by Joan Smith
“That’s odd! Fleur’s quite a peacock.”
“Well, her maid had a cold and couldn’t come with her, so perhaps… But it is odd she left no note for her hostess. You know the marquise well, Breslau. Is she likely to have gone off voluntarily without so much as a thank you note?”
Breslau frowned into the distance. “What you’re asking is whether I think she left freely, or was kidnapped.”
“Actually it was murder I had in mind. Nigel said—”
“You don’t have to remind me.”
“And we went calmly up to bed without lifting a finger to help her. I feel awful, so guilty. What shall we do, Breslau?”
“I’m going to do a little checking up in the immediate neighborhood before going to London.”
“I want to help.”
“You and Nigel might drive into the village. Don’t ask pointed questions, but a neighborly chat should tell you whether anyone there saw her leave.”
“Nigel! I’m not going with him. Where are you going?”
“To call on General Maxwell.”
“I’ll go with you,” she said.
“I think not.”
“You’ll have a better chance for private conversation with General Max if I go along and divert his mother.”
“That’s true. Very well, I plan to leave immediately.”
“I’ll tell Lady Raleigh. Nigel’s still sleeping, so she won’t object.”
* * * *
Within minutes they were ensconced in Breslau’s comfortable chaise. The temperature had risen enough that last night’s ice had melted. Beyond the window, dreary winter’s landscape was at its unloveliest, but neither of them glanced out the window. They were too engrossed in the mystery.
“If General Max has left, will you assume he’s carried Fleur off to London?” she asked.
“It would suggest it. I’ll have to follow them.”
Pamela saw the excitement evaporating before her very eyes. With Breslau and the marquise gone, it would be just another boring visit. “I am to go to London tomorrow, to pay a short visit to my Aunt Foster before returning to Kent,” she said musingly. “If I went with you today, it would save Sir Aubrey having his team put to. Nigel was supposed to accompany me. We could both go with you.”
“I shan’t be going unless General Max has gone. You’re welcome to accompany me whenever I go, however. Even if Fleur’s with me, there’ll be room for another in the carriage. In fact, I don’t see why any other arrangement was ever considered.”
“Lady Raleigh wouldn’t permit me to travel with Fleur. I wonder if—no, she can hardly object to my traveling with you,” she decided.
Breslau said not a word, but his eyes spoke volumes. Now it was a slur on his character! “You do me too much honor, Miss Comstock.”
“I shall have Nigel to protect me.” The laughter lurking in her eyes was all that saved her from a setdown.
“There is the flaw in the plan, eh, Miss Comstock?”
“It’s hardly a flaw. He won’t call on me once I’m at Foster’s, but I do hope you will, Lord Breslau.” A flash of surprise lit his pale eyes. Was it possible the girl had at last tumbled to it that he was an extremely eligible parti? “Otherwise I’ll never hear what happened to Fleur,” she added, unconscious of causing offense.
So much for romance! “My hope is that we’ll know that as soon as we call on Maxwell.”
Before the visit had properly begun, Breslau had a pretty good notion it was a fruitless one. General Maxwell was at home, reading to his mother, and was very much surprised to receive the visitors.
“You’ve brought Miss Comstock to call on Mama,” he said, putting his own interpretation on the visit.
“Delighted to see you, Pamela,” the dame said, and patted the sofa beside her. “Come and tell me all about your visit to Belmont.”
Before long, General Max had invited Breslau into the Armaments Room, ostensibly to admire his gun collection. The conversation soon turned to more interesting matters.
“I daresay Fleur is unhappy with me,” Max said sheepishly. All his military bluster was gone, leaving him a trembling shadow of himself. “I asked her not to come here. She knows how unreasonable my mother is.”
“I’m afraid she is unhappy, Max. She left last night.”
“Good,” he said, and drew forth a handkerchief to wipe his brow. “When you return to London, tell her I’ll call on her the minute I arrive. I won’t be going till next week. Mama has some estate business that I must take care of.”
“You didn’t pass Fleur a billet-doux last night then?”
“I hadn’t a moment’s privacy after my sister sounded the alarm. Bossy old shrew. The ladies are all alike. They take Fleur in aversion without knowing a thing about her. I would marry Fleur if I could, Breslau. I’ve told her so times out of mind. If only she will be patient. While Mama is alive, you know…”
“I’m familiar with the problem.”
“It’s not that I don’t love her—and respect her! I’ll give her a little gift, that should do the trick.”
Breslau was convinced the general knew nothing, and saw no point in alarming him. They rejoined the ladies, and as soon as decently possible, the guests left.
“Max had no idea she’s missing,” he said when they were once more in the carriage.
“Then there’s only one more thing to do before we set out for London. We must make those enquiries in the village.”
“Enquiries will only start gossip. We chat, and keep our ears cocked for anything of interest. Someone might mention seeing her leave.”
“We should also make enquiries about the handsome stranger Fleur was talking to. You know, the one—”
“The one I failed to present you to. Keep an eye out for him as well.”
“The first stop will be the drapery shop,” Pamela said. “All the gossips will be meeting there to discuss the ball. I know several of them.”
Breslau was not thrilled to spend his morning in a drapery shop, but Pamela’s plan was a good one. Before long he found himself looking over the ells of silk and wool.
“How dear woolens are becoming,” she scolded. “Ah, Mrs. Williams! I see you have recovered from the assembly. Lovely, was it not?”
“The whole village is agog with the lovely marquise.” Mrs. Williams smiled. “She isn’t with you?” she asked, peering hopefully over Pamela’s shoulder.
“No.”
“The likes of her would have her clothes from London or Paris. She turned out very elegant last night, but not gaudy.”
After four meetings and four queries from the locals for the marquise, Breslau took Pamela’s elbow. “We’re wasting time. No one saw her leave, or the village would know it.”
“You’re right. It’s time to begin looking for the handsome stranger. I’ve made a few discreet enquiries. No one knows him. He was only in and out of the assembly for ten minutes. It looks as though he went there especially to see Fleur.”
This shadowy gentleman figured very little in Breslau’s suspicions, but as all other leads had run dry, he was willing to consider him. “We’ll make enquiries at the two inns,” he said.
“Why should we tip our hand?” she asked sagely. “First let us go on the strut. If we spot him on the street, we can follow him to his lair.”
“You envisage a morning of high melodrama, I see. Very well, once up and down the street, then we hit the inns.”
Pamela took his arm. “We don’t want to look suspicious,” she explained. “Pretend we’re just out for a stroll. How the old cats will gossip.” She smiled. “They’ll think you’ve beat Nigel out and won my hand.”
Her careless laugh made a joke of it. Again Breslau felt that burning in his chest. Why was it that Miss Comstock remained totally oblivious to his eligibility? His first suspicion that she was trying to capture his interest by a show of indifference had faded long since. That trick was as familiar as an old ballad; it was accompanied by flirtatious glances and
smiles. Miss Comstock employed no such artifices.
“Lady Raleigh will regret inviting me,” he said, and looked closely for her reaction. It was an excellent opportunity for her to assure him she had no such regrets.
“Never fear, Breslau, she would contrive to lay the whole in the marquise’s dish. Do you see our mystery gentleman?” she asked, looking all around the busy street.
After a turn up one side and down the other, they were convinced there wasn’t a city jacket outside of Breslau’s in the whole village.
“Now we’ll follow my original idea and check the inn,” Breslau said.
“I can describe the man accurately. He had sleek black hair and smoldering eyes, like black coffee. One eyebrow, the left, quirked up a little. His nose was—well, it was very handsome,” she sighed.
When they went to the desk of the Rose and Thorn, Breslau asked if a youngster from London had registered yesterday. “Average height, black hair, a dapper-looking fellow.”
No such man had set foot in the inn. At the George they fared a little better. He hadn’t registered, but a man whom the waitress called “fine as a star, dressed to the nines” had dined there the evening before and asked where the assembly hall might be found. “When I got off work about midnight, I seen him in a fine chaise all alone. I made sure he’d be headed off to Lunnon, but he drove north out of Hatfield.”
“Toward Belmont,” Pamela said.
“That’s right. I expect he’s a friend of the Raleighs. That’s where you’d find ‘un.”
“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful,” Breslau said, and handed her a coin.
They hastened out of the inn. “I told you so!” Pamela beamed. “She made a rendezvous with the Adonis. They must have gone to London, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know where else they could have gone. I’ll leave for London immediately.”
“Oh, good! It won’t take me a minute to pack!”
* * * *
They returned to Belmont at a smart clip. Pamela’s head was full of the projected trip. Now that she’d met the marquise, she meant to badger her Aunt Foster or her brother Harley into taking her to a performance at Drury Lane. Breslau was silently going over the recent events.
He decided Fleur had come to Belmont in an effort to show Max she was respectable enough to marry. His cold reception at the assembly had killed that notion, and in a fit of pique she’d made an assignation with the handsome stranger. But why was the stranger at the assembly? Fleur hadn’t asked him to come, not when she hoped to get an offer from Max. And if she had decided to turn respectable, why dun Aubrey for the diamond bracelet? She’d done that before Max offended her.
If the assistance of another man had been foreseen, it would surely be Mr. Spiedel Fleur chose for the job. This handsome young drifter was often seen in her company. Outside of his looks, he had little enough to recommend him. He had no fortune, no known family, and no particular talents. Spiedel had hinted once or twice that he’d like to try his hand at acting. Fleur didn’t support this plan at all, and nothing had come of it.
Breslau shook himself to attention, suddenly realizing that Pamela was talking to him. “I expect a director has tickets at his disposal, if the theater is sold out, I mean,” she said. The question in her eyes told him he had missed something.
“Yes, er—were you planning to visit the theater, Miss Comstock?”
“Haven’t I just said so, twice?”
“I will be very happy to give you tickets. How many do you require?”
“I can hardly go alone. My Aunt and Uncle Foster would be accompanying me.”
“My wits are gone begging. You must use my box. I’ll bring the tickets around for you. Where do your aunt and uncle live?”
“On Half Moon Street, at the corner of Curzon. Would it be possible for us to go backstage and meet the marquise? Uncle Foster would love it of all things.”
“Entirely possible, if Fleur’s performing. She had two nights off, you recall. I hope by tomorrow evening…”
“You’re not still worried about her?”
“A few things puzzle me,” he admitted, but didn’t go into details.
When the carriage pulled up in front of Belmont, the front door flew open and Nigel came darting out. His pale face was drawn and haggard. “Mama told me you had gone to Maxwell’s. Did you find out anything?” he asked.
“The general doesn’t know anything,” Breslau replied.
“We think Fleur has returned to London,” Pamela added.
“Think again. She’s been murdered, just as I said all along. I’ve found her grave.”
Chapter Seven
Two audible gasps echoed in the carriage. Pamela was the first to recover and fly out the door. “Where is it? We must go at once and see it.”
“This way,” Nigel said, and headed off for the spinney. “I went for a walk to escape Mama’s ranting and stumbled across it.”
Breslau wasn’t a yard behind them. He caught up and said, “Is there actually a body…?”
“No, the villain was interrupted at his work, but there’s a grave dug, and Fleur’s shawl was in it—all trampled in the mud, Wes. Her beautiful green and rose shawl. I felt like bawling when I saw it. I hid it behind a tree. Mama, you know. We had to tell her Fleur had left, when she didn’t appear for breakfast by eleven. Mama went darting straight over to discuss the whole thing with Mrs. Maxwell.”
“What’s your father doing?” Breslau demanded.
Nigel gave a haughty look. “Nothing. Why do you ask it in that way, as though Papa had anything to do with it? You’re thinking of my delusion about Mama’s diamond bracelet, I suppose.”
Pamela whirled around in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” Nigel scowled.
“Did Fleur have it? What do you mean?”
“It was a delusion after too much literary inspiration.”
Undeceived, Pamela continued hurling questions. “Did your father give it to her, or did she take it?”
“Damme, how should I know? She had it on her wrist when I went to her room, that’s all.”
“Oh!” Pamela gasped. “Your father caught her stealing it and shot her. He must have mistaken her for an intruder, Nigel. They’ll never hang him for it.”
“Now see what you’ve done,” Nigel said accusingly to Breslau.
Breslau gave him a scathing look. “You haven’t answered my question. Where is your father now?”
“He was in his study going over his account books last I saw. I don’t know what that has to do with anything.”
Pamela had hard work keeping up with the gentlemen. Between her shorter legs, hampering skirts, and efforts to avoid the worst of the mud, she fell a few yards behind. The spinney where she often rode seemed menacing today.
The sky hung heavy overhead, and the bushes grabbed at her skirts. Droplets of water fell from the shivering branches, landing with a heavy plop on her shoulders. Her shoes were soaked and her skirt tails muddied. A feeling very like doom was in the air. She ran to catch up with the others, who had stopped just twenty yards into the spinney and stood staring at a hole in the ground. Pamela looked at it and shook her head. It was all a hum.
“Nigel, you clunch! That’s only a badger sett. It’s been there forever.”
“I know that. The badgers were killed eons ago. Mama had the hole plugged up and set the mole catcher after them, for they were getting into the beehives. You know how badgers love honey. I found this shovel here. And take a look at this,” he said importantly, pointing into the hole.
Pamela went forward and saw that some fresh digging had been done. One rounded end of the sett had been squared off somewhat. “This is where I found the shawl. I’ll get it,” Nigel said, and disappeared behind a tree, to reappear in a moment with the familiar paisley object.
It looked very forlorn, all wet and bedraggled, and with its beautiful fringe matted into clumps. Pamela glanced to Breslau to hear his opinion. A shiv
er ran through her when she saw him reach for the shawl and gaze at it. He swallowed convulsively. He believed it then. He thought Fleur was dead—murdered. A silence grew around them, broken only by the dull plopping of water from the branches, and an occasional birdcall.
She felt a stirring of pity, and didn’t know whether it was the image of Fleur, dead and wet and muddied like the shawl, or Breslau’s tense, grieving face that caused it. She had thought him a mere fashionable fribble, but he had real feelings after all. He must have been very fond of Fleur. Perhaps he even loved her.
She reached for his hand, and he squeezed her fingers. “There’s no body, Breslau,” she said gently. “We don’t know for sure. Perhaps she got away.”
He turned his head and gazed at her. He didn’t say anything, but just looked, silent. She imagined his eyes were speaking, saying, Thank you. They had a more gentle air than before. He went toward the grave, still holding her hand, and examined the hole from the edge.
“There are dozens of footprints. They look fresh,” he said. “Did you go into the hole, Nigel?”
“No, I just pulled the shawl out.”
“We’ll need someone here to keep people from disturbing these footprints. They might tell us something.”
“They’re all men’s footprints,” Pamela pointed out. She was becoming self-conscious at Breslau’s continuing to hold her hand, and withdrew. “Fleur’s prints aren’t here,” she said.
“The dead don’t walk,” Nigel said in doleful accents. “Whoever killed her carried her here.”
“He must have been a strong man. Fleur weighed close to ten stone.” The image of General Maxwell darted unbidden into her head. Why would he dig a grave, and not use it?
Pamela saw a corner of something gray protruding from some leaves that had blown into one corner. “What’s this?” she said, and leaned over to pull it out.
It was a gentleman’s fine leather glove, not the common York tan usually seen, but a distinctive gray polished leather. It was a little larger than the average man’s glove. She couldn’t remember what size hands the mysterious stranger had, but Max’s were large and capable.
