Ivory and Steel

by Janice Bennett

  “You may see for yourself,” Ingram snapped and pushed past her, out the doorway.

  “Oh my lady,” Constance cried. She tucked a corner of the dowager’s shawl more closely about the woman. “It is quite dreadful.”

  Dreadful. Phyllida shivered then went to the single chair her chamber boasted and collapsed into it as her knees gave way. Someone had searched her room, been willing to kill to avoid discovery… A hand rested on her shoulder and she started then looked up.

  Ingram stood over her, frowning. “I’ve sent a footman for the Runner. Fenton reports the front door is unbolted so I believe we may assume your assailant is no longer in the house.”

  She nodded and shivered again.

  He looked about then picked up her dressing gown, which lay across the foot of the bed where she had discarded it upon climbing between the sheets. Stiffly she rose and put it on then huddled into the thin muslin, seeking a warmth it didn’t offer.

  “You said ‘she’.” Ingram looked down at her, his brow furrowed. “Did you get a clear look at the woman?”

  Phyllida shook her head. “It was nothing but a dark shape.”

  “Then, why ‘she’?”

  Phyllida considered, then shook her head. “An impression of skirts. A sound, like the rustle of satin—” She broke off, staring at Ingram’s dressing gown.

  It could have been a man…

  * * * * *

  Mr. Frake straightened up from his examination of the fan, which remained plunged into the mattress. Shaking his head, he looked back at the large number of people crowded into Miss Dearne’s bedchamber. She sat in the corner, shivering, sipping a cup of tea. For her sake he hoped someone had liberally laced it with brandy.

  “No idea at all, miss?” he asked at last.

  Miss Dearne set her cup down. “None, I’m afraid. It was completely dark in here.”

  “Nothing?” he pursued.

  “Only the rustle of satin. I’ve tried to remember but there weren’t any smells—no perfume or soap or anything. She—he—didn’t speak.”

  He grunted. “And you think this person was after the letters?”

  “I can’t think of anything else. Someone must have heard me tell you about them, and your saying you would get them tomorrow. This morning,” she corrected herself.

  He nodded. “That gives us one definite clue, at least. Can’t say I’m not glad to get that, even though it did cost you a bad fright, miss.”

  “What is that?” Ingram, who stood in the doorway, regarded him from over the marquis’s shoulder.

  “That the reason the young lady was murdered was something written down, probably in a letter.”

  “Maria Enderby,” Miss Dearne breathed.

  Frake turned toward her. “Yes, miss?”

  “I-I’m not certain, of course. But yesterday—no, the day before—she asked me to return to her the letters she had written to Louisa. She was upset when I said I didn’t know where they were. She didn’t want anyone to read them. She said she had written things—foolish confidences.”

  “Oh aye?” Mr. Frake drew out his pipe and chewed on the stem. “I think I’ll just take that lot away with me and beg your pardon for not having done so before.”

  A tentative smile touched Miss Dearne’s lips. “It was I who told you they were of no importance.”

  Mr. Frake shook his head. “That’s no excuse for me, miss. I was so eager to get the news—” He broke off and glanced at Ingram. “Well that’s neither here nor there. I’ve gotten my reports, which didn’t get me nowhere, and you nearly got yourself killed. It’s not often I makes a mistake, miss, and I’d much rather it didn’t cause you any trouble when I do.”

  “How did our intruder get in?” Allbury asked. “We know he left by the front door but—” He broke off, shaking his head, his expression helpless.

  “Window at the back of the house was propped open,” Frake explained. “Must have happened before everyone left after your gathering.”

  “It wouldn’t have been easy to climb through a window,” Miss Dearne said, her tone thoughtful. “I doubt Maria Enderby could do it.”

  “Well now, miss, considering as my man found a wooden crate beneath it, I don’t think it would have been all that difficult. Easy, in fact.”

  He pulled the fan blade free of the mattress then gathered together the letters Miss Dearne had brought down from the attic. Miss Yarborough, wide-eyed and eager to please, brought him a hatbox, and he packed everything in it to take away with him. After advising Miss Dearne to take something for her nerves, he said his good nights and took his leave.

  He hadn’t expected this—though he supposed he should have been prepared. Nor could he decide if the box beneath the window had provided a stealthy entry or a clever ruse to divert suspicion. Their villain might have been in the house all along and the whole setup designed to throw Bow Street off the track. If he’d had the least inkling he would have used those letters as a trap and they’d now be done with the business.

  A rustle of satin. A lady’s robe or a gentleman’s dressing gown? He snorted. Nasty business, attacking Miss Dearne like that. He muttered a few choice oaths and took himself home to his comfortable if somewhat cluttered rooms near Covent Garden.

  What remained of the night, he spent poring over the letters entrusted to him. As the first tinges of dawn crept into the sky he shoved the last sheet aside in disgust. Foolish confidences Maria Enderby might have written to her friend but she would have to have been foolish indeed to feel the need to murder her because of them. The girl was guilty of no more than youthful romantic daydreams. At least according to the letters he held. There might be others.

  On the whole, he decided, he had learned nothing from his nocturnal labors.

  But he now had another line of inquiry, which he would pursue that morning. His investigations into the backgrounds of the others who had visited the Allbury’s opera box had turned up one bit of promising information. Subsequently, after sharing a breakfast with the aging tom that prowled the neighborhood in search of a handout, Mr. Frake set forth once more to pay a visit to Lady Woking.

  The butler, a wooden-faced individual who put Mr. Frake forcibly in mind of his dyspeptic uncle, opened the door to him. He could not take it upon himself to say whether her ladyship was at home or not, the butler intoned, but after another long, assessing scrutiny of the Runner’s dapper, almost gentlemanly, appearance he condescended to permit him into the mansion. After taking his name—but not his hat—the butler left him to kick his heels in a small back parlor while he went to find his mistress.

  Twenty minutes passed before Harriet, Lady Woking, put in an appearance. Properly put in his place, he should be by now, Mr. Frake reflected with a touch of amusement. He laid down the periodical he had been perusing and stood as the stately lady made her grand entrance, trailing a shawl of Norwich silk behind her.

  She paused for effect just over the threshold, resplendent in a gown of deep blue silk edged with blond lace. Artistically arranged graying curls protruded from beneath a blue silk turban and a rope of particularly fine pearls, her only adornment, hung low over her generous bosom. Until her marriage, Mr. Frake remembered, she’d been the deportment mistress at that select seminary in Bath where Lady Allbury, Mrs. Enderby and Miss Yarborough had all been her pupils. She certainly knew her subject.

  “Mr. Frake? I’m sorry if I kept you waiting.” She sank gracefully onto a brocade chair in a rustle of silk and gestured with a faint smile for him to resume his own seat. “What may I do for you?” she continued as he complied.

  “Just a few questions, m’lady.” He paused. He knew how to create an effect too.

  One delicately arched eyebrow rose. “Yes?”

  He copied her bland smile. “Why have you hidden the fact this is your second marriage?”

  Her hands clenched and the smile faded from her face. In a moment her poise returned. “I didn’t think it mattered. It was such a very long time ago, you see.�
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  “Does your husband know about it?”

  She directed a look of pure scorn at him. “Of course he does. Do you think it should matter to him I was a widow? He was a widower—as I assume you already know.”

  “Then why is it such a secret?” he pursued.

  Tiny lines formed in her smooth brow. “For the simple reason it is no one’s concern but my own. Has this any bearing on your investigation, or are you merely permitting yourself to indulge in vulgar curiosity?” The last she said gently, with a slight smile, making a joke of it.

  He returned the smile with one of his own. “When looking for a reason for murder, one is forced to ask some very unlikely questions. Just to eliminate possibilities, you see.”

  “I see.” Her fingers smoothed her skirts. “This is one possibility you may now dismiss. My first husband—” She stopped suddenly as a look of disgust flickered across her well-bred features. “It really is best forgotten, for me, at least. It was a runaway marriage. I was only sixteen at the time. He was a-a private,” she shuddered as she spoke the word, “stationed in the town where we lived. He died in battle scarcely three months later.” She rose and went to the window, which looked out over the back garden. “Needless to say I have done my best to put the whole regrettable incident behind me.”

  “Your family. Country gentry, were they?”

  The pearls rattled as her hand clenched the long strand. “They were good enough.”

  He frowned a moment. “And your husband knows all this?”

  “My husband,” she said slowly, “would be appalled if he knew I had ever allied myself with a common foot soldier. Appalled but nothing worse.” She turned and met his gaze. “If you believe Louisa—Lady Allbury—learned my secret and I murdered her to keep her quiet, I fear you are mistaken.”

  He shook his head. “It would make a nasty scandal for a se’nnight but no more, I should say.” He cast an appraising glance over the elegant figure before him, a still-beautiful woman embracing middle age with graceful bearing and impeccable poise. “Most likely it would be dismissed as nonsense,” he added, though mostly to himself. He certainly couldn’t see this lady entangled with the sort of riffraff who took the king’s shilling.

  Her smile returned, lighting her soft brown eyes and easing the tension from her face, as if she read his mind. “Thank you. I can rely upon your discretion?”

  “Certainly, m’lady.” He picked up his hat. “You might just call this another loose end tucked away all neat and tidy now.”

  He took his leave of her, mentally reviewing his other suspects. A few gaps remained in Lord Ingram’s past but the histories of the others seemed obvious enough. That left only current motives through which he must sift, until he discovered one sufficiently deadly to have led to that carefully planned murder.

  He worked his lower lip while he strode through the busy streets, leaning on his cane. Love, that was usually the key. Folks were forever hitting each other over the head or lurking behind bushes with swords or pistols because of blighted passion. Young Mr. Enderby most likely carried on an affair with Lady Allbury. His wife, plain little soul that she was, could have been furious. Or Lord Allbury might have suspected his heir could be making his entrance through a side door.

  He heaved a sigh. The death of this here Marchioness of Allbury hadn’t greatly distressed anyone as far as he could see. A rather unpleasant young lady, he feared. Yet there were any number of unpleasant ladies—and gentlemen, for that matter—who still went about their business, making life miserable for others, still very much alive. Why wasn’t Lady Allbury?

  His steps took him to Berkeley Square, where he stood for several minutes gazing at the impressive mansion. Black crepe still decorated the door knocker and the iron railing about the area steps. A display of mourning, even if not heartfelt, was de rigueur. He shook his head, mounted to the porch and knocked.

  Fenton escorted him to a salon where he found not only Miss Dearne but Lord Ingram as well. That gentleman stood by the mantel, dressed for his journey into the country with the marquis. He was gazing at Miss Dearne, his expression unreadable. The young lady sat by the window, an embroidery hoop clasped in her hand. Both looked up as the butler announced his name.

  “Frake,” Ingram declared in satisfaction. “What have you learned?”

  “From the letters, you mean, m’lord? Precious little, I’m afraid.”

  “Little—” Ingram’s brow snapped down.

  Miss Dearne regarded the Runner with sympathy in her gray eyes. “I suppose you sat up all night trying to find a clue? I told you they seemed unimportant. If there had been anything obvious I would have told you about it at once. And given the things into your keeping.”

  “I know, miss, and I looked through the lot of them trying to find anything that might mean something.” He seated himself on the wingback chair Miss Dearne offered. “I don’t see no reason why someone should have been all desperate-like to get ahold of them.”

  “Unless whoever it was thought her diary was there also?” Lord Ingram strode the length of the salon then turned back. “If the person only overheard part of what Miss Dearne told you?”

  “That must be it, m’lord.” Mr. Frake shook his head. “Though for the young lady’s sake I’d have preferred that person heard all—or nothing.” He glanced at her where she sat clutching her embroidery, her brow creased with worry. “Now there, miss, I doubt no one’s going to go trying that again. But just to make sure, I’d feel a mite better if I knew you was locking your door at night. And removing the key.”

  “I will.” She drew a strand of vivid red silk from her workbag then held it, not threading it onto her needle.

  Lord Ingram returned to the empty hearth. “Have you made any progress?” he demanded.

  Here was a gentleman whose temper was frayed, no doubt about it. Interesting. Mr. Frake rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, tented his fingertips and regarded the gentleman over their peaked tops. “Well now, I have and I haven’t, as you might say.”

  “I’m not likely to say anything of the sort. Which is it?”

  Miss Dearne smiled suddenly. “I am certain Mr. Frake knows how to conduct an investigation, my lord.”

  “Aye, that’s true, miss. Been at it a good few years now.”

  “I hope this time it won’t take so long,” Ingram snapped. “Unless you have a desire to see Miss Dearne murdered?”

  Benjamin Frake cocked an indulgent eye at him. “Gets on the nerves, it does, being in the midst of a scandal.”

  “Is it? A scandal, I mean?” Miss Dearne threw him a worried look. “Poor Allbury. How dreadful this all is!”

  “It will remain so until it’s solved, you know,” Mr. Frake added in a spirit of pure helpfulness.

  “Then let us get it over with quickly. Have you learned anything?”

  He contemplated the tips of his fingers as he waggled them slowly back and forth. “I’ve ruled out one possible motive,” he said at last.

  “Which is that?” She leaned forward, eager. “I do so hate suspecting everyone who came to the box that night.”

  “Lady Woking’s first husband,” he said, watching carefully for her reaction.

  “Her—” Miss Dearne sat back, obviously startled. “I had no idea. What happened to him?”

  “In the army, he was.”

  Ingram shook his head. “Poor devil. Died in battle?”

  Mr. Frake nodded. “Can’t blame her for not wanting to rake up painful memories. So that led us nowhere.”

  Nor had he gotten the reaction he looked for from these two on that bit of news. Regretfully, he filed it in the back of his mind and turned to more likely prospects.

  “You said you arrived in London only the night before the opera, m’lord?”

  Ingram’s fingers ran his quizzing glass up and down the riband which suspended it about his neck. “That’s right. I spent a se’nnight in Canterbury after selling out. That’s where my estate is.”
r />   “And where did you sell out?”

  “Here. In London.” His fingers tightened on the lens. “I stayed less than a day. I was rather eager to see my home once more.”

  “Yet you stayed only a week,” Mr. Frake marveled.

  Ingram shook his head, his green eyes glinting. “I found it necessary to see my man of affairs. You may send a man to Canterbury to interview my bailiff if you doubt my word. It was he who asked me to come to London to consult with my brother’s solicitor. I will be happy to provide names and directions.”

  “Thank you kindly, m’lord.” Frake smiled at him. “Just another little problem that needn’t worry me no longer. Now—”

  A discreet rap on the door interrupted him. Fenton strode in, his expression distraught, though this eased somewhat as he saw Miss Dearne.

  “Miss, if you could help for a moment?”

  “Of course.” She rose to her feet in one fluid, graceful movement, concern in her eyes. “Has something occurred?”

  “Yes, miss. That is, it is occurring.” The aging butler clasped his hands together in agitation. “There is an altercation taking place in the kitchens.”

  “Should not Lady Allbury—”

  “Her ladyship is from home, miss. And his lordship is on the verge of departing on his sad errand. If you will come?”

  Mr. Frake’s eyebrows rose. The kitchens fell under the jurisdiction of the butler, he knew. He found it hard to believe Fenton would admit something occurred within his domain that he could not control.

  “I will take my leave of you, Miss Dearne.” Ingram took her hand then raised her fingers fleetingly to his lips. “We should return on the morrow.”

  Her fingers tightened on his. “Lay a flower on her casket for me.”

  She turned quickly and hurried from the room in the wake of the harried butler. Mr. Frake followed, his curiosity rampant.

  Frake’s vision of a domestic crisis vanished as soon as they descended to the basement. Maria Enderby stood in the middle of the great kitchen, the vivid pink of her flounced gown reflecting in her heightened complexion. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she confronted an embarrassed pastry chef.