Deadly Affair: A Georgian Historical Mystery (Alec Halsey Crimance)

by Lucinda Brant

  “Just before I was knocked on the head, a ridiculous fellow in canary yellow silks who’d been followin’ me since I left me meetin’, shoved his hand in m’waistcoat pocket,” Plantagenet Halsey explained. “I thought he was tryin’ to steal m’watch, but when he ran off just as everythin’ around me went black, I put m’hand in m’pocket and realized the fellow had put somethin’ in there, not takin’ somethin’ out.”

  Alec nodded absently as he put on his gold-rimmed spectacles and flicked through the closely printed yellowed pages of a weathered pamphlet denouncing slavery. There were arithmetic jottings in a number of the margins. There was also a dark circular stain, such as that left by a chocolate or coffee mug. But what really caught Alec’s interest was two thin sheets of parchment, folded neatly in half and slipped between the pages of the pamphlet. “Did you know these were here?” he asked over his gold rims as he unfolded the thin pages. “Have you read them?”

  “Took a quick look while the lad was bandagin’ m’head,” replied the old man. “You’ll find it plain and to the point, like the man himself.”

  The pages proved to be the last will and testament of the Reverend Kenneth Blackwell Dempsey-Weir, late of the parish of St. Judes in the City of London; second son of the late Viscount Dempsey-Weir of Hawkhurst in Kent. It was signed, witnessed, sealed and dated the day before Blackwell’s death. The will had been witnessed by Justinian, Duke of Cleveley and signed off by Thaddeus Fanshawe Esq., lawyer. The main beneficiary was one Catherine Sophia Elizabeth Bourdon of Ellick Farm in Somerset, bequeathed Blackwell’s entire estate, consisting of two sugar plantations in Barbados, a townhouse in Mount Street leased to the Cornwallis family for a further ten years, and ten thousand pounds plus accrued interest, deposited in the Bank of England over twenty years ago. A further five thousand pounds was bequeathed to Sir Charles Weir, past private secretary to his Grace the most Noble Duke of Cleveley. Blackwell’s bible, gold pocket watch and a thousand pounds were willed to Thomas Fisher, apothecary and valet to Lord Halsey; a gold snuffbox and a small miniature of the Duchess of Clevely in a gold frame were to go to Lord George Stanton. Blackwell asked that he be laid to rest in the family vault at Hawkhurst.

  From amongst the down-filled pillows, Plantagenet Halsey regarded his nephew with a smile of satisfaction, the relentless throbbing pain in his head momentarily forgotten. “Makes you sit up and wonder, don’t it? I mean, here we were thinkin’ Blackwell eeked out an existence in the poorest parish of the City because he was a penniless vicar, and one who couldn’t possibly have an enemy in the world, yet the man who made out that will was wealthy and well-connected. So who’s to say he didn’t have enemies? You’ve got to admit, it’s a damned intriguin’ business.”

  “Very,” agreed Alec and returned the will between the pages of the pamphlet. “Two plantations in Barbados and ten thousand with the Bank of England… And yet he devoted his life to those less fortunate than himself. What a remarkable gentleman.”

  “But somethin’ or someone in his past must’ve come back to haunt him because the man was murdered at Weir’s dinner party.”

  “But why was he murdered? For his money? No one at the dinner party except Cleveley knew Blackwell was a wealthy man. And who amongst the diners stood to gain from his death? Charles? I doubt he poisoned Blackwell for five thousand pounds. Charles’s sinecures from Cleveley alone must be worth that per annum. As for George Stanton, he is a drunk and a parasitic dullard but even he wouldn’t stoop to murdering a vicar for a gold snuffbox and a miniature of his mother.” Alec removed his spectacles. “It’s Catherine Bourdon we need to find out about, and by virtue of being signatories to the will, Cleveley and the lawyer Fanshawe must know this woman and her whereabouts.”

  “Blackwell’s death has made her a rich woman,” stated the old man, closing his eyes and secretly wishing he had taken the laudanum when it was first offered. The pain in his head was becoming unbearable. “And you said it yourself, Cleveley knew Blackwell was wealthy…”

  “And he was signatory to Blackwell’s will. But he didn’t need to poison him for his money,” reasoned Alec. Adding as he crossed to the dressing room, “If you’re going to accuse Cleveley, you’ll have to come up with another explanation for why he wanted the vicar dead.” He signaled for his uncle’s valet to take his place at the bed then closed over the door, saying to Tam in the dressing room,” Where did my uncle come by that knock to his head?”

  “In the lane beside The Stock and Buckle, sir.”

  “Stock and Buckle? That isn’t far from here, is it?”

  “Just up King Street, sir.”

  “He should’ve taken his chair. He knows he isn’t steady on his feet. Will he be all right?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Halsey is remarkably healthy for a gentleman of his age. He’ll heal in no time. His skull isn’t fractured, so there’s no reason to think his brain is bruised. And so I told Dr. Miller, but he didn’t believe me and had his assistant remove the bandages so he could make a proper informed diagnosis.”

  “I would’ve been most disappointed had Miller not done so, Tam,” Alec stated, and watched the boy drop his gaze with a frown. “Miller means well, but he’s prejudiced like all his kind against the growing expertise of the apothecaries. The physicians feel their unique position in the world is under threat.” He smiled. “And no small wonder is it, when a lad of nineteen is just as expert as our good doctor at making a diagnosis. Now tell me: Do you know what induced my uncle to stroll into a laneway to be accosted by some fool dressed in canary yellow?”

  Tam thinned his lips. “Well, sir, I don’t think he meant to go into the laneway.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He went to the aid of the gentleman dressed in canary yellow who’d been following him since he left a meeting of the anti-slavery league,” explained Tam. “The gentleman in yellow was dragged into the laneway by two thugs and Mr. Halsey heard his cry for help. And from what the lads who brought Mr. Halsey into the Stock and Buckle could tell me, the gentleman in yellow managed to escape and run off up Berry Street when the thugs set to on Mr. Halsey…”

  “And?” prompted Alec, seeing Tam hesitate.

  “Just an odd circumstance, sir. And I don’t know what to make of it, but the thugs were wearing livery.”

  “Livery?” Alec was incredulous. “The thugs were liveried servants? Your friends were certain?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Tam, glancing through the open doorway at the old man who was meekly sipping the laudanum from the cup his valet held to his mouth.

  “If this unknown gentleman was set upon by men in livery then it seems highly unlikely that stealing was their motive. Was anyone able to give a description of the gentleman wearing the absurd colored clothing?”

  “Not much of a physical description I’m afraid, sir. But the lads reckon a gentleman wearing a canary yellow silk frockcoat and matching breeches, that you’d usually see on a dandy at a rout or a ball, shouldn’t be difficult to run to ground.” Tam smiled in spite of himself. “Definitely not daytime attire here in St. James’s, sir.”

  Alec put up his brows. “How a man in his sixtieth year could delude himself into thinking he could play hero, and to a dandy in canary yellow being set upon by liveried servants, defies the imagination. But you’re right, such a fellow shouldn’t be hard to find, not least of all after we have a proper description from my uncle.” He glanced at the now dozing figure lying still in the huge bed and beckoned Plantagenet Halsey’s valet. “Let me know the moment Mr. Halsey wakes.” And taking one last look at his uncle, as if to convince himself that the old man was indeed resting comfortably, patted Tam’s shoulder as he made to depart. “Thank you for taking care of him, Tam.”

  Tam smiled and, noting that his master still wore the clothes he’d dressed in early that morning, said, “Shall I see to your bath, sir?”

  “No. Take yourself off to clean up. Jeffries can see to what I need.”

  “But—sir!” Tam blurted o
ut rudely as he followed Alec out into the passageway, feeling more unsettled than ever that he was losing control over his valeting duties. Hadrian Jeffries, a haughty upper footman, had been attending on his lordship from time to time when Tam was preoccupied with his studies. “Jeffries insists on rearranging what I’ve just arranged in the closet, and he refolds all your neckcloths sayin’ I don’t know how to—”

  “That will do,” Alec said firmly.

  When Tam threw him a petulant look, shoved a hand deep in his frockcoat pocket and hung his head, Alec was about to get angry. But the boy took out a handkerchief, carefully unfolded it and held it out to him. In its depressed centre nestled a silver button.

  “One of the gentlemen who helped Mr. Halsey said this must’ve come off in the scuffle. He found it in Mr. Halsey’s grip.” He waited for Alec to put on his spectacles. “It’s unusual, isn’t it, sir?”

  Alec peered at the shiny, silver domed button with its intricate pattern. “The engraving appears to be that of a bumble bee?”

  “Yes, sir. Apparently it’s quite unusual for livery to have engraved buttons; so the lads down at the Stock and Buckle tell me.” Tam smiled in spite of himself. “One of the regulars knew it straight off.”

  Alec looked over his gold rims with a raised eyebrow.

  “That button can belong to only one nobleman’s livery, sir,” Tam said with satisfaction. “His Grace the Duke of Cleveley.

  The porter of a particular townhouse in Cavendish Square opened wide the front door with a bored yawn and blinked into the darkness. On the top step stood a magnificently dressed gentleman. He wore a splendid powdered wig and carried a pair of velvet gloves with brocade cuffs. The porter had no idea who he was but knew from the gentleman’s richly embroidered frockcoat, the large diamond encrusted shoe buckles and the ornate and bejeweled hilt of his sword, that he was someone very important indeed. The porter wondered if he was dreaming; the butler knew he was not. With a deft elbow the butler shoved aside the sleepy and ignorant porter and with a bow worthy of a vassal of the Turkish sultan bid the visitor welcome.

  The Duke of Cleveley had come calling on his bitter political rival, the Earl Russell.

  Lord Russell was expecting his Grace and greeted him in his library.

  In this book-lined room these two politically powerful noblemen, who between them owned much of England’s green rolling hills, remained closeted until late into the night. It boggled the butler’s mind to speculate on just what was being discussed.

  He wished himself a flea in his master’s wig.

  The Duchess of Romney-St Neots peered out of her box seat at the King’s Theatre, Haymarket, and pretended to be as captivated as the rest of the audience by the soprano’s enchanting voice. She wasn’t particularly fond of opera. She knew she must be one of the few people who did not appreciate “high-pitched shouting matches”, as she was want to call them. The theater was more to her taste, but her youngest daughter, the Lady Sybilla, preferred the opera; it made her cry. God only knew why, wondered the Duchess, pleased her godson had accepted the invitation to join them, thus saving her from an evening of her daughter’s morbid weeping. She was well aware Sybilla harbored an infatuation for Alec Halsey, despite her wifely devotion to her husband the dear Admiral. She hoped Alec’s presence would provide the distraction needed to stop the woman’s constant tears, no doubt a consequence of her advancing pregnancy.

  The Duchess would have preferred to be at home, propped up in a warmed bed, writing a letter to her granddaughter Emily who was on her way to Venice, or was it Copenhagen? She missed Emily’s company. It showed on her features, as the prompter’s bell tolled on the second act bringing with it a general crescendo of noise and movement amongst the audience.

  Those seated in the double horseshoe boxes sent servants off for refreshments, conversation hardly lagging throughout the performance under the yellow glow from the wall sconces, while the more adventurous made the dash to relieve themselves in the chamber pots hidden behind ornate screens.

  The Duchess unfurled her fan of painted chicken skin and resettled herself more comfortably against the tasseled cushion at her back. She failed to notice her daughter standing dutifully beside her chair, ready to assist should she wish to stand for a few moments. The Lady Sybilla coughed politely into a gloved hand, and when this did not distract her mother she turned to the other occupant of the box with a pleading look.

  “Your frown has turned into a smile, Olivia, and I know you loathe the opera,” Alec commented near the Duchess’s ear. “What has taken your fancy? I trust it’s not Lord Rutherglen’s appalling wig a la Mariner? He appears to have swum the Channel in it.”

  “Horrid boy,” complained the Duchess with a laugh and poked her daughter’s wide hooped petticoats with the sticks of her fan. “Sit down, Sybilla! How am I expected to see? Standing in your condition. What would the Admiral say to it?”

  “Mamma, I thought, if you wished to take a walk about the box… ?”

  The Duchess scoffed. “So Rutherglen’s ferret-faced wife can see me limp about? Don’t be absurd!”

  Lady Sybilla dutifully curtsied and disappeared once more into a corner at the back of the box, Alec’s reassuring smile enough to make her blush and retreat behind her fluttering fan.

  “He does look a fool, doesn’t he?” the Duchess commented behind her unfurled fan, a glance at the group seated in the third box along the row. “Poor Jasper. It’s a wonder his wife hasn’t killed him by now. You needn’t look surprised. I don’t mean in the literal sense. Though…” She rested the opened fan on her ample bosom and regarded the woman in question through narrowed eyes. “I believe Frances Rutherglen capable of anything she put her mind to. She’s a cold-blooded serpent.”

  “Until Rutherglen was kicked up to the Lords, he was the only MP Uncle Plant saw fit not to ridicule,” Alec commented. “I’d no idea it was out of pity because the man’s wife is a murderous reptile.”

  The Duchess’s eyes twinkled. “You are better than any tonic, my boy. It’s a shame your uncle couldn’t join us. How is he fairing?”

  “He was still sleeping when I left the house,” said Alec, a curt nod in the direction of a lady who, by the subtle movements of her ivory fan, was trying to engage him in flirtation. “I dare say he will awaken in the morning with a thumping great headache.”

  He avoided the eye of a painted temptress two boxes along the row and looked out across the void that separated the somber-clothed merchants in the pit from the silk-clad nobility above, to the box occupied by the Duke of Cleveley. His Grace sat resplendent in rich blue satin, glittering decorations and orders pinned to his breast, with half-a-dozen bewigged and high-heeled, grinning cronies lounging about him, ready to jump to attention with just one softly spoken word. This nobleman and his pampered, powdered and patched friends oozed arrogant self-confidence from every pore of their soft white skin.

  The Duchess followed Alec’s gaze. “You still aren’t seriously entertaining the idea that Cleveley had a hand in your uncle’s assault?”

  Alec turned his angular profile to look directly at his godmother. “It is mere coincidence then, that the button found in my uncle’s fist belongs to the Cleveley livery?”

  The Duchess shrugged a bare round shoulder. “I have known Cleveley since he was in leading-strings. He has too much pride to use bully-boy tactics.”

  Alec was unconvinced. “He has only to express the desire and his lackeys would be more than willing to oblige him. But you think the great man would not stoop…?”

  The Duchess dropped her gaze to the pointed toes of her purple and gold silk mules that rested on a padded footstool. “As much as I would love to support you in this, my dear boy, I cannot. Cleveley would not, could not, resort to such craven tactics. It’s not in his nature.” When Alec remained unmoved she added, “One little button; it cannot condemn a man.”

  “No, but it can cast suspicion in his direction.”

  “Certainly,” agreed
the Duchess. “Suspicion, not conviction.”

  Alec again turned his attention to the Duke’s box. It was Cleveley’s first appearance at the King’s Theatre since the death of his Duchess, and as had happened at Ranelagh Gardens he was attracting more than his fair share of notice. And, as always, the Duke seemed oblivious to all the fuss. He continued to sit, unmoved by the noise of conversation and music and the toll of the bell, with a slight inclination of his left ear to the conversation at his back between Sir Charles Weir and the Viscount St. Edmunds. Alec noted that the Duke’s stepson was not playing shadow tonight. He wondered if Charles had got up the nerve to tell his mentor of his plans to marry Lady Henrietta Russell and guessed he had not. The Lady Henrietta and her mother were seated in the box next to that occupied by the Duke, and Charles had neither looked in their direction nor made an effort to lean over the divider to engage them in conversation.

  Alec finally looked away from the Duke and his party saying casually, “Olivia, tell me about Cleveley.”

  The Duchess wrinkled her little nose. “What about him? I must confess to knowing very little about his politics, although I have followed his career. His mother and mine were cousins and Romney showed an interest in him when he first took his seat in the Lords. He was very young when he came into the dukedom; only seventeen. Romney thought the political wolves would have him for supper but the boy soon proved him wrong. It was not quite a year later when he married Ellen. Ellen had been Duchess of Stanton less than four months when she was widowed, pregnant with George, and married off to Cleveley before old Stanton was cold in his coffin! A most unseemly business.

  “Of course, like her first marriage, this too was an arranged union, and a very astute financial transaction: Cleveley’s titles, her wealth. It consolidated Cleveley’s position as the pre-eminent peer in the realm. Romney and I often dined at Cleveley House when Ellen played hostess but I never went to any of the party political dinners. I left all that to Romney. Why do you ask, my boy? I thought you despised the Duke’s politics?”