in France’s footsteps.
Mr. Poole’s eyes glinted with subtle humor. “You are perhaps wondering how someone who worked for a lord of such liberal views could then work for a staunch anti-Reformist like Lord Redditch.”
I smiled, for that was exactly what I was wondering.
“Well, Lord Redditch had shown some inclinations that he was not unwilling to change. He voted for the Catholic Relief Act, after all.” He smiled in self-deprecation. “And I suppose I thought I might help continue to persuade him to another way of thinking.”
“Does he know this?” Gage asked, as curious as I about this strange working relationship.
“Oh, yes. His lordship might be a determined Tory, but he’s not so close-minded that he’s averse to hearing well-reasoned arguments for the opposition.”
I couldn’t help but wonder if he was genuinely as sangfroid about this as he professed. Little as Gage or I was involved in politics, I’d heard Philip’s discussions with lords of the opposing faction grow heated often enough to recognize it was not so easy to set such beliefs aside. Or did Mr. Poole place professional advancement above principle and simply did not wish to appear so mercenary?
“Hotchkins told us it’s not uncommon for you to work here late into the evening, as you were last night,” Gage remarked before taking a sip of tea.
“Yes. Depending on the demands of his lordship’s estates or Parliament’s schedule, I’m often forced to remain late to finish the draft of something, as I was last night. His lordship prefers to work from home, rather than his offices at Parliament. And I also find working here more comfortable.”
>
“I’ve heard the Parliamentary offices can be quite drafty.”
“Frigid, sir. It cramps the hands during the winter. But my small antechamber here is always warm and I don’t have to search far for sustenance.” He grinned. “So I don’t mind the bit of inconvenience and awkwardness I sometimes must contend with.”
“Awkwardness?” I repeated.
“Well, yes. Being in his lordship’s house nearly every day, one hears things one might rather not.”
“What about yesterday?” Gage gestured nonchalantly. “Did you hear anything awkward then?”
Mr. Poole shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I left the house at about a quarter ’til eleven through the mews, so I never even approached the front of the house.”
“Can anyone verify that?” Gage asked calmly. The servants had all been able to vouch for one another, and the earl and countess had shared a box at the theater with four other people, whom we expected would confirm their alibis. Lady Redditch had also volunteered the information, unasked for, that her second son, Mr. Penrose, had been at his club. However, no one had seen Mr. Poole leave.
“I suppose not,” Mr. Poole replied, steadily lifting his cup to his lips and then pausing. “Except . . . one of the grooms from the neighboring house tipped his hat to me. He should remember me.”
As alibis went, this wasn’t very solid. After all, he could have easily circled around to Upper Brook Street and intercepted Feckenham. But the fact that he didn’t appear in the least perturbed by the question, or any that we’d set to him thus far, spoke in his favor.
I watched Mr. Poole drink his tea, recognizing he was in a unique position. He was not part of the family, nor was he a longtime servant or under the thumb of Hotchkins. Yet he walked among them, nearly every day, as he’d said. He might be able, and willing, to tell us the information we sought. As long as we didn’t press him too hard.
I glanced at Gage, wondering how I might communicate this to him, but I could tell by the manner in which he was scrutinizing the other man, and the way he phrased his next question, that he’d already thought of it.
“Did you have much interaction with Lord Feckenham? What sort of fellow was he?”
The secretary studied the contents of his cup. “I take it you were not well acquainted with his lordship.”
“Not in the least.”
“Well, then, you should count yourself lucky.” His eyes lifted. “Though that’s not telling you anything any number of gentlemen wouldn’t happily inform you of.” He tilted his head. “I suspect Lord Redditch has told you of his gambling and past . . . indiscretions.” At this word, his jaw tightened in disapproval, the first ill-disposed display of emotion we’d seen from him.
“He has,” Gage admitted, unable to keep his own censure from tainting his voice.
The two men regarded each other, and whatever Mr. Poole saw in my husband’s eyes—be it his mutual aversion to scoundrels or another of his noble qualities—seemed to settle him in our favor.
“I can tell you he tried Lord Redditch’s patience sorely,” he confided as he leaned forward to set his cup on the tea table. “But the British inheritance laws being what they are, there was little he could do. He could threaten to cut him off, but then Lord Feckenham didn’t need his money. And . . .” He hesitated, seeming uneasy about what he must say next. “I think Lord Redditch was afraid of what his son might do if he was not looking over his shoulder.”
Gage’s expression registered the same startlement I felt. For if Feckenham would go so far as to compromise young ladies for sport while under the earl’s watchful gaze, then what did Lord Redditch worry his son would do if he was not monitoring him?
“Has the earl . . .” Gage began, but Mr. Poole cut him off before he could finish.
“It’s merely an impression.” He watched us guardedly, as if worried he’d said too much. “The earl has never said anything to that effect, but I’ve watched them together. I’ve seen the way he looks at his heir, particularly when Lord Feckenham isn’t paying attention.”
I appreciated his insight, and I was inclined to respect his judgment. As far as I could tell, he had no reason to lie about such a thing.
He rubbed his hands on the legs of his trousers, a nervous gesture I suspected he wasn’t even aware he was making. “I can tell you Lord Redditch didn’t trust his heir. But I will not tell you why I know that. I cannot,” he stated firmly. “So you will have to decide for yourself whether to believe it.”
Gage nodded, realizing he was referring to some legal issue, one we would have to uncover the truth of in another way. “What of his second son? Does Lord Redditch trust him?”
Mr. Poole sat tall and searched Gage’s eyes, as if he was trying to figure out what he was thinking. “They have their differences, as all fathers and sons do. But yes, he trusts him.”
“And how did Lord Feckenham treat his brother?”
He frowned. “Abominably. But if you’re asking what I think you are, then I will tell you unequivocally, no.” He shook his head. “Mr. Penrose did not kill his brother. It’s true they had no great love for each other, but he did not covet his title. If you knew him, even slightly, you would realize he is incapable of such a thing.”
I was somewhat taken aback by his defense of George Penrose, but given the brother he was being compared to, it would be a wonder if Mr. Poole did not prefer the second son to the first. I also pondered whether Mr. Penrose’s political leanings were not more aligned with Mr. Poole’s. Lord Feckenham’s certainly weren’t.
“Then I shall have to remedy that situation. As soon as he returns to town,” Gage added with a trace of sarcasm.
Mr. Poole comprehended his meaning immediately. “I told Lord Redditch he should not send his son to Silvercrest without first allowing him to speak to you. That it was bound to arouse misgivings. But he would not naysay Lady Redditch, who was most anxious for their daughters.”
Gage’s head sank back, considering his words. “I cannot fault her concern for her daughters, but you are right. It does arouse suspicions. He is now his father’s heir, after all. But I am assured he will return in a few days’ time, and then hopefully he will be able to convince me to put those doubts aside.”
Mr. Poole responded affably to this reasonableness. “I will send a note around to you the moment I become aware of his return. But if I am familiar enough with his character, I suspect he will already have done so himself.”
“Let us hope.”
For despite his assurances to the contrary, George Penrose was still our best suspect.
CHAPTER TEN
As Mr. Poole left us, Hotchkins entered the room, his face rigid with disapproval. “Sir, there are newspapermen gathered at our front door.”
This did not seem to surprise Gage. “Well, it was only a matter of time before they got wind of the crime. It is the murder of an earl’s son, after all. And on the streets of Mayfair, no less.” He reached into the inside pocket of his hazelnut frock coat. “I suggest you ignore them as best you can. And tell the staff to say nothing to them unless they wish to have their words twisted in the papers.” He rose to his feet, passing one of his calling cards to the butler. “Have a footman go around the house through the mews and pass this to a fellow with thick red facial hair. He’ll likely be wearing a flashy waistcoat, and goes by the name of Phineas Day.”
“With the Observer?”
“Yes. And Hotchkins,” he called after the butler as he turned to leave. “I shouldn’t worry they’ll be out there long.” He glanced at the window, where rain streamed down the glass in rivulets. “Not in this weather.”
He nodded and departed.
“Why are you giving Mr. Day your card?” I asked.
“Because it has occurred to me that speaking to a reporter could be quite useful.”
I turned to face Gage more fully. “How do y
ou mean?”
“For one, I have no desire to knock on all the doors in this street and ask to question their staff. But in exchange for a few details about the inquiry, I’m sure Mr. Day will be happy to place a request in his paper for anyone who saw or heard anything suspicious in the vicinity of Upper Brook Street on the night of November tenth, to notify us. I could send some of the lads I’ve employed in the past to uncover this information, but I have another task in mind for them.”
“Then why do you not address them all?”
He reached for my hand. “Because that would create a spectacle. And that is something we do not want.” His eyes dipped to where his thumb traced a pattern on my skin. “Not to mention the fact that I’ve noticed newspapermen feel absolutely no qualms about asking the most impertinent questions when they are vying with each other for answers. But one-on-one, they are almost always respectful.”
I grasped what he was implying. He was afraid they would ask brazen questions about me, about any connection I might have to the London burkers. But that was not all I’d perceived. “You’ve done this before.”
His lips curled into the semblance of a smile. “From time to time. The chaps are most persistent here in London, but as I said, they have their uses.”
“Aren’t you worried they’ll twist your words as well?”
“They wouldn’t dare,” Gage replied blithely. “For they know I’ll correct them in the other newspapers and never choose to inform them first about an inquiry again. You see, I don’t always use Mr. Day. I choose between a half dozen or so who have impressed me with their integrity.” He pushed to his feet, crossing to the window to look out over the garden. “It’s quite effective really. The newspaper I’ve chosen gets to publish the information I share before all the others, who will then include the information in their next editions. All without the fuss of my speaking to a mob of insolent hacks.”
I had to admit, it was rather a good arrangement. Of course, it meant the spread of our request for information would be slower than we might wish, but sometimes that could not be helped. If the other newspapers did not post the full story until Sunday or Monday, we would have to be satisfied that was soon enough.
An Artless Demise Page 10
