Family Plot

by Sheri Cobb South

  The magistrate, looking out the window onto the bustling stable yard below, turned to greet him. “Well, Pickett, I confess I had hoped for a view of the sea, but I daresay I shan’t be spending much time in my room in any case. I trust you find your room suitable. Is the view agreeable?”

  Pickett had found the view most agreeable indeed, but for all the wrong reasons. “Quite agreeable, sir, but I’m afraid there’s been a—a slight complication.”

  The bushy white brows drew together over Mr. Colquhoun’s nose. “A complication? Of what sort?”

  “I shall have to bunk with you, sir. The inn is full.”

  The magistrate received this blow with a philosophical shrug. “Well, if there’s no help for it, I suppose we will contrive to tolerate one another’s company for a fortnight. I trust you’ve no unpleasant habits? You don’t snore, or talk in your sleep, or anything of that nature?”

  “No, sir, not to my knowledge.”

  “Excellent! But where is your valise?”

  Pickett sighed. “I was coming to that. The innkeeper had it brought to another room, one occupied by a lady calling herself Mrs. Pickett. He assumed she must be my wife.”

  “Oho!” Mr. Colquhoun chuckled. “Have you already been to the room, then? I’ll wager you gave her a rare shock!”

  “No more than she gave me. The lady calling herself Mrs. Pickett is none other than Lady Fieldhurst.”

  At this revelation, Mr. Colquhoun fell into a coughing fit so violent that Pickett was obliged to pound him on the back. “Bless my soul!” the magistrate uttered when he could speak at last. “And she is here passing herself off as Mrs. Pickett? To what purpose, pray tell?”

  “It seems her ladyship is in the Fieldhursts’ black books.” Pickett saw no reason to enlighten the magistrate as to the nature of her ladyship’s transgressions. “She was banished to Scotland for her sins, to play chaperone for George Bertram’s three sons. Somewhere along the route, she and Harold—the eldest of the three boys—decided to kick over the traces and enjoy a seaside holiday, rather than go into seclusion on Lord Fieldhurst’s Scottish estate—and more power to them,” he added with feeling.

  “Your editorial comments are not required,” the magistrate replied. “Pray continue.”

  “Yes, well, they did not dare to use their own names lest word of their indiscretion get back to George—that is, Lord Fieldhurst—or the Dowager Lady Fieldhurst, and so they decided to adopt a false name. And the name her ladyship chose, sir—well—it was mine.” Pickett tried without success to suppress the grin that threatened to spread over his face at the thought of her ladyship calling herself “Mrs. Pickett.”

  “Imagine that,” muttered the magistrate.

  “She had no reason to believe that I should turn up here, or that anyone outside the four of them ever need be the wiser,” Pickett pointed out, feeling some defense of her ladyship’s actions was called for.

  “Bless my soul!” Mr. Colquhoun said again. “I trust you’ve had a word with the innkeeper and cleared up the confusion?”

  Pickett frowned. “And call the lady a liar? I think not, sir!”

  “You don’t know what deep waters you are treading,” prophesied the magistrate, shaking his head.

  “On the contrary, I’ve come to think it might be a very good thing. It was Lady Fieldhurst and her young charges who found the woman on the beach. She has already become acquainted with the Kirkbride family, and might be in a position to come by a great deal of information that I should have difficulty discovering on my own.”

  Mr. Colquhoun mumbled something under his breath about playing with fire.

  “The only thing that concerns me,” Pickett said, having had time to consider the matter, “is how I am to present myself to Mr. Kirkbride. To expect him to believe that the Bow Street Runner he sent to London for just happens to be the husband of the lady who discovered the woman on the beach would be to stretch credibility to the breaking point, do you not think?”

  “Oh, unquestionably.”

  “But if I preserve my incognito and investigate the case clandestinely, as I did in Yorkshire, how am I to account for the absence of the Bow Street Runner, whom the family will be expecting to arrive any day?”

  “Perhaps you should have thought of that before agreeing to this farce,” barked Mr. Colquhoun, his sudden sternness giving Pickett to understand, having had five years of experience in the matter, that the magistrate was more concerned than he cared to admit.

  “And so I would have, sir, but the damage had already been done.”

  Mr. Colquhoun stuck his unlit pipe between his teeth as he pondered the problem. “I think you should not approach the family at all, at least not immediately,” he said at last. “I shall call on Angus Kirkbride myself tomorrow. I’ll tell him I was already planning a sojourn in Scotland, and decided his situation was of sufficient importance to look into the matter myself. I can see how much fishing I’m going to accomplish over the next fortnight,” he added darkly.

  “I’m sorry for it, sir, but there are other kinds of fishing, you know. You might say we are fishing for truth.”

  The magistrate arched an ironic eyebrow. “Fine words, Mr. Pickett, but they might bear more weight were they not uttered by a man contemplating matrimony with one woman while pretending to be wed to another.”

  Pickett had the grace to blush. “As to my idea of marrying Lucy, sir, perhaps you were right, and I was a bit hasty.”

  “Now, I wonder why you would suddenly come to that conclusion?” Mr. Colquhoun marveled aloud. “Still, I suppose I can’t complain, since that was my whole purpose in removing you from London. Mind you, while I have no objection to being the face of the investigation, so far as the Kirkbrides are concerned, you will still be the one to do most of the work. So, what is to be your first step on this quest for truth?”

  “With your permission, sir, after dinner I should like to go down to the beach with Lady Fieldhurst and the Bertram boys. I want to get a good look at the spot where they found Miss Kirkbride.”

  “Permission granted. Oh, and John,” he called, as Pickett reached the door.

  Pickett paused and turned back with one hand on the knob. “Yes, sir?”

  “If you will heed a word of advice, I should caution you to be very circumspect in your dealings with that woman.”

  Pickett regarded him curiously. “I shall bear it in mind, but I don’t believe I stand in any real danger from Miss Kirkbride.”

  He sketched a slight bow and left the room.

  “Who said anything about Miss Kirkbride?” grumbled Mr. Colquhoun, apparently addressing the closed door. “I was speaking of Mrs. Pickett.”

  The sun was low on the horizon by the time Pickett and Lady Fieldhurst, accompanied by the three Bertram boys, were able to slip away from the inn and down to the beach. The boys ran ahead, kicking up sand and frightening the gulls into a shrieking frenzy. The tide was much lower now, exposing a broad expanse of beach littered with seashells, seaweed, and various other forms of aquatic debris deposited there by the receding waters. Out over the sea, the dark waves were capped with red and gold, and in the distance a few hardy fishing boats headed toward the harbor some distance north of the inn. Pickett, though fully alive to the feel of Lady Fieldhurst’s hand tucked into the curve of his elbow, knew it was time to set about the business for which Mr. Colquhoun had brought him to Scotland.

  “My lady,” he addressed his fair companion, “do you think you could call on Miss Kirkbride tomorrow and ask a few discreet questions? I should like to know what happened fifteen years ago to cause the rift between her and her father.”

  She regarded him curiously. “Certainly, if it will help. But would it not be better for you to ask Mr. Kirkbride yourself? I realize it may be a delicate subject, but surely having sent for you, he would not withhold any information that you might find useful.”

  Pickett shook his head. “I am limited to investigating from a safe distance, at least for
the nonce. Mr. Colquhoun thinks it would be impossible—and I agree—for me to introduce myself to the Kirkbride family as both the Bow Street Runner they requested and the husband of the very lady who discovered their long-lost relative. Instead, he will meet with the family and tell them that, having already planned a trip to Scotland, he decided to take an interest in the case himself.” Seeing her alarmed expression, he added, “I could hardly keep our present predicament from him, but you need have no fears on that head. However little he may approve of the charade, he will do nothing to expose it.”

  “I am sorry,” said Lady Fieldhurst, not for the first time. “When I availed myself of your name, I had no thought of inconveniencing you in such a way.”

  Inconvenient though it certainly was, Pickett could not regret her decision; in fact, it warmed the cockles of his heart to know that, out of all the possible surnames at her disposal, she had chosen his. He would have given much to know the thought processes that led to its selection, while at the same time he cautioned himself against reading too much into what might well have been the unthinking impulse of a moment.

  “What’s done is done,” he said firmly, putting aside her self-recriminations. “Who knows? We may find something useful comes of it.”

  Having reassured her on this head, he turned to look again at the sea, and regarded the returning fishing boats speculatively.

  “I wonder what time the fishermen set out in the morning,” he pondered aloud. “Perhaps one of them may have seen something.”

  “Yes, I suppose they may have done,” Lady Fieldhurst agreed somewhat distractedly. She had not taken the time to put on a bonnet, and as a result was obliged to brush from her face those strands of hair pulled free from their pins by the stiff sea breeze.

  “I’d best visit the harbor tomorrow and find out,” Pickett said. “It might even prove useful to try and see if one of them would consent to take me out on the water—although what reason I could offer him for making such a request, I can’t imagine.”

  “Perhaps we could all go out on a pleasure jaunt,” Lady Fieldhurst suggested. “I’m sure the boys would have a marvelous time.”

  Pickett watched with a jaded eye as Robert and Edward ran down the beach chasing after seagulls, who screamed their displeasure at so invasive a form of entertainment.

  “I’ve no doubt they would enjoy themselves immensely—although whether I could actually learn anything useful under such conditions is another thing entirely.”

  Lady Fieldhurst, considering the matter further, was forced to abandon this promising idea. “Oh, dear! Yes, I quite see your point. Harold would probably not be so bad, but as for the younger ones—” she broke off as she recalled an earlier conversation with her eldest “nephew.” “I have it! You must ask Harold to accompany you.”

  “Harold? On what pretext?”

  “Let us say that Harold has a burning desire to join His Majesty’s Navy but, never having been at sea before, wonders if he has the constitution for it. You, being the kindly ‘uncle’ that you are, wish to take him out on the water and let him test his sea legs, so to speak.” She looked up at him. “Besides giving you an excuse to solicit the use of a boat, it would also take Harold off my hands, so that I might speak to Miss Kirkbride without Harold there, ready to take umbrage at any suggestion that the lady is anything but honest.”

  “I think it might work,” Pickett said, much struck. “I thank you, my lady.”

  “And so you should,” she informed him, “for when Robert and Edward discover that their brother is to go out on a boat while they must remain behind, well, let us just say that I do not look forward to breaking the news to them.”

  “I am sure that you, being the doting ‘aunt’ you are, will find some way to make it up to them,” Pickett predicted. “Now if only I can find some way of making it up to you.”

  She shook her head. “No, you need not. After all, it is no more than I deserve for putting you in such an awkward situation in the first place by appropriating your name. Speaking of which—” She allowed him to steer her clear of the water as a wave rolled in almost at their feet. “Speaking of which, what are we to call one another? Are we one of those formal couples who refer to one another as ‘Mr.’ and ‘Mrs.,’ or shall we be ‘John’ and ‘Julia’?”

  Pickett found himself on the horns of a dilemma. On the one hand, he did not think it at all proper for him to call the viscountess by her given name; on the other, to refer to her as “Mrs. Pickett” could only torment him with glimpses of what could never be.

  “I think,” he said after careful consideration, “that you married beneath your station and now, painfully aware of how far you have come down in the world, you insist upon being called by the honorific bestowed upon you by your first husband. That way, I may continue to address you as ‘my lady.’ ”

  “I see!” Lady Fieldhurst arched an eyebrow. “You are willing to traduce my character in order to avoid being made to feel uncomfortable. No, Mr. Pickett, I will not have it! I learned to call you ‘John’ when you were my footman in Yorkshire, and I am sure that, with practice, you will contrive to call me ‘Julia’ without choking on the word.”

  Pickett was spared the necessity of forming a reply by a shout from further down the beach. They had by this time rounded the spit of land cutting off the inn from view of the Kirkbride property, and Robert and Edward were waving their arms wildly.

  “Here it is! Here it is!”

  Pickett knew, of course, that there would be no physical evidence of the woman’s presence remaining on the beach; footprints or anything else of significance that might have been present at the time would have been long since washed away by the tide. Still, the site itself offered a few clues. Gazing up and down the beach in both directions, Pickett saw that anyone wishing to stage the scene would likely have had ample time to do so: to the north, the jutting spit of land hid the inn and its inhabitants from view; to the south, uninhabited beach stretched as far as the eye could see. Looking inland, he noted that only the brick chimneys of Ravenscroft Manor were visible over the cliff; no one at the house would have a view of the beach unless he (or she) perched on the roof. There remained only the sea itself, which kept its secrets.

  “Do you remember how the woman was lying?” Pickett addressed the Bertram brothers. “Can you recall her position?”

  “I can!” Edward piped up. “I’m the one who found her. She was lying like this.” Without further ado, he flopped down onto the shingle, his head resting on his outstretched arm.

  “That’s not right, Ned,” Harold told his brother. “It was her left arm that was stretched out, not her right. And her face was hidden, until I turned her over.”

  “And she didn’t have a ridiculous grin on her face,” Robert added, poking Edward in the ribs with the toe of his shoe.

  Pickett looked at Lady Fieldhurst for confirmation. “Is Harold right?”

  She closed her eyes, trying to picture the scene in her mind. “I think so. I do know that we couldn’t see her face until he rolled her onto her back.”

  “You touched her, then?” he asked Harold. “How wet was she?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Harold asked, bewildered.

  “How wet was she? Was she drenched, or merely damp? Or was she completely dry?”

  Harold’s puzzled expression lifted. “Oh, you’re wondering how long she may have been lying there, aren’t you? Well, her hair was wet and full of sand, but it wasn’t dripping. Her clothes were scarcely damp, and when I turned her over, I believe the ground beneath her was fairly dry.”

  “She must have been lying there for quite some time, then.” Pickett frowned thoughtfully at the prostrate Edward. There was something not quite right about the picture the boy presented, something wholly unrelated to the ridiculous grin rightly pointed out by Robert.

  He turned his attention back to the viscountess. “My lady, can you draw? Sketch, I mean?”

  “A little. I could never draw hands
or faces, though.” She wrinkled her nose at the memory. “My governess always said the fingers looked like sausages.”

  “Hands and faces won’t matter. But if you could provide me with a sketch of Miss Kirkbride’s position as nearly as you can remember it, it might prove helpful. I could at least study it at my leisure.”

  “I shall begin work on it as soon as I return to my room,” she promised.

  Pickett looked out to sea, where the sun was beginning to dip below the watery horizon. Save for the trip to Yorkshire (which had occurred during the summer, when daylight lingered until past ten o’clock), he had never been north of London, and was surprised by how much earlier darkness fell so far north. “Speaking of which, we’d best turn back, if we don’t wish to be benighted.”

  Robert and Edward made only token protests, which were easily assuaged with promises of a return to the shore the following morning. As Lady Fieldhurst had predicted, they were filled with self-importance at the prospect of assisting a Bow Street Runner, and thought it a great lark that they should address this interesting individual as “Uncle John.”

  For Harold’s part, he was all eagerness to do whatever lay in his power to clear his ladylove’s name—not unlike Pickett himself had been some six months earlier, when first confronted with the newly widowed Viscountess Fieldhurst. After one last, longing glance at the chimneys of Ravenscroft Manor just visible over the cliff, Harold turned to follow his brothers, who were by this time far down the beach.

  Thus Pickett was left to escort his “wife” in blissful solitude. The temperature had dropped with the setting of the sun and the ocean breeze, which had been refreshingly brisk only half an hour earlier, was now quite chilly. Lady Fieldhurst shivered and moved instinctively nearer, tucking her hand more securely into the curve of his arm. Pickett, nothing loth, stopped and shrugged out of his brown serge coat.