Beauty's Doom

by Christina Britton Conroy

  “What’s happened with Roundtree’s sister, the girl’s aunt?”

  Brown squinted through smudged spectacles. “Same as before, sir. Lillian Roundtree refuses to step off the estate, and howls like a lunatic whenever it is suggested.”

  Sir Douglas shook his head. “If the poor woman is truly demented, she’s no good to anyone. What about the reporter, Sam Smelling?”

  “We received a wire from Paris. He should be home any day, and seems eager to help.”

  Rory’s heart jumped happily. “Sam’s marvellous. I know he can help.”

  Sir Douglas nodded and re-lit his pipe. “So, back to our client. Anthony Roundtree assumed he had legally married his brother’s widow and gained parental rights over his niece Elisa. However, he could not touch her money.

  “He betrothed Elisa to Sir John Garingham, who supported Roundtree’s family for the next eighteen years. Garingham was about to marry Elisa, and claim her dowry, when she ran away. A few weeks later, she was discovered in London and forcibly returned home.”

  He puffed and chuckled. “Sounds like some two-penny trash, doesn’t it?”

  The others laughed in agreement. Pretending to enjoy the humor, Rory remembered Elly’s beautiful face covered with bruises. He glanced up to see Sir Douglas watching him and chewing his pipe. The barrister continued.

  “The day Garingham was to marry Elisa, Father Folen was again presiding. Elisa resisted, so he refused to perform the ceremony.

  “To make the priest comply, our client threatened to shoot his sister Lillian. They were suddenly alerted that Scotland Yard was downstairs. In the confusion, the gun went off and the priest died.”

  He sat back, chewed his now smokeless pipe, and looked to his three colleagues. “So gentlemen, was it an accident? Or was it murder?”

  They exchanged glances and shook their heads.

  Striking a match, he re-lit the pipe, discharging clouds of over-sweet grey smoke. “Somehow, the bridegroom Garingham also ended up dead, but that’s a more interesting case, for later. A healthy fifty-year-old man doesn’t just fall through a closed window, no matter how loose the glass.”

  Rory lost his breath. “Really, sir? I thought the coroner had declared it death by misadventure?” His heart pounded.

  Sir Douglas rolled his eyes. “The learned country coroner overlooked a small confession made by the bride. In plain words, she told the local Constable Wright that she pushed Garingham out the window.”

  Rory thought he would pass out. “Perhaps it wasn’t true. Perhaps …” Afraid to say more, he stared at the ground.

  Sir Douglas took a moment to study Rory, then yawned and sat up. “I’ll have to pull a rabbit out of a hat.” He grunted in disapproval, stood and stretched. “I’m famished. What’s the time?”

  “Just after six, sir.”

  “Good. Let’s have our tea. Cookingham!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Will you join us, or do you have a performance, tonight?”

  Rory flushed. “Sorry, sir …”

  “Off you go, then. See you in the morning.” He started into the kitchen and Rory followed.

  “Sir Douglas?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I assume you won’t be putting Anthony Roundtree on the stand.”

  “Not unless I’m forced to. His manner is about as appealing as a prune. The jury will hate him on sight. You’ll see what I mean when we get to Skipton.”

  “Yes, sir, of course. Good bye, sir. See you in the morning.” Rory hurried out, wondering how to ask Jeremy O’Connell for time off. That scene would not be pretty.

  Chapter Five

  “’Alf hour. Oi!” Matt stopped. “My! Dan you look fine.”

  Michael Burns paraded down the hall in a sumptuous green dressing gown. “Father Christmas came early this year.”

  Owen followed, similarly draped in red. “Actually he’s bloody late.” They both laughed.

  Rory bounded up the backstage stairs. “Where did those come from?”

  “The card says ‘An Appreciative Patron’. We all got them, along with a very generous credit from Harrods.”

  Peter promenaded down from the top level in regal purple. “I feel like the Prince of Wales.” He saw Rory. “You’ve got one too, boy.”

  Rory ran up the stairs two at a time.

  ****

  Sir Douglas Thompson’s ill-health postponed his interview with Elisa Roundtree, aka Elly Fielding. When he was finally well enough, he and his three legal assistants joined Sir William Richfield and solicitor Roger Foxhall, in Sir William’s study.

  Next door, in the drawing room, Sam Smelling entertained Elly and Isabelle with funny stories about Paris. His repertoire was running low and the women’s nerves were wearing thin. He stared at Isabelle. Her face was pale and puffy, and her belly was huge. “Isabelle, you’re enormous. Are you having twins?”

  Elly was shocked by the question, but Isabelle laughed. “I’ve been wondering that myself. No single child of mine was ever this big, this early. Next week, I’m travelling home. I need my mother’s mothering. I’ve tried brewing herbs to relieve this bloat, but can’t get it right. I’ve also been neglecting my daughters. I’m taking all three of them with me.”

  Elly swallowed. “The house will be very quiet.”

  Isabelle shook her head and pointed to Sir William’s study. “There’s enough going on in there for a dozen households.”

  Elly hung her head. “I’m so terribly sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. Besides, you never asked to become my ward. I never even asked if you wanted it. It was all my doing, and I’m very glad I did.” She smiled and patted Elly’s hand. “Now, we’ll just have to deal with whatever comes.”

  When the men finally emerged, Sir Douglas looked tired and pale. Sir William introduced him to Isabelle, Sam and Elly.

  Sir Douglas introduced his staff. “Allow me to present my Oxford colleagues: Senior Lecturer Frederick Brown, and students Theodore Gamesworthy and Rory Cookingham. Of course you already know this scholar as Rory Cook.”

  Rory flushed and Elly stared at him. “Your name is Cookingham?”

  They were interrupted when Smythe announced that tea was served. Everyone followed him into a small dining room. Isabelle poured while footmen passed trays of scones, sandwiches and cakes.

  Sir Douglas helped himself. “Delightful tea, Lady Richfield.” He looked around the room as if holding court. “So, shall we converse while enjoying this sumptuous repast?”

  Rory was ready with a pad and pencil. He expected the old fox of a barrister to pull something like this. Interviewing a nervous witness while pretending it was a casual teatime conversation, was genius.

  When everyone approved, Sir Douglas casually turned to Elly. “Miss Fielding, this afternoon, I need your entire messy story. Before I put you on the witness stand, we may abridge or edit that truth as it will best serve my client. But for now, I need all the nasty little details.”

  Elly glanced guiltily at Foxhall, and Sir Douglas guessed her predicament. “Some of those details may already have been revised. Pray, tell me the absolute unvarnished version.” He smiled kindly. “You have nothing to fear, my dear. Anything you say in this room is strictly confidential. You may trust me, absolutely.”

  Elly’s stomach knotted as she waited for Foxhall’s approval. He thought for a moment, twirling his moustache. When he nodded, she sat up and looked at Sir Douglas. Her voice was strained. “Very well, sir. Where would you like me to begin?”

  Sir Douglas checked to see that his other assistants were ready with their notepapers. Sam held a pencil over his small notebook. Isabelle clutched her teacup and looked at her husband, at the far end of the table.

  “Miss … Miss Roundtree.” Sir Douglas removed his spectacles and took a relaxed pose. “The associations with your uncle’s name are undoubtedly unpleasant.”

  She bit her lip and nodded.

  “It is, however, your legal name,
and the name we must use in court.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand.” She forced a smile.

  “So, Miss Roundtree, please tell me about Father Laurence Folen.”

  “Oh,” She shrugged. “When I was very little, he was our parish priest. I was fond of him. One Sunday, we arrived for mass and there was a new priest. The next time I saw Father Folen was … that night.” She shivered and crossed her arms.

  “I’d like to hold ‘that night’ for a bit, if you don’t mind.” Sir Douglas’s voice was low and soothing. He turned to a footman. “Might I have a slice of that cake? Thank you.” He smiled as the footman removed his soiled pie plate, slid a large slice of cake onto a clean plate, and placed it in front of him. Sir Douglas scooped a large forkful of lemon curd into his mouth, smiled serenely, and swallowed. “Excellent, Lady Richfield.” Everyone smiled as he turned back to Elly. “Now, my dear, tell me about Anthony Roundtree. If it feels more natural, you may refer to him as your father, rather than your uncle.”

  She swallowed. “There’s little to tell. I saw little of my … father. He never spoke to me without scolding or striking me. The servants raised me. My Aunt Lillian was always a bit simple. When I was ten, Sir John Garingham brought a governess to make me into a lady. After that, I was regularly starved and beaten.” Her voice cracked.

  Isabelle blinked her eyes. “Sir Douglas, must the poor child …?”

  Sir Douglas held a finger over his lips, smiled kindly and waited for Elly to continue.

  Elly stared at the floor. “Soon after, I ran away, climbing out the window and down the trellis. They found me a day later, on the moor, delirious with fever. After that my father nailed my windows shut.” She looked at Sir Douglas. “This has nothing to do with Father Folen.”

  “Perhaps not, but it is giving me further insight. Pray, continue.”

  “On my fourteenth birthday, Sir John started forcing his attentions. Soon after I was sent away to school, and that was heaven. I only dreaded holidays. Sir John was always there – always touching me, bruising my arms, forcing his …” Her eyes squeezed shut.

  Sir Douglas showed no emotion. “He never actually molested you.”

  “No. He’d leave me and go to the servants’ quarters. There was a maid, not much older than I. I didn’t know he was … if I’d have known …” She shook her head and forced back tears.

  Sir Douglas sadly shook his head. “There was nothing you could have done.”

  “I came home from school one Christmas, and the maid had been dismissed.” Elly sat back, swallowing hard. “Aunt Lillian told me she was in the family way, and had been let go without a reference.”

  Sir Douglas nodded gravely. “That, my dear, is an old and cruel story, but not one you could have altered.”

  “Perhaps, if I’d let Sir John—”

  “He would not have taken you. He could not have risked your conceiving a child before it was legal.”

  Appalled by the idea, Elly caught her breath.

  Sir Douglas’s face showed quiet concern. “Now, my dear, although I know the sequence of events that occurred … that night, please tell me specifically what happened after your aunt dressed you in the wedding gown and the men entered the room.”

  Elly sighed and forced herself to speak calmly. “I hugged Father Folen and begged him not to treat me like he’d treated my mother.”

  “How did he respond?”

  “He just walked past me. I couldn’t see his face. Father and Sir John followed right behind. Sir John forced me into a corner. He told me that I must learn to be compliant and obey him completely. It was very frightening.”

  “Were his demands so unreasonable?”

  “His words were reasonable, but the implication of consequence, should I fail …” Her face contorted as her hand went over her mouth. “He wanted sons. At least three.”

  Sir Douglas’s face was a neutral mask. “Doesn’t every man expect his wife to give him sons?”

  “Of course, and any wife would wish it, if she cared for her husband. Never once had I met Sir John when he had not caused me physical pain and humiliation. He said that after my fortune became his, I might meet with a tragic accident. He said it had been easy to arrange Charles Roundtree’s murder.

  “The windows in my room were rattling against the wind. I saw holes in the sills where nails had been removed. I knew Sam had done it.” She turned to Sam. “I kept hoping you’d charge through the door and save me.”

  He sat forward. “I was dying to run up there. I could see in your windows, but I knew Roundtree had a gun.”

  “Miss Roundtree,” Sir Douglas drew her back. “Your signature on the marriage licence is neat, showing no sign of duress.”

  “He was too strong. I was exhausted and ill. I gave up and signed.” She sunk back in her chair.

  “The priest did not sign.”

  “He refused. That was when my father pointed his revolver, but Father Folen said he’d committed a mortal sin marrying him to my mother, and he’d rather die than commit another. That’s when Father put the gun to Aunt Lillian’s head.” She rubbed her eyes. “Everything happened so fast. A servant called that Scotland Yard was downstairs. Father Folen ran forward, the gun went off, I ran at Sir John—” She stopped herself.

  “Go on.” Sir Douglas’s eyes were kind. “Tell me the truth.”

  “I pushed him into the window.” Tears welled in her eyes. “The wooden frame broke and the glass shattered. He fell through. His boot flew up, caught the hoop of my skirt, and pulled me after him. He fell to the ground. My gown caught on the trellis, in the rose canes. Sam climbed up after me. The trellis gave way and we fell. Sam was terribly injured.” She found a handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

  Sam finished the story. “We were both injured.” He raised his weak arm, fresh out of the plaster cast. “This is still pretty useless, but I’m glad to have it back.”

  Sir Douglas’s gaze was intense. “Miss Roundtree,” he spoke slowly and deliberately. “Did your father point the gun before it fired?”

  “I didn’t see.”

  “Was the gun pointed at the priest?”

  “I’m so sorry, sir. I wasn’t watching him. I truly have no idea if he meant to shoot anyone.”

  The barrister took a moment to collect his thoughts. He addressed his colleagues. “Gentlemen, any new insights?”

  All three answered in the negative.

  He shook his head sadly in agreement. “Thank you, Miss Fielding. You have been very helpful.”

  She smiled, grateful he had gone back to using her new name. “You’re very kind, sir, but I don’t think that I have been.”

  “You have, even if only to confirm our previous beliefs. I will interview you once again, shortly before the trial, but it will be just to review. Should the prosecution ask what sort of a father Anthony Roundtree was, you are simply to say that he provided well for your upkeep and education. If pressed, you may say that he was strict and distant, as are many fathers.

  “If asked about Sir John Garingham, you are to say that he would have been a good provider and that he was eager to have an heir. In all probability, the gentlemen of the jury will not care to hear more.

  “As to the unfortunate priest …” he shook his head, “… it seems we will never know exactly what happened. Should Lillian Roundtree regain her composure enough to testify, she may be able to tell us more. My job remains simple: to prolong my client’s life. In my interview, Mr Roundtree told me Father Folen was a rogue priest who deserved to die, and he should be acquitted. When I suggested a plea of manslaughter, he said he prefers a quick death by the rope rather than a slow death by hard labour.” He adjusted his spectacles.

  Isabelle gasped.

  “Forgive me, Lady Richfield. I forget myself. Old barristers become used to talking shop and unused to the company of ladies. I pray I have not offended.”

  “Not at all, Sir Douglas.” Isabelle closed her eyes, waiting for the nausea to pass.


  Sir Douglas and his colleagues gathered their papers. Isabelle caught Rory’s arm and led him into the parlour. Shutting the door, she whispered, “What the devil’s going on? Why was he asking so many questions about Sir John Garingham?” She was startled to see tears in Rory’s eyes.

  He choked out, “I’m terrified, Isabelle. Not about this trial. Roundtree will hang or go to prison. I don’t care which. It’s the next one.”

  A cold finger ran up her spine. “What next one?”

  Rory leaned against the door. “If Elly’s brought to trial for murdering Garingham, she’s almost sure to be acquitted.”

  “Almost sure?” Her heart pounded.

  “Still, when she’s arrested, while she’s awaiting trial …” he swallowed and wiped his eyes with the palm of his hand, “… she’ll be remanded in custody.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Accused murderers are not allowed bail. It’s the law. There’s no way around it.”

  Her knees buckled and he helped her to the sofa. “Where will they take her? What’s it like?”

  “Holloway Prison.” He sat next to her. “I’ve never seen the inside, but know it’s a horrible place.”

  “How long will they keep her?”

  “It could be weeks, months.”

  ****

  Rory Cook sat in Jeremy O’Connell’s dressing room. “I’m sorry, sir. Sorrier than I can say.”

  “The entire situation is a sorry one, but I can see you have no option.” Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “We’ll muddle through without you … for a few performances.”

  Rory forced a smile. “I’m that easy to replace. Sir Douglas wanted the venue changed to London, but the Yorkshire officials insist their murderer be tried in their court. There’s nothing to this trial. It should be over in a couple of days.” A sick feeling flooded his stomach. “It’s what comes next …”

  Jeremy whispered, “Elly’s trial?”

  Rory nodded, his throat tightening.

  “Is she aware of what may be coming?”

  “We’ve been pretending it’s not inevitable, but she’s too clever not to know.”

  Jeremy looked up guiltily. “I have a confession to make.”