A Fatal Waltz lem-3

by Tasha Alexander

  “I don’t know what else it could have been.”

  “Did he fall ill?” I asked. “Collapse?” “No. The police are coming,” she said. “Was anyone else hurt?” I asked. “No.” The handkerchief was already soaked. “I don’t think so.”

  “Does Lady Fortescue know?” Jeremy asked.

  “No. That’s why I came to find you. The Groom of the Chambers told me the news and asked me to inform her, but I don’t think I can bear to tell her. Will you, Lady Ashton?”

  “I’m happy to assist in any way possible,” Jeremy said, “but I imagine it would be best for her to hear such grim news from another lady.”

  “Of course I’ll tell her.” The words flew from my mouth. I couldn’t imagine a more dreadful situation than having to tell your lover’s wife that her husband was dead. “Don’t worry. Do you know where can I find her?”

  “She was in the drawing room with us,” Flora said. “Embroidering a cushion.”

  “I hadn’t noticed her. She has a remarkable ability to fade away.”

  “I’ll go to her at once,” I said. “And while I do, you let Jeremy take care of you.” Her tears had slowed somewhat, and she’d rested her head on his shoulder. She was in control enough to return to the house. As for me, I felt shocked, confused, and surprisingly sad.

  Back inside, Flora and Jeremy discreetly gathered up the count and countess while I searched out Lady Fortescue, who had abandoned her embroidery for a stroll in the conservatory. I looked at her for a moment before I started to speak, knowing that her life would forever be divided between the time before and after the conversation that was to come. I can’t recall what I said, but in situations where irrevocable news changes everything in an instant, the words used to deliver it are irrelevant. She stared straight ahead, her body absolutely still. I reached for her hand, but she pulled it away, blinked, and then all at once her eyes filled with tears, and she began to sob. I stayed next to her, considering the possibility that a man, no matter how dreadful he seems to others, may be something quite different to those close to him.

  An artificial silence enshrouded us as the news spread through the house. Both Lady Fortescue and Flora had taken to their rooms, and the rest of us were speaking in whispers, as if our words could be carried along lengthy hallways and disturb the mourners’ grief. Jeremy had sent a servant to collect his things from Highwater, not wanting to leave in the midst of the confusion. Not that leaving would have been allowed.

  Lord Fortescue’s death had been no accident; he had been shot, a single bullet through the head. No bird shot and hunting rifles; the weapon in question was a dueling pistol, and had been found beneath a tree some yards from where the guns had stood, shooting for sport. The police had arrived shortly thereafter, and questioned each of us, including Robert and Ivy, whose departure had been postponed.

  “Have you noticed anything suspicious since your arrival at Beaumont Towers?” a very young and very eager inspector asked me when it was my turn to face the inquisition.

  “I was surprised to see that Mr. Harrison carries a pistol under his jacket. Lord Fortescue is—was—an enemy of his. It’s possible—”

  “Mr. Harrison’s gun was not used in the murder. Have you seen this weapon before, Lady Ashton?” He held it out for me to see.

  “Yes, yes, I have.” Without thinking, I reached out for it.

  He colored slightly and shifted his weight from foot to foot as he pulled it away from me. “When was that, ma’am?”

  “Oh, heavens, I didn’t kill Lord Fortescue. I saw the gun in its case in the library when I was…” I paused, unsure if I ought to admit that I’d been rifling through the dead man’s possessions. “I was cataloging the art in the house.”

  “Yes, well, I’m not quite certain how that would lead you to opening a pistol case.”

  “I didn’t know what it was. I thought it might hold an artifact of some sort.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes.” I looked at him, holding my gaze steady. “But there was only one gun in the case. Its mate was missing. I can only assume this is it.”

  “The case is empty now,” he said.

  “Do you think that—”

  He cut me off at once. “I won’t need anything further from you at the moment, Lady Ashton. Thank you for being so candid in answering my questions.”

  Some hours later, three gentlemen from the Foreign Affairs Office and two of Lord Salisbury’s aides descended upon the house, having traveled by special train from London. They, along with Colin, Mr. Harrison, and Sir Thomas, sequestered themselves in the room that was to have been used for their political meeting. None of them had emerged since.

  “I hate feeling so useless,” Mr. Clavell said, pacing the room in an agitated manner. I wondered if this was because his wife’s grief was making him face head-on her relationship with Lord Fortescue, or if it was because he worried that the affair might make him a suspect in the murder.

  “Between the police and all the interested members of the government, the matter is well in hand,” I said. “You needn’t worry.”

  “One of us must have seen something,” he said.

  “The inspector is a competent bloke. He’ll sort it out,” Jeremy said.

  “Ah, I see the countess is back. Excuse me—she may have noticed something out of the ordinary.”

  Jeremy laughed softly while we watched Mr. Clavell approach the countess. “He is determined to keep busy, isn’t he?”

  Robert had not appeared downstairs since the police had finished with him, but Ivy was with us, twisting her handkerchief, looking out the window. “This is too dreadful,” she said. I hesitated to reply, assuming that she was expressing concern for her husband. We had all witnessed the strife between him and Lord Fortescue. His position could not be a good one. “None of us liked him, but now we all feel terrible that he’s dead.”

  “I don’t think anyone in this room feels the slightest regret at his death, and it’s the resulting guilt that’s filled us with gloom,” I said.

  “Don’t speak ill of the dead, Emily,” she said.

  “I didn’t. But you can’t tell me that you were fond of him.”

  Jeremy took Ivy’s hand as he sat next to her. “He was awful, now he’s dead, and for once I have the opportunity to impress your dear friend with my knowledge of Homer. ‘It is not right to glory in the slain.’”

  “The Odyssey. I’m impressed, Jeremy.” Our eyes met, and I felt a surprisingly strong connection with him. “When did you start reading?”

  “Oh, I don’t read. I skulk about in search of quotations that might make me appear educated.” This succeeded in making Ivy laugh. “Excellent. You’re lovely when you smile, Ivy. Don’t stop.” The concern in his eyes as he flashed me a glance told me that he was at least as worried as I about Robert.

  I didn’t notice that Colin had entered the room until he touched my arm. “I need to speak with you. Will you come with me?” He kept his voice low.

  “Of course.”

  We excused ourselves and walked to the library, no words passing between us on the way. Only when he had closed the door and looked about the room, as if to ensure that no one else was with us, did he speak. “I’m afraid things have taken a rather serious turn. It’s obvious that Fortescue was murdered by someone at this party, and Ivy’s husband is the chief suspect.”

  “He would never kill anyone!”

  “I’m inclined to agree with you, but we all saw Fortescue verbally assault him and threaten to destroy his career.”

  “But what about Gerald Clavell? If he knew his wife was having an affair with Lord Fortescue, he certainly has a motive for wanting him dead.”

  “You’re certain they were having an affair?”

  “Well, I can’t prove it, if that’s what you mean, but—”

  “You’d have to be able to prove it. Yes, it might give him motive, but he did not have opportunity. He was shooting with us at the time of the murder. Robe
rt is the only member of our party whose whereabouts cannot be confirmed at the time of Fortescue’s death.”

  “He was with Ivy.”

  “She was in their bedroom with her maid. He says he’d gone to collect some papers from the billiard room. No one saw him there.”

  “Could he offer no further explanation?”

  “He insists that Fortescue had received a warning in the past few days, threatening violence. Brandon’s convinced he was assassinated. But we’ve found no copy of any such letter, and no one else can corroborate the story.”

  “Who sent it?”

  “He doesn’t know.”

  “What about Mr. Harrison?” I asked. “We’ve already established that he can’t be trusted.”

  “He was standing next to me at the time of the murder.”

  “Is there nothing you can do for Robert?”

  “I wish there were, but I’m being sent to Berlin at once.”

  “Because of this?”

  “Yes. Fortescue’s death will have political implications, particularly as it relates to some trouble that’s been festering on the Continent. I can’t say more than that, except that I will miss you, so very much.”

  “How long do you expect to be gone?”

  “Indefinitely.”

  “Doesn’t bode well for my plan to tempt you into marrying me before the summer,” I said.

  “Then I won’t have to worry about falling from the queen’s good graces.”

  “Unless you’ve time before you go. I’m free this afternoon.”

  “If only,” he said, smiling.

  I saw in his eyes all my own longing reflected, but instead of stepping towards him, I pulled away. “How is it that despite what you’ve just told me, despite the fact that a murder occurred here today, I’m overwhelmed at finding myself alone with you? I shouldn’t be capable of having these feelings at such a moment.”

  “We don’t always have control over our desires,” he said.

  “Hardly an encouraging thing to hear on the eve of your leaving me.” I tugged at his lapels. “What can I do to help Robert?”

  “I don’t know, Emily. The situation’s grave. But if anyone’s capable of ferreting out what actually happened, it would be you.” It had been only a few months since I’d solved the murder of David Francis, and nearly a year since I’d discovered the truth about my husband’s death.

  “The police would tell me nothing when they were questioning me,” I said.

  “When has that ever stopped you? I’ll tell them to speak freely to you if you’d like, but honestly, Emily, I don’t think they’ve much to say. The case is purely circumstantial.”

  “They’ve obviously overlooked something.”

  “Yes, but at the moment, I think that you should perhaps focus on Ivy. Her world is about to come crashing down. Take care of her. Then you’ll be able to focus on the rest. I hate that I must leave you now.”

  The kiss he gave me was hurried, rough, and left my lips feeling bruised. Catching my breath was difficult.

  “I shall write to you as soon as I can,” he said.

  I did not make it back to the drawing room. Ivy was in the main hall, sitting on the bottom step, her small hands clenched in tight fists, her eyes unblinking. I knelt in front of her.

  “They took Robert,” she said. “They’re going through our luggage now. They think—”

  The rustle of silk and a glimpse of red skirt caught my attention; the countess was standing in a doorway, close enough that she could hear every word. “Don’t say any more here. Come upstairs.” We went to my room, where she collapsed, tears soaking her face. I held her until she succumbed to an uneasy sleep, tossing restlessly, small sobs escaping as she dreamed. Careful not to wake her, I rang for Meg and waited for her outside the bedroom door, directing her to prepare to return home and to fetch Jeremy for me.

  “They’re hauling Brandon to London. Apparently Scotland Yard are taking an interest in the case because there are whispers of treason,” he said when he came to me in the hallway. “Are you going to take Ivy to London?”

  “Yes. She can’t stay here.”

  “Of course not. I’ll arrange everything and accompany you. I’m sorry about all this, Em.” There was a kindness in his eyes I’d not often seen. “I can’t imagine how difficult this is for you.”

  “Reserve your sympathy for Ivy.”

  “I’ve plenty for her as well. But I don’t envy you the position of trying to help a friend who’s in such dire straits.”

  “Robert is innocent.”

  “I believe you, darling, but Scotland Yard may be more difficult to convince.” He touched my shoulder, then dropped his hand. “I’ll let you know as soon as we’re ready to leave.”

  Jeremy was never the sort of man from whom one would expect much efficiency, but in this case he outdid himself, and within the span of a few hours we were speeding away from Yorkshire. I hoped I would never see Beaumont Towers again.

  Parliament was not yet in session, so London was a shadow of its usual self. My house in Berkeley Square had been closed since the Season ended, all the furniture covered with cloths to keep the dust from it, most of the staff sent to my late husband’s estate in Derbyshire, where I had planned to spend Christmas. My butler, Davis, had left Ashton Hall as soon as he received a telegram from Jeremy, and arrived early enough to organize the few servants who remained at the house when I wasn’t in residence.

  It was after midnight when we reached home. Davis greeted us at the door. “I wired Halton House as soon as I learned Mrs. Brandon would be joining us, and they’ll be sending several trunks for her on the first train tomorrow morning.” He turned to Ivy. “In the meantime, we’ve laid out some things for you in the yellow bedroom. Mrs. Ockley will show you the way and bring you something to help you sleep.”

  “Thank you, Davis,” Ivy said, following my housekeeper up the baroque staircase without a glance back in my direction.

  “We’ve prepared the library for you, madam,” Davis said. “I decanted a ’47 Warre and had a cold supper sent over from the Savoy in case you’re hungry. Cook will be here in the morning.”

  I had nearly forgotten that Jeremy was standing next to me until he took my arm and leaned close to me as we started for the library. “Your butler knows you too well. He didn’t bother to try to pack you off to bed. I’ll come with you to discuss the murder, but if you pull out any Greek, I shall leave at once.”

  “I save my Greek for Colin,” I murmured back to him, not wanting Davis to hear.

  “You nearly make me regret not paying better attention at university. Nearly.”

  The warmth of the library enveloped me the moment I entered the room, soft light bouncing off the high, curved ceiling, the rows of books seeming to greet me like old friends. I slumped into a favorite chair and rubbed my temples.

  “What’s to be done, Jeremy?” I asked when Davis had left us.

  “You’re the one with a history of solving crimes. I’m of no use.”

  “You’re not quite so useless as you’d like the general public to believe, my friend. You’ve done marvelous things today.”

  “Well, don’t go telling people. You’ll ruin my reputation. I work hard to appear the idlest man in England. It’s more exhausting than it looks.”

  5 December 1891

  Somerville Hall, Oxford

  Dear Emily,

  The most extraordinary thing has happened. I’m to dine with Mr. Michaels tomorrow—can you imagine? I’d shown him some translations of rather obscure bits of Latin poetry, and he was so taken with what he called “my delicate hand” that he invited me to join three of his colleagues at dinner.

  The amusing part, my dear, is that the poetry was rather risqué—Sappho has nothing on this—and if anything, my hand was precisely the opposite of delicate. I plunged in with nothing short of wild abandon. I’d rather expected him to be shocked and scold me.

  But apparently, my efforts had quite the op
posite effect, and I’m not sure what to make of it. I shall have to try harder to outrage him next time.

  I think that I will insist on smoking after dinner.

  In the meantime, I’m sending all wishes that you’re not terribly bored in Yorkshire.

  I am yrs., etc.,

  Margaret

  Chapter 7

  Margaret’s letter had arrived only a few hours before I’d left Beaumont Towers, but I didn’t read it until the following morning. The weather in London was atrocious, a dense yellow fog settling on the town and paralyzing its inhabitants as it crept into every corner of the city. This was not the transparent, floating sort of fog that artists adored. It was a killing fog, one that would lead to an increase in deaths in the poorer parts of the capital, where people were already suffering respiratory ailments. When I was a girl, one such incident had killed hundreds, if not thousands, in a handful of days—the story was on the front page the first time I read a newspaper. My horrified mother had ripped it from my hands and flung it into the fireplace the moment she’d seen I was looking at it.

  “May I speak freely, madam?” Davis asked, filling my cup with steaming tea. It was not customary for one’s butler to assist in the serving of breakfast, but Davis had fallen into the habit of doing just that. He would read the paper as he ironed it before giving it to me, and liked to make pithy comments about the day’s news while I ate. I smiled at the thought of what my mother’s response would be should she ever discover how my relationship with this man had evolved. He had become much more than a servant to me; he was an indispensable friend.

  “Of course.” I poured milk in my tea.

  “You may want to finish with the paper quickly this morning. Mrs. Brandon is already awake and should be down shortly. There’s a scathing story about Mr. Brandon on the front page.”

  I had not yet turned my attention to the news, but grabbed the paper and read the offending article at once. It contained the expected sensational account of Lord Fortescue’s murder and barely stopped short of lamenting that there were no more public executions in Britain. The only useful bit of information I read was an explanation of why Robert had been brought to London—information that caused me to worry more than ever. According to the paper’s unnamed source, Robert was suspected of not only murder but treason, as sensitive political documents had disappeared from Beaumont Towers.