A Poisoned Season

by Tasha Alexander

  “Nobility attracts as many enemies as it does friends.”

  “David wasn’t close to many people, but he was thought of kindly by everyone he met. He was a perfect casual acquaintance. Only rarely did he open himself up enough to form true friendships.”

  “I am told that he did his best to help those in need.”

  “I am proof of that. I wouldn’t have this studio if it weren’t for him.”

  “And now that he is gone?”

  “I’m fortunate. I’ve sold enough of my work to keep myself afloat for the next few months.”

  “And after that?”

  “We’ll see,” he said, smiling. I did not want to cause him any embarrassment, so did not offer assistance but decided at once that I would purchase his statue of the woman gathering flowers from the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition.

  “Why did Mr. Francis tell me that his wife was so shy?”

  “David was always fiercely protective of Beatrice.”

  “She’s a perfectly capable woman. Why did he hide her away in Richmond?”

  “I can’t say that I know. He liked to keep his life in London separate from his life at home.”

  “Did he spend much time in town?”

  “Not a lot.”

  “So why the secrecy?”

  “Well.” He cleared his throat. “It’s difficult to say.”

  “He had a mistress, didn’t he?”

  “Please, Lady Ashton, do not ask me to impugn the character of my friend.”

  “Had he a recent falling-out with this woman?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s unlikely. She was distraught when she learned of his death.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’m the one who told her what happened. It would have been awful for her to have seen it in the papers.”

  “Does Beatrice know?” I asked.

  “No, no, of course not. David was discreet to a fault.”

  “What is this mistress like?”

  “Liza? I don’t know her well.”

  “Yet you are already familiar enough with her to use her Christian name?”

  “Not at all. I apologize.”

  “Did he speak of her often?”

  “No. He never mentioned her. I only learned of her existence after his death.” He picked up his hammer and chisel and began working on the marble. “David gave me a letter years ago and asked me to promise not to read it unless he died. I laughed about it, because he was always a picture of health, but he assured me it concerned a matter of great importance.”

  “But he gave you no idea what it said?”

  “None.”

  “And you never looked at the letter while he was alive?”

  “Of course not. I promised him I wouldn’t.”

  I admired Mr. Barber’s will, wondering if I would have been able to stave off my curiosity for such a long time. “What did the letter say?”

  “He asked that I personally inform Mrs. Liza White of his death. That was all.”

  “Was she his mistress?”

  “I believe so, Lady Ashton. She grieved like a wife.”

  I felt sorry for her, but my sympathy was tempered by my allegiance to Beatrice. Once I had assured Mr. Barber that I would not reveal his friend’s secret to his widow, he gave me Mrs. White’s address. She did not live terribly far from the studio, but the directions were confusing enough that I let my driver take me in the carriage. We stopped in front of a decent, middle-class house, nothing at all like I had expected. I must confess that my reaction horrified me. For all that I thought I was enlightened, liberated, free from the ignorant biases of society, I had judged this woman from the moment I knew she was having an affair with someone else’s husband. I expected to find her low, common, no better than she ought to be. In fact, it was I who should have been better. I knew nothing of this woman, her heart, her love, her reasons for the affair. I had no right to criticize her.

  A broad, sturdy woman in a gray dress and crisp white apron trimmed in black answered the door. I handed her my card and asked to see the lady of the house, only to be informed that she was indisposed. Over the maid’s shoulder I saw a small boy, who couldn’t have been older than six, pulling a wooden train through the hallway. Although I had met David Francis only once, there could be no question that this was his son. The boy was the image of his father.

  “It’s urgent that I speak with Mrs. White,” I said. “Do you know when might be a good time for me to return?”

  “The house is in mourning, madam. I will give Mrs. White your card.” My mother would never have stood for such a response. I could picture her walking past the maid, telling her to announce the Countess Bromley. This, however, was not something I was prepared to do. I would give Mrs. White a few more days to mourn in peace, then call again.

  Frustrated, I returned to my carriage. I stood frozen as the footman opened the door for me. Inside, on the seat, was a large bouquet of wilted roses.

  13

  DID YOU PUT THESE HERE?” I ASKED MY FOOTMAN, WHO IMMEDIATELY denied all knowledge of the flowers. He removed them from the seat and held them out to me; I did not take them but ripped open the note tied to the bouquet. “These are from the man who broke into my house. Did you see him put them in the carriage?”

  “No, madam,” the footman replied, looking distressed. “I was sitting up with Waters.” My driver, recognizing that something was amiss, came down from his perch. His face went pale when I told him what had happened.

  “I saw nothing unusual. We should have paid better attention. It won’t happen again.” I had no reason to doubt my servants but was surprised that such a thing could have happened under their watch. Waters in particular had been exceedingly cautious since the burglary, and it was he who had noticed the coach following me from Richmond. I tried to shrug off the incident; it was, after all, harmless, but I did not like the knowledge that this unknown man could have such ready access to me. More disturbing was the fact that he was following me.

  How I wished that Cécile was still in London. Not wanting to go back to my empty house, I directed Waters to take me to the Taylor residence, where Margaret was staying with her parents. Here, as at Mrs. White’s, I was rebuffed. The butler took my card, made me wait a considerable time, and when he returned, told me that Miss Seward was not at home. I could tell from his cool expression that this was not true. Had I done something to offend Margaret?

  I returned to Berkeley Square rather depressed. Refusing to submit to this unwelcome emotion, I sat down at my desk in the library and took out a blank notebook; it was time to organize the information I had gathered so far about the death of Mr. Francis. First I cataloged facts: the date he had died, that he was killed by nicotine, that Jane had put the poisoned lotion in his room, that the murder occurred after the papers reported the theft of the pink diamond. Then I started a list of questions. Who benefited from his death? Who had access to the lotion once it was in his room? Who knew he was having an affair? And, perhaps more important, who knew he had an illegitimate child?

  Heeding Colin’s advice, I made a careful effort not to phrase my questions in a manner that would necessarily implicate Charles Berry. Colin’s wisdom in this matter was apparent. There didn’t seem to be much evidence against Mr. Berry. Still, I was troubled by the correspondence between him and Mr. Francis. Intuition told me that something not quite aboveboard had taken place; I had to find out what it was.

  I was about to pull out the Marie Antoinette letters when Margaret burst into the room, Davis trailing on her heels.

  “This is absolutely outrageous!” she said, thrusting her parasol into my butler’s hands. “Sorry, Davis, couldn’t wait for you to announce me.”

  “No apology necessary, Miss Seward. It is the ongoing drama of this household that keeps me young.” He bowed and left the room.

  “Margaret, I was just at—”

  “I know. They wouldn’t let me see you! Can you believe it?”

&n
bsp; “Well, I confess that is a relief. I was worried that I had done something to offend you.”

  This made her laugh. “Oh, really, Emily, you’ve been in London too long if you could have thought such a thing. Society is making your brain go soft. I want a drink, and not tea.” It was too early for port, but Davis brought us a lovely German wine, and as Margaret drank, she continued her rant. “So, here’s how you rank in the Taylor house. My mother, who is generally a reasonable woman, is so taken with aristocrat fever that she’s turned against you. She’s convinced that the only reason Jeremy hasn’t proposed to me is that he is carrying on with you.”

  “But surely you—”

  She continued without letting me speak. “Mrs. Taylor has never been a friend of mine. She was scandalized that my parents let me go to college. I think the only reason she ever lets me stay with her is a misguided belief that exposure to her and her insipid daughters will put me back on track to becoming a dear, sweet thing.”

  Now it was my turn to laugh. “I don’t think there’s any danger of that happening.”

  “Of course there’s not. I let her believe what she wants, though. It makes her happy. But now she is counseling my mother, warning her that our friendship may compromise my own reputation with the right sort of people.”

  “Oh, Margaret—”

  “This should be funny. I’m ten times the radical you are, Emily. I should be corrupting you, not vice versa. I’m offended, actually, that Mrs. Taylor doesn’t find my own self shocking enough.”

  “What exactly am I doing that is so outrageous?”

  “Let’s see…well, your academic interests are inappropriate for a young lady. That’s why so many mothers have cautioned their daughters against speaking to you. They’re afraid you’ll make them want to read obscene Greek myths.”

  “Well, we can’t have ladies reading mythology. Education starts women on a dangerous path. The next thing you know, they’ll be fighting for rational dress and the right to vote.”

  “Exactly.” She smiled and picked up the bottle of wine. “Have some more to drink. But it is not just your academic sins that have condemned you. I’m as guilty as you on that count. Added to that is your flagrantly inappropriate relationship with Jeremy, the disgraceful way you lead on poor Colin—” Here, she interrupted herself. “Poor Mr. Hargreaves. It’s ridiculous. He’s the last sort of man who would ever let himself be led on. He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

  “I don’t like that he’s being spoken about in such a way.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “What I don’t understand is these rumors about Jeremy. Where do they come from?”

  “The best I can tell, they’re all loosely based on fact. A gentleman did once leave your house at five o’clock in the morning. That it was Colin assisting you after a break-in is not interesting. Much more fun to think you were cavorting with Jeremy.”

  “But mothers love Jeremy.”

  “They do, but they want him to marry their daughters, not to carry on with a widow who shows no inclination towards remarriage.” She poured more wine. “You ran through Berkeley Square calling for him. Fine, fine, there was a reasonable explanation. The story goes that you were wearing a dressing gown at the time.”

  “I would never—”

  “Wait,” she said. “That particular detail comes from Charles Berry’s retelling of the story.”

  “Is that so?”

  “He has been telling anyone who will listen that he came upon you and Jeremy in a most compromising position that same evening. Says you were both mortified and that Jeremy threw him out of the house in a wasted effort to save your reputation.”

  “Why does he despise me so?”

  “You’ve had the bad taste to refuse to be his mistress.”

  “It must be more than that. I’ve never publicly rebuffed him. But I have confronted him about his relationship with David Francis. What about that might lead him to drown me with vitriol?”

  “Could he have killed Francis?”

  “I think he knows something about the murder, and I’m convinced there’s a connection of some sort between the Marie Antoinette thefts and Mr. Francis’s death.”

  “Those are beautiful flowers,” Margaret said, indicating the sorry-looking bouquet from my carriage.

  “They’re from the man who undoubtedly knows more about both of these crimes than either of us.” I showed her the note that had been tied to the roses.

  Don’t you think it was disloyal, Kallista darling, to have left the museum with him when you were waiting for me? I don’t like being disappointed. Your flowers wouldn’t be in such dreadful condition had you all owed me the opportunity to present them yesterday.

  I told Margaret what had happened at the museum. “There was no indication in the note the docent gave me that I would see my friend, if I may use the word loosely, later that day.”

  “I don’t like that he’s following you.”

  “Nor do I. But let’s consider the situation from his point of view. He gave me a stolen diamond, so he knows that I must think he’s the one who took it. Although he is enamored of me, he’s not so foolish that he would trust me blindly. I could have had the police ready to arrest him at the Rosetta Stone. So, he stood back, watched to see if I had come alone, and maybe was going to approach me as I left the museum. Enter Colin—”

  “Does he know Colin is an agent for the Crown?”

  “I’ve no idea. But even if he doesn’t, he’s hardly going to speak to me when I’m with another gentleman.”

  “So he follows you the next day?”

  “He can’t deliver things to my house anymore—it’s too well guarded. What options has he left?”

  “There is something oddly romantic about it. If I didn’t wonder at his involvement in the murder, I’d probably suggest that you consider his suit. What an adventure to be married to such an exclusive thief.”

  “Really, Margaret. No good could come of associating oneself with a person of such ambiguous morals.”

  “There’s nothing ambiguous about them. He’s bad through and through. Very appealing. I bet that if you married him, you could get him to steal Helen of Troy’s jewelry for you.”

  “We’d have to live in the villa. The police would be less likely to track us down in Santorini than in England.” I looked at the note again. “I wonder if it’s significant that he didn’t write anything in Greek this time.”

  “This is a rebuke, not a love note. You’ve had your first spat.”

  “You’re very amusing,” I said. “But it’s all rather unsettling. Can any good come of disappointing a criminal?”

  “We’ll just have to hope that his crimes are limited to stealing, not murder.”

  Lady Elinor called on me the next day, and she brought with her a postcard album. “I collected these on the trips my husband and I took,” she said. “Looking at them is the nearest thing to traveling without leaving England, so I thought you would enjoy them.”

  “How thoughtful,” I said, paging through the book, which was filled with images of Pompeii, the Great Pyramids, Luxor, Rome—all places I longed to visit.

  “Have you considered traveling, Lady Ashton? There’s no reason you shouldn’t. I’m sure you’d have no trouble finding a companion. Thomas Cook and Son offer tours that are perfectly suitable for ladies.”

  “I think I should prefer to find local guides, explore archaeological sites, learn local customs. I’m not well suited for a planned tour.”

  “So much the better. What adventures you could have!” She pulled an envelope out of her reticule and handed it to me. “This is an invitation to a ball I’m giving to celebrate Isabelle’s engagement. I do hope you’ll come.”

  This was the first ball to which I’d been invited in weeks. “Thank you, Lady Elinor. I shouldn’t dream of missing it. How is Isabelle?”

  “She’s managing well enough, becoming used to the idea of getting married. She and Mr. Berry are spending a
great deal of time together, and she is beginning, I think, to welcome his affections.”

  “Then I am happy for her,” I said, wondering how on earth Isabelle could welcome anything from Mr. Berry.

  “I never did properly thank you for taking care of her when she threw herself on your mercy. It was very wrong of her to leave the house, but I’m glad that she had the sense to come to you.”

  “I’m afraid there are not many mothers in London who would agree with that sentiment.”

  “Your views on marriage are, perhaps, not traditional. But I am an excellent judge of character. You’re not the sort of person who would sanction ruinous behavior. I know that Isabelle was quite safe with you.”

  I wondered if her opinion of me would change should she discover that I had allowed her daughter to be alone with Lord Pembroke.

  “And, really, I’m most grateful to you. Because of your…unconventional ways”—she smiled—“Isabelle was more willing to listen to what you had to say. Had she looked to any of her other friends for solace, they would have told her to abandon Pembroke, and she knew that. Hearing the same advice when she did not expect to was more powerful than fifty ladies telling her the same thing.”

  “So long as Isabelle is happy, I am glad.”

  “I’ve told you before, I would never press my daughter into a situation that would not bring her joy. She is everything to me, Lady Ashton.”

  “She is a lucky girl,” I said. Lady Elinor stayed some while longer, but I found myself too distracted to take much notice of what she said. I did not like the idea that I was somehow responsible for Isabelle’s acceptance of her impending nuptials, particularly given the grave concerns I had about the character of her fiancé.

  14

  BEFORE I RETURNED TO MY INVESTIGATION OF MR. BERRY, I HEADED back to the offices of the Times, where I placed another message for my disappointed admirer. Ivy thought that it was perhaps not wise to further engage him, but I saw no other way to draw him out of hiding. Maybe, if he thought I was willing to communicate with him, he would eventually reveal himself. This time I did not ask him to meet me; I merely admonished him for sending me dying flowers.