Lucasta

by Melinda Hammond

  ‘It is a wretched place, ma’am. I believe this new building is a vast improvement on the old one, but conditions are still squalid: the poor souls are treated more like animals than people. Something needs to be done.’

  ‘There are groups working for the improvement of such institutions,’ replied the duchess.

  ‘When all this is over I shall seek them out. There must be some way I can help, by writing letters, perhaps.’

  ‘You could help them a great deal more if you married a wealthy man: rich and influential patrons are exceedingly useful in cases like these.’

  Lucasta sighed.

  ‘Since there is very little prospect of my marrying anyone, I must content myself with letter-writing.’

  The duchess reached out one hand. She tilted her chin up to look into her face.

  ‘Are you so sure you are going to become an old maid?’ she asked, smiling.

  Lucasta looked away and murmured, a little wistfully, ‘I have vowed, ma’am, that I shall not marry without love.’

  Lucasta looked round as the viscount came back into the room, and in that unguarded moment her expression confirmed all the duchess’s suspicions.

  The Filwood carriage took Lucasta back to Sophia Street that afternoon, where she found her mother and sister preparing for their visit to the theatre. Lucasta was relieved that her family showed very little interest in how she had spent her morning, Camilla merely bemoaning it as a morning wasted and Lady Symonds having little time to spare for her since she was so preoccupied with guiding her youngest daughter through the perils of her first Season.

  Camilla was very much enjoying her come-out and her radiant beauty was attracting so many gentlemen that it was an easy matter for her to forget Lord Kennington’s early claims to her affection. Her mother, however, had no wish to alienate the viscount just yet. Mentally running through the list of possible suitors, Lord Kennington was not the richest, but his was the only title above the rank of baronet and Lady Symonds would not have been human if she had not pictured her lovely daughter as a viscountess. But the viscount had the shocking spectre of a murder trial hanging over him, and until that was removed she would not allow Camilla to stand up for more than one dance with him, nor would she permit them to converse together for more than a few minutes. Such vigilance was very wearing, but she was relieved that the viscount appeared to accept the situation with a good grace and when he came to their box at the theatre that night to pay his respects, he did no more than bow to Camilla before turning to engage Lucasta in conversation. She greeted him with a smile as he bowed over her hand.

  ‘How delightful to see you, my lord. Are you enjoying the play?’

  ‘Very much.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Can I assume there are no repercussions from your recent … adventures?’

  Her eyes danced.

  ‘My mother will tell you that I was laid low with a headache all day yesterday and throughout the night, sir. This morning’s charitable works evinced very little interest, I assure you.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Have there been any developments since we last met, my lord?’

  ‘The duchess has been successful in securing Jacob’s freedom although, like myself, he remains under investigation.’

  ‘How irksome.’ She unfurled her fan and studied the pattern. ‘Did you know that Mr Potts has developed a liking for cheese?’

  ‘Has he, by Gad? Now I think of it, he has spoken of a certain cheesemongers in Milk Street.’

  ‘I hope he will not be prevented from going there.’

  ‘He might be, of course, if it was known that he was out, but you know there are ways of leaving Filwood House without attracting the attention of those employed to watch the doors.’

  The ringing of the bell warned them all that the next play was about to start. The visitors took their leave and the viscount bowed once again over her hand.

  ‘By the bye, Miss Symonds, pray do not be alarmed if you do not hear from me for a few days. Oh, and I almost forgot to mention it. There will be a notice in tomorrow’s Evening Post. You might find it of interest.’

  The viscount’s parting comment left Lucasta in a state of seething indignation. It was surely deliberate that he had left this information until the last moment to avoid her questions. Lady Symonds did not consider it necessary to have a subscription to any newspaper while in Town and Lucasta was obliged to send a footman to purchase a copy for her the following day. She waited impatiently for his return, whereupon she carried the newssheet off to her room. It did not take her long to find the notice. Tucked between Mr Smyth’s Restorative Medicine for Weakness & Debility at eleven shillings a bottle and an advertisement for a Cyprian Preventive against the horrible effects of a certain disease was a small paragraph:

  Following the barbarous act of violence recently carried out on Hansford Common, Worcs on the 17th day of March this year, it is now understood that a lone rider was seen crossing that section of common at the time of the atrocity. Description: tall, approximately thirty years of age, very dark and dressed for travel. Possibly a foreigner. Any persons with knowledge of this gentleman should present their information to Sam’l Loughton at Bow Street Magistrates Court, bearing in mind the reward offered for the conviction of the offender(s).

  Lucasta stared at the notice. She began to nibble at her fingertip. A witness. Was it possible? And why had Adam not mentioned it when she asked him if there was any news? She was still deliberating when there was a knock on her door and her maid brought in a note from the Duchess of Filwood.

  ‘Her footman is waiting downstairs for an answer, miss.’

  Lucasta did not hesitate.

  ‘Tell him yes, I would be delighted to drive out with the duchess tomorrow morning. I will be waiting for her at eleven o’clock.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The familiar warmth of the tavern welcomed Dick Miesel as he entered the Raven, enveloping him with a smoky cloud in which the smell of sweat, tobacco, meat and onions mingled. He nodded at the landlord and made his way to his usual seat at the long table.

  ‘There’s a gennleman bin askin’ after you.’

  Miesel stopped and looked back at the landlord, suddenly alert.

  ‘Oh? What sort of gentleman?’

  The man shrugged, wiping his hands on his greasy apron.

  ‘The foreign sort, I’d say.’ He nodded. ‘Over there, sittin’ by the fire. Came in an hour since and said he’d wait for you.’

  Miesel looked across the room. The poor light made it difficult to see across the smoky room but he could make out a greatcoated figure hunched over a small table near the fire. The lighted lamp on the mantelpiece threw the shadow from the wide brim of his hat across his face. On the table before him stood a wine bottle and a half-empty glass. Miesel hesitated.

  ‘A foreigner, you say?’

  His host sniffed.

  ‘Aye, one o’ they damned Frenchies, I don’t doubt.’

  Miesel looked again and, intrigued, made his way across the room until he was standing before the huddled figure.

  ‘I am told you have been asking after me.’

  The man raised his head. His hat still shadowed the upper portion of his face but Miesel could now see that his lean cheeks were dark with a few days’ growth of beard.

  ‘You are Miesel?’

  The low voice was heavily accented.

  ‘I am Mister Miesel. What do you want with me?’

  The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded newssheet. He held it out. Miesel took the paper and moved closer to the lamp to read it. After several moments he bent a frowning look upon the stranger.

  ‘Well? That is nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Vraiment, m’sieur, I think it has everything to do with you.’

  Miesel glanced back at the newspaper.

  ‘Tall, dark, thirtyish—’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You are the man seen on Hansford Common?’

  ‘Per’aps.’

  ‘Well, man?’ He pulled u
p a chair and leaned closer. ‘What did you see?’

  The stranger did not move and after a few moments Miesel said, ‘Perhaps we should discuss this over a jug of porter.’

  The thin lip curled.

  ‘As you wish, m’sieur.’

  Miesel beckoned the serving maid over and barked out his instructions. Almost immediately a large jug and two horn cups were set down before him. He looked around, making sure there was no one close enough to hear them. Satisfied, he picked up the jug.

  ‘Will you take a cup of ale with me, sir?’

  ‘Thank you, no. I prefer the wine.’

  ‘As you please. But if we are to continue I want to know your name, and your country – where do you hail from, France?’

  ‘Aye, from the south, where there are warm winds and dry days.’

  ‘And your name, sir?’

  ‘Is it necessary?’

  Miesel’s thin, pointed face took on a stubborn look.

  ‘Aye, I think so.’

  The man shrugged.

  ‘I am Alphonse Fôret. I am in your country to discuss the art of pot-making. Having concluded my business I visited friends in Worcestershire before setting out again for London. It was then that I met with an – ah – adventure most exciting.’

  Miesel poured himself a generous cupful of the strong dark ale and drank it down. Refreshed, he sat back and regarded the shadowy figure.

  ‘I wish you’d take off that damn’d hat.’

  A smile was the only response.

  ‘So, then, are you going to describe this adventure?’

  ‘It was a Friday, was it not? A cold day, but not raining, I think, which is a pleasant change in this country. I was crossing the, ah, how do you say it? crossing the heather in the afternoon.’

  ‘You refer to Hansford Common?’

  ‘Ah, yes, the common, that is it. The country on the north side is very flat, is it not? But there are bushes and low trees, plenty of cover to hide footpads – or a cavalier.’

  Miesel sat very still.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I had been riding for some time and it was necessary for me to – ah – make relief. Not knowing the road, I would not risk being caught with my breeches open so I rode a way from the main path into the seclusion of the trees. I was soon thankful for my precautions, for a yellow carriage came along.’

  He paused and it was all Miesel could do to sit passively while the stranger refilled his wineglass.

  ‘Alas for my composure, the carriage, she stopped. Eh bien, M’sieur Miesel, I have the choice: do I mount my horse and ride out from the bushes, or do I remain hidden and hope the carriage drives on again very soon. I decided to wait. Now, m’sieur, it becomes interesting. I hear a shot. When I look out again the driver of the carriage, voilà, he is lying dead on the road.’

  Miesel swallowed and licked his dry lips.

  ‘And did you see the footpads?’

  ‘Alas, no.’

  ‘Well that is no matter. You must know that they have arrested the murderer.’

  The shadowed face was lightened by a sudden grin.

  ‘An English lord? I believe your justice is no better than ours, m’sieur: he will not be convicted, even if he is guilty. But I think they would find my evidence most interesting. You see, after hearing the shot, I saw the incident most curious.’ The man leaned forward. Miesel could not see his eyes, but he could feel them boring into him. ‘There was a manservant in the carriage and, as I looked out, I saw this servant placing a pistol in the dead man’s hand.’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘Oh but I assure you, m’sieur, it is what I saw, and I think this Samuel Loughton would be very interested to hear this, non?’

  ‘So why have you come here, why not go to Bow Street?’

  The man sat back, irritatingly at his ease.

  ‘Well, now, you see, I am a traveller in your country: I am on my way back to France. I have no wish to become involved in your petty crimes. After all, our two countries are forever at war, non?’ What is it to me if one more Englishman is dead?’

  A sly grin split Miesel’s lean countenance.

  ‘Aye, m’sieur. You have the right of it. Why should you bother yourself with our concerns? It can only lead to trouble, you being a Frenchie and all.’

  ‘Oui.’ The man pointed to the newspaper. ‘Only now I cannot ignore it, for it appears that I was seen.’

  ‘But you have said yourself, m’sieur, that you are on your way home. There is no need for you to become involved in this little matter.’

  ‘Ah, I wish that I could believe you, M’sieur Miesel, but – if there is a witness to my being there, I must clear my name. If I return to France then, who knows? It may be thought that I was the killer.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Miesel, smiling, ‘but you would be safe over the water by then, would you not?’

  ‘And yet I have my good name to think of.’ Monsieur Fôret sat back, one hand resting on the table and his long fingers drumming on the wooden surface. ‘I am a businessman, m’sieur.’

  ‘Now I understand you. What is your price?’

  ‘There are reports that a fine necklace went missing.’

  ‘There are many reports, m’sieur. One should not believe all one hears.’

  ‘Of a certainty, m’sieur, one should rather believe the evidence of one’s own eyes.’

  There was a long silence. The Frenchman gave a soft laugh and leaned forward.

  ‘Come now, we both know it would be impossible to sell the necklace in this country for many months, and the longer you keep it the greater the danger. Give it to me: I will make my escape and leave a trail that cannot be missed. It will be believed that I am the murderer and you will be free of all suspicion.’ He poured the rest of the wine into his glass. ‘You will then be free to sell off the rest of your master’s trinkets.’

  Miesel stared at him.

  ‘By God, how much do you know?’

  Monsieur Fôret lifted his head and for a moment the lamplight glinted in his cold eyes.

  ‘Enough to hang you, Mister Miesel. Eh bien, do we have the bargain?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Never had the hours passed so slowly for Lucasta. A nervous excitement disturbed her sleep and she was relieved when morning came and she could leave her bed. When she told her mama that she was driving out with the duchess the news was met with no more than a fatalistic shrug while Camilla was more interested in deciding which of the posies that had been delivered from her admirers she should wear to the ball that evening. Lucasta looked at the colourful little bunches spread out on the table.

  ‘Is there one from Lord Kennington?’ she asked.

  ‘No, but he told me last night that he will not be attending.’

  ‘No doubt you are relieved,’ muttered Lucasta drily. ‘You are always so cold to him.’

  Camilla tossed her head, making her golden curls dance.

  ‘Adam understands. He has told me he will not pay his addresses until his name has been cleared.’ Her hand hovered over the flowers. ‘They are all so pretty and yet I think I shall wear … these.’ She picked up a delicate bundle of blue and white flowers. ‘They will match my dress beautifully. How clever of Sir Hilary.’

  ‘Very clever,’ laughed her mama, ‘when you were anxious to describe your gown to him in so much detail the other evening!’

  As Lady Symonds sailed out of the room Lucasta looked at her sister.

  ‘Camilla, do pray be serious for a moment and tell me truly what you feel for Adam. If – if your feelings towards him have changed, would it not be kinder to tell him now, than to let him go on hoping?’

  ‘Oh, Sister, my feelings have not changed at all, and once he is free of all this scandal I shall be delighted to become engaged to him.’ She began to dance about the room. ‘Just think, Lucasta. I shall be a viscountess!’

  ‘Yes, but do you love him?’

  ‘Lord, Sister, of course I do!’ She stopped dancing. �
�Because I go out to parties every night does not mean I do not care what happens to Adam. I feel quite sad every time I think of him, but I know he does not want me to sit at home pining for him. Now I must go and stand these flowers in a bowl of water, or they will be dreadfully wilted by tonight.’

  ‘Well, Your Grace, what can you tell me of this new witness?’

  Lucasta had struggled to maintain a calm silence while the footman handed her into the carriage and carefully spread the rug across her knees, but as soon as they were trotting out of Sophia Street she could contain herself no longer.

  ‘I know nothing of him, my dear, save what is written in the notice that was sent to the newspapers.’

  Lucasta’s eyes narrowed: she knew enough of the duchess to be wary of that mischievous smile.

  ‘The report said he was seen on the Common at the time of the murder. How is that known?’ she lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Does he even exist?’

  The duchess’s smile grew.

  ‘How suspicious you are, my child. He must surely exist, since he was seen on Hansford Common. I think you should put up your parasol: the sun is particularly hot today.’

  Lucasta did as she was bid, but immediately returned to the subject, saying quietly, ‘Is this perhaps a result of Mr Loughton’s investigations?’

  The duchess gave a peal of merry laughter.

  ‘Heavens, no. Mr Loughton was not at all pleased that I had used his name in the notice, but he has promised that he will not deny this report, should anyone question him about it. After all, as he so wisely said to me, “What is there to deny, it merely asks anyone with information to bring it to me at Bow Street and that is just what they should do, whether it is about a – er – foreign gentleman or anyone else”. Really, I was quite impressed with him.’

  ‘But if there is such a person, he may well have seen who attacked Sir Talbot: he would know that it was not Adam.’