In The House Of Secrets And Lies (Lady C. Investigates Book 3)

by Issy Brooke

  Neville Fry dashed into the sitting room to find things to polish, which left Cordelia alone in the kitchen with Ruby. She was sitting on the long wooden bench at the table, paring apples and putting them in a wide beige bowl.

  Cordelia prowled around the kitchen, examining cupboards and opening packets. As she meandered, she filled Ruby in with the latest developments. In truth, she was talking as much to herself as to the maid. It helped to organise her thoughts.

  “This Albert Socks, he’s full of ambition. And guilt! I can see it but I cannot yet prove it. I must find out where he was on the night of the murder. Did he rent the room next to the room that Bonneville died in? That would fit! Yes, if he had rented two rooms there, not just one…”

  Ruby concentrated on peeling each apple in one long, unbroken curl.

  “He had lost his woman to Bonneville. I wonder if he knew about that? If he had found out, well, there’s a motive. And for Florence to use that very room that Socks had given her! And did you not say that Socks and Bonneville hated one another? Oh, for him to lose his woman to a man he despised … the motives just stack up and up!”

  “And the manner of killing?” Ruby said at last. “Poisoning is a woman’s crime. Wouldn’t he rather had called Bonneville out?”

  “The man is too flabby to fight anyone,” Cordelia said. “And anyway, Socks would have known that Florence could not drink. So by poisoning the wine, not only did he ensure only Bonneville died, but it gave him a scapegoat too! By having the blame land so squarely on Florence, no one would think to look any further. And so it has been proved!”

  “Then he must have found out about Florence and Bonneville,” Ruby said.

  “Yes. I wonder how he knew when and where they would be meeting? For the manner of killing was planned in advance,” Cordelia said. She peeked in chest that was on the floor by the range. “Flour?”

  “I believe so, to keep dry.”

  “Hmm.” She ran her fingers through the light powder. “Ruby, I need evidence. I must act. Ivy means well, by saying I should keep myself closeted up and simply think about things. But I cannot. I know I have got myself into some scrapes, but I will be more careful.”

  Ruby put her knife down and looked up, an expression of resignation on her face. “Really? I do not want to pick up the papers to find some wonderful story about your kidnapping, or worse.”

  “Of course you don’t. You’d hate to have to go to the effort of finding a new situation.”

  Ruby sighed and picked up another apple to peel. “If I throw this over my shoulder, it should make the shape of the initial letter of the man I am destined to marry,” she said.

  “As long as he is called Stephen, Seth or Stuart, I suppose.”

  “Indeed. My lady, you ought to be careful, it is true. But above that, you ought to be clever.”

  “You are quite right, Ruby. Quite right.”

  Cordelia continued her exploration of the kitchen. From time to time, she took a small item from a shelf or a cupboard, and stowed it carefully away in her large bag.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  This soiree was darker. The laughter was louder and the music seemed discordant as one moved from room to room. The rousing, bouncing arpeggios of the strings were distorted by the pillars and doors and walls and ceilings, echoing off the wood panelling and being absorbed by the thick velvet curtains.

  “They could stand to light more lamps in here,” Cordelia hissed to Septimus Gibbs. They had danced, though she had found her feet to be sluggish and unwilling. Now they were lingering in a smaller side room, one of the many that opened out along the long side of a great hall. The hall itself was given over to dancing. She watched the twirling satins and silks flash by, set out like jewels against the black and white of the men’s formal suits.

  “I rather suspect that the Duke is less wealthy than he’d like to appear,” Septimus murmured back, after a quick glance around to check that they were not overheard bad-mouthing their host.

  “Still,” she said, “I do thank you for obtaining this invitation at such short notice.”

  “My dear, whenever I receive a note from you, I simply spring into action.”

  “Hmm.” The double doors were pressed back and she went to the open doorway to scan the dancing crowd again. “There is no sign of him, Septimus!”

  He came to her side. “I am sorry. I had heard strong rumour that the Lord Brookfield would be here, but there was never any certainty. Strong rumour is yet just rumour.”

  “I must speak with him again! I must befriend him.”

  “Is he quite central to your enquiry?”

  “I wish to dig deeper into his relationship with Albert Socks. Socks is my primary suspect, however.”

  “As far as I know, from what you have said, there is no relationship,” he reminded her.

  “One, or both of them, is lying. I can feel it! I would like to say that it is down to my womanly intuition, but it is more than that. Their words do not add up. He has a secret. He knows Socks well enough to have passed Florence on to him. Oh, Septimus. I need more champagne.”

  “I would suggest, my dearest Cordelia, that you do not.”

  She drew herself up to her full height, and looked him in the eyes. “If the Lord Brookfield does not turn up, I may as well get roaring drunk and go home and sleep it all off,” she said.

  “I would advise you to stay relatively sober.”

  She glared.

  He merely looked at her mildly, with a paternalistic air.

  “Please,” she pleaded. “I shall not embarrass you. We all have a weakness and anyway, why should I not relax a little?”

  He pressed his lips together but he acquiesced in the end. He went to find a nearby waiter and obtain another glass for her.

  ***

  Lord Brookfield appeared when Cordelia least expected it. She had talked with a few other people. There was a woman from her own finishing school who had been married for nearly fifteen years now, and the knowledge made Cordelia feel old and rather tired. She drank another glass to perk herself up. Then there was a missionary, lately returned from thrilling adventures in the colonies. She had gone out there with her husband, and come back a widow and with a shaking sickness that came in waves, rendering her helpless for days, but the attacks were predictable and so she planned her social calendar around them. She also spoke with a few dashing young cavalry officers who were full of life and plans and who had never waved a sword anywhere but the training grounds of their regiment. She drank to their health and hoped they lived long enough to look back on their boastful words with regret.

  So when the tall, distinguished figure of Lord Brookfield finally entered the room, at a very late hour, she was feeling hot and droopy and loud and sad, all at the same time. She knew she had taken too much alcohol, and it had split her good sense off from the rest of her personality. Her common sense was now in a glass cage, watching with horror as the drunk, uninhibited Cordelia walked unsteadily up to Lord Brookfield and tapped his arm like a coquette.

  “Sir! At last! I have been waiting for you!”

  He gazed down at her with dark eyes. “Indeed? I do apologise, then, for my tardiness. I had three other engagements this evening. I feel spread rather thin, I am afraid.”

  “Let us hope they have not taken the best of you!” she said. Goodness, she thought, it almost sounds as if I am flirting.

  “There is very little of me that could be called the best anyway,” he said. He smiled and she hoped it was not because he was simply humouring her. “I am old, and my best was long ago.”

  She stopped herself. She was about to say “I am sure there is life in the old dog yet” and not only was that a cliché, it was most definitely flirting. She worked hard to get a grip on her tongue, and to remember her task. She was to befriend him, and work out his secret; not to present herself as a jade and earn his scorn.

  “And yet what of the future?” she said at last. “For you are a political man, an
d you work for the good of the nation. How very hard it is, and how very magnanimous you must be, that you work for a future that — forgive me — is far ahead.”

  “A future that I may never see?” he said, amused.

  “Well, I do not quite mean to say it like that,” she said, stumbling. She never did have the easy way with words that other women seemed to have. The to-and-fro of frothy light conversation had ever eluded her, and with the influence of alcohol in her blood, she was finding it doubly difficult. “Still, it’s rather like planting trees, I would imagine.”

  He looked surprised and thought about that for a moment before he smiled. “Indeed, I suppose it is. Yes, do they not say that anyone who plants a tree is blessed? For only his great-great-grandchildren will enjoy the shade.”

  “How lovely and how poignant,” she said.

  “But, enough of this. The last time that we met, my dear lady, we spoke then of politics too. My work is tedious work. But what of yourself?” His eyes seemed to twinkle and she had a horrible feeling that she knew what he was about to say next.

  And he said it. “What of yourself? As a widow, I understand that you are submerging yourself in most estimable charitable endeavours. Which is only to be praised, of course.”

  He was referring, in a most roundabout fashion, to the escapade at Mrs Clancey’s lodging house.

  She said, “I am, alas, flawed in too many ways and perhaps I ought to offer myself up as a recipient of the East Street Ladies’ Mission, rather than as a do-gooder myself.”

  He sipped at his glass. She matched him, out of politeness. The desire to drink was leaving her but there was nothing else to do with her hands.

  “I thought you were here in London to soak up the culture?” he said.

  “I was, I mean, I am. Do you attend concerts?”

  “Rarely.”

  “Or the opera? Or galleries? Can you recommend any exhibitions that are showing that I might find improving?”

  “Sadly, no. I do keep myself to myself, for the most part. I am sure you think me awfully dull.”

  “And yet this is your third, no, fourth engagement of the evening!”

  “Duty, alas, not pleasure. It is my duty to be seen.”

  Much like Gibbs, then, she thought. Huh, I thought it was only us women who had a duty to be looked at and admired.

  But this was still getting her nowhere. She drained her glass as frustration made her ache. The last time she had spoken with him, she had mentioned Albert Socks and he had given her the impression — truthfully or artfully — that he was not close to the man.

  She had not, however, mentioned Florence Fry that time.

  She hadn’t intended to bring the young woman into the conversation overtly but she could not see how to be subtle in her probing. Perhaps it was best to simply come straight out with it. She noticed that he was looking around, as if growing bored of her company. Already the party was dwindling as people went home, or on to other places.

  “And what is your opinion, as a learned man, on the strange business of the awful murder of your fellow politician?” she blurted out.

  He tipped his head back and stared down his aquiline nose at her. “Strange business? I do not see it was so strange. That girl was there in the room, and so was he. Dead, alas.”

  “If she had done it, she would have run away,” Cordelia pointed out, feeling a spark of triumph. She decided that she sounded quite natural in her conversation. He won’t suspect a thing.

  “And what do you know of it, beyond the newspapers?”

  “Well, it is quite the topic of conversation, is it not? And everyone knows she was found in the room, and that is most suspicious, to my mind, for any murderer with half an ounce of sense would have made themselves scarce.”

  “But there is the rub. Murderers are not known for their sense, or they would not be murdering, would they? She was quite insensible when they found her.”

  “Drunk?”

  “I believe not, but she was asleep or generally incapable.”

  Cordelia chewed on her lip. So he knew she did not drink, then, she thought. Incapable? I need to know more. “The girl was in the employ, if we can call it that, of one of your contemporaries, Albert Socks.”

  He spun his now-empty glass between his long fingers. She watched it obsessively, expecting him to lose his grip and drop it at any moment. “You mentioned that man once before to me. I have an exceedingly good memory, you know. It is essential in my line of work.”

  “Did I?” She tried to giggle innocently. Her mouth was dry and she ended up coughing.

  “You did. And you never did explain why you had an interest in him.”

  “Oh, I am interested in all manner of people. Like Florence, for instance…”

  “Florence?”

  Cordelia bit on her tongue. She had used the name with too familiar a tone, and he had picked up on it instantly. “That is the girl who they have accused, is it not? Florence Fry.”

  “Indeed it is. Miss Fry seems a sad sort of fallen woman. I am sure, with your charitable works, you would agree with me that such people need our help and sympathy. Though in this case, she is beyond any earthly redemption.”

  “But why did she not run away after the act? And why would she kill the man, anyway?” Cordelia said, almost petulantly. She knew she was on dangerous ground. She wanted to stamp her feet. She felt as if there was something very obvious that she was missing, and she was beginning to feel desperate. She was drunk, and tired, and fed up, and events were going to overwhelm her unless she got a grip.

  She would not have hysterics. Not here in public, not in private, not ever.

  But sometimes, the idea of having a screaming, weeping meltdown was so very tempting.

  “My good lady…” he said, and his tone was gentle. “You seem vexed. Do not take it to heart.”

  “But I fear there has been a mistake!” she burst out.

  He was, in truth, a complete gentleman, and he did his best to follow the rules of polite conversation. It was she who was causing the problems. “Forgive me,” she said, feeling more and more fuzzy-headed. “It is very late.”

  “It is. Are you quite well? Might I call for some water? Here, let me lead you to a chair…”

  She could not argue back. She accepted his arm and he steered her to a peaceful corner. “I will be back directly,” he said.

  She nodded gratefully. He slipped away and she admired his upright back as he disappeared from view.

  She knew that she should leave the party. The rooms were almost empty now. She leaned to one side, supported by her corset, and let her head rest against the wall. It was cool to her skin and she realised how hot and flustered she was.

  When Lord Brookfield returned, he was accompanied by Septimus. Her old friend had a worried frown. “Cordelia! I have been looking out for your boy who is to collect you but there is no sign of him. Was he not to wait here with the hired carriage?”

  “He was. He should be about, and the carriage at the back.”

  “I have checked the servants’ hall, and the courtyard, and the stables,” Gibbs said.

  “He will be back soon. It is only a little fly that he is in, with a chestnut mare. Perhaps he is on a little tour of the streets. Who knows what is in the boy’s head. We arranged that he would meet me at the front around midnight.”

  She took the glass of water from Lord Brookfield and thanked him. He nodded and peeled away. She knew that he would want to distance himself from her and her apparent instability. She did not notice where he went; instead she blinked blearily at Septimus.

  “Do not worry, Septimus.”

  “But I must worry,” he said. “I have to leave now; I have a game to attend to, and I promised I should be there.”

  “So late?”

  “Indeed. My friend Alfred is a poet, and something of a night owl, and his poker games are legendary. I must not delay. But I cannot leave you here like this.”

  “Of course you can!
Go, go. I am in the Duke’s house, and quite safe. As soon as Stanley arrives, I will be informed of it, and I will go home.”

  Septimus dithered, but eventually he was persuaded to leave.

  Cordelia drank the water, and watched the house gradually empty. She rested for nearly half an hour. That was plenty of time for Stanley to return.

  Her mind, too, began to clear from the effects of alcohol, though her head seemed to be spinning just a little too much for comfort. Finally she sought out the Duke, complimented him on his gathering, took her leave and went to await Stanley in the cool night air outside. There was a short driveway and a high wall that screened the house from the quiet London road beyond; they were in an exclusive area, here, and all was peaceful.

  There was still no sign of Stanley.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The moon was a sliver high in the sky, glowing very faintly behind scudding grey clouds. The air seemed thick. In winter, it was worse; then, great smoggy fogs of lung-eating miasma pressed down on the streets, smothering rich and poor alike. Cordelia slapped her hands together and realised that as the alcohol dissipated, she was now cold. She began to walk around, stamping her feet to stay warm. She was dressed for a hot party inside a house, not roaming around outside. Every stone on the ground pressed its pointy way through the soles of her dancing shoes.

  But at least she had her hat, gloves and her light cloak, which she had taken from one of the stewards as she left the house. She pulled the cloak around her, and hugged her small bag to her chest.

  The remaining few guests were leaving now. She pulled back, almost hiding herself in a glossy-leaved laurel hedge. Where was Stanley? He had accompanied her, driving a small, one-horse hired carriage, and he should have stayed around until she was ready to leave. Some guests were walking home, in small groups. Others were driving their own light gigs, but not many folks kept their own horses in the city. A few would find a cab to take them home; there were always plenty to be found, day or night.