For Deader or Worse

by Sheri Cobb South

  She shuddered at the memory, an involuntary movement that did nothing for Pickett’s powers of concentration. “Poor Tom! If he did indeed do such a thing, it was very wrong, of course, but I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for him, having his dreams of wealth for his family go so disastrously awry. Whatever he had discovered, someone wanted very badly for it to remain a secret.”

  “Yes, which brings us to the next question: what person or persons might Tom have come in contact with who would have secrets worth paying—or killing—to keep? I think we can eliminate your father’s stable hand, Will, as a suspect, for he would be unlikely to have the kind of money that might tempt a blackmailer.” Seeing the stricken expression on her face, he added in a gentler tone, “My lady? Julia, what are you thinking?”

  “Papa goes to London twice a year. He calls them business trips, but Mama says they are actually for—for amorous purposes.” Seeing him nod in understanding, she exclaimed, “John! You knew?”

  “I’ve known ever since I investigated Lord Fieldhurst’s murder. Your father came riding to your rescue long before word could have reached him in Somersetshire. When I confronted him with the discrepancy, he admitted he’d already been in London, and what had brought him there. But,” he added quickly, “if you’re thinking Tom might have been blackmailing him over it, and been murdered for his pains, let me put your mind at rest. If, as you say, your mama already knew of his activities in the Metropolis, then the blackmail theory falls apart. Why would your father pay to keep a secret that his wife already knew?”

  “Yes, but he didn’t know that she knew.” Julia slipped off her shoes, then lifted the hem of her dress to her knees, untied her garters, and began peeling off her stockings.

  “Perhaps not,” Pickett said, observing this operation with interest, “but if she knew that he didn’t know that she knew, then—then—then—”

  “Then what?” she prompted.

  “Never mind,” he said, and pulled her roughly into his arms.

  “In any case,” she continued a bit breathlessly, when she could speak at all, “it appears Papa knew that you knew, so that alone must be enough to absolve him.”

  Pickett was ready to consign Sir Thaddeus, Lady Runyon, and indeed the entire population of Norwood Green to the devil, but suspected his wife would not welcome further advances on his part until she’d had her say.

  “Aside from the burning of what may or may not have been a blackmail note,” he said, “did you accomplish anything else at the Pratts’ house?”

  “Well, I hope I was able to reassure the little Pratt boy as to his father’s affections,” she said, smiling at the memory. “Indeed, I believe I must have done, for I received a kiss on the cheek for my pains.”

  Pickett regarded her with mock severity. “And you think kissing witnesses is an acceptable way to conduct an investigation? I can see I’ll have to keep a closer eye on you in the future.”

  “I didn’t kiss a witness; I was kissed by a witness,” she retorted playfully. “Why, John, don’t tell me you intend to be that sort of husband! When you, of all people, must know that I have a decided partiality for younger men.”

  It was just as she had suspected: seduction was infinitely more enjoyable than argument, although she did not deceive herself as to its effectiveness. She supposed she should be relieved that he did not apparently believe her father to be implicated in Tom’s death. Still, whether it was the memory of her mother’s words regarding a wife’s duty to see that her husband’s needs were met, or the visit with the fatherless Pratt clan, Julia found herself lying awake long into the night, thinking of the children she and her husband would never have.

  Something to remember him by ... As he lay sleeping in her arms, she ran her fingers through his tangled brown curls and found the small spot on his scalp where the hair was just beginning to grow back in. This, along with the occasional headache, was all that remained of the attack that had felled him outside Drury Lane Theatre.

  But what if the next attempt on his life should prove to be successful? The only thing that might make such a loss bearable was for her to have some part of him to keep—not a lock of his hair (she already had that, for the physician had allowed her to have the hair he’d cut away from the wound), but a living, breathing piece of himself to cherish. It was the only thing that might assuage her grief—and the only thing she knew she could never have.

  There was another way, of course, but the child that would result would contain no part of herself. Would she want to be a mother under such conditions? Could she love such a child for its father’s sake, or would she be unable to look at it without searching for some sign of the woman who had borne it?

  You are worrying about nothing, she scolded herself mentally. He was perfectly safe. It was not as if he had never investigated a murder before. And yet murder in the Metropolis seemed so anonymous; such things were not supposed to happen here, among people she knew, in the place where she had grown up.

  She wriggled closer to her husband, finding reassurance in the warmth of his breath against her face and the feel of his heartbeat, strong beneath her hand. But when she closed her eyes, it was Tom’s face that swam before her, gruesome in death.

  Chapter Twelve

  In Which John Pickett’s Suspicions Are Confirmed

  The following morning was taken up with Tom Pratt’s funeral, which Pickett attended along with Sir Thaddeus. The graveside service itself was uneventful, which was neither more nor less than he had expected. As far as his investigation into the groom’s death was concerned, there was very little Pickett could do until he received a reply from his magistrate. He dared not act on his suspicions without some confirmation, for if he should prove to be mistaken, the whole of Norwood Green would think him a raving lunatic.

  Julia, sensing his restlessness although she could only guess as to its cause, suggested they go for a walk and pay the promised call upon Miss Milliken, her former governess. He readily agreed, for in addition to the fact that he had no more productive use for his time, this outing would allow him to escape the critical eye of his mother-in-law, at least for a time. Lady Runyon, when told of their plans, did not protest the loss of her son-in-law’s company, but requested her daughter to purchase for her a paper of pins from the village emporium. Julia acceded to this request, and set out for the village with Pickett in tow.

  By unspoken consent, they did not discuss the solemn events of the morning. Instead, Julia kept up a steady flow of anecdotes from her childhood in which Miss Milliken had played a part. It was clear to Pickett that a deep bond of affection existed between the teacher and her former pupil—a circumstance which, upon their arrival, made the little governess’s welcome (if it might be so called) all the more baffling. When the maid of all work announced them, Miss Milliken, seated on a worn sofa of crimson brocade, shot to her feet as if ejected from a catapult.

  “My dear Julia!” exclaimed the little lady, twisting her handkerchief in arthritic hands as her gaze darted nervously about the room. “And Mr. Pickett. What a surprise to see you!”

  “Why, Millie, how can you say so, when you invited us to call only three days ago?” Julia chided her, smiling. “Have you forgotten us so quickly?”

  “Of course not! That is, I had not forgotten, precisely, but I had not expected to see you quite so—oh dear, how I do run on! Will you not—will you not sit down?”

  She indicated the sofa she had just vacated, but with such obvious reluctance that the gesture would have been comical, had it not been so bewildering.

  “No, we must not,” Julia said, laying a restraining hand on Pickett’s arm. “I see we have come at a bad time. We will return another day—tomorrow, perhaps, or the day after?”

  “No, no,” Miss Milliken insisted. “It is not a bad time at all, merely that I am ill-prepared for company, and—”

  “Company?” cried Julia in mock indignation. “Surely I cannot be considered that, Millie! But I would not want to put you
to any inconvenience, so if you would prefer that we postpone our visit to a later date—”

  “Not at all, my dear, I am delighted to see you, of course—”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Julia noted with tongue planted firmly in cheek.

  Still, in spite of the little lady’s obvious discomfiture, Miss Milliken appeared to be so mortified by her own ungraciousness that in the end Julia and Pickett were obliged to trespass upon her hospitality. They seated themselves side by side on the sofa and received the cups of tea which the governess poured with trembling hands.

  “I suppose you were present at Tom Pratt’s funeral this morning, Mr. Pickett,” Miss Milliken observed, pouring a cup for herself. “A sad business, that. Tell me, what do you make of it?”

  “It’s too early to say as yet,” he demurred.

  A soft, scarcely noticeable vibration over their heads was more felt than heard, as if someone were crossing the floor of the room above. Before Julia could ask if she had other visitors, Miss Milliken rushed into speech.

  “Very wise of you, Mr. Pickett, for it is dangerous to go jumping to conclusions.” She pitched her voice at a volume which would have made Julia wonder if her former preceptress were losing her hearing, had this apparent disability not been entirely lacking when they had encountered her outside the church only three days earlier. Given the suddenness of its onset, Julia suspected Miss Milliken had also heard that faint noise from overhead and was attempting to cover it—or, perhaps, was warning her mysterious guest that she was not alone. Poor Millie! Her futile efforts would have been amusing, had she not been in such obvious distress.

  Julia decided to take pity on her. She set her cup back into its saucer still half full, and bethought herself of the errand she had promised to run for her mother. Pickett was quick to follow her lead, and as a result, they left the house scarcely more than five minutes after they had entered it.

  “Well!” exclaimed Julia after the door was shut behind them. “What do you make of that?”

  “I would say your Miss Milliken wasn’t at all pleased to see us,” Pickett said. “In fact, I think she would have denied us the house if she could have fabricated some excuse for doing so.”

  “Yes, indeed, which is most unlike her! In fact,” Julia added, her eyes narrowing in suspicion, “if it were anyone but Millie, I should have said she was hiding her lover upstairs.”

  “Or someone else’s,” Pickett put in cryptically.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He shook his head. “Never mind.”

  They called next at the emporium for the pins Lady Runyon had requested, having failed to reach any satisfactory conclusion regarding Miss Milliken’s strange behavior. Julia selected a paper of pins and had taken them to the counter when she was hailed by a fellow customer.

  “You—Miss Julia—Sir Thaddeus’s other girl, isn’t it?”

  Turning, Julia saw a stout female in a frilled and be-ribboned white muslin gown more suited for a schoolroom miss than a woman of at least forty. Even as she recalled seeing this same female seated beside Lady Buckleigh at the inquest, Julia noticed Lord Buckleigh’s young bride cowering behind her mother, blushing furiously as she raised anguished eyes to Julia’s. Recalling her mother’s words regarding the new Lady Buckleigh’s parentage, Julia took pity on the girl and did not give the vulgar woman the set-down she deserved.

  “Yes, I am Mrs. John Pickett, Sir Thaddeus’s younger daughter,” Julia said, lifting her chin and raising her eyebrows ever so slightly. “I fear I haven’t had the pleasure, Mrs.—?”

  Alas, Lord Buckleigh’s new mama-in-law was impervious to hints. She seized Julia’s gloved hand and pumped it heartily. “Mrs. Gubbins, ma’am, Edna Gubbins. This here’s my daughter Betty, Lady Buckleigh.”

  “Lady Buckleigh.” Julia dipped a curtsy, feeling rather sorry for the girl who was so ill-suited to fill her sister’s shoes. “Of course I recall meeting you at Mrs. Brantley’s dinner, although we had no chance to do more than exchange greetings. How do you do?”

  “My Betty says your poor sister was the first Lady Buckleigh,” put in Mrs. Gubbins before her daughter could answer.

  “Hardly the first, Mama,” protested the current holder of the title. “The barony has existed for centuries.”

  “Yes, well, Mrs. Pickett will know what I mean, for she used to be a ‘ladyship’ herself, or so I hear,” continued Mrs. Gubbins, undaunted. “And here we were, thinking his lordship would never marry again, after having his heart broke! Mind, he’d been sniffing ’round my Betty ever since he met her at an assembly in Wells last September. I was afeared he’d try to give her a slip on the shoulder, and that’s the sort of thing I don’t hold with, nor never shall, be his lordship never so high and mighty! You could have knocked me over with a feather when he showed up at our doorstep one day asking Mr. Gubbins for our little girl’s hand! I was that proud to think of my Betty as a ‘ladyship’, I nearly busted my stays!”

  She laughed gustily at her own witticism, putting the aforementioned stays once more at risk. “As for you—” She turned to Pickett and wagged a stubby finger at him. “Betty tells me you cooked your goose right proper, offering to take her in to dinner right under Mr. Brantley’s nose. Lud, I’ll bet that put their noses out of joint! Still and all, it was right thoughtful of you, what with my poor girl feeling that out of place amongst the nobs, and I’m not sure but what I don’t think the better of you for it.”

  “Er, thank you, ma’am,” Pickett stammered.

  “Aye, and what’s more, I don’t doubt my girl would have been happier sitting next to a good-looking young fellow like you, rather than a man old enough to be her father—although I don’t say but what my Mr. Gubbins wasn’t a handsome one back in the day, so mayhap that Mr. Brantley might have been quite a catch himself, back in his salad days.”

  Julia, judging it time to put the two mortified subjects of this discourse out of their mutual misery, cast a sympathetic glance at Lady Buckleigh and was chagrined to discover her ladyship casting coy glances at Pickett beneath her lashes.

  “And so you are visiting your daughter, now that she and Lord Buckleigh have returned from their wedding trip,” Julia observed. “Tell me, Mrs. Gubbins, how long is Norwood Green to enjoy the pleasure of your company?”

  “Lud, I don’t know—until my girl gets settled into married life, I suppose. Oh, she knows how to hold house, mind you, but I’ll not deny our own place was never so fine as Buckleigh Manor! Only fancy, his lordship’s house has forty bedrooms! Why, one might sleep in a different room every night for a month!” Her chuckles died abruptly as she recalled her present audience. “But then, you already know that, for your own poor sister was once its mistress.”

  “Yes, but that was long ago,” Julia assured her. “I’m sure all his friends must be glad Lord Buckleigh has found a second chance at happiness with your daughter.”

  “Aye, he’s that happy, he’s given her a free rein in redecorating the house,” Mrs. Gubbins put in. “And since her father is a linen-draper, she’ll not lack for materials to do the thing up right.”

  Julia made approving noises, but privately hoped Lady Buckleigh’s tastes were more refined than those of her mother. “Tell me, Lady Buckleigh, do you plan to replace the carpet on the stairs? I remember my sister Claudia was always tripping over it.”

  “It’s early days yet to be making plans,” Lady Buckleigh demurred. “I should not want to offend the good people of Norwood Green by flaunting my rise in the world.” Her speaking eyes appealed to Pickett to concur, and her mother, noting this, was quick to seize upon it.

  “Aye, I’m sure Mr. Pickett there will agree with you, for you’ve a lot in common, have you not? I don’t doubt the four of you will all become great friends. Although if rumor don’t lie, your birth is rather better than Mr. Pickett’s, my love. We may lack a fine pedigree, but Mr. Gubbins and I have always been what you’d call respectable.”

  “I fear Mr. Pickett and I
will be fixed in London for most of the year,” Julia put in gently but firmly. “And now, if you will excuse us, we must go before Mama begins to wonder what has become of us.”

  “Aye, you’ll give our regards to your mama, will you not? Perhaps Lady Runyon will honor us one day by coming to take tea at Buckleigh Manor.”

  Julia returned a vague reply, then paid for her pins and all but thrust Pickett through the door before Mrs. Gubbins could think of any reason for detaining them. Once in the village’s main street, she turned to her husband and found his shoulders shaking. Her lips curved upward in spite of her efforts to keep a straight face.

  “What are you laughing at?” she demanded, having a very good idea of the answer.

  “I was just picturing your mother and Mrs. Gubbins sitting down to tea together.”

  Julia rolled her eyes. “Oh, heavens! Can you imagine? Now I understand why Mama took the news of Lord Buckleigh’s remarriage so hard. Her own daughter replaced with Mrs. Gubbins’s child, of all people!”

  “She does seem an odd choice for a man in his position,” Pickett admitted. “Does his lordship need money?”

  Her brow puckered as she considered the question. “Not that I am aware of. Not nearly so badly as he needs an heir, I should think. Perhaps,” she added in a curiously flat voice, “perhaps he thought, given the Runyon girls’ poor performance in that area, that a girl from the merchant class might prove more fecund.”

  Pickett took her hand and drew it through the curve of his arm, “Or perhaps he fell so deeply in love with Betty Gubbins that such things as class no longer mattered.”

  “Impossible,” she assured him, giving his arm a little squeeze. “No one does that.”