“From the constabulary.”
“Yes. Well, apparently all of the most eminent of Rathfarnham’s citizens shall be there, and we simply must grace them with our presence.”
I smiled at the sarcasm in his voice.
“In other words, I do believe we are about to face an inquisition of the village’s Protestant elite.”
“And we must attend?” It sounded like it would be about as much fun as an autopsy, and I’d had my fill of those long ago.
His demeanor turned sympathetic. “I’m afraid so. If for no reason other than it will give us a chance to question some men who have been dodging my visits.”
I sighed. “All right. If nothing else, I suppose it can be hoped they won’t be serving boiled baby.”
He flicked a startled glance at me.
“You might know of it as roly-poly.”
He shook his head as if to clear it. “I know what it is. My father still talks about how they served it on board ship when he was in the Royal Navy. He tells a horrid story about trying to explain the translation to a Spanish general, which, of course, he finds absurdly hilarious. But what made you think of that?”
“Oh, Bree told me they were preparing it belowstairs at the abbey.”
“I see.” He slowed the horses as we came to the crossroads. Left would lead into town, while to the right sat the cottages we had seen from a distance behind the abbey. Instead, he drove us forward, toward where it looked like the road ended, but in truth it only turned at a right angle to head east.
I could tell immediately this was our road. It was extremely narrow, crowded between two towering walls, the sky blocked by overhanging trees. It was not a road I wished to traverse at night, but in the midst of a sunny summer day, it was quite lovely. Light dappled through the leaves on the overgrown track, as the trees swayed in the breeze, singing an airy, shuffling lullaby. Here there was no birdsong, and no encroachment of humans, not even the thwack of an ax or the scrape of a hoe. Lichen had overtaken much of the stone walls, perfuming the air with its earthy scent.
I didn’t have to ask Gage to drive slowly, for the lane was filled with more right-angled bends, directing the road on a crooked course between what must have been the boundary between two properties. Populated by people who didn’t desire to mix, if the height of the walls was any indication. I guessed the wall to the south bounded the full domain which formerly belonged to the original owners of Rathfarnham House. But what demesne lay to the north?
When I asked Gage, he considered my question for a moment before replying. “If I had to guess, I would say Rathfarnham Castle. From what I understand, the estate and parklands attached to it were quite extensive. But that land has long since been divided and given over to different uses.”
I nodded, remembering how Homer, the Priory’s gardener, had told me that part of it was being used as a dairy farm a short time ago. Now that I’d seen the road and the second wall blocking off the castle’s old land, it was even more difficult to believe Miss Lennox or Mother Fidelis had ventured beyond the other wall. I tapped my fingers restlessly against the carriage seat, trying to make sense of it all as Gage turned the phaeton around at the spot where the road widened beyond the walls and drove us back through the narrow lane.
Then something else Homer had said tickled at my brain. Something that could explain a great deal. It seemed fantastical, but it was at least worth considering, and paying another visit to the Priory gardener.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mr. LaTouche’s country home, Eden Park, lay only a short distance from the Priory, though I daresay we could have walked there by a more direct route as swiftly as we drove there. In fact, I suspected the grove of trees and chimney smoke I’d spied to the south, half a mile from the border of the Priory’s property, belonged to Eden Park. Mr. LaTouche had declared they kept country hours, so the sun was still high in the sky on this long summer day as we pulled up to the columned exterior of his home in our borrowed phaeton. I supposed the grand classical white marble façade might appeal to some, but to my eyes, it looked like someone had attempted to re-create the Parthenon in the midst of the Irish countryside. I found I much preferred the quaint, almost rustic appearance of the Priory, with its ivy-covered walls and chimney, and rough-hewn stone.
Gage leaned toward me with a grin as we pulled up the drive. “Rather suits Mr. LaTouche’s perception of his consequence, don’t you think?”
My lips quirked. “Rather. Let’s just hope he doesn’t have an obelisk or shrine tucked away somewhere in his garden so we don’t have to speculate on his perception of that.”
Gage snorted. “Just so.” Then his voice turned wry. “Although I don’t think you shall have to worry about voicing that thought, for he shall do it for you.” He nodded toward the door and I turned to see Marsdale standing atop the steps speaking to our host and a younger man beside him.
I supposed I should have ceased being amazed at where Marsdale turned up. In any case, I was not altogether irritated to see him. I figured we could count on him as an ally, and that was better than none, even if his ribald humor could sometimes be disconcerting.
Gage had told me he’d encountered Marsdale on more than one occasion about Rathfarnham as he sought potential witnesses with helpful information they were willing to share. I’d been spared his presence as I’d spent much of my time at the abbey. Though Gage admitted, albeit somewhat begrudgingly, that Marsdale had been more useful than he’d anticipated. Together they seemed less like a lone man on a single-minded mission, even as charming as Gage could be, and more like a pair of gentlemen out on a lark. Somehow this had made a few people more comfortable sharing what little they had about the abbey, the nuns, and the town in the form of gossip.
Apparently Rathfarnham was of three minds on the Sisters of Loretto. One, they were happy the sisters were there, and grateful for the services they provided the community. Two, the sisters stayed to themselves and had no effect on them, so they were content to leave them be. Or three, the sisters were a scourge that needed to be driven out. The first group consisted of Catholics, just as the third was Protestants, and their answers to the other questions posed became quite predictable. Either the women who were murdered were saints, or they’d gotten what was coming to them.
However, the second group seemed to be a mixture of the more apathetic Catholics and tolerant Protestants, and as such, their other answers were more interesting. There was some hinting that the nuns didn’t stick strictly to their proscribed duties, nor inside the confines of their walls. How or why they knew or suspected this, they wouldn’t say, still being too mistrustful of us as outsiders. Others suggested there might be some resentment on the part of a number of Protestants in the community because they feared the sisters would attempt to convert their children. They admitted this made little sense because no one would be forced to send their children to the day school they proposed to open. There was already a Protestant-directed school in town their children could attend. But this proved how unreasonable people could be when it came to matters of religion.
So while Gage had little luck in finding out if Mother Fidelis’s relatives might have stayed at a local inn, or uncovering which gentleman might have loitered at the pond outside the abbey—it seemed there were too many with residences in the area to differentiate—he had still had some fortune in gathering information. I had seen how frustrated he was growing at the villagers’ refusal to speak with us, but now here was something he could point to, and I was grateful of it. Fear was no small motive, and fear for one’s children even more so. If someone had been genuinely frightened for their children, irrational or not, would they have tried to do something about it? Would they have resorted to murder?
I couldn’t answer that, but maybe one of the people here tonight could, even though I suspected most of their children had private governesses and tutors or attended elite schools in Du
blin or England.
Mr. LaTouche grinned broadly as we climbed the steps toward him, looking as polished as ever, almost as if he’d been dipped in shellac. “Mr. Gage, Lady Darby, how good of ye to join us.”
I didn’t fail to note he’d addressed me by my courtesy title when I’d asked him to call me Mrs. Gage. I was quite certain he had not forgotten.
“Ye look lovely as the sunset, sure ye do,” he added as he bowed over my hand.
I smiled tightly in response, feeling his compliment might have been a bit heavy-handed given I was wearing a dinner dress of golden yellow silk. It was one of my favorite gowns, in spite of its abnormal shade. The drapery crossed in front, allowing a hint of the blond lace chemisette underneath to peek out. It boasted short beret sleeves of a more moderate width than most current fashion, with longer sleeves of white gauze extended from the top of the puffed sleeves to end in a ruche of blond net. Even my headdress of dark violet with white ostrich feathers surprisingly suited me. At least in this ensemble, I knew that I complemented instead of detracted from Gage’s impeccable appearance.
Mr. LaTouche gestured to the young man beside him. “May I present my son, Colin.”
I could see the resemblance. He possessed the same raven dark hair, the same Irish blue eyes, but where his father was stiff, and rather too polished, Colin was relaxed and self-assured. In some ways, his demeanor reminded me of Gage—the careless, almost effortless charm and grace of a very attractive man, who both knows it and has learned no one likes a man who preens. However, Colin’s manner was still colored by youth, and I couldn’t help but wonder if ten years ago Gage had been much the same.
“Just returned from Oxford,” Mr. LaTouche announced with pride.
Gage congratulated him and shook his hand. “Any plans to see the continent?”
Like many young aristocratic and genteel men, Gage himself had embarked on the Grand Tour after his graduation from Cambridge. Though he had also taken an extended detour in Greece.
Colin’s eyes gleamed. “I leave within the week.”
“Good man.”
“Perhaps you’ve some tips for the lad.” Mr. LaTouche’s eyes were a shade less excited than his son about this undertaking, and I felt myself begin to soften toward him at this display of apprehension—a clear indication of his affection for his offspring. Maybe he was not entirely like Lord Gage.
“Of course,” Gage replied. “I’m at your disposal.”
Colin thanked him, and we passed through into the house, leaving our hosts to greet those who were climbing the steps after us.
The inside of the house was every bit as grand as the exterior, with high, soaring ceilings and wide rooms. No amount of gilding had been spared, and ornate moldings and cornices drew the eyes upward toward the murals painted on both the drawing room and the dining room ceilings. Why anyone should wish their guests to stare upward while they dined rather than conversing with one another, I did not know, but they were lovely, and I would have enjoyed examining them more closely at leisure. The drawing room ceiling depicted figures of Greek myth, while the dining room hosted angels, from strategically draped adults to small cherubs.
“You’d think the artist could have let just one of those togas slip.”
I turned a quelling look on Marsdale seated to my left. We were not a large party, only about a dozen total, most of whom were men. Mr. LaTouche, I learned, was a widower, and so could perhaps be forgiven this awkward arrangement. The other two women were obviously good friends with each other, and though polite, neither of them had the slightest bit of interest in me.
In any event, I was the highest-ranking female, thanks to my late husband, and Marsdale the highest-ranking male, so we were given the dubious pleasure of sitting at the middle of the table across from our host. This nod to French etiquette made me wonder whether Mr. LaTouche had more of a continental connection than just his name, or if he simply wanted to be at the center so that he would not miss a word of what was said.
Thus far, nothing had been mentioned of our inquiry, our conversation rather being filled with inconsequential things, but I knew that would not last. And indeed, as the second course of salmon on rye and stewed soles was laid before us, Mr. LaTouche looked up with a smile of commiseration. “Tell us, Lady Darby, how goes your inquiry into the misfortune of those two nuns?”
I glanced toward where Gage sat several places down the table to Mr. LaTouche’s right, uncertain how much to reveal, and caught sight of Colin’s anxious frown. It was evident he didn’t approve of his father’s choice of conversational topic. “We’re making progress,” I replied obliquely.
“That’s excellent to hear. But no suspects to arrest yet?” His eyebrows lifted in query.
“No.” Then to stem any criticism, I added, “One has to be absolutely certain of such things before smearing a good man’s name.”
“Certain, though, ye are, that it is a man?” a gentleman, who I seemed to remember being another mill owner, asked while licking sauce from his fingers. “It couldn’t’ve been another one of these nuns?”
“Well, nothing is definite at this point, but we are relatively certain, yes.”
“I hear you’ve spent some time with the sisters inside that convent of theirs.” Dr. Lynch, a professor at Trinity College in Dublin, leaned forward in interest. “What was it like?”
“Much as you’d expect,” I replied, and then realized I had no idea what these men expected. “They keep to a strict schedule. Prayers, meals, classes, tending the garden and other areas of the abbey. It’s very quiet, and for the most part peaceful, as are most of the sisters. The sort of place no one ever imagines murders happening.”
“But they did.”
I looked up into the hard eyes of Mr. Gibney, a man whose occupation—if he had any—I could not recall. He seemed to be the type of man who disapproved of anyone and everything, and delighted in nothing so much as correcting and belittling other people. “Yes.”
Before anyone else could ask me a question, Gage leapt into the small silence, rescuing me. “Actually, there is one thing we could use your assistance with.”
Mr. LaTouche perked up with interest. “What’s that, Mr. Gage?”
Gage’s mouth curled in a self-deprecating grin that still somehow managed to cajole. “We’ve been informed by several witnesses that a man dressed as a gentleman was seen ambling about an area behind the abbey which we’re told is, or used to be, called The Ponds. This area is close enough to where both women were discovered to cause some concern.” He raised his hand to forestall any arguments. “We know there might be a perfectly reasonable explanation for why this gentleman was there. Perhaps he’s interested in architecture, or is a student of history. He could have been bird watching.”
I nearly choked at this reference to Miss Lennox’s dubious excuse, and then my hand tightened around my fork at hearing the lie he so easily delivered next.
“Whatever the reason, at this point, we have no proof he had contact with either of the women. But the fact that he has not come forward to explain his presence, you see, is cause for some concern.” His eyes scanned the faces at the table, as mine did. “So if any of you know who happened to be there, please ask him to speak with us, that we might eliminate him from our suspect list.”
“What’s it matter if a gentleman was there?” the mill owner asked. “’Tis clear to me he has nottin’ to do wit dis.”
“You must be quite the prescient then, my good man,” Marsdale remarked, raising his glass to him.
“I don’t like any untidy loose ends in my investigations. They cause problems for the King’s Counsel later,” Gage explained. “And this gentleman may have seen something that could help us, something he may not even realize has importance.”
“Could it be one o’ the Ribbonmen?” Dr. Lynch remarked as the footmen entered and began to whisk our plates away t
o be replaced by the next course. “After all, some of dem dress and display the mannerisms of a gentleman.”
I glanced sideways at the professor. That was as sly an insult as I’d ever heard pronounced, and from the look in his eyes, I didn’t think he realized he’d even given it.
“Maybe. They’re all up in arms about these tithes,” one of the other men interjected, and the conversation dissolved into a discussion of politics.
Marsdale lifted a hand to his mouth and yawned, not even bothering to pretend to find the discussion interesting. It was rude and slighting, and he knew he could get away with it because he was a duke’s son and a guest. His eyes twinkled as he flicked them sideways at me, letting me see he was doing it on purpose. This realization made me want to both kick him underneath the table and laugh behind my serviette. I settled for biting my lip and staring down at my plate of stewed beef steaks and potato pudding.
Mr. LaTouche meanwhile had stiffened as if a poker had been thrust up his back, and he tried to change the subject. His son appeared equally uncomfortable, picking at his food, his brow lowered in what almost appeared to be distress. However, some of the other men, fueled by the drinks their host had offered in the drawing room and his fine selection of wine at the table, were enjoying this opportunity to rant on what appeared to be a favorite grievance.
“I don’t know what they’re complainin’ about. I don’t attend church here more ’an once or twice a season, and I still pay me tithes,” Mr. Gibney groused. His sallow face pinched with affront.
“To be sure,” someone chimed in to agree.
“The stubborn sods already got their emancipation, thanks to Wellington and his lot yieldin’ to their threats o’ an armed rebellion. And look what good it did? More threats. Ungrateful wretches.”
As Death Draws Near Page 21
