“You are right about one thing, Mama: it is unfair! Frederick would never have ‘embroiled’ me in a murder investigation, for it never would have occurred to him that I might have opinions, or insights, or indeed any other function beyond the purely ornamental.”
“Well, but Julia, my dear—” protested Lady Runyon, whose own views of the matter were far more closely aligned with her late son-in-law’s than with her daughter’s.
“And on the subject of ‘poor Fieldhurst,’ there is a great deal you never knew about him.” And sparing no detail, Julia catalogued first husband’s sins, beginning with the opera dancer he had taken under his protection shortly after their honeymoon and ending with her own lady’s maid, and all the other women (at least, all the ones she knew of) in between.
“My poor Julia!” her mama exclaimed at the end of this recital. “I wish you had told me earlier!”
“Why?” Julia asked bitterly. “What difference would it have made?”
“To him, none,” Lady Runyon admitted. “But I should have asked you to consider if you were doing all you might to make him comfortable, to—”
“Mama!” exclaimed Julia, listening to her mother in growing indignation. “Do you mean to suggest that Frederick’s infidelities were my fault?”
“Of course not, my dear. But men feel differently about these things. Depend upon it, these little affaires in no way detract from a man’s feelings for his wife. Why, your own Papa makes two trips to London a year for that very purpose, and always returns to me more affectionate than ever.”
Julia stared at her mother with stricken eyes. “Do you mean to say that even Papa—?”
“Come, Julia, you are not a child! You must know that in recent years my health has not been what it once was. But it is a wife’s duty to see that her husband’s needs are met, whether that entails meeting them herself, or turning a blind eye while he seeks satisfaction elsewhere.” She added, more gently this time, “Sexual congress is not only about procreation, you know. To a man it often represents youth and virility. Could I really be so cruel as to deny your papa that reassurance?”
Julia, stunned, could not speak. Quite aside from this entirely unexpected facet of her father, she realized that perhaps she had not been entirely fair to her husband. Not Fieldhurst—no indeed, for she was quite certain she had nothing with which to reproach herself where he was concerned. But for the first time it occurred to her that she might have done John Pickett a disservice. Caught up in newly discovered feelings of love and uncertain if he would survive his injuries, they had consummated their accidental marriage without much thought for the future; in fact, the present had been too precious, and too precarious, to waste a moment in thoughts of what might never come to pass. Now, however, her mother’s words brought new and unwelcome questions to mind. At four-and-twenty, he need have no concerns about lost youth, and however inexperienced he might be, she could testify as to his virility. Procreation, on the other hand ... In six years of marriage to Frederick, Lord Fieldhurst, there had been no sign of a pregnancy, and the physician who had tried his best to treat this condition had made it clear that the situation was unlikely to change. This, in fact, was what had driven the final wedge between herself and her first husband. Although he hadn’t Lord Fieldhurst’s urgent need for an heir, surely John Pickett would desire children no less than her first husband had done. Might he someday come to regret the hasty consummation that now bound him to a barren woman in a childless marriage?
“Mama—” she began slowly, only to be interrupted by a scratching at the door.
“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” began the butler, entering the room.
“Yes, Parks?” asked Lady Runyon. “What is it?”
“It’s Lucifer,” he said. “He’s come back to the stable.”
Lady Runyon smothered a sigh at the return of her son-in-law. “Very well, you may inform Mr. Pickett that we shall join him in the drawing room directly.”
Parks gave a discreet little cough. “There’s the thing, ma’am. The horse has returned without its rider.”
Chapter Seven
Which Describes Various Encounters,
Both Human and Spectral
Upon leaving the Layton house, Pickett returned to the spot where Tom’s body lay. The coroner had not yet arrived, nor had Lord Buckleigh in his rôle as Justice of the Peace. There was nothing he could do, therefore, but wait and think—and it was perhaps inevitable that his thoughts returned to the cottage on the edge of the wood, from whose chimney, he could have sworn, a plume of smoke had risen. His father-in-law had said the house was empty, but in view of the fact that a gruesome murder had been committed nearby, he would be a fool not to investigate. Grimacing at the prospect of making such a trek in his too-small borrowed riding boots, he steeled his resolve and set out.
He reached the house ten minutes later, limping toward it on feet upon which more than one blister was already beginning to form. As he approached, he looked up at the chimney; if there had been a fire in the grate before, it had been put out, for no smoke curled up from the stone flue now. He walked up to the door and knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again. Still no answer, but was that a faint scuffling sound from within, or simply the sigh of leaves in the trees?
He made up his mind to find out. He rattled the doorknob, and was not surprised to find it locked. He groped in his pockets for some tool he might use to force the lock, and was pleased to discover one of his wife’s hairpins. It was one of the unforeseen small pleasures of marriage, he’d found, these constant little reminders of his lady that were wont to turn up unexpectedly in apparently random places.
Turning his attention back to the matter at hand, he dropped to one knee before the door and inserted the hairpin into the lock. A moment later there was a click, and the knob turned in his hand. He stood and pushed the door open, and the pale spring sun spilled into the dark cottage, casting dappled shadows into the bare little room.
“Hullo?” Pickett called, stepping gingerly inside. “Is anyone there?”
There was obviously no one in the room in which he stood, for the space was too sparsely furnished to provide a hiding place. A scarred deal table and two chairs were positioned against one wall beneath the window to catch the afternoon sun, and a worn sofa faced the fireplace where, presumably, the gamekeeper and his wife had once sat on cold evenings.
The fireplace ...
Pickett crossed the room to the hearth, then bent and held one hand over the partially burned log resting on cast iron firedogs. It was warm, so warm that he was forced to withdraw his hand. There was no fire now, but there certainly had been one, and not very long ago. Whoever extinguished it could not have gone far. He glanced at the staircase—little more than a ladder, really—that led to a loft where the gamekeeper must have slept. Whoever might be waiting at the top would surely have the advantage of anyone approaching from below. Did he dare climb it?
A month earlier he would not have hesitated, but now he had a wife to consider. He did not flatter himself that she would miss his lost earnings, should he be killed in the line of duty, but he realized he was not ready to give up his new-found happiness, and he had every reason to believe she felt the same. He reminded himself of his charge to protect the King’s peace, and acknowledged that he had a further obligation, however vague, to investigate a murder that involved his wife’s family, albeit indirectly. He took a deep breath and began, slowly and quietly, to mount the stairs.
His foot was on the fourth tread when a shadow fell across the room, blocking out the light from the open door. He wheeled about and found Jamie Pennington standing in the doorway.
“Mr. Pickett?”
Pickett nodded. “Major Pennington.”
“May I ask what you are doing on my property?” The engaging vicar’s son of the morning was gone, and it was the military man who regarded him with a look of such sternness that for the first time in many years, Pickett felt like the fourteen-year-o
ld pickpocket who had been hauled before the magistrate.
“I was riding past with my wife and her father when I thought I saw smoke coming from the chimney,” he explained. “Sir Thaddeus had said the house was empty, so I thought I would investigate.”
Jamie smiled, and Pickett had the impression that he was feigning a carelessness he did not feel. “Very conscientious of you, Mr. Pickett, but I should not want to trouble you with such things while you are on your honeymoon. A message sent to me at the vicarage would have sufficed, and I would have looked into the matter myself. Ah well, no harm done. Come along, and let us find Julia!”
Pickett gestured toward the fireplace. “Major, there was a fire lit here until quite recently. Someone has been in the house—and may still be here, for all we know.”
“It was probably old Wilson, the butler,” Jamie said with a dismissive wave of one hand. “He’s been looking after the place since my aunt died.”
“He didn’t mention it when I spoke with him earlier,” Pickett observed.
“Perhaps he didn’t consider it any of your business,” suggested Jamie, and his smile held more than a hint of steel. “I appreciate your concern, but I really must insist that you leave this house.”
Thus adjured, Pickett had no choice but to descend the stairs and exit through the door Jamie held open for him.
“Now then, Mr. Pickett, let’s find Julia,” Jamie said in something approaching his usual manner.
As they walked away from the house, Jamie flung an arm across Pickett’s shoulders, a companionable gesture that did not deceive Pickett for a minute. Clearly, the major had no intention of allowing him to search the house the moment his back was turned. Who—or what—was he trying to protect, and why?
Jamie would have steered Pickett back in the direction of the Runyon estate, but here he underestimated his man. Ignoring the pressure of Jamie’s hand on his shoulder, Pickett turned instead toward the place where Tom’s body lay, leaving the major no choice but to follow.
“Tell me,” Pickett said as they emerged from the woods, “what do you know of Sir Thaddeus’s groom?”
“Very little,” Jamie said with a shrug which seemed to Pickett a bit too offhand. “I had a nodding acquaintance with him when he was a stable hand at Buckleigh Manor, but then, I have been out of the country for these last dozen years and more. Why do you ask?”
Pickett pointed toward the ridge. “See that tree? Tom, or what’s left of him, is lying there with his throat slit.”
“Dear God!” As a soldier, Jamie was surely no stranger to violent death, but at this revelation his countenance assumed a greenish cast. “Is it true?”
“Do you know of any reason why I should lie about such a thing?”
Jamie shook his head. “No, but—does Julia know?”
Pickett nodded. “She and her father found him.”
“Am I to understand, then, that you intend to investigate? You are a long way from Bow Street, Mr. Pickett.”
“True, but I feel some obligation to do what I can, given that my wife’s family is involved.”
“And how do you figure that, Mr. Pickett?” Jamie’s voice had grown cool again, and his hand on Pickett’s shoulder stiffened.
“Need you ask? Besides the fact that Sir Thaddeus was the fellow’s employer, he and Julia found the body.”
“Of course.” Jamie gave a shaky laugh. “You must forgive my obtuseness. It’s—it’s rather upsetting news.”
“And yet as a military man, you must be accustomed to violent death, Major.”
“One would suppose so, but this—murder in the wilds of Somersetshire—” He shook his head in bewilderment. “It is a very different thing, and one that isn’t supposed to happen here.”
“One might argue that such things aren’t supposed to happen anywhere,” Pickett pointed out. “And yet they do. Have you any idea why anyone might want Tom dead?”
“Look here,” Jamie said testily, “haven’t I just told you I’ve been out of the country? How the devil should I know?”
“Very well, then, let’s try another question: whose blood-stained greatcoat is hidden in the stables at Greenwillows—a property, I believe, which you have recently inherited?”
Jamie’s face darkened with anger, but any reply he might have made was interrupted by the thunder of hoof beats. Pickett turned and saw, not Lord Buckleigh or the coroner, but a mare being ridden hell-for-leather over the downs by a hatless female in a red velvet riding habit whose skirts billowed out behind her. Even as he started in her direction, she reined in her mount and slid from the saddle.
“My lady?” Pickett began. “What—?”
Julia, who had, over the last twelvemonth, narrowly escaped the gallows, discovered more than one dead body, and faced down formidable social censure (to say nothing of her own mama), now saw her husband apparently healthy and unharmed, and fell completely apart. She picked up her skirts and ran the last few yards, finally hurling herself against his chest. “Oh, John! The horse—Lucifer—he came back without you—it was just like Claudia all over again!”
“Hush, love,” crooned Pickett, taking her tearstained face in his hands and raining gentle kisses over it. “I’m quite all right—just forgot to tie up the horse. Nothing is wrong with me but a few blisters and my own stupidity.”
However unfounded her fears, the act of soothing them required some time and not a few murmured endearments punctuated by still more kisses; consequently, it was some time before Julia looked beyond Pickett and discovered Jamie standing just beyond him, regarding her with the rather self-conscious expression of one who finds himself the unintentional witness to an exchange of intimacies best expressed in private.
“Jamie? What are you doing here?”
“I was in the area looking over my inheritance when I ran across your Mr. Pickett,” he answered.
It was, Pickett knew, rather less than the truth, but he could not fault the man for his discretion; until he could prove either Jamie’s guilt or his innocence, he thought it was probably wisest not to reveal every detail of the encounter to his wife.
They had not long to wait until they were joined by a cavalcade comprising Sir Thaddeus, Lord Buckleigh, a frail elderly man who could only be the coroner, and several laborers riding on the back of a farm wagon, which would be used for bearing the dead man’s body home.
“Mr. Pickett,” said his lordship, offering his hand, “I am sorry to meet you again under such circumstances. And Major—”
“Buckleigh.”
The two men did not shake hands, but gave one another the curtest of nods. If looks could kill, Pickett thought, they would have needed a bigger wagon.
Pickett waited while Julia and her father explained how they had discovered the body and then, after Julia moved aside to speak with Jamie, approached the Justice of the Peace.
“I’ve taken the liberty of conducting a brief examination,” he told Lord Buckleigh. He gave a short accounting of the contents of the dead man’s pockets, but for reasons he could not explain, he made no mention of his visit to the Greenwillows stable and the remains of the fire in the supposedly empty cottage.
Buckleigh nodded. “I see. Yes, an unusual sum for such a man to have in his possession, to be sure. But that was all? There was no paper—a note or a letter, perhaps, or a bill of sale—to suggest how he might have come by it?”
Pickett shook his head. “No, nothing.”
“I am obliged to you, Mr. Pickett,” said his lordship. “It is fortunate that a man of your expertise was on hand, however regrettable that your honeymoon should be interrupted by this unpleasantness.”
“No more than yours, my lord. I understand you have only just returned from your own wedding trip.” He hesitated a moment before adding, “With your permission, sir, I should like to investigate this case.”
“I thank you for the offer, but I would not like to impose.”
“No imposition at all. The man was my father-in-law’s serva
nt.” Seeing his lordship was not convinced, he urged, “Surely you would not deprive me of the opportunity to assist my wife’s family.”
A hint of a smile lightened Lord Buckleigh’s rather severe countenance. “And yet I suspect, Mr. Pickett, that it is not assistance that concerns you, but redemption. In fact, you hope that by bringing their servant’s killer to justice, you may win your in-laws’ approval.”
“I don’t hold out for miracles, my lord, but I suppose it can’t hurt,” Pickett acknowledged, answering his lordship’s smile with one of his own.
Lord Buckleigh gave him a long look. “How old are you, Mr. Pickett?”
From anyone else, the question would have been an impertinence, and regardless of its source, Pickett felt the familiar annoyance at the unspoken assumption that his lack of years equated to incompetence. Still he understood that, right or wrong, his lordship’s title gave him the right to take certain liberties that would be offensive in a man of lower status. Since he had no desire to offend the very one from whom he was asking a favor, Pickett stifled a sigh. “Twenty-five, my lord,” he said, although he was in fact anticipating his natal day by a week and a half.
Lord Buckleigh nodded, frowning at the ground where the elderly coroner made his fumbling examination of the body. “Rather young, but age, as we know, is no guarantee of expertise.” He turned back to Pickett. “Very well, Mr. Pickett, the case is yours. But you will, I trust, keep me informed as to the progress of your investigation.”
“Of course.” This was his opportunity to describe his discovery of the bloodied greatcoat in the stable, as well as his suspicion that someone had taken up residence in the empty gamekeeper’s cottage. He did so, concluding with his determination to have a closer look at the cottage in the not too distant future.
For Deader or Worse Page 8
