To Wed an Heiress

by Rosanne E. Lortz

  “Hmm, yes.” Pevensey’s pencil swooped across the paper. This cook really did deserve a portrait of her own. He penciled in the greasy tendrils of her hair coming out from her cap before beginning to sketch her ample figure. “And did they eat it up, the same as usual?”

  “No, come to think of it, they did not! The platters came back almost full again. Although Master Torin did his bit to clear the sausages, I could tell—them’s being his favorite.”

  “Aha!” The scritch-scratching continued, and Pevensey only paused it long enough to give the cook a sly wink. “Thank you, ma’am—you’ve been most helpful.”

  “Oh, lud, sir!” said the cook with a giggle that was becoming to neither her size nor her age.

  Pevensey scratched his right sideburn with the blunt end of the pencil and squinted—an observer might suspect that he was trying to make out what he himself had just written. In reality, he was noting that he had not quite captured the cook’s ears properly. He pursed his lips and snapped the book shut as Mrs. Alfred approached. “They’re all here now,” said the housekeeper.

  “Very good,” replied Pevensey. He cleared his throat to address the multitude. “Good morning. I daresay you all know I’m here on unpleasant business.” He began to pace in front of the line of curious faces, looking intently into each set of eyes as he passed by.

  “So, then, is this everyone in the house here save the family and their guests?”

  “Yes—well, that is, no,” said Mrs. Alfred. She looked around the room thoughtfully. “There’s Garth, his lordship’s valet, and Otto, Mr. Hastings’ valet, and Miss Hastings’ lady’s maid…what was her name?”

  “Mademoiselle Mathilde,” said the first footman, his cheeks coloring slightly as he supplied the requisite information.

  “Hmm, yes, Mademoiselle Mathilde,” repeated Mrs. Alfred, with a dour expression that said she was not one to judge, but that in this case, she might have to make an exception.

  She continued listing off the absentees for Pevensey’s benefit. “Her ladyship has a maid as well—and I do not know if you would count Mrs. Rollo as a guest or…otherwise. She is—or was—a paid companion to Miss Hastings.”

  Jacob Pevensey cocked his head. Apparently, Mrs. Alfred did not consider Mrs. Rollo on the same level as a guest, and one might easily speculate that this was informed by the companion’s treatment at the hands of the family who employed her.

  “Whom would you like to see first, sir?”

  “Mademoiselle Mathilde, if you please.” It was a selfish choice since all the others had been summoned here from their duties solely for the purpose of being questioned. But it was also the sensible choice. If anyone could give Pevensey more insight into the character of the murdered woman, it would be her lady’s maid. And if he were to ask the right questions of everyone else, he would need that insight first.

  “I’ll interview the rest of you all in good time,” Pevensey said with a smile that caused the housemaids to blush and rethink any previous aversions to red-haired men. “If you would be so good, Mrs. Alfred….”

  “Of course,” said the housekeeper, a little put out that her assembly of the servants had all been for naught. But it did not take much more than a quick compliment of her efficiency for Pevensey to win her over. “Well then,” she said, smoothing down the dark fabric of her skirt, “Henry can direct you to the upstairs parlor, and I will send Mademoiselle Mathilde word to meet you there.”

  Pevensey fell in behind the dark-haired first footman and ascended the back stairs with a wrinkle in his forehead. It was obvious that the lady’s maid was French. And Frenchwomen, he had often found, were not as easily charmed as English housemaids.

  ***

  Henry delivered Pevensey to the upstairs parlor without mishap, but he seemed reluctant to leave even though his mission had been accomplished. Pevensey knew better than to ascribe this lingering to his own presence. He had seen the blush the first footman gave when Miss Hastings’ maid was mentioned.

  Mademoiselle Mathilde was not there yet. Pevensey had not expected her to be. Even if Mrs. Alfred’s message had already reached her, she would doubtless keep him waiting, as was the wont of lady’s maids and Frenchwomen.

  “Mademoiselle Mathilde’s a tempting armful, eh?” Pevensey asked the footman bluntly.

  The footman gaped. “Oh’s, I couldn’t say, sir.”

  “But I daresay she hasn’t looked in your direction?”

  There was that blush again. Pevensey mused to himself that if he ended up needing to know Mademoiselle Mathilde’s whereabouts on the day of the murder, Henry might prove immensely helpful.

  The door opened and in flounced a good-looking woman, with dark brown curls and a sprigged muslin dress far too fine for someone of her station. “Ah, Mademoiselle Mathilde,” said Pevensey. “A pleasure.”

  “The pleasure, I think, is all yours.” She settled herself upon the sofa. The footman took the opportunity to glide out the open door.

  “I have some questions to put to you about the morning of your mistress’ murder.”

  “Mon dieu! Then ask them. I do not have all the time in the world to sit here and listen to you.”

  Pevensey smiled inwardly. A lady’s maid without a lady to attend was clearly not as busy as this one claimed to be. After all, Miss Hastings’ corpse hardly needed to be dressed for dinner.

  Pevensey looked at the gown the maid was wearing. It did not quite fit about the shoulders and had clearly been made for someone else. Perhaps that was why she had so little time to talk to him—she needed to finish going through her late mistress’ wardrobe and helping herself to articles of dress before Mr. Hastings overcame his grief enough to dismiss her from service.

  “What time did Miss Hastings wake yesterday?”

  The lady’s maid threw up her hands. “Je ne sais pas. I am not one of these English butlers with a pocket watch always in hand.”

  “Surely, you must have some idea.”

  The edges of Mademoiselle Mathilde’s nose curled in derision as she deliberately looked the other way. Pevensey pulled out his notebook, and his pencil began a rough sketch of Mademoiselle Mathilde’s upturned nose. The brown-haired abigail was not so attractive with that ugly sneer on her face, but in Pevensey’s opinion, she was far more interesting.

  There. He had perfectly captured the lines of that little Gallic chin. He had succeeded in rendering his subject curious as well, wondering what he could possibly be writing about when she had offered him no information. It was impossible to continue her sneer forever, and when Mademoiselle Mathilde finally turned her head back to look at him, Pevensey gave her another opportunity.

  “So, in consideration for the fact that you do not often consult a timepiece, would you say that Miss Hastings woke before sunrise or after sunrise?”

  “After.”

  Pevensey wrinkled his nose and finished drawing the curls on the left side of her forehead. Sunrise at this time of year would be around eight o’clock.

  “And after she awoke, did Miss Hastings go downstairs for breakfast?”

  Mademoiselle Mathilde shrugged.

  “Did you dress her in garments suitable to go downstairs for breakfast?”

  “I suppose so.”

  That answer was far too vague. It was essential to know whether she had been wearing an indoor dress or an outdoor one. In other words, had she intended to walk out to the pond from the moment she awakened or did the idea come to her later?

  “Let us be clear with each other, mademoiselle. What exactly did you dress her in? Was it the red pelisse that she was wearing when she was found dead in the pond?”

  The maid hesitated. Could it be because she was about to tell him a lie? Or was it because, after all her prevarications, she was finally going to tell him the truth?

  “Yes. In the red pelisse.”

  20

  Haro thumbed through the latest issue of The Sporting Magazine for a minute, read a short article on how to keep one�
�s hunters in fine fettle, and then listlessly tossed the magazine down on the end table. All morning they had been waiting for the Bow Street Runner to arrive, and now that he was here there was nothing but more waiting. If only the fellow would hurry up and ferret out the culprit. Although, unless it were some stranger from the woods who had done away with Arabella, Haro was not so sure he wanted to hear the results of Pevensey’s inquiry.

  Haro fidgeted in the armchair, jumped up, and paced. He wished that he took snuff so that he would have something to do with his hands. Blast this inactivity! He wanted to ride, to dig his heels into his favorite mount and send the beast bounding through the woods, to have the winter wind slicing at his face like a cutlass and the rhythm of hooves soothing his spirit. But he had given his word to Hastings—he could not leave the house until Pevensey had finished his investigation.

  Ah well, if he could not ride, perhaps he could locate a companion, someone to shoot billiards with or play a game of chess. For the last week he had cared little about how the other inmates of the house were spending their time—except for Arabella, of course, but that infatuation was not something he wished to dwell on. Now, all he could think about was how pleasant it would be to have some company. Torin was still sitting with their mother upstairs, and Eda had not come back to the drawing room. He certainly did not want to seek out William Hastings, and the servants were out of the question.

  That left no one. Or rather, it left Philippe Bayeux, the architect. Haro cocked his head to the side. He hadn’t caught a glimpse of the Frenchman since the incident. Supposedly, he was keeping to his room to spare the feelings of the family. Or maybe to spare his own feelings? Eda had said the fellow had a tendre for Arabella. If so, he was probably sitting in his room all Friday-faced and broken up. A slight twinge of guilt attacked Haro, insinuating that as Arabella’s fiancé he ought to be more broken up about what had happened too.

  Haro picked up the magazine again and rolled it into a child’s telescope. He would go have a look at what Bayeux was up to, and if he could not distract the poor fellow from his grief, why then, at least the poor fellow could distract him from his anxious pacing. The telescope slipped out of his hands as he dropped it carelessly onto the sofa.

  It took Haro a few minutes to locate which chamber Bayeux had been placed in. The housekeeper, sensing the confusion over whether the architect was a guest or an interloper, had assigned him a small bedroom somewhere between the family and the servants. Haro rapped on the door with polite knuckles. There was no response. He rapped on it again.

  “Yes?” came a voice—whether grieving, harried, or irritated, Haro could not tell. “What do you want?”

  “I say, Bayeux,” replied Haro with as much cheer as he could muster. “I was hoping to coax you into an afternoon game of billiards.”

  There was a pause. “Non. Merci beaucoup, but no.”

  Haro grimaced. The fellow sounded distraught. “Well, in all honesty, the billiards were just a pretext for pouring down a glass. Care to join me for some brandy in the billiards room?”

  There was another pause, and then Philippe Bayeux swung open the door. His face was as haggard as a night watchman’s at the end of his shift. But whatever the circumstances might be, it seemed he was a man who improved his own spirits by drinking other people’s.

  “Your lordship is a generous man,” said the Frenchman. Haro was not entirely sure if it was a compliment.

  “Terribly unfortunate you having to be detained here,” said Haro, making small talk as he led the way down the corridor. Just after the words left his mouth, he realized how callous they sounded—as if he were bemoaning the dratted inconvenience of having his fiancée murdered.

  Fortunately, Bayeux had receded into his shell of silence and seemed to take no notice of the earl’s gaffe. They entered the billiards room and Haro, for the sake of appearances, set the billiard balls up on the table. “And now then,” said Haro, throwing open the door of the liquor cabinet. “I’m for brandy. You?”

  Bayeux walked over to the cabinet and took hold of the bottle of gin.

  “Blue Ruin, eh?” said Haro with a whistle. He had a dim memory of his father indulging—and perhaps, overindulging—in it, which was probably why the bottle was in the house. It was not a selection he himself favored. Gin always tasted like eating an evergreen forest, and although he liked the scent of pines when riding through the woods, he did not fancy them blended up in a glass. “Well then, help yourself.”

  The architect had not waited for the invitation. And indeed, if the earl had not been present, it was likely that he would have ignored civilization’s dictates and drunk directly from the bottle.

  Haro sipped his brandy in silence. He had gone looking for Bayeux because he needed something to occupy his mind, but now, he realized that the kinder and more necessary thing would be to occupy Bayeux’s. “It’s been quite the cold spell we’ve been having this year.”

  Bayeux shivered. “Yes, very cold.” The clear glass of the gin bottle showed that its store had already been significantly depleted.

  Haro floundered in the wake of that response. His mother had taught him how to converse fluently with strangers, but every single one of the scripted pleasantries that he weighed upon his tongue felt like cutting capers at a funeral.

  “I’m sorry,” he blurted out.

  The Frenchman set down his glass of gin and buried his head in his hands. “It is not your fault.”

  Haro sighed. At least there was one person who did not blame him for Arabella’s death.

  ***

  After Miss Hastings’ maid had flounced her way out of the parlor, Pevensey wandered over to the window and stared out of it for a few moments, hands behind his back. The conversation with Mademoiselle Mathilde, despite her recalcitrance, had been very illuminating.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a gentle clearing of the throat. It was Henry. “Mrs. Alfred sent me, sir, to see who should be sent up next.”

  Pevensey wrinkled his nose. He had not heard Henry’s footsteps on the staircase, as by rights he should have, had the footman been coming up from the kitchen.

  “It seems only fair that if I’ve seen the lady’s maid, I ought to see the gentleman’s manservant.”

  “Just as you say, sir,” said Henry, and he stepped out of the room smartly to alert the Earl of Anglesford’s valet.

  Pevensey took up his pencil as soon as Garth entered, but he found himself far less interested in this sketch than he had been in the previous one. The valet’s manner was stiff and guarded, and he weighed all his statements like a butcher might do before wrapping them in brown paper and presenting them to Pevensey.

  “Now, see here,” said Pevensey candidly, after he had learned that Haro had not acted in any way unusual on the morning in question and displayed no agitation whatsoever, “if you had seen his lordship throttle Miss Hastings and dump her body in the pond—with your own two eyes, mind you—would you tell me?”

  The question did not penetrate Garth’s reserve, but he at least acknowledged the merit of it. “No, sir, I would not.”

  “So I thought. I thank you for confirming that his lordship rose early and dressed to go downstairs. But since you cannot confirm anything further regarding his whereabouts, I think I have no further use for you.”

  Garth inclined his head and exited. His presence in the room was swiftly replaced with the ubiquitous Henry. “Who next, sir?”

  “Why, you, Henry!” Pevensey shrugged. “Since you’re here.” He tucked his pencil behind his ear. “Tell me about the argument that took place between the earl and Mr. Hastings.”

  “I don’t know about any argu—”

  “Nonsense, Henry!” said Pevensey, with a dismissive wave of the hand. “You are evidently adept at listening through keyholes.”

  The footman colored. “I don’t know what you mean, sir—”

  “I daresay you hid in the linen closet there, yes, just outside the door as Mademoiselle Mathilde w
as leaving?”

  The footman swallowed visibly.

  “So, tell me, Henry. What exactly was said during the argument between the earl and Mr. Hastings?”

  It was a guess, but it might prove profitable. Henry’s discomfort was a telltale sign. Pevensey pulled out his notebook and began to sketch—a man in livery with an exaggeratedly long nose and an unmistakable proximity to a keyhole.

  “You’ll not mention anything to his lordship about this?” the footman blurted out. “Or to Mrs. Alfred?” Of the two, it seemed like Mrs. Alfred was the more formidable in his eyes.

  Pevensey’s eyes flicked upward with disdain. “I will mention whatever I please and whatever proves pertinent. Continue.”

  The footman sighed audibly and gave in to the inevitable. As he talked, his speech settled into the familiar patterns of his childhood rather than the proper diction he had learned to assume around his betters.

  “I weren’t meaning to eavesdrop,”—a time-honored introductory statement to such stories, thought Pevensey—“but I had brought a Cornish pastie and some ale to the library for Mr. Hastings, just like he’d asked for, and I was about to knock on the door, when I heard voices. They were too loud not to recognize and too angry to interrupt. ‘Why then,’ thought I, ‘here’s no time to be delivering a pastie. I’ll wait right here ’til the gentlemen settle down a mite and then knock on the door proper-like.’”

  “You may omit what was thought,” said Pevensey, the scritch-scratching of his pencil making everything seem very official from the other’s perspective. “Simply state what was said.”

  “Well, the first thing that I heard was Mr. Hastings calling his lordship some names that I’d be ashamed to use on my worst enemy,”—Pevensey doubted that the first footman had any enemies more daunting than an envious second footman—“and his lordship started to shout a little too. He called Mr. Hastings a bully and said he had a mind to end the engagement.”

  “Aha!” Pevensey wondered if this decision on the earl’s part was premeditated or if he had been provoked into making it during the course of this conversation. “What then?”