Mystery Loves Company

by Sheri Cobb South

  She lifted her eyes, and her gaze drifted past him to the window, although he doubted she was so transfixed by anything she saw in Grosvenor Square. “I suppose it started with our first meeting, in April of ’07. We were married two months later, in June.”

  “A whirlwind courtship,” remarked Pickett.

  “Hardly that, Mr. Pickett.” Her voice held the faintest trace of bitterness. “In fact, Washbourn had been paying court to Lady—to another young lady, one to whom I believe he was sincerely attached. But his estate was heavily encumbered, and Papa was eager to have aristocratic grandchildren, so they arranged the match between them. Still, I couldn’t complain, or so I thought. We were happy enough, as these things go, and if Washbourn was unfaithful to me, he was discreet enough that I never knew of it, and was never held up as an object of ridicule—at least, no more so than any other brewer’s daughter who aspires to become a countess. And I will do him the justice to own that he seemed genuinely delighted with the birth of our child last year, even though the baby was a girl and not the heir he had hoped for.”

  It hardly sounded like domestic bliss to Pickett, but he reminded himself that Julia’s first marriage had apparently been a good deal worse. “Then—what changed?” he asked.

  She sighed. “My father died last year, and since I was Papa’s only child, and Mama had died some years previously, the brewery came to me. My dowry was large, but my inheritance far surpassed it.”

  “But if I understand English law aright, everything a married woman owns becomes the property of her husband,” Pickett objected. In fact, it was the only blot on his own happiness, that by marrying the Viscountess Fieldhurst, he had considerably enriched himself at her expense. “What would Lord Washbourn have to gain by, er, disposing of you?”

  “Well you might ask! As it happens, Lady—the young lady he had hoped to marry—had wed someone else within a fortnight of our own nuptials, but her husband was thrown from his horse last autumn while hunting with the Quorn, and died of his injuries. So if Washbourn can only find a way to be rid of me, there will be nothing to stand in his way of marrying the lady he’d wanted all along.”

  Pickett jotted down another note, muttering something under his breath about eating one’s cake and having it, too.

  “Just so,” she agreed bitterly. “And it was shortly after we were out of mourning for Papa that the accidents began. Tell me, Mr. Pickett, do you smell the fresh paint? The ballroom had to be repainted yesterday, for three days ago the chandelier crashed to the floor. The candles set the carpet on fire, and although the blaze was not large, the walls were badly smoked.” She inhaled sharply, as if still smelling the acrid scent. “If the chandelier had fallen only seconds earlier, I should have been struck, for I had been standing directly underneath it.”

  “May I see the room?” Pickett asked.

  “Of course.”

  She rose and shook out her skirts, then led the way upstairs, where the ballroom occupied one entire side of the house. The smell of paint was stronger here, and the damaged carpet had been removed, leaving only bare floorboards beneath a massive gilded chandelier, somewhat the worse for wear. Pickett walked to the center of the room until he stood directly under it, and looked up.

  “The chandelier can be lowered in order to change out the candles,” said her ladyship, pointing out the cable that led from the chandelier in the center of the room to the wall, where it turned the corner with the aid of a pulley and disappeared discreetly behind the blue velvet curtains framing the window. Pickett crossed the room to the window, drew back the curtain, and found the end of the rope wrapped around a metal cleat set into the wall.

  “The rope was changed after the—accident,” Lady Washbourn said, stumbling slightly over the word. “The old one had snapped, or else had been cut.”

  “Was Lord Washbourn home at the time?” he asked.

  “No, he was at his club.”

  “It seems a rather dodgy way of killing someone,” Pickett noted. “The murderer would have the advantage of being nowhere near the scene of the crime, but he would have to weigh that against the likelihood of his intended victim being in another room—or out of the house entirely—when the axe fell.” He grimaced at his own choice of words. “Forgive me, your ladyship; you know what I meant.”

  “I do, and I had thought of that. But I have been in and out of this room every day for the past week, as Washbourn must have known I would be. We are hosting a costume ball in three days’ time, and I have been kept busy with preparations—meeting with the musicians, consulting with the florist regarding the flowers and then giving instructions to the footmen as to their placement—” She shrugged. “Besides, the blow itself need not have been fatal. Even had I been standing near enough to be struck by shards of broken glass, these could have become imbedded in the skin, and festered.”

  “Leading to a slow and painful death by infection,” concluded Pickett, nodding in understanding. “A charming fellow, your husband!”

  Her expression grew wistful. “He can be, on occasion.”

  “I should like to have a look at the rope, if I may,” Pickett said. “Do you still have it?”

  She shook her head. “Alas, no. I could think of no excuse for retaining it that would not have aroused suspicion. I did get a good look at it, though, and I must confess that it did not appear to have been cut. It was frayed, you see—not the sort of clean break one might expect to see had it been slashed with a knife.”

  “And yet one might hack at it in order to make it look frayed, if one wished to make a murder attempt appear an accident,” Pickett said, frowning thoughtfully.

  “My thoughts exactly!” She sounded almost pleased by this observation, and Pickett realized she had probably half expected him to dismiss her concerns as the wild imaginings of a hysterical female.

  “I believe you said there have been other such accidents?”

  “One other,” she said. “I was coming downstairs one morning when I stepped on something on the stairs. It rolled beneath my foot, and had I not been able to grab the banister, I might have suffered a nasty fall. When I regained my balance and looked at the stair, I found three loose pearls on the step.”

  “Yours?”

  “I didn’t think so at the time, for I had worn my pearls only the previous Monday, to the Bartleston musicale. I thought they must belong to Lady Washbourn—the dowager, that is, my mother-in-law—but she denied it, and suggested that I take better care of my jewels in the future. And when I looked in my jewel case, my pearl necklace was broken, and three of the pearls were missing. This was the first incident, mind you, so although I thought it was strange, I did not yet suspect any sinister purpose.”

  “Did you mention the matter to your husband?”

  “Yes.” Angry spots of color burned in her cheeks. “He promised to take them to Rundell and Bridge for restringing, and read me a lecture—ever so gently, mind you, but a lecture all the same—about the value of money.” She gave a snort of derision. “Money! Me, mind you, when it is he who—but never mind that. Will you help me, Mr. Pickett? I am prepared to offer you the sum of fifty pounds sterling for bringing this matter to a satisfactory conclusion.”

  Pickett’s head spun. Fifty pounds sterling! Almost as much as he could expect to earn in an entire year, although it still fell far short of his wife’s jointure from her first husband. He was sorely tempted, but he was loth to take Lady Washbourn’s offer under false pretenses. After a few seconds’ severe struggle, he answered reluctantly, “I understand your concerns, your ladyship, and don’t think I am unsympathetic to your plight, but there is very little I can do with no solid evidence.”

  “What evidence will it take?” she asked tartly. “My lifeless body discovered at the foot of the stairs? No, Mr. Pickett, I have a better idea. I told you we are to host a masquerade ball; I suspect my husband may think to take advantage of the occasion and make another attempt on my life. You must admit, a houseful of persons wearing m
asks would offer a rare opportunity.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I should like you to attend, along with your wife. That is why I requested you in particular. Since Mrs. Pickett is a lady born and bred, no one will wonder at her presence, and you will be on hand to keep my husband under close observation, should he decide to try his hand at murder.”

  Pickett saw one rather glaring flaw in this plan. “Will Lord Washbourn not be a bit suspicious to discover that you suddenly number a Bow Street Runner and his wife amongst your acquaintances?”

  “I’ve thought of that.” She reached into the pocket of her gown and withdrew a long, narrow box covered in black velvet. “Rubies,” she explained. “The Washbourn rubies, to be exact, which guarantee that my husband will not think it at all strange that I should summon a Runner when they should suddenly go missing.”

  “I beg your pardon?” asked Pickett, all at sea.

  “Into your possession, to be exact,” she said, offering him the box. “I dare not simply hide them, for fear Washbourn or one of the servants should find them, and discover the ruse.”

  “And how, exactly, will this account for my presence at the masquerade?”

  “To ensure that none of our guests suffer a similar loss—at least, so far as my husband is concerned.” She smiled mischievously, and her earlier plainness was utterly banished. “After all, when a jewel thief is known to be running amok, one cannot be too careful.”

  “No, I suppose not.” He took the box, not without a pang of misgiving. “With your permission, I will turn this over to Bow Street, to be locked up for safekeeping.”

  Whatever Lady Washbourn might have said to this suggestion was interrupted by a noise from below. Her earlier animation disappeared, to be replaced by a hunted expression.

  “My husband is home,” she said, quite unnecessarily. “Come with me, Mr. Pickett, and follow my lead.”

  Interpreting this command both literally and figuratively, Pickett stuffed the rubies into the inside pocket of his coat, then fell in behind the countess as she exited the ballroom and hurried down the stairs to the ground floor. A stern-looking man in his mid-thirties stood in the hall, divesting himself of hat and gloves, and her ladyship went forward to meet him.

  “Washbourn, my love, I did not expect you home so soon.”

  She presented her cheek for her husband’s kiss, and Pickett could not help contrasting the coolness of his lordship’s greeting and the rather stilted civility in his wife’s voice with the warm welcome he himself had received in Curzon Street only an hour earlier.

  As if aware of this assessment, Lord Washbourn’s pale blue eyes flicked up from his wife to her visitor. “I wasn’t aware that you had guests, my dear,” he said. Although he did not go so far as to sneer at the brown serge coat, Pickett had no doubt the earl was fully cognizant of it.

  “This is Mr. John Pickett, of the Bow Street Public Office,” Lady Washbourn hurried to explain. “It is the most distressing thing, but I cannot find the Washbourn rubies! I fear they may have been stolen.”

  The earl’s mouth tightened. “Depend upon it, Eliza, you have mislaid them somewhere. We will organize a thorough search of the house, and I have no doubt they will turn up. Really, my dear, you must learn to be more careful. First your pearls, and now this! I’m sure I need not remind you that the Washbourn rubies have been in the family for generations.”

  “No, indeed! And I hope you may be right, and that they will turn up. Still, just in case they do not, I thought you would have no objection to my summoning Mr. Pickett to try and see if he can discover what happened to them.” She took a deep breath. “Mr. Pickett has also agreed to attend our masquerade ball—quite inconspicuously, you know!—to ensure that none of our guests suffer a similar loss. His wife is the former Lady Fieldhurst, so there can be nothing to wonder at in their presence,” she added hastily, almost apologetically.

  “We will discuss this later, Eliza.” Turning to Pickett, he added, “I have every confidence that the rubies will be discovered in my wife’s sewing basket, or some such thing, but if I should prove to be mistaken, I’m sure I need not tell you that you will be rewarded handsomely for their recovery.”

  Pickett nodded in acknowledgement. “I will do my best, your lordship,” he promised, knowing quite well that he could not accept any payment for the return of jewels which were at that moment residing in his own coat pocket. He was suddenly eager to be out of the house and out from under Lord Washbourn’s too-keen gaze. It occurred to him that if the rubies were to be discovered now, and on his person, his Bow Street career would be over. His life might well be over, too, if Lady Washbourn should choose to sacrifice him in order to save herself: stealing a priceless heirloom from a peer of the realm would almost certainly be a hanging offense.

  * * *

  “And so with your permission, sir, I should like to lock these away in the safe,” concluded Pickett, after recounting to his magistrate Lady Washbourn’s plight.

  “I see,” said Mr. Colquhoun, a bluff white-haired man in his mid-sixties with bushy white brows over blue eyes that could either scowl fiercely or twinkle with good humor, whichever the situation demanded. At the moment, they were frowning down at the long black velvet box containing the Washbourn rubies. “And how long do you expect to keep them here?”

  “I don’t know,” Pickett confessed. “Until I solve the case, I suppose—that’s if there is a case—or until Lady Washbourn decides her fears were groundless, and asks for them back.”

  “In other words, it could be a very long time.”

  Pickett sighed. “I’m afraid so, sir.”

  “I don’t like it.” Mr. Colquhoun handed the box back over the wooden rail that separated the magistrate’s bench from the rest of the room.

  Pickett accepted its return with some reluctance. “Don’t like what, sir? The rubies in particular, or the case as a whole?”

  “When you put it that way, I can’t say I care much for either one. The case—if you want to call it that—is far too ambiguous, to my mind. To be blunt, I can’t imagine why you agreed to take on such a thing. There’s been no crime committed, at least none that can be proven.”

  “No, but just last year Mr. Dixon accompanied the Spanish ambassador and his wife to Portsmouth as a bodyguard,” Pickett reminded him. “There had been no crime committed then, either, but he took the case nevertheless—and picked up a cool thirty pounds for his pains,” he added with a trace of envy.

  “Let me remind you that the safety of the Spanish ambassador and his wife was a matter of international importance, since Spain had finally had her fill of Napoleon and was prepared to cast her lot with Britain. Naturally, every precaution had to be taken to make sure the new alliance was not threatened by some disgruntled person determined to view the Spanish as our enemies. But I suspect it is not so much international politics that interests you as the prospect of earning thirty pounds.”

  “Fifty.”

  The bushy white brows arched toward the magistrate’s hairline. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Lady Washbourn has offered me the sum of fifty pounds sterling upon the satisfactory conclusion of this case.”

  “But think, John! What, exactly, constitutes a satisfactory conclusion? Granted, if her ladyship is found dead at the end of the evening, I believe we can agree that you forfeit your fifty pounds. But if she isn’t? Just how long are you expected to protect her from a crime her husband may have no intention of committing in the first place?”

  “I—I don’t know,” Pickett confessed. “I suppose I shall have to improvise. But—but fifty pounds, sir! It’s as much as my wife gets in, oh, six weeks,” he added with a humorless laugh.

  “Mrs. Pickett knew when she married you that you would never be able to match her income,” the magistrate pointed out, not unkindly. “One must assume that you held some appeal for her other than the financial.”

  “Yes, well,” said Pickett, willing himself not to blush, “tha
t’s not to say I don’t intend to do my damnedest—begging your pardon—not to be her petticoat pensioner.”

  “An admirable sentiment, and one that does you credit—so long as you do not allow it to take control of your marriage.”

  “And the rubies?” Pickett asked, impatient to abandon a line of inquiry which had become uncomfortably personal. “May I lock them up here?”

  “That is another thing I cannot like,” the magistrate said, scowling at Pickett in such a way that made him feel very much like the fourteen-year-old pickpocket he had been when first he had made Mr. Colquhoun’s acquaintance. “In my experience, deceptions and half-truths only lead to further complications.”

  “I see your point, sir, but how else was her ladyship to explain my presence? ‘This is Mr. Pickett, my dear. I’ve invited him to see if he can discover whether you are trying to kill me.’ ” He shook his head. “No, I can’t say I like it, either, but I don’t see that she had much of a choice.”

  “Since you are so much in sympathy with the lady, I’m sure you will have no objection to keeping the rubies for her until the business is—what was it?—‘satisfactorily concluded.’ ”

  “But sir—”

  “But me no buts, Mr. Pickett. Consider, if you will, how many people pass through the Bow Street Public Office every day. Not the criminals, mind you—although God knows there are enough of them!—but the Runners, the foot patrol, the horse patrol—and not a few of them with cause to open the safe from time to time. All it would take for disaster to strike would be for Lord Washbourn to make an unscheduled visit to inquire as to the progress of the investigation, and for someone to recall seeing the rubies and return them to their rightful owner. Lady Washbourn’s goose would be cooked, and so would yours. No, having committed yourself to this ruse—and I am willing to concede that, after agreeing to take the case, you could hardly do otherwise—you must see that the fewer people who are privy to the secret, the more likely it is to remain just that—a secret.”