A Dog in a Doublet

by Emma V. Leech

  “It don’t feel right,” Reggie said, shaking his head as he lay out a fresh set of clothes. “If you’ll forgive me saying so, sir.”

  Harry sighed.

  Once dressed, Harry went downstairs, unsurprised that no one was about yet. None of the Preston’s were early risers, as a rule. So it was with astonishment that he noted Baden crashing through the front doors, his cravat askew and his face stark with horror.

  “Harry, thank God,” he said, gasping for air. “Come quick. Edwin’s been murdered.”

  It took a moment for Harry to process the words, which seemed too implausible to be true.

  “What?”

  Baden leaned back against the door, a green tinge to his skin now that suggested he really was telling the truth. “Found his body, by the ornamental pond.”

  Harry started to move, heading for the doors and pushing out into the damp, cool air of the early morning. “What in God’s name where you doing at the pond at his hour?” Harry asked, frowning at him as they walked.

  Baden shrugged, looking awkward. “I got up early, went for a ride to clear my head.”

  Harry raised one eyebrow and Baden stared back at him.

  “It’s true, I swear it,” he said, looking anxious. “I ... I’d been thinking about what you said, about there being more to life, more to me ... than ... than this,” he said, gesturing to himself in general. “I thought perhaps I might find something ... useful to do.” He grabbed Harry’s arm, forcing him to a halt.

  “I didn’t kill him, Harry. I swear it. I mean, I rather wish I had,” he admitted with a rueful expression. “But I didn’t.”

  Harry nodded as they carried on, hurrying through the gardens. “I believe you,” he said, realising with relief that he did. “But you’d best tell me exactly what happened.”

  Chapter 26

  A China Street pig - a Bow Street officer

  - The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.

  “Well, he didn’t drown.”

  Harry watched the short, sparse little man crouch down to look at Edwin with a frown. He was balding with a scattering of grey hair and a sharp, foxy face that made Harry wonder if he’d been a redhead in his youth.

  “Been dead at the very least four hours, by the looks of him, a fair bit more if I’m any judge,” he mused, scratching his head and staring at the corpse with interest. He looked around, pointing at some scuffed marks on the flagged stones. “Been moved too,” he remarked. “Killed elsewhere, I reckon.”

  Edwin had been found, face first, in the ornamental pond, but the bloody gash on the back of his head suggested he hadn’t fallen in.

  “And you found him, Mr Preston?” he said, looking at Baden with a gaze that was piercing to say the least.

  To Harry’s chagrin, Baden stuttered and nodded, looking dreadfully guilty and suspicious. “I-I did,” he said, clutching his arms around himself and shivering. “I’d just come back from a ride and decided to walk back to the house through the gardens.”

  Mr Formby got to his feet and stepped away from the sodden corpse. “Is that usual?” he asked, those shrewd eyes narrowing a little. “Forgive me for observing it, sir, but you don’t strike me as the up at dawn, country type.”

  Harry glanced at Baden and had to admit he would agree. He was dressed more for town than country, and with his hair dishevelled and cravat askew, he looked every bit the dissolute, town dandy Harry had thought him to be too.

  “No, Mr Formby,” Baden admitted, pulling at his cravat and darting a pleading look at Harry. “I ... I needed to think, you see, and ...”

  Harry took pity on him. “Mr Preston has been doing some soul-searching of late and had made the decision to make some changes,” he said to Formby as the man turned his attention to him. “We discussed the matter yesterday, so I’m not surprised that he felt the need to escape the house. The atmosphere has been somewhat taut of late, as you may imagine.”

  Formby nodded and Harry felt himself quail a little under that penetrating gaze. Determined he would not look like a murderer, no matter the truth, he didn’t look away.

  “And you, my lord, are the cause of all this ruckus?” he said, scratching his chin with a faint rasping sound that suggested he hadn’t shaved yet.

  Harry stared back at him, a little affronted. “My being named heir has been the cause of a deal of trouble, if that is what you mean, Mr Formby,” he said with care. “However, if this ...” He waved at the corpse at his feet. “Is supposed to be implied as a part of that ruckus, you’ll not lay it at my door.”

  Mr Formby nodded and returned a polite smile. “It’s my job to find the truth, my lord, as I don’t doubt you know. I’ll not lay blame where’s there’s none to be found.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Harry said, glancing down at the body with distaste. Edwin looked skinnier and smaller than he had in life, though death had not softened his features any. He tried to find some Christian feelings of remorse or pity for the man and his squalid end, but came up empty. “Look here, may we go inside?” he said, turning away. “I’m not squeamish, as a rule, but it feels a little ... out of the ordinary to be discussing things over a dead man.”

  “Agreed,” Baden chipped in, still shivering.

  Formby pursed his lips and then turned around, calling to two younger men who had been waiting a discreet distance away.

  “Make the arrangements, lads,” he called, gesturing to the body. They touched their hats with a deferential nod to their superior before going about their business.

  “Have the rest of the family been informed yet?” the inspector demanded, turning back and regarding the two of them with interest enough to make Harry sweat.

  “No,” he replied. “You and your men arrived just as we were returning to the house, so we brought you here before speaking to anyone else.”

  “Good,” Formby said, staring at the corpse with a smile. He looked up as Harry stared back at him with a mixture of revulsion and curiosity. “Always good to see their reactions on getting the news,” the inspector said with a slight glitter of amusement in his eyes. “Shall we?” he asked, gesturing for them to lead the way with a merry expression that Harry thought in rather bad taste.

  ***

  The reactions were indeed worth seeing, if melodrama was to your taste.

  Mariah collapsed in a bout of hysteria that Harry was bound to acknowledge was genuine this time.

  “Murderer,” she screamed, her small, basilisk eyes full of fury in the moments before she fell, pointing the finger at Harry and then collapsing in a flurry of black bombazine to great effect.

  “Well, sir? Aren’t you going to arrest him?” Wilfred demanded of Formby, his face white, though Harry wasn’t sure if it was fury at Formby’s lack of action or real emotion at the death of his brother that was the cause. “He’s made several threats against Edwin within our hearing. He’s an interloper and he murdered my brother to keep his position.”

  Formby scratched his head in a thoughtful manner, staring at the prone figure of Mariah and the copious billows of her gown. “Don’t you think you ought to pick your mother up, sir?” he asked, a slightly enquiring lilt to his voice that suggested he was simply curious, rather than judgemental.

  “How the devil do you suppose I’m to do that?” Wilfred barked.

  Formby seemed to take a moment to consider this question with all seriousness. “Well, sir, if you take one leg and I the other, and his lordship, who’s a strong fellow, takes her other end with young Mr Baden here ...”

  “He’s not Lord Preston!” Wilfred said, with such an explosion of temper that Formby paused, raising an eyebrow. Realising he was now as much under suspicion as anyone, Wilfred seemed to take a moment to rein in his temper. “He threatened Edwin, more than once. Isn’t that reason enough?”

  “To see a man hang, sir? I think not,” Formby said, with a rueful smile as he stuck his hands into the pockets of a greatcoat that had seen better days. “See there’s
evidence to collect, statements to take, and ...” The man took a breath and looked at Wilfred, an implacable and direct gaze. It struck Harry once more that this was not a man to be trifled with. “And it strikes me, sir, that if his lordship was wishful of getting rid of his troubles, he’d do well to knock you on the head first.”

  “Well, of all the impudence ...” Wilfred began with fury, before clamping his mouth shut as he remembered who was in control of this investigation.

  “If I may, Mr Preston,” Formby said with an apologetic smile.

  “What?” Wilfred asked, with barely concealed anger.

  “Er, your mother, sir?”

  After a little scene in which Wilfred refused to let Harry touch his mother, but no one else strong enough to lift her was forthcoming, they got Mariah laid out on a chaise-lounge in the parlour. Harry felt as reluctant to touch the woman as Wilfred to allow it, but otherwise her corpulent frame would still be spread-eagled on the floor, so both had acquiesced with little grace.

  Mariah now lay groaning, and Harry, Baden and Mr Formby left the room as fast as they could. The imperious figure of Mariah’s maid, Miss Drebble, rushed past them and began to fuss around her mistress with the solicitous air of a motherly praying mantis, her thin arms reaching out and embracing Mariah as the woman wailed inconsolably.

  Harry shuddered.

  On returning to the entrance hall, they discovered Mildred Preston making her way down the stairs. Harry swallowed and decided he may as well tell her the news as anyone else.

  “Mrs Preston,” he said, seeing her usually terrified countenance soften a little as she looked upon him.

  “Yes, my lord?” she said in her soft voice, scurrying across the hallway like a little mouse, with a hopeful look in her eyes. “Oh, is this the inspector?” she said upon seeing Formby, quailing a little and staring at him with big frightened eyes, but giving a tremulous smile to Harry.

  “Yes, it is, Mildred,” Baden said before Harry could answer, moving to take her arm and steer her into Harry’s study, away from Mariah and Wilfred.

  They sat her down and Harry knelt at her feet, taking her hand while Baden poured her a sherry.

  “Mrs Preston ...”

  “Oh, do please call me Mildred,” she said, smiling at Harry in a worshipful manner. “He’s such a dear boy,” she added, looking up with another smile for Mr Formby’s benefit.

  Formby raised his eyebrows at that and got out a little notebook, flipping over the pages. “You didn’t mind, then? That this young man was made viscount instead of your brother-in-law as expected.”

  “Oh no,” she said, her voice quite serene. “I’ve always hated Wilfred.” Harry gaped at her as she said this as though it was perfectly obvious.

  “Should I not say so, my lord?” she said, looking frightened suddenly at his reaction, her wide eyes darting from Harry to Formby.

  “Oh, no, Mrs ... Mildred, you must tell us exactly what you think,” Harry said, patting her hand in a reassuring manner.

  “Oh,” she said, breathing out in relief. “I’m glad. It’s just that you make one feel as though nothing bad could happen, my lord. You make me feel rather brave,” she added, as Harry rocked back on his heels in surprise.

  “Well,” he said, releasing her hand with a little huff of laughter. “I hope that may be true, Mildred, and I must tell you now that whatever happens, you are welcome to stay here at Stamford as long as you may wish to.”

  For just a moment, the woman’s faded eyes lit with happiness, but then reality reasserted itself. “I’m afraid Edwin would never allow it,” she said, looking away.

  Harry swallowed. “That’s the thing, Mildred, I’m afraid ...” Harry began to say the words, I have bad news for you, and then stopped. In his opinion, this was the best news she’d be likely to ever get, though he wasn’t about to say so out loud. “I’m afraid I have something to tell you, that you may find distressing.” She stared at him, those eyes growing wider still. “Edwin is dead. He’s been murdered.”

  For a moment, she said nothing at all, and then she let out a breath. “I’m not surprised,” she said, startling Harry once more, and judging by the look in Formby’s eyes, he was a little taken aback, too. She glanced up at Baden then. “Well, are you surprised?” she asked, in that soft, little girl voice that sounded for once a little more curious than terrified.

  “Not entirely, no,” Baden said, shaking his head.

  She turned to the inspector, her face calm and dignified. “My husband was not a very nice man, Mr Formby.”

  “Was he a violent man, Mrs Preston?” he asked, his rather fierce gaze softening a little as he looked down on the little bird of a woman and clearly drew his own conclusions.

  Mildred glanced at Harry, her eyes pleading and frightened. Harry reached out a hand to her once more and she grasped it, holding on tight. “There’s nothing to be frightened of now, Mildred. He can’t hurt you. Why don’t you show him the marks? We all know they’re there, after all.”

  For a moment, Mildred just clung to his hand, her grip on his almost vice like with terror, and then she let go and pushed the sleeve of her dress a little way up her arm. Her wrist and forearm was black and blue, with the faded yellow of older marks beneath.

  “There are far more,” she said, her voice so quiet that it was barely audible, her gaze trained on the floor. “But I’d rather not show anyone.”

  “No, no need,” Formby replied, his voice gentle now. “If I may just ask, Mrs Preston. What were your husband’s movements last night?”

  Mildred frowned as she recalled the past night. “To be honest, Mr Formby,” she said in a halting voice. “I retired to bed as early as I could to avoid being in his company. This ... situation with the inheritance has ... had made him ... unpleasant. More so than usual, that is,” she said, swallowing hard. “I have no idea what he did once dinner was over.” She was quiet for a moment before clutching at Harry’s hand again, her eyes wide with what might have been hope. “Can ... can I dismiss my maid, Harry?”

  Harry grinned as she confirmed his belief that Mariah had employed the Misses Evans for the sole purpose of spying on Norah and Mildred.

  “You can do anything you want, Mildred,” he replied, his voice firm.

  Mildred gave a little sigh of content and then glanced up at Mr Formby, looking frail and rather vulnerable. “May I go now?” she asked. “I ... I’m really feeling rather ...” She trailed off and the inspector nodded.

  “Of course, of course. We’ll speak again when you are feeling better.”

  “If you think it necessary, certainly.” She nodded with a wan smile. “Though I don’t know what else I can tell you.” Harry and Baden got her to her feet, but she waved them off in her gentle way. “I’m quite alright,” she said with dignity. “Though if you would be so kind as to send Mrs Fletcher to me with some water and hartshorn, I’d be grateful.”

  “Of course,” Harry replied. “Right away.” He crossed to the fireplace to ring the bell as she left, watching as Formby sat and scribbled copious notes in his little book. Baden glanced across at Harry and grimaced.

  There was a quiet knock and Reggie entered, his eyes all on stalks though he said nothing.

  “Would you be so good as to send Mrs Fletcher up to Mrs Mildred Preston with hartshorn and water. She’s feeling unwell,” Harry said, wondering if the inspector would think the worst of him if he poured a large glass of brandy at this ungodly hour of the morning.

  “Of course, my lord,” Reggie said, but clearly couldn’t contain himself a moment longer. “Forgive me, sir, but ... is it true? Mr Edwin, he’s been murdered?”

  Harry nodded, wondering who on earth had done it and why. Mildred was right, of course, a man like Edwin had to hated by more than just Harry. Even his brothers couldn’t stand him, Baden, at least, he was unsure about Wilfred. But why here? Why now?

  “And you are ...?” Formby asked, getting to his feet and looking Reggie over.

  Reggie sni
ffed and was suddenly every inch the top-lofty and forbidding butler he had once trained to be. “Fletcher, sir,” he said with the majesty only available to one of that particular position. Even Alistair had never looked as regal as Reggie in a snit. It was a rare occurrence, but not easily forgotten. “I’ve been butler at Stamford Place for a little more than twenty years now.”

  Formby looked Fletcher over. “Seen a lot of comings and goings in that time then, Mr Fletcher?” he asked, his head tilted to one side and putting Harry in mind of a little brown bird, listening for worms.

  “Not really, Mr Formby, sir,” Fletcher replied, monotone. “His late lordship preferred his own company, and since this ... unfortunate business of contesting his last will and testament ...” he added, with obvious disdain.

  Mr Formby’s ears seemed to prick up at this. “You believe it is nonsense then?”

  “I’m sure I couldn’t say,” Fletcher replied with dignity. “Not being my place, sir. However, his late lordship was adamant that this man,” he paused to give a respectful nod to Harry, “Lord Preston, was his son and heir and always treated him as such all the years after he brought him back with him. Joyful to have found him, he was, too.”

  Harry looked away and studied his drink, hoping he wouldn’t blush at that outright lie, but Reggie was in full flow now. “What other proof you’d be needful of, I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir. It was always good enough for me. That others would want to deprive him of his birthright by trying to murder him, well ... that’s human nature for you.”

  “Ah, yes,” Formby said with growing interest. “These murder attempts, tell me about those.”

  Chapter 27

  That happened in the reign of King Dick - an absurd story

  - The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.

  Mr Formby took lunch in the kitchen, speaking to Beryl about her whereabouts and killing two birds with one stone. Harry was tempted to stay and eat there as usual, but didn’t want Formby to think the house and its inhabitants were any more eccentric than he must already have gathered. So after hearing Beryl reply in her forthright manner that she’d been in bed asleep, like any God-fearing woman ought to have been in the dead of night, he went back to his study, carrying his own tray of lunch. After explaining what had happened to Ratty, the inspector didn’t ought to think that odd, at least.