“Of course not!” As if ashamed, the earl quickly stepped forward to take Gideon’s arm. “Glad to see you up and about. Shocking business this, an’t it? Your father would be highly displeased by the foolish talk. For myself, I do not credit one word of what is said! You must not allow it to distress you, my boy.”
On the contrary, it had come as a great shock to learn that one of his father’s closest friends could harbour a shred of suspicion, even if only for the briefest of moments. Gossip must be truly going against him if this was so, and he had been too seriously ill to counteract it. In a society where people’s letters were filled with false rumours of people’s deaths and marriage speculations, no one could afford to be entirely silent on his own account.
If this were a normal situation, he would ignore gossip and let it sort itself out. But today he decided he had better take advantage of this olive branch, or risk alienating the few friends he seemed to have. He gratefully accepted the baron’s arm and invited the others to enter the chapel so that the service could begin. They would watch it from the gallery, while his father’s servants and tenants sat on the benches below.
After taking his seat centre front as the chief mourner, Gideon waited for the noise to subside, before giving a nod to Mr. Bramwell, who stood below in his clerical robes.
The chapel, with its two-story ceiling, was the Abbey’s crowning glory. At the Restoration, with Charles II’s blessing, Gideon’s grandfather had had it redesigned after the fashion of Rome, with marble columns, leafy Corinthian orders, painted Italianate ceilings, and a fine gilt altar. A set of marble crypts had been built into the floor.
It was into one of these that Lord Hawkhurst would be lowered. At the sight of his father’s casket, covered in a black velvet pall and decorated with the family coat of arms, Gideon felt a squeeze in his heart.
As the sacrament began, his mind moved in painful directions. Never would he forgive himself for the words he had spoken to his father. Cruel memory revealed their argument in stark relief, every hurtful phrase, every threat that had been made. Only now, drained of his selfish passions by grief and guilt, Gideon could hardly recall the vicious anger that had made their last conversation so bitter. He could hardly recall Isabella’s face.
It would be so much easier to bear this day and the days to come if he could draw on her beauty and her affection to see him through. He should not be ready yet to forgive his father for the harsh words he had said about her, but Gideon could no longer feel justified by the emotion he had experienced on hearing them. For the moment he had too great a need to avenge his father’s death.
Contrary to Philippe’s dire prediction that he would make himself sick again and end up back in bed, Gideon felt his strength rapidly returning. The bit of exercise last night, a heartier meal and a decent night’s sleep had put an end to the shaking in his limbs. He could feel his body growing stronger with every step he took. And with this strength, his longing for Isabella would surely return.
At first, the pain from his loss had made him want her more, but he could not help feeling torn by his father’s opposition to their match. He should not think of her now when his father lay covered by a pall. The comfort he wanted and needed from her would come later, after he had brought Lord Hawkhurst’s killer to justice.
A short break in the ritual caused him to raise his eyes to his father’s servants and friends. Looking on their bowed heads, Gideon realized suddenly that one of these people was most likely his father’s murderer. The sickening notion made him examine each one of them with a searching eye.
To all appearances they mourned sincerely, the commoners more loudly below. To his father’s tenants and servants, Lord Hawkhurst had been both a father and a god, a powerful being who exacted their obedience just as surely as he bestowed his blessings. Had one of these people turned on his domineering master?
Up here, the nervousness of the listeners spoke of the suspicion under which Gideon laboured, as well as the uneasiness of their times. His father’s friends would want to believe in his son’s innocence, but they could not be certain that Sir Joshua’s accusations were false.
As Gideon glanced about the chapel, one thing struck him enough to make his thoughts take another turn. The men who had gathered to mourn his father’s passing—with the notable exception of his cousin and the Duke of Bournemouth—were all at outs with the new King. They were all known privately to espouse the cause of the Pretender. With George of Hanover now installed, they were all under suspicion themselves.
Later, after the mourners had been served with wine and food and had been given the mourning rings and gifts his father had willed them, Gideon stood upstairs in the Great Chamber to bid them farewell. As the last of them departed, his Grace of Bournemouth appeared unexpectedly at his elbow.
Seeing the Duke reminded Gideon of Isabella, and he tensed to think of the progress her other suitors might have made. He wondered why his Grace had come when, to his knowledge, he had never been one of his father’s friends.
After expressing his condolences in a conventional way, the Duke cast a glance at Gideon’s two shadows, the two constables—too far away to hear—and said, “I wonder—what disposition, if any, has been made of your father’s papers, St. Mars?”
“I beg your pardon, your Grace?”
The Duke gave a tight, little smile, which might have been intended to express sympathy, but failed. “Forgive me. I have surprised you. You wonder why I raise such a mundane matter on this unfortunate occasion; however, your father was keeping certain papers of mine, and I naturally wish to have them restored.”
“I have only just arrived. As you may imagine, there are matters more pressing to me than disposing of my father’s papers. If you will describe them, I will ask my father’s agent to search for them in due time.”
“You mistake me,” Bournemouth said coldly. “I will take them from you and from no one else. I expect them to be returned before they are examined by other men for whom the contents can be of little interest.”
It was a moment before Gideon recognized his words as a threat.
He narrowed his eyes. “You say they hold no interest? Then I fail to see the cause of your Grace’s concern. When, and if I find them, I will, of course, return them to you—provided I agree on their provenance.”
The Duke gave a start. A flash of fear showed on his face before his eyes were filled by a rage he barely managed to check.
“You would be wise not to offend me in this, St. Mars. You have few friends at Court just now. Your father’s cronies are too busy defending themselves in Parliament to come to your aid, should you find yourself in need.” With a tighter smile, he let his gaze veer towards the constables and back. “Let us say that in your current predicament, it would be a grave mistake to offend those few friends you have.”
His allusion to the intolerable accusation Sir Joshua had made caused Gideon to curl his fingers into a fist. He did not know if the Duke would go so far as to back the accusations, but he could only think of one motive why he might.
“I am aware of your Grace’s designs on a certain lady of our acquaintance, but I will not be discouraged. I mean to marry her.”
If he had expected to anger the Duke, he was soon undeceived.
Bournemouth merely laughed. “Have at her, my boy, and I wish you joy. I would advise you to make haste, however, before someone cuts you out. I believe her mother is eager to make a decision. But, now that you raise the point, one has heard—has one not?—that you will stop at nothing to have her.
“Have a care, St. Mars,” he said, turning to depart. “Take care that that temper of yours does not bring you to an early grave.”
He strolled to the top of the stairs, leaving Gideon to stare after him. The two constables moved up to flank him.
Before his Grace descended, he threw an amused glance back over his shoulder. “I will have the lady if I want her, St. Mars. Make no mistake about that. For the rest . . . you should c
onsider all that I have said.”
He left Gideon angrily torn between a desire to make him eat his words and a fear he could not wish to acknowledge.
He looked down at his hands, tightly balled into murderous fists. The weight of his solid gold mourning ring had been added to his fingers just minutes ago.
The Reverend Mr. Bramwell had assured him that his father had chosen the image that adorned it—a death’s head, in the centre of his family’s coat of arms.
Gideon managed to shake off his constables for another short while. He could hardly bear their presence in the face of the glances he had received today. The Duke’s casual remarks about Isabella had raised a fear in him that threatened to overwhelm anything else.
He could not lose her, too, not when he had just lost his father. Life could not be so unfair.
He needed to get back to London to see her. But he could not—and would not—stir from his home until he had uncovered his father’s killer. He had not been able to question his guests, and no one had volunteered any theories on who might have committed the crime. It would be entirely up to him to discover it, and now was the moment to get his questions answered.
He gave orders for his father’s receiver-general, James Henry, to attend him in the library where his father had been attacked. This was the room where his father had been murdered. It was also the place where Gideon had last seen him alive.
James Henry, he recalled, had been outside the room when he had stormed past the servants after their argument. He should be able to tell Gideon something of the details of that day.
The library occupied one of the larger closets in the king’s wing, in a twisting set of chambers that led to the former king’s suite. One of these had been converted into a library by his father, who had enjoyed a rare collection of nearly three hundred volumes. A system of cabinets and presses had been designed to protect his books in folio behind doors, while a separate leaf had been hinged to fold out into a desk.
The room had been cleaned. Whatever books might have been left out had been placed behind their cabinet doors. The leaf that opened into a desk had been locked and all his father’s papers tidied away. For an instant, Gideon wondered if the Duke’s papers could be found inside that desk, before he was distracted by an unusual sight.
The Turkey carpet had been removed.
Normally, it covered the floor. It had undoubtedly been stained with his father’s blood. As Gideon looked on the scene of the murder and their last, vicious argument, he was nearly overcome by pain.
James Henry chose that moment to appear. He paused in the doorway, a strong, square figure of medium height with harsh facial features, dressed in the sober brown clothing of a superior servant, his manner stiffly correct.
“You asked to see me, my lord?”
Unlike the other servants in the household, he had not come to offer his condolences. Nor did he now.
Gideon felt the strange discomfort he had always known in this man’s presence. For some reason, his father’s man of business had never taken to his open ways. His failure now to show any regard for Gideon’s suffering made him angry. It had not escaped him that neither James Henry nor his father’s friends had once honoured him with the title of Hawkhurst.
“I have some questions to ask you,” Gideon said. “Will you please tell me where my father was found?”
James Henry hesitated, as if considering whether —not how—to respond.
“Over there,” he finally said, “quite near to the far door. I came in to see if there was anything his lordship needed and discovered him, dragging himself across the carpet.”
Gideon looked up swiftly. “Did he suffer much?”
For a brief instant, Henry’s eyes revealed a flicker of emotion, before he shuttered them, and said, “My lord displayed his usual courage. He gave no indication of suffering, although his wound was deep enough to impede his breathing. He insisted on trying to speak instead of allowing me to fetch aid.”
“What did he say?”
Henry’s expression was guarded. “He did not name his assailant, if that is what you are asking. He only managed to get out that he had wounded the coward. He spoke of treachery, and his distress was obviously heightened by thoughts of betrayal.”
His voice had taken on an edge. Gideon was shaken by the accusation he saw the man’s eyes.
Hurt and anger kept him from responding to it now. “Sir Joshua Tate came to see me in London. I presume he questioned you and the rest of the household?”
A stiff nod was his only answer.
“How was the murderer able to enter and leave the house with no one’s knowledge?”
“It is presumed—my lord—” and here Henry’s insolent tone made his opinion clear— “that he came up the small back stairs beyond this closet and vanished the same way. There were drops of blood on the stairs.”
“How long after I left did you find him?”
“Not very long, my lord. No more than half an hour . . . Long enough, I suppose.”
Gideon’s mind reeled. No wonder it was thought he had killed his father. The back stairs would only be used by someone very familiar with the house. It was one of the improvements his father had made to facilitate the movement of servants through a building with more than two hundred and fifty rooms. Tightly wound and narrow, the staircase was never used by outsiders.
“A search was made?”
“We began it immediately after my Lord Hawkhurst died. We do not know how much lead his killer had, but presumably not long. Again, it is presumed that he took the road for London. We found no sign of him then, and the search was cut off as soon as Sir Joshua was sent for.”
“Had no one seen any horse or carriage waiting?”
“No.”
“And all the servants were accounted for?”
In Henry’s eyes, he saw a sneer forming. “There is little reason to suppose that this was the work of a servant, my lord.”
“Why not? What reason and whose reason should be applied to this? I do not like the tone of your voice, Mr. Henry.”
As James Henry’s gaze followed the unconscious movement of his hand, Gideon relaxed it before it reached his sword.
Would every burst of his anger and every attempt to defend his honour be interpreted as the action of a murderer?
A footman entered the room. Gideon was arrested by the signs of agitation on his face.
“My lord—there are gentlemen to see you.”
Gideon felt that this was no polite visit.
“Have they sent up a name?”
“One of them is that magistrate, Sir Joshua Tate, my lord. He insisted on being taken to you immediately. Mr. Shaw tried to tell him that you was recovering from your father’s burial, but he said his business cannot wait.”
“Take me to him then,” Gideon said, anger pressing at his jaw. “I find I am ready to say a great deal to Sir Joshua right now. Mr. Henry, you and I will continue this conversation soon. Please be waiting to come to me as soon as I call you.”
He could not help noticing Henry’s failure to bow as he strode from the silent room.
Four Knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band,
Caps on their heads, and halberts in their hand;
And particoloured troops, a shining train,
Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain.
Form a strong line about the silver bound,
And guard the wide circumference around.
Whatever spirit, careless of his charge,
His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large,
Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o’ertake his sins,
Be stopped in vials, or transfixed with pins;
Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie,
Or wedged whole ages in a bodkin’s eye:
Gums and Pomatums shall his flight restrain,
While clogged he beats his silken wings in vain .
Think what an equipage thou hast in Air,
And v
iew with scorn two Pages and a Chair.
CHAPTER 8
Sir Joshua had refused to be shown into a room. He waited for Gideon at the base of the great stone staircase, the two constables by his side.
“Well, my lord.” As Gideon descended, the magistrate addressed him with barely concealed smugness. “You are come back into Kent in time to save me a great deal of bother.”
Gideon took the last few steps, taking offence at the man’s glib manner. “Am I to believe that you have caught my father’s killer, sir?”
The justice of the peace returned an unamused smile. “I have, my lord, although I doubt it will bring you much joy—I have come to arrest you, Gideon Charles Francis Fitzsimmons, for the murder of your father, Charles Edmund Fitzsimmons, fifth Earl Hawkhurst.”
Gideon’s heart gave an angry leap. He heard a gasp from the footman behind him, and revulsion filled him. “You cannot possibly mean this!”
“Aye, but I do, my Lord St. Mars. Your family’s tainted blood has caught up with one of you at last. I make no doubt your father’s head should be hanging on London Bridge, but you have saved His Majesty that bit of trouble.
“You will accompany me to my chambers where your deposition will be taken before you are remanded to the King’s prison in Maidstone.” To the constables, he quickly ordered, “Tie his hands.”
Gideon made a reach for his sword, but the constables were much quicker than they looked. Jumping him from both sides, they each grabbed an arm. He struggled with all his might, but his weight was no match for two burly men. Accustomed to subduing unruly prisoners, they spared no blows.
His body was bruised and scraped before they managed to tie his wrists behind him. Then, breathless, and with fury burning a hole in his side, he had to give up his struggle.
By the time they had secured him, more servants had run into the hall, attracted by the sounds. He heard Robert’s wails and Philippe’s Gallic curses, but none of his servants took up the fight.
The Birth of Blue Satan Page 12
