The Dead Songbird (The Northminster Mysteries)

by Smart, Harriet

  “Like this?” The miniature was of a lustrous young beauty, her hair dressed in the style of twenty years ago, but it was unmistakably the same woman.

  “That is she,” Felix said.

  “Lady Limpersleigh,” said Lord Rothborough, snapping shut the miniature and putting it away. “She is not a friend of my wife’s. Not by any stretch. She is my cousin though – and yours. So what did she want?”

  “She wanted me to use my influence with you. I told her I had none.”

  “About what?”

  “Mrs Morgan, of course!” Felix exclaimed. “She told me that you are in danger of being driven mad by her wiles and that your poor, neglected wife cannot bear the thought of it.”

  “And you believed her?”

  “I don’t know! What was I supposed to think? When she told me what happened in Paris, about my mother – I had never heard before that you tried to kill yourself over that.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Lord Rothborough. “I see.” He grimaced and rubbed his hand across his face. “She’s jealous, of course. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

  “Then that woman was your mistress?” Felix said. “Or one of them, I should say?” Rothborough shrugged. “And you think that marrying me off to this girl will turn me into some virtuous husband who is never tempted to stray, when you yourself have never had any qualms about pleasing yourself when and where you choose? Or am I to marry this poor girl and dabble where I like, is that it?” And he snatched up the picture of Lady Nina and waved at Lord Rothborough. “I should throw this in the fire! She would be far happier if she never has anything to do with us! You told me not to fall in love – to guard my heart. I thought that was out of sentiment when I heard you tried to kill yourself, that you were looking to protect me from that, but I see now it is out of convenience! No, poor girl, she does not deserve us, she does not!”

  He would have thrown it in the fire, but Rothborough caught his hand and took the picture from him. It went back in the drawer with the discarded mistress.

  “Us?” said Rothborough, rather quietly. “So, you did tup Miss Pritchard?”

  “No, of course I did not! I am not your pattern in all things, my Lord! I have not laid a finger on her. How could you believe that of me?”

  “The young lady was most convincing,” said Rothborough. “And given your conduct towards Mrs Morgan...”

  “What has she said?”

  “That she was the recipient of a most undignified mauling. Very intemperate behaviour, Felix – and you wonder why I recommend the safe harbour of marriage to you? Mrs Morgan agrees with me.”

  Felix turned away. The thought of the pair of them discussing him was unbearable, and the fact she had told Lord Rothborough about his desperate kiss was a crowning humiliation.

  “Though not to Miss Pritchard, of course,” Rothborough went on, “however inevitable a course the Dean seems to think that is. He is not a reasonable man at best of times and you have done an excellent job of riling him up.”

  “He struck me!” exclaimed Felix. “He was insupportable.”

  “At least we may agree about that,” said Rothborough. “And we will both go and call on him tomorrow and put an end to this ridiculous business.”

  “If my patients permit,” he muttered. “I had better go.”

  “Take this with you,” said Lord Rothborough, reaching into the drawer and taking out the sketch again. “It was intended for you.”

  He held it out most insistently. Felix took it at last, just to silence him, and tucked it into his coat without looking at it. “I am not marrying to order, sir, and that is my final word!”

  “We shall see about that,” said Rothborough, waving his hand to dismiss him.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  “Fildyke?” Giles said, looking at the custody register. “And Josiah Harrison?”

  “Mr Carswell and Constable Jones brought them in, sir,” said Sargent Boyd.

  “So I see,” he said, consulting the charge sheet. “Harbouring a fugitive and gross indecency? Is this correct, Boyd?”

  “According to Mr Carswell.”

  “Harrison is not technically a fugitive, only wanted for questioning,” said Giles. “Where is he?”

  “In the infirmary cell. Alcohol poisoning, Mr Carswell said.”

  “So not in a fit state to be interviewed tonight?”

  “I would say not, sir; you would have to ask Mr Carswell about that, but he’s gone out.”

  “With Lord Rothborough,” said Superintendent Rollins, joining them at the desk. “About an hour since.”

  Giles went down to the cells and found Fildyke looking sullen and petulant.

  “You’ve no right to keep me here, sir,” he said, jumping at the sight of Giles. “I demand to be released. I have friends, you know, who will not take kindly to my being treated like this.”

  “These friends, who might they be?”

  “The Dean.”

  “Oh yes, the Dean. That’s interesting, Mr Fildyke. What is the Dean to you, precisely? He has mentioned you to me, as well.”

  “A friend. Cannot two gentlemen be friends, sir?”

  “You make quite a claim for yourself there, Mr Fildyke,” said Giles. “I would not imagine that Dean Pritchard would see it in that light. He might consider it degrading to be associated with you in any way, given the activity in which Mr Carswell found you engaged.”

  “The Dean is my friend and will soon put this to rights. I must write to him. I demand that I may write to him. You cannot deny me that!”

  “Very well, you may have the materials to write,” Giles said. “In the meantime, I suggest you spend the next few hours thinking straight about the situation you are in, and how you may best save your sorry skin by co-operating with us as fully as possible. We will talk again tomorrow, Mr Fildyke, and at length.”

  He then looked in on Harrison who was fast asleep, like an innocent child. He decided that was another interview that could wait until morning; he was not yet clear enough in his mind what line to take to with him. This business with Fildyke had confused everything. A night of waiting might make both men more tractable and the threads more easy to untangle.

  Giles went and ate his own dinner, with only Snow for company. When he was done, he stood staring at the papers he had pinned to his wall, trying to make sense of them. Snow pressed against him, demanding exercise and attention. It was developing into a foul night, but he decided that a cold walk in the rain was a good remedy for the fog of his mind. Besides, there was a call he needed to pay, in spite of his best efforts. He put on his mackintosh cloak and ventured out, with Snow trotting happily along side him.

  ***

  The little house looked different in the dark. He had only seen it by day before, and now with a lamp sitting in the bow window of the sitting room to signal that it was occupied, it looked as charming as he had hoped. He stopped at the gate, looking up the brick path, for he could hear the sound of the piano, and the melody caught his attention. He felt a shiver of pleasant surprise when a woman’s voice began to sing with it. He stood there for some moments listening, despite the rain, wondering if what he heard was real or whether it was some strange dream of domestic bliss.

  Snow did not care for the rain and barked with annoyance at being made to wait. So Giles opened the hand gate and went up to the door. The music continued and he had no wish for it to stop. Since he had the key in his pocket he unlocked it, opening the door quietly and only a little. But it was enough to fill his nostrils with the sweet scent of a wood fire.

  “Mrs Morgan?” he called out, knowing he must break the spell and not wishing to alarm her unduly. “Good evening!”

  She came out of the sitting room a moment later.

  “Major Vernon, well, what a pleasant surprise! And you have walked all this way, in this weather. And you are drenched!”

  “Not really,” he said. “And I needed to walk. I had a few things to think of – I needed to settle my mind
on some points.”

  “Have you dined?”

  “Yes, thank you. Do you mind my dog? She is very tame, but I can shut her in the kitchen if you prefer.”

  “No, no, not at all. How could I mind such a beautiful creature? What is her name?”

  “Snow.”

  Mrs Morgan came forward and gave Snow a generous embrace of welcome, to which the dog submitted for a moment before giving herself a violent shake to free herself of the rain, showering Mrs Morgan in the process. She laughed, not the least offended.

  He took off his mackintosh cloak and cap and left them hanging on the large hooks in the vestibule.

  “Are you sure you will not have some supper? I am well provisioned. Your man has thought of everything. There is an excellent cheese and some game pie. Oh, and curd tarts. I have made sure Mr Holt has eaten his fill, by the way.”

  “Good. I am glad he looked after you.”

  “He is reassuring, I have to say,” she said. “Where did you find him?”

  “By happy accident,” he said.

  “I am great believer in serendipity,” she said. “Now, there is a good fire in here. Come and get dry. Oh, after you, Madame Snow...” She laughed again, as the dog slipped past her skirts and into the sitting room. As was her custom, Snow at once prostrated herself on the hearth rug and proceeded to roast herself.

  It was a good fire and Mrs Morgan had lit many candles as well as the lamp at the window. The sparsely furnished room looked inhabited and alive. The low chair had been brought up to the hearth and an Indian shawl lay thrown across the dull brown velvet of the sofa. On the round table the tea-tray sat with the silver pot, glittering a welcome.

  “I have been so curious – whose house is this?” she asked, picking up the shawl and wrapping it about her.

  “Mine,” said Giles. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “But you do not live here – not yet at least?”

  “I have only just taken it. It was an improvisation on my part to bring you here. I only signed the lease a week ago.”

  “It is very pretty.”

  “My sister has been seeing to the domestic details. One of her servants has been here, as well of course as the excellent Mr Holt.”

  “You are preparing it for someone, I think,” she said, tracing her finger along the empty music stand of the piano.

  “Yes,” he said. “What did you think of the piano? I heard you playing as I came up the path.”

  “It is a surprisingly good instrument,” she said.

  “You know, I think I took the place for the piano,” he said.

  “A man after my own heart!” she said, and then said, “Forgive me.”

  “I am glad to know it is a good one. I thought it was. I hoped...” he broke off. It was impossible not to stare at her with her patterned shawl about her, her deep red dress beneath glowing in the light of the candles.

  “She will be very happy with it,” she said.

  “I hope so,” he rubbed his face, and looked away into the fire.

  “Hope,” he heard her say, “that is a strange thing. We wear it like armour and yet it does so little to protect us.”

  He turned to look at her again, feeling the acuteness of her remark. She had sat down on the sofa and was twisting the fronds of her shawl fringe about her fingers.

  “That’s true,” he said. “But we cannot do without it.”

  “No, we cannot,” she said and looked over at him. “Life would be dry without it.”

  He crouched down on the hearth, to scratch Snow’s head. He watched her again as she fiddled with with the shawl fringe.

  “Will you tell me about her?” she said at length. “When are you to be married?”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “You are not the sort of man to keep a mistress,” she said. “And when you said your sister, well –”

  On other occasions he had resented such questions and deflected them. He never wanted to speak of it, but there was something in her straightforward tone that unlocked his tongue.

  “We are already married. We have been married eight years,” he said. “It is just she is ill in her mind and of necessity away from me. But I want her here. I am hoping she will be improved by living here, a mistress of her own house instead of a wretched inmate in the place she is now. That she might come back to me a little. That we might find again –” He broke off.

  There was a long silence.

  “Buckle on your hope, Major Vernon,” she said. “And I will pray it protects you.”

  “Yes, pray for us, Mrs Morgan,” he said getting to his feet. “He does not much listen to me, but He may listen to you.”

  “He does not listen to anyone much,” she said. “I think He is fading away. He is dying, that old man in the sky. There, now you know how bad I am for saying that – but there is such wickedness and cruelty in the world that I cannot believe in it anymore. How can a loving God permit such suffering? That is what I always struggle with.”

  “It is a struggle, yes,” he said.

  “We are better off believing in ourselves and the powers we have,” she said. “I think you would agree with that, Major Vernon, being such a practical, sensible man.” She got up and walked about the room. “And perhaps to hope is not such a foolish thing. Perhaps you will be happy here. If I had a glass of wine I should toast your future happiness, Major Vernon. I would drink to you and your wife.” She made the gesture of a toast. “And I will send flowers and kind letters and music for the excellent pianoforte, if you will permit it? I even have a Berlin work parrot cushion nearly done that would look handsome on that chair in the corner, if you would not object to such a gift?”

  “How could I?” he said, with a smile. “I am fond of parrots.”

  She laughed and then said, “Yes, we must live always in the expectation of a good outcome. And see off all our enemies with defiant good humour.”

  “Quite,” he said. “I wish we had a bottle of champagne to hand now.”

  “A bottle from your brother in law’s cellar, perhaps? I have never tasted any nicer than that we had the other night.”

  “He will be pleased to hear you say that. He takes great pride in his cellar.”

  “He is such a kind man,” she said. “It was very pleasant for me to be treated as he and your sister have – indeed as you have done – as someone ordinary, if I might put it like that. I find I am always damned or praised, but never accepted for myself.”

  “But you are not ordinary,” he found he must say.

  “My voice is not ordinary. But I am, I think,” she said.

  Snow got up, stretched and ambled over to her hostess. She looking up approvingly at Mrs Morgan, Giles felt, although he knew he was allowing his own pleasure to colour his interpretation of Snow’s feelings.

  Behind the sashes rattled with a sudden gust of wind and there was the sound of hail against the glass.

  “I do apologise for the lack of curtains,” he said.

  “It promises to be an alarming night,” she said.

  “Yes, perhaps.”

  “I am rather worried about you walking back in that.”

  “It will be no trouble,” he said.

  “You will never find your way. Why do you not stay here? Then you and Mr Holt may take turns in guarding me.” She smiled. “Not perhaps that I deserve such attentions.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to say something foolish and gallant. The invitation was a tempting one – it made a certain sense, although there was very little danger that Morgan would find his way out to such a remote spot. There was no real justification for him remaining there except to gratify himself, and it would be gratifying, there was no doubt about that. He could not much longer deny the peculiar pleasure he took in her company.

  “A good night’s sleep by a good fire,” she went, sensing his hesitation. “It is what you deserve, when you do so much for us all. But I suppose you never have a fire in your room, Major?”


  “No, never,” he said.

  “This couch is not so comfortable,” she said, testing the spring with her hand. “So that will more than compensate for the temperature being over-luxurious, do you not think?” she said. “Will that satisfy your puritanism?”

  “I hope you have a fire in your room.”

  “No, I did not order one,” she said.

  “Then I will get Holt to make one up at once,” he said. “You will excuse me a moment.”

  She nodded her assent, and he left rather briskly.

  It was pleasantly cool out in the passageway and he allowed his mind to clear before going to speak to Holt in the kitchen. Was it a proposition she was making, or merely an innocent invitation to take shelter? Was he guilty, like so many men seemed to be, of misinterpreting her, imagining her to be what he wanted her to be, instead of what she was? She was, he reminded himself, a respectable, modest creature, who would be horrified by the thoughts which now filled his mind.

  Holt had made himself comfortable in a Windsor chair by the the kitchen hearth, but he jumped to attention when Giles came in.

  “I heard you come in, sir,” he said. “But I thought I’d best not to disturb you. Is the lady comfortable?” he added. “I did my best but that chimney didn’t want to draw at all, when I first got there. You should speak to the landlord, sir, and have it looked at.”

  “You’ve done well, then,” Giles said. “Could you make up the fire in her bedroom?”

  “Of course, sir, right away. Let’s hope that chimney has a better draw.” There was a spatter of hail against the kitchen window. “It’s not a night for a Christian to be out,” Holt said, as he went towards the scullery to get logs. “Will you be going back in that, sir?”

  “I don’t think I’ll risk it,” Giles said. “I’ll stay here.”

  “Quite right, sir. Why leave a pleasant billet with such handsome company?”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  “Is Mrs Morgan at home?” Felix asked.

  The maid looked extremely flustered.

  “Monsieur, I think you should leave,” she said in a whisper. “This is not a good time...”

  “Is your mistress at home?”