I turned to the lining, noticing at once the label stitched with Cyrillic letters. I was not surprised. It was a flamboyant sort of garment for a man, not in the color, of course, but in the enveloping flow of it. It seemed just the sort of thing to appeal to a person raised, as Sir Frederick had been, at the lavish court of the tsars. I put my hand into the pocket and drew out a small enameled compact, the sort that ladies are given as souvenirs from their admirers. It was a pretty thing and the bestower had thought to have it engraved. “To Emma,” I murmured aloud. “Blast. That muddies the waters.” Which of them had worn it last? But at least here was proof that the villain who had left the threat upon our door was a resident at Havelock House. Folding the cloak carefully over my arm, I slipped from the cupboard and closed it behind me.
As I crossed the Hall of Echoes, I saw her—the little maid, Cherry. She bobbed a curtsy and shifted her path so that she went the far way around the fountain, keeping to the opposite side from me.
“Rather like the defensive maneuver of Phengaris alcon,” I murmured to myself. The Alcon Blue had a series of clever tricks to avoid being captured, but I knew them all. I followed the curve of the fountain around, trailing her noiselessly down the stairs to the cellars where the domestic offices were laid out. She did not look around as she darted into a room. I slipped in after her, causing her to squeak in alarm.
“Miss! What are you doing in the larder?” she demanded. “Cook will not like it.”
I glanced around, noticing the shelved array of foodstuffs, a large cheese covered in a lavish coat of blue-green mold, an open jar of pickles, a bowl of brown eggs. “I wanted to have a conversation with you—mostly because you seemed so eager to avoid it.”
She colored slightly. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said with a mulish thrust to her lower lip.
The girl had been friendly enough upon the occasion of our first meeting, and I wondered what had put her out of temper with me. Sudden inspiration struck, and I nocked an arrow for a shot in the dark. “Cherry, were you with Mr. Gilchrist in his rooms earlier? Specifically, were you in his bed?”
She raised her chin, putting her weight forward upon the balls of her feet like a pugilist about to strike. “And if I was? A girl has a right to a little fun,” she told me with some heat.
“Indeed she does. In fact, I am an advocate of that very thing, and I will go so far as to say that I am quite envious of you having attended to your physical urges so recently. Mine are proving rather clamorous at present,” I added regretfully.
Her mouth went slack. “You mean—”
“Yes, child. I am a firm believer that it is good for the psyche as well as the body to engage in regular activities of that nature. But most folk are not as enlightened as we are. I make a point never to indulge when I am in England.”
“Then you and Mr. G., you didn’t . . .”
“We did not,” I assured her.
Something in her relaxed then, and she shifted her weight back onto her heels. “I did wonder. I know you were in his room, and Mr. G. is rather, well—let us just say he will take it if it’s on offer, and he isn’t particular.”
I smiled thinly. “It was most definitely not on offer. I was curious about his art.”
“He’s a brilliant painter, he is,” she said breathlessly. “But not a patch on the master.” Her eyes were lit with a sort of fervor when she spoke of Sir Frederick, and I warmed to her for it.
“You are quite devoted to Sir Frederick, are you not?”
“I would die for the master,” she said stoutly.
“Yes, but would you kill for him?” I murmured.
She gave a start, narrowly avoiding a plate of sliced gammon. “What’s that, miss?”
“Nothing.” I waved a hand. “I need the answers to a few questions, answers that might help your master,” I said, engaging in only a little duplicity.
She gave me a dubious look but nodded once, her loyalty to her master trumping her natural reserve. “Well?”
“This cloak,” I said, holding up the garment in question. “I know that it has been worn by Mr. Gilchrist and by Miss Talbot, also, I believe. To whom does it belong?”
She shrugged. “I cannot say, miss.”
“Cannot or will not?”
“Cannot,” she repeated. “It hangs in the cupboard under the stairs. Everyone uses it.”
“Everyone? Surely not. The length is entirely wrong,” I pointed out, shaking the garment to its full capacity.
“Miss Talbot wears it when it’s foul out, to keep her skirts covered to the hem. Mr. Gilchrist likes it when he is paying a discreet call upon a lady who ought not to be entertaining him—it is very different to his usual coat.”
“The green affair in the cupboard?” I asked.
“That’s the one. And Miss Artemisia used to wear it as well. It did not hang so long upon her as Miss Talbot, but she liked the look of it. Rather romantical, she used to say.”
“And Sir Frederick?”
“It was his to begin with. Brought it back from Russia, he did,” she said, confirming my suspicion.
“I thought as much. Is there anyone in this house who has not worn the cloak?”
Her eyes darted about. “I am not supposed to,” she hedged.
“But you have?”
“Twice,” she said, jerking her chin in a mutinous fashion. “But you won’t tell, will you, miss? Only I am not supposed to wear it, but it’s ever so warm and the walk to the shops can be that biting.”
“Never mind,” I told her. I had no intention of getting the girl into trouble. Besides, I realized with a little glow of satisfaction, she had just confirmed for me that our villain was most likely not the Viscount Templeton-Vane. Whoever had left the threat pinned to our door was intimately familiar with the ways of Havelock House.
Just to be certain, I put a new question to her. “Has a gentleman by the name of Templeton-Vane ever called here? Not the fellow posing for Miss Talbot,” I said swiftly. “His brother. Older than he is, with a given name of Tiberius.”
She furrowed her brow. “Not that I remember, and that’s a curious name. I’d be sure to recollect that.”
“Yes, one would imagine so. Now, tell me, Cherry, just between us. I know that Artemisia and Miles Ramsforth were lovers. I presume you knew it as well.”
“Yes, miss. I saw him come out of her room early in the morning on a few occasions.”
“Did you know she was expecting a child?”
She tossed her head. “I did. Told her I knew how to take care of it, but she just laughed. Said she wanted the babe, if you can believe that. In fact,” she said, her tone low and confiding, “she had a scare, bleeding with a bit of cramp after the third month. She thought she was losing it, she did. You’ve never seen a woman in such a state.”
“But she didn’t lose it,” I prompted.
“No, miss. I told her about my mum. She bled through all her carrying, but raspberry leaf tonic put her to rights. She kept every one of her babies, although she might have been better off if she hadn’t, and that’s the truth,” she added.
“How many children does your mother have, Cherry?”
“Thirteen and another coming next month,” she said, pulling a face. “Most of my wages go home and I’ve precious little to show for it, but I can’t let the littles starve.”
She gave a world-weary sigh, and I reached into my pocket for a coin.
“For your help,” I told her.
She looked at me through narrowed eyes. “This isn’t charity, is it? I’ll brook no charity, miss. We pay our own way.”
“I am certain you do, but it is customary to pay for information during an investigation.”
Her eyes rounded with interest. “Are you an investigator, miss? A proper one?”
“No, child. I am a highly improper one,
I daresay. But I was asked to look into Artemisia’s death and make quite certain that the man they convicted is actually guilty.”
She shook her head, making a little clucking sound as she did so. “Poor Mr. Ramsforth. I don’t like to think it. None of us do. Always ready with a laugh, and generous with a coin for an extra job. There are those who pinch every penny,” she said darkly, “but not Mr. Ramsforth. It will be a sad day when he hangs, and no doubt about it.”
“Do you think he is guilty?”
She blinked. “Well, he must be, miss. He’s been found guilty by a proper jury. Those gentlemen would know, wouldn’t they?”
I almost admired her touching faith in the judicial system. “You would think so,” I managed.
She took the coin from me then, tucking it into her pocket.
“Cherry, do you like Mr. Gilchrist? As a person, I mean.”
She pondered that a minute. “He’s beautiful,” she said finally. “Course he is mean with a penny, and that’s no lie, but he’s so pretty to look at. And his hair is ever so soft.” She paused, and I sensed something more.
I probed, gently. “What else, Cherry? What do you like about him?”
“It isn’t that I like him,” she corrected. “I feel sorry for him.”
“Sorry for him? But Mr. Gilchrist is blessed with talent and angelic looks. He is well-connected and has a tremendous future. Why should you be sorry for him?”
“Oh, miss, I can’t explain it!” She broke off, frustrated, then her furrowed brow cleared. “Do you know sheep, miss? Well, my father is a sheep farmer, and not a good one. But he’s taught me enough, and I can tell you there is always one in every flock that’s just not going to fit. The bummer lamb, he’s called, and he will never be like the rest.”
“And Mr. Gilchrist is a bummer lamb?” I asked.
“I think so. I know it isn’t right for a person like me to feel sorry for a gentleman,” she said hurriedly, “but you asked and I am an honest girl.”
“Yes, you are,” I told her. “I will leave you to your work now.”
She scuttled from the larder, leaving me to follow. I turned to go, and just as I did, I caught sight of something out of the tail of my eye—a platter holding a large, indefinable object shrouded under a bit of muslin.
I lifted it carefully, but I already knew what I would find. Underneath the muslin was the head of a sheep, its mouth stiffened into a gruesome grin displaying all of its teeth. One eyeball was filmy with the cold, staring blindly ahead. The other eyeball was missing entirely.
• • •
When I collected Stoker, he was in a foul mood. Apparently, standing around largely unclothed in a drafty room for the better part of two hours was taxing to the temper, and I shoved a packet of honey drops at him as soon as we took our leave of Havelock House.
“I cannot believe I let you talk me into that,” he muttered, conveniently forgetting that he had been as in favor of his posing for Miss Talbot as I was.
“Just think,” I soothed, “you will be immortalized in marble for eternity.”
He snorted and tossed a honey drop into his mouth. “It better have been worth it. What have you discovered?”
As we made our way back to Bishop’s Folly and the Belvedere, I related all I had learned, eliciting the occasional grunt of interest or question.
“So, brother Tiberius falls on the list of suspects while Gilchrist is an excellent bet for our malefactor, at least as far as the threats are concerned,” I concluded. “He regularly wears a cloak which appears to match that of our miscreant, and he had access to a sheep’s head in the larder.”
“So did everyone else at Havelock House,” he pointed out.
I pulled a face. “Do you have a better idea? Someone you like more for our villain?”
He shook his head slowly. “Sir Frederick is unlikely but still possible. And Cherry was free with her confidences—perhaps too much so. She may have been telling you all of that simply to put you off suspecting her.” I bridled, but he carried on, heedless. “I have my doubts about Emma Talbot. There is something going on there, something beneath the surface. She puts me in mind of a river in winter, solid ice on the surface, yet something moving in the darkness below.”
“How very poetic,” I told him. “But you’ve no proof.”
He slanted me a triumphant glance. “Haven’t I?” He crunched another honey drop. “Whilst you were busy running housemaids to ground in the larder and fending off Gilchrist’s indecent proposals, I was searching Emma Talbot’s rooms.”
“You didn’t!” I breathed. “When did you have time?”
He shrugged. “Posing is a thirsty business. I kept asking for tea or water. Whenever she went off to fetch something to drink, I cracked a few of her bits of charcoal so they would break when she went to use them and she would have to ferret out more. Every time she left I looked through something else.”
“How very resourceful of you. What did you find?”
“This,” he said, brandishing a sketch.
“Stoker! You never stole this from her sketchbook,” I admonished, noticing the jagged edge where the piece had been torn from a bound book.
“In point of fact, I did not,” he assured me. “It had already been ripped free and crumpled, if you will note the heavy creases, and by Emma Talbot, I suspect. She was very angry when she did that,” he mused. “And at some point she had a change of heart and retrieved it. It was pressed between two large books.”
I studied the drawing. It was not a masterpiece. It had been done in haste, with rough, sweeping lines. But the power of those lines! They formed the face of a man, and it took only a moment to realize his identity.
“Miles Ramsforth,” I breathed. “She has sketched Miles Ramsforth.” I leaned forward, inspecting the drawing more closely. “How very curious. I recognize him from the photographs in the newspapers, but she has captured something entirely different.”
“How so?”
I shook my head. “I cannot say, except that he looks . . . noble here. There is something fine about his profile. And his jaw is much more serious. It’s lost that bit of weakness I thought I detected. Almost as if she has drawn him as he could be, rather than how he is.”
“You’re coming over fanciful now,” he said with a sudden hauteur. He took the drawing back and folded it up, thrusting it into his pocket. “I will replace it the next time we go to Havelock House. If Emma Talbot is involved in all of this, it is best she doesn’t realize we have sleuthed out her connection to Ramsforth.”
I tipped my head thoughtfully. “Stoker, how exactly did you manage to spirit that out of her studio? You were meant to be posing entirely nude.”
He crunched yet another honey drop and shot me a dazzling smile. “That is for me to know and you to guess.”
CHAPTER
16
We entered Bishop’s Folly by the pedestrian gate on the far side of the property, winding through the extensive gardens and past the various follies and outbuildings until we came to the Belvedere. I nudged Stoker. “There is a caller on the doorstep.”
He took one look at the visitor and began to swear. “Bloody bollocking hell,” he started, but I put a hand to his sleeve and greeted our caller.
“Hello, Sir Rupert.”
Sir Rupert, second eldest of the Templeton-Vane sons and a knighted barrister, doffed his hat to me as he ignored his younger brother. “Miss Speedwell, a distinct pleasure.”
“It is nice to see you. Would you care to come inside?”
“He damned well would not,” Stoker protested.
Sir Rupert suppressed a sigh with some effort. “I can see he is going to be tiresome about this. Yes, Miss Speedwell, I should very much like to come inside rather than conduct our family business out here with witnesses,” he said with a glance to the rustling shrubbery.
&nb
sp; “Oh, that’s only Patricia. You mustn’t mind her,” I told him, explaining about his lordship’s tortoise as we entered the Belvedere. Within a few moments I had unearthed a tin of biscuits and poured small glasses of whiskey.
Sir Rupert took a taste, rolling it over his tongue like a connoisseur. “I say, that is lovely. I was rather afraid you would offer me tea.”
“I remember we resorted to strong drink the last time we met,” I told him. “It seemed appropriate under the circumstances.”
We exchanged conspiratorial glances and Stoker rolled his eyes heavenwards before draining his glass. “Rupert, why have you come?”
Sir Rupert took another sip of his whiskey as I regarded Stoker thoughtfully. “You really have the most appalling manners, Stoker. Sir Rupert, was he always like this?”
“Impetuous? Boorish? Entirely self-involved? Yes. From the cradle. And there was never any improving him, no matter how hard Father tried. And stubborn as the devil, too. I recall upon one occasion, Father refused him permission to ride in a local point-to-point on the grounds that he wasn’t an experienced enough rider to take part.”
“I imagine he sulked. He has a gift for it.”
Sir Rupert shook his head. “Worse. He stole Father’s favorite horse, Tinchebray, and rode him without a saddle, blazing past everyone else in the field.”
“Father never criticized my riding again,” Stoker put in mutinously.
“That horse was never the same,” Sir Rupert told me. I smiled at him and he took another appreciative sip of the whiskey. “You have been far kinder than I deserve, Miss Speedwell. I heard of what transpired with young Merryweather, and I cannot offer enough apologies. The cub ought to be whipped for offering you such insult.”
A Perilous Undertaking Page 17
