A Dog in a Doublet

by Emma V. Leech

  “Well, my lord, you’ve had a deal of excitement today I see,” Formby said, following Harry into his office.

  “More than I need or want, I can assure you, inspector,” Harry replied, sounding as worn and weary and he felt.

  “At least this one can’t be put on you,” he said with a twisted smile.

  Harry snorted, not in the mood to find such a quip in the least amusing. “As the last had nothing to do with me, either, I find I rather resent that remark.”

  Formby chuckled and raised a placating hand. “Oh, I meant nought by it, so don’t get your feathers ruffled over it.”

  “I hear congratulations are in order,” he added, staring at Harry from under thick, greying eyebrows. “You’ve been confirmed as Viscount Stamford?”

  Harry nodded, too tired to discuss that particular subject if he wasn’t forced to. “Do you have any news about Edwin?” he asked instead, bending down to stir the embers of the fire in the hearth. He received an odd look from Formby, who clearly thought it strange that a viscount should dirty his hands with such menial tasks.

  “I never denied being born in the gutter, inspector,” Harry replied, holding his gaze.

  Formby smiled at him. “No, my lord, you did not. Where was that again?” he asked, a look in his eyes that made Harry realise he knew he’d been deliberately evasive.

  “Here and there, inspector, here and there.”

  Formby chuckled and shook his head, but his eyes were as keen and sharp as a terrier on a rat. “I can’t help but feel you’re not being entirely honest with me, my lord.”

  Harry stood and stared at the fire for a moment as the flames began to leap, and then turned back to the inspector.

  “Would you be?” he demanded, wondering if Formby would chase him down simply because he could smell a mystery and for no other reason. “Alistair Preston turned my life around, inspector. He was a good man, he was my friend, my ... my father.” Unexpectedly his voice cracked on the word and he had to take a breath to steady himself. “He helped make me what I am today, but the man I left in the gutter had to fight just to stay alive. He’s a part of me, too, and I can’t deny him, but I’d still rather you let him be.” Reaching for the decanter, Harry poured himself a large drink and raised a glass to the inspector, who shook his head with regret.

  “Ah, that’s kind of you, my lord, and I’d love to accept, but I must be on my way before dark falls. But I’ll be back again soon, don’t you fret,” he added with a jovial tone that promised he wasn’t about to let things lie.

  “I wasn’t fretting, I assure you,” Harry muttered as Formby saw himself out.

  Harry sat behind his desk, nursing his drink and wondering why he didn’t feel happier. He was Viscount Stamford, after all. But the sensation of a noose closing around his neck was growing ever more real, and he tugged at his cravat as the material felt like it was choking him. Whether he was convicted of murdering Edwin or not was one thing. That Formby was interested in him, and more specifically his past, was quite another. He’d been well enough known around Southwark and the docks. Perhaps not as Harry Thompson, but if Formby found Harry Browning, it wouldn’t take a genius to link a man of his height and build back to him. Maybe Formby was no genius, but he was sharp and as tenacious as they came. He wouldn’t give up. Harry had been a lot younger and a deal skinnier back then, but there were few as tall as he was. There would be more than enough people to point the finger if they ever saw him to agree that he was, indeed, Harry Browning.

  ***

  It was late when Harry finally made his way up to bed. He held the candle aloft, illuminating his way and trying not to let his imagination run away with him as he passed dark corners. He wanted Mariah and Wilfred and the rest of them out of the place as soon as was possible. Of course, he could hardly turn Wilfred out now, so it looked like he was staying for the indefinite future. The wretched man having the last laugh after all, perhaps.

  It was strange, how the vast, rambling castle had never disturbed him since those first early days here. He’d become accustomed to it quicker than he might have credited, and had never been frightened by the idea of its ghosts or kept awake by the strange noises it made. It was people that frightened him. People who brought evil with them and their own dark forces that worked to unsettle your peace of mind.

  He hoped Mildred would stay on, and thought that Clarinda was right, that it would be a good match with the squire, if Mildred would chance the idea of marrying again. If not, she could stay here if she wished, she deserved a safe place to be where no one could trouble her. He wondered about Baden, and if he truly could mend his ways and make something of himself. The idea of the rather dissolute fellow doing an honest day’s work wasn’t an easy one to swallow, but he seemed sincere. Harry hoped he stuck to it, but only time would tell. He hoped the fool would rid himself of the lovely Miss Trinton, though.

  Harry yawned as he pushed open the door to his room and set about lighting a few more candles. The fire was blazing well, thanks to Reggie’s care, and Harry turned to check the bed had been turned down, to see with fury that Norah Preston was draped across it with a drink in her hand and a smug look in her eyes.

  “Well, at last,” she said, stretching like a cat and looking like she’d purr if he would only take what she was so clearly offering. “I thought you would never come to bed.”

  “Get out, Norah,” he said with no preamble, walking back to the door and holding it open. “How you can be here with your husband in the state he’s in?” he added with obvious disgust.

  Norah just grimaced, her eyes hard and angry. “I hate him. I hope he does die. By God, it would be the only decent thing he’s ever done in his life.”

  Harry found he couldn’t condemn her for that despite the fact that she’d shocked him. Life with Wilfred would be enough to destroy the most amiable of souls, though something told him Norah had never been that.

  “Just leave and we’ll say no more about it, right?” he said, even knowing he’d not get off that easy.

  “Oh, come now, Harry,” she said, her voice taunting now. “I need only tell the inspector that you were out and about that night for you to become prime suspect.”

  Harry snorted. “I already told him I went out, and a leaf in my hair is hardly proof of murder when it was blowing a gale. Besides which, if you saw me, where were you?”

  Norah stared at him, her eyes cold as the north sea and just as pitiless. “I didn’t murder the wretched man,” she said, though Harry could well believe her capable.

  “Why not?” Harry demanded. “For all I know, he was blackmailing you over your affair with Brewer. You could be in it together.”

  Harry allowed himself some measure of satisfaction over the look of shock in her eyes. “Oh, come now, Norah,” he said, mocking her by repeating the tone she’d taken with him. “You can’t play those kind of games and think no one is going to find out.”

  “I-I ... didn’t,” she cried, her voice rasping with fear. “I didn’t kill him.”

  “Fine,” Harry replied, his voice hard. “Get out and I’ll keep my opinions to myself.”

  He watched as she staggered, none too steadily, to her feet. She drained the glass she held and let it drop to the floor, where it rolled on the thick carpet.

  “I didn’t want you, anyway,” she slurred, her breath stale with brandy. “It was only to make Nicholas jealous.” To Harry’s dismay, her face crumpled and he wondered if she was actually in love with the valet. “He wants to leave, and now that Wilfred’s a cripple, he’s got good reason to go. He says he can’t stand it anymore, but neither can I,” she sobbed, her overly made-up face creased with misery. “But I don’t get to leave. I’ll have to stay with that ... that half-dead man. Well, I shan’t nurse him, I shan’t!”

  “Well, you’d best sort that out with Mr Brewer,” Harry replied, feeling slightly revolted by her even as he pitied her distress. “I’m sorry for you, Norah, but you’ll not drag me into your affair
s, not through blackmail or any other means.”

  She sniffed then, casting him a look of sheer hatred. “Oh, don’t worry, Harry, dear,” she said, her voice deceptively sweet. “You’ll get yours.”

  ***

  Harry woke late the next morning, surprised that Reggie hadn’t woken him or come up with his hot water yet. By the time he got down to the kitchens, the reason for that was clear enough as Reggie clutched at his head. Old Ramsy was sitting by the fire, chewing on a bacon sandwich and grinning his toothless grin at Reggie’s obvious discomfort.

  Beryl favoured her husband with an impatient look as Harry walked in.

  “Well, then, there he is. So you’d best apologise,” she said, folding her arms over her ample bosom, her lips compressed in a thin line of displeasure.

  Reggie stood, looking so unwell that Harry took pity on him and urged him to sit again.

  “Before you fall down,” he said with amusement. “Have a good night, did you?” he asked with a grin.

  Reggie flushed and looked uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, my lord.”

  “Get away with you,” Harry said, shaking his head. “You deserve a night off, shouldn’t even be working here at all,” he added. “What with that lovely cottage of yours sitting empty.”

  Reggie cast his wife a look that Harry couldn’t read, and Beryl snorted, turning away from him to pour the tea.

  “You shouldn’t be down here, my lord,” she said, cracking eggs into a frying pan, one-handed. “Not with that inspector poking about.”

  “Oh, do stop, my-lording me, Beryl.” Harry stirred sugar into his tea and grimaced. “And what’s he doing here already?”

  “Interviewing Mr Brewer,” she said with a satisfied nod as she transferred the eggs onto a plate brimming with bacon and fried tomatoes. “A good job, too, I reckon.” Handling the hot plate with care, she took it and placed it front of Harry as Reggie groaned at the sight of it. “Serves you right,” she said to her husband, shaking her head, though there was no heat in her voice. “That Mr Brewer is a wrong’un, though,” she said to Harry. “You mark my words.”

  Harry cut the bacon up and nodded. “I won’t disagree. Too smoky by half, if you ask me.”

  “Can’t you get rid of them now, Harry?” Reggie asked, his voice raw.

  “What, with old Wilfred in that state?” Harry shook his head and reached for a slice of bread. “Believe me, I want them gone, but I can’t throw them out yet.”

  They all turned as hurried footsteps sounded on the back stairs and Baden crashed through the kitchen door.

  Harry got to his feet, holding his breath as he saw Baden’s face, stark white as he stood framed in the doorway. “Wilfred’s dead.”

  Harry breathed out with relief. “I’m sorry, Baden, I guess it’s not surprising, though, after ...”

  He trailed off as Baden shook his head. “The doctor came, I showed him up, as Mr Fletcher wasn’t there,” he said.

  Reggie winced as Beryl shot him a look of fury, but Baden carried on.

  “The doc says he found feathers in his mouth. He was smothered with a pillow.”

  Beryl gasped, covering her mouth with her hand.

  “Have you told Formby?” Harry demanded as Baden nodded.

  “He’s up there now,” he said, and then swallowed hard, shaking his head. “I sent the doctor on to tell Mother, he’ll ... he’ll know how to deal with her, won’t he, Harry?” he asked, looking for reassurance.

  Harry nodded, thinking that the doctor had best administer the sedative before breaking the news if he had any sense at all.

  The room fell silent as everyone wondered what purpose was served by murdering Wilfred in the state he was in.

  “It wasn’t me,” Baden exclaimed, his eyes growing wide with terror as he looked around the table. “That’s what you all think, isn’t it?” he said, the words shrill and laced with panic. “You think I killed them, that I tried to kill Harry ...”

  No one denied it, but Harry held out his hands in a placating manner and steered Baden to a seat at the table.

  “No one is thinking anything of the sort,” Harry replied, keeping his voice soothing, and glared at Beryl, who looked like she was considering the idea very seriously indeed. “Mrs Fletcher, get Baden some tea, please, lots of sugar.”

  Beryl cast the young man one last, suspicious look and gave a sniff that suggested she was yet to be convinced, but did as Harry asked her.

  “Can I stay down here, Harry?” Baden asked as Beryl placed a cup of tea in front of him. He thanked her without looking up as Harry sat back down again and returned to his breakfast. Harry could see no point in rushing up to stare at the corpse. Formby would seek him out if he wanted him, of that he was quite certain.

  “Of course,” he said to Baden, though his thoughts were elsewhere. “Mind, you can’t avoid Formby all day. He’ll want to see you.”

  Baden nodded, looking like a condemned man. “Yes. To arrest me, no doubt,” he said with a mournful air.

  Harry frowned and concentrated on clearing his plate.

  Chapter 30

  A deep one - a sly, designing fellow

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

  By the time Mr Formby had made his way to the kitchens, Baden had worked himself into such a stew he was barely monosyllabic. Harry shook his head with impatience as Formby finally managed to ascertain that Baden had gone to bed alone and woken the same way, without seeing a soul or hearing a thing. Though Harry still didn’t think Baden capable of murder (it would take too much effort on his part, for one thing), he did think the fellow looked dreadfully guilty. It was true, too, that if Baden just bided his time, took pains to become friends with Harry ... Harry could be bumped off in a few years without it looking too dreadfully suspicious. By that time, Harry would have done the hard work of getting Stamford in order, and Baden would inherit a much more interesting estate.

  Harry hated himself for thinking it, but ... it was possible.

  But if that was the case, Baden was pretty damn cold-blooded, and he looked utterly terrified right now. Surely he wasn’t that good an actor, and if he were, why make himself look guilty? If he would just stop imagining Formby clapping him in irons at any second, he’d likely fare a lot better, but, to be honest, Formby was looking at him with interest.

  Once it was clear to the inspector that he’d get no further sense from Baden, he turned to the rest of the staff.

  To everyone’s shock, Beryl revealed that she had gone to bed early and risen as dawn, as was usual ... to discover Mr Brewer poking about in her kitchen.

  “Well, I asked what he thought he was up to, Mr Formby,” she said, folding her arms and looking indignant that her territory had been trespassed on. “And he says that he woke up because he was hungry. Well, I made him a ham sandwich and sent him on his way. But I didn’t believe a word of it. No, I didn’t,” she said, shaking her head for emphasis as everyone stared, agog.

  “And what did you believe, Mrs Fletcher?” Mr Formby asked, his pencil poised over his notebook and an enquiring look in his eyes.

  Beryl seemed to falter at this but pursed her lips, folding her arms a little tighter. “I can’t say as I know,” she admitted, but rallied again and leaned towards the inspector, her face full of certainty. “But I believe he’s a wrong’un, Mr Formby. Up to no good, he is, and nought you can say will persuade me otherwise.” She gave a determined little sniff and Formby deemed it time to move on.

  Ramsy had slept all night in the stables, as one of the horses had been taken lame and he was fretting over it. To Harry’s surprise, Reggie had been drinking with Mr Pennyworth at The White Hart before returning to Pennyworth’s home. Reggie muttered that he’d been too drunk to find his way home. With an air of deep mortification, he admitted to having spent the night on the floor of Pennyworth’s parlour, where he’d passed out. He’d staggered home around nine am. Bearing in mind he had a lovely black eye and a lump on his temple where
Wilfred had struck him, Harry could only be grateful he had such a good alibi.

  “And you, my lord?” Formby asked at length, once everyone else had been dealt with.

  Harry shrugged. “I went to bed late, perhaps around two in the morning. I’m not sleeping well of late,” he added with an expression that demanded if the inspector could really be surprised at it in the circumstances.

  Formby jotted in his notebook. “See anything unusual?”

  Harry hesitated, aware that Reggie, Beryl, Baden, and old Ramsy were all hanging on his every word. “May I speak with you in private, inspector?” he asked in the end.

  “As you wish, my lord,” Mr Formby said, tucking his notepad away and the pencil behind his ear with an amiable smile.

  Harry got up and led him back up the stairs, intending to go to his study. He’d have to tell Formby about Norah this time, he decided. No good would come from hiding things from the man.

  As if he had conjured the woman from his thoughts, Norah appeared at the top of the stairs. She was still in her nightgown, her hair dishevelled and her maid hurrying after her, carrying her wrap.

  “It was him!” she screamed at Formby, stumbling down the stairs, every bit as drunk as she’d been the night before. “He did it. He killed Edwin and he killed Wilfred, too! I saw him!”

  Formby cast Harry a hard glance, and then nodded at the two young men who seemed to follow him around and linger in the shadows whenever he was visiting.

  “Escort Lord Preston to his study please, gentlemen,” he said, his voice grim.

  “Norah!” Harry shouted, panic gripping him as the men each took hold of his arm. “Norah, don’t do this, you know it isn’t true. Please. I’ve never done anything to hurt you.”

  “Calm yourself, my lord,” Mr Formby said, his tone even. “I’m going to have a little chat with Mrs Preston here, and then I’ll speak with you. You’ll have your say.”