by Jo Beverley
The maid backed away. “Of course, not, milady. I’ll do just as you say, milady.”
She almost ran away. Shame to frighten her, but Hermione couldn’t think of that now. She hurried downstairs, pulling on her gloves. Coroner. Mr. Stirling. Carriage.
She was aware of servants going this way and that, preparing for a dance party. How could there be a dance party, when . . . ? But Thayne wasn’t dead. It was all a mistake. She hurried across the hall to the front door.
“Hermione?”
She glanced to the side. Nicholas Delaney. “My apologies, sir. I must go out.”
“Of course,” he said, and opened the door for her.
“Thank you.” She hurried out but became aware that he was still by her side. “Sir?”
“I’ll accompany you. Where do we go?”
“There’s no need. . . .” But there was. She didn’t know where to go. “I need to speak to a Mr. Stirling. He’s the coroner.”
“I know where he lives. If we walk in this direction, we’ll come to a hackney stand.”
His calm tone seemed most peculiar. “Don’t you wonder why I need to go to the coroner?”
“Of course, but you’ll tell me or not as you wish.”
She stopped to look him in the eye. “It’s not true, you see. I have to tell them that.”
“What’s not true?”
“That Ned Granger is dead. I mean Mark Thayne. But it said Ned Granger. Of course.”
“Of course. We should certainly find out the truth. Come along.”
Everything seemed suddenly calmer. Nicholas Delaney would take her to the coroner. She’d establish the truth. All would be well.
“It was in a newssheet,” Hermione explained as she hurried along. “Not a proper newspaper. The rough sort boys sell on the street. I’m sure they print nonsense.”
“Very likely. What did it say about the death?”
“Drowned. Throat slit. No. Foul play. They only knew him by a card in his pocket. Isn’t that ridiculous? He could have given a card to anyone!”
“It does seem flimsy evidence. There’ll be an inquest, of course, so the truth will come out.”
“Will there? I suppose so. But I must tell them, now.”
“Of course. They could have already seen their error.”
“That’s true. The paper was two days old.”
“We’ll soon find out. Here we are.” He ushered her into the hackney carriage, gave the driver an address, and then sat beside her.
“Thank you. You’re being very kind.”
“I would assist anyone in such distress.” He offered her his handkerchief and she realized she was leaking tears. She dabbed at them and then blew her nose. “It was a shock, you see.”
“Yes.”
“My mother’s death was unexpected,” she said, “because after the carriage accident it seemed she was recovering, but when she died, we weren’t completely unprepared. My father took some weeks to die and he was an old man. Thayne’s no older than you. But then, Roger was only twenty. Young men die in wars.”
“Yes.”
She was rattling on, but she couldn’t help it. “That was war, though. We’re at peace now. Why do people try to disturb the peace?”
“That’s too deep a question for now. We’re arriving.”
“So soon?” she said, suddenly panicked. The truth lay in this ordinary-seeming house before her? A brick house in a terrace of them?
Mr. Delaney eased her out of the carriage. “Come along. You need to know the truth.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
“Lady Arden said knowledge is power. She gave me a list of the Company of Rogues. Your name was at the top, but it shouldn’t have been.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
He rapped the brass knocker. A servingman opened the door. Delaney gave him a card. “Mr. Delaney and Lady Hermione Merryhew to see Mr. Stirling if he’s available.”
They were ushered in, and placed in a small, chilly reception room. The house had a musty smell, and though it was handsomely furnished, everything was in an old style.
“Stirling’s an elderly man,” Delaney said, “but shrewd and honest.”
The servant returned and led them to another room. Hermione’s legs began to weaken and she clung to Delaney’s arm. She would not faint. There was no need. She was here to sort out a mistake.
It was a study of sorts, the walls lined with books and a brisk fire in the grate, but again a little musty. The man standing to greet them had thin gray hair, but a spare, vigorous body and keen eyes behind spectacles. “Lady Hermione, Mr. Delaney, how may I serve you?” He spoke with a slight Scottish accent.
She was urged toward a sofa and settled there. Delaney spoke for her. “Lady Hermione is under some distress, sir. Would it be possible for her to have some sweet tea?”
“Yes, of course, of course.” The order was given and then the coroner sat opposite them. “Can you explain your mission here as we wait, sir?”
“Lady Hermione read a report in a paper of a body being identified as a Mr. Edward Granger. As she knows the gentleman, she is affected by it. She doesn’t believe it can be true.”
“She has reason to doubt it?”
“Not that she’s shared with me thus far, sir. Hermione?”
She jerked out of a daze. “Yes?”
“Can you explain to the coroner why you’re sure the body can’t be that of Edward Granger?”
The tea came in then, however, and was dispensed.
Delaney put a cup and saucer in her hands and commanded, “Drink.”
She did. It was heavily sugared, which was not to her taste, but it did begin to clear her head. She drank some more, then put the tea down. “It’s the card, you see, sir,” she said to the coroner. “He could have given a card to anyone. It’s no proof of anything.”
“I agree, Lady Hermione, but there was more than one card.” The eyes were sympathetic, but the tone was firm. “We are scrupulous in these matters. After some days in the water the contents of the pockets were in a sorry state, but there were a number of cards and they all seemed to have the same name on them.”
“Oh.” She turned that in her mind. She knew Thayne couldn’t be dead, so there had to be some other explanation. “Was there any other means of identification?”
“I’m sorry, but yes. After the notice was circulated, a friend came forward to identify the remains. Mr. Granger was interred yesterday under the supervision of this friend.”
Interred?
Buried already?
“The friend’s name?” Delaney asked.
“Ah, I do not quite recall. Let me think. Mitchell, I believe. Yes, Mitchell. I do not have his address to hand, but it will be recorded, if you would wish to have it.”
Mitchell? She’d never heard the name. “He lied,” she said.
“Collect yourself, please, Lady Hermione. With what motive?”
Thayne’s enemies. But they would have murdered him, not identified him. But he wasn’t dead.
Stirling had said something.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“No matter, my dear. I fear this young gentleman meant a great deal to you. Naturally you are reluctant to accept that he has gone. I would normally say it was a pity you didn’t have the opportunity to see his remains and make peace with the truth, but in the circumstances that would have been no consolation.”
“His throat was slit.”
“Good heavens, no. Whatever gave you that idea? A severe blow to the head. Lady Hermione, please pay attention to this one thing.” His tone was a warning.
“Yes?”
“The inquest concluded that he was the victim of a felonious assault, for there was nothing of value in his pockets, only the waterlogged cards,
a handkerchief, and a tangle of white silk which could once have been formed into a rose.”
Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. “No.”
He didn’t contradict her, for there was no need. There was no hope. The corpse had had the rose. Thayne was dead.
She broke into sobs and was gathered into Nicholas Delaney’s arms. In time, after more sweet tea, this time with brandy in it, she had the strength to stand, to leave, supported by Nicholas Delaney’s arm. In the carriage she sat in numb silence until she said, “How do I go on? How does anyone go on?”
“One day at a time. One hour at a time. One minute, even. Do you want to tell me about him?”
She longed to, but she couldn’t think yet what Thayne would want people to know about him. She couldn’t think at all.
She began to weep again.
Chapter 35
“We’ve given her some laudanum,” Beth Arden said, entering the drawing room, where Nicholas waited. “Poor woman. I suspected she was in love, and not quite smoothly, but I didn’t expect a tragedy. Who was this Granger?”
“Also known as Thane or Fane,” Nicholas said. “A false name implies a great lack of smoothness in their affairs, doesn’t it, but which is true, which false? I asked Peake about Granger and Fane or Thane, but none of the names means anything to him. He didn’t believe Hermione had any meaningful encounter on their journey to London.”
“Perhaps it was earlier, on her way to the Wirral with her family. Warrington. She said she’d encountered the man in Warrington. That must have been when she was traveling with her family, though.”
“You’re imagining a clandestine affair,” he said, “but he could have been known to her family under one name or the other. They could all have shared a jolly dinner.”
“Whatever the truth, it’s a sorry tale. She spoke of him with such brightness in her eyes, but all the time he was dead. I feel I should put on mourning.”
“Instead you have a party to host.”
Beth put a hand to her head. “Lord above. Should I cancel? I can’t, not within hours. If I attempted it, half the guests wouldn’t receive the news in time.”
“Beth, I’m shocked. Succumbing to hollow convention? You don’t have a corpse in the house, and your connection to the deceased, and even to the bereaved, is tenuous.”
“Might she be upset to hear dance music and laughter nearby?”
“Not if she has a rational heart.”
“Does anyone?”
“No,” he admitted, “but she’s suffered the deaths of both parents and two brothers. She must know that neither earth nor heaven weeps for our losses.”
“No matter how much we wish they did.”
“Because we believe we should be the center of the universe, not mere ants, scurrying busily beneath the surface.”
“Don’t tell Lucien he’s a mere ant.”
“I try, I try. The lessons in humility never stick. Might he recognize the names Granger, Thane, or Fane? As families of importance, I mean.”
“He might. He was trained to this life from the cradle and they all seem to know each other, at least by the repute. ‘Oh, that must be one of the Herefordshire Fanes,’” she said in a fashionable drawl. “‘I believe my second cousin married a Pulteney Fane-Frobisher. . . .’”
He chuckled. “You have the manner pat, but the details wrong. Perhaps the second cousin married the Earl of Westmorland. Fane’s that family’s name.”
“You remember that sort of thing?” she said with surprise.
“Eventually. I, too, was trained to it from the cradle.”
“It’s so easy to forget.”
“I take that as a compliment. I wish Arabella Hurstman was here. She’d be able to rattle off genealogies on the instant—though I’m not sure how much use it would be. There will be hundreds of Grangers, Fanes, and Thanes who once attended a ball.”
“What about Westmorland? If he’s a Fane, could he have been Edward Granger?”
He smiled. “The Earl of Westmorland found dead in the river? It wouldn’t go unnoticed. He’s the Lord Privy Seal. You see? Knowing about him and that he’s a Fane is hardly obscure knowledge. I shall try to sort this out.”
She went with him to the door. “Will you return this evening?”
“Of course. Eleanor’s looking forward to it. By the way, I have news of Dr. Grammaticus. I assumed Hermione’s summons was impatience over that and was anticipating her admiration and joy. Last heard of, he was in Tunbridge Wells, dosing invalids of all sorts and in particular those with gout. I’ve sent someone there to find him and bring him here to treat Mr. Peake.”
“Will he, nill he?”
“I’ve offered him a handsome sum. He seems the type to respond to that.”
“Not hopeful,” she said.
“No. Best not to tell Peake yet. Grammaticus might have moved on, or he might flee at the sign of serious interest. We don’t want to raise false hopes.” He kissed her hand. “Be of lighter heart, Beth. Gloom won’t bring Hermione’s beloved back to life.”
* * *
Hermione woke in a room lit only by firelight, with a muddleheaded feeling that told her she’d been dosed with laudanum. She didn’t remember taking it. She didn’t remember much after the coroner had convinced her that Thayne was dead.
He was dead.
Her heart didn’t believe, but her head knew the truth. The silken rose. There could be no doubt. Thayne was dead and buried.
She was in her shift. She’d been undressed, but not to nakedness.
What time was it? It was dark outside.
She pushed up to sit against the pillows, trying to accept the truth. Thayne was dead and buried—as Edward Granger. That wasn’t right. Had she told the coroner that Edward Granger was Mark Thayne? She didn’t think so. She really should. Or was it a secret she should take to the grave? She remembered thinking that and bursting into tears, but she seemed to be drained of tears now and left only with the leaden ache.
The door opened and Beth looked in. When she saw Hermione was awake, she came over to the bed in a rustle of silk. She was in a dark red evening gown and the firelight shone on rubies around her neck. “How are you? Is there anything you need?” she asked.
Hermione took the question at the ordinary level. “No, thank you. You look lovely. The party.”
“I hope you don’t mind it going on.”
“Of course not. What time is it?”
“Nearly seven. The dinner guests will be arriving soon.” Beth took Hermione’s hand. “I’m so very sorry that you’ve lost someone dear to you.”
“Thank you. It doesn’t seem quite so terrible now, but that’s the opium.”
“Yes.”
“The pain will come back.”
“Yes.”
Hermione dragged out a sensible thought. “Will Mr. Delaney be here tonight?”
“Indeed, I expect him.”
“Please thank him for me. He was very kind. Very understanding.”
“Of course.” Beth went to the mantelpiece and then brought something over. “The coroner sent these and Nicholas thought you should have them.”
Puzzled, Hermione took a white handkerchief that had seen rough wear. When she unfolded it, something fell out. A tangle of stained silk.
“Oh.” She started crying again, but in a softer way, with sadness, but with memories as well. “His handkerchief, too. Both from the river.”
“Are you all right?” Beth asked again. “I wasn’t sure you should have them.”
“I’ll treasure them. They help. But the talisman didn’t protect him in the end, did it?”
“Would you like anything else? There’s water by your bed.”
Hermione saw that was true and reached for the carafe. Beth poured the water for her. It tasted strange, but she knew why. “Opium
affects the taste of things.”
“Yes. It’s a blessing,” Beth agreed, “but it blunts our emotions and plays games with our minds. Try to rest. You’ll feel better. . . .” She halted. “No, not better, but clearer, later. Nicholas has some good news. Dr. Grammaticus is said to be in Tunbridge Wells. Nicholas is arranging for him to come here to treat your great-uncle.”
“That is good news.” It was, but Hermione couldn’t feel it yet through the cotton wool of her mind. “Has Edgar been told?”
“We decided to wait until we’re sure he’s more than a charlatan.”
Hermione nodded.
Beth squeezed her hand. “I must go. It’s a weak platitude, but time does heal.”
Alone again, Hermione fingered the handkerchief and the rose, grateful to have something of Thayne’s, even if they made her cry again. Perhaps crying washed away grief. She doubted that. She conquered tears and focused on the good news about Dr. Grammaticus. That had once been so important, but now it fell flat.
She slid back down into the bed, holding the handkerchief and the rose, and eventually drifted back to sleep.
She woke again and had to get out of bed to use the chamber pot. Once up, she didn’t want to return. Her head was clearing, bringing back the pain, but she preferred piercing truth to fuzzy blankness. She found the handkerchief and the rose in the bed and put them in her trinket box for safety.
Better to think about Grammaticus. He might be here tomorrow, and his cure might be true. Edgar could enjoy life again.
What of her? She supposed she’d return to Selby. Even with ten thousand pounds, where else did she have to go? She could stay with Edgar. Yes, that would be better. Perhaps he’d want to travel again. Foreign shores would distract her. Perhaps in time she’d forget.
She went to the window and found she could see the moon floating in and out of clouds. Below, the garden had been turned magical by colored lamps. She remembered earlier, watching Beth’s son playing there and having been so sure she could make a future with Thayne and children of her own.
It had already been too late. Thayne had died days ago. She hadn’t known it, which seemed unbelievable, but he’d been dead for days. He must have been killed almost as soon as he arrived in London. Killed by his vile, revolutionary enemies. Perhaps she could help find them. The Frenchwoman and the brute’s brother. The idea of a goal strengthened her. She drank the remaining water and then rang the bell.
