A Death in Norfolk clrm-7

by Ashley Gardner

  "I know that, but I'd feel better if you were gone."

  Something sparkled in her black-lashed eyes. "And the same day I decided to give up obedience, I vowed not to live to make others feel better."

  She'd gazed at me as boldly the day I met her, when she'd handed me her cigarillo and then proceeded to trounce me thoroughly at billiards. She'd looked at me without shame then, and she did so now.

  "For your own safety then," I said. "Please."

  Her eyes were very dark blue in the dim light of the hall. She turned away, lifted her mauve and brown striped skirt, and walked on up the stairs. Neither of us went after her.

  Grenville came down to meet me on the ground floor. "What are you doing back here, anyway, Lacey? We thought you'd be busy with Denis's search."

  "Because this is the last place I saw Cooper. I wondered if I'd missed something." And, frankly, I was putting off reporting to Denis. "I assume the weather meant an end to Lady Southwick's shooting match?"

  Grenville looked pained. "Not a bit of it. Lady Southwick was annoyed that she could not watch you pop at targets, but she made the rest of us capitulate. She regretted it soon, because Godwin almost winged her."

  "Good Lord." I thought of Godwin and his bizarre, dandyish clothing. "What happened?"

  "I am not certain, to be honest. Godwin lifted his pistol to shoot, we heard a bang, and Lady Southwick gave a yelp and fell. Godwin looked very confused. I could have sworn he fired down the range, but Lady Southwick had stepped off the terrace at just that moment, foolish woman. I thought she'd been hit, but the ball had missed her. Went right past the poor woman's nose. I found the bullet in an ornamental urn down the terrace. Lady Southwick decided we should find our own entertainment for the rest of the afternoon." Grenville dusted off his sleeves. "Lady Breckenridge insisted on coming here."

  "There is a second reason I want her gone." I motioned for Grenville to follow me out of the house.

  The wind nearly swept us from our feet as we walked onto the old terrace. Another storm was coming, and coming hard.

  I pulled the canvas-wrapped bundle from under my arm. "This is thoroughly unpleasant."

  Grenville looked curious. "What is it?"

  "A man's hand. I do not have to show you."

  "Good God." Grenville took a step back. "No, show me. Get it over with."

  I gingerly unwrapped the canvas. The hand lay palm down, fingers blackened, fleshy part thoroughly pecked. It was a workingman's hand, blunt-fingered and callused.

  Grenville tugged out a handkerchief and pressed it over his nose. "Highly unpleasant, I agree."

  I wrapped the thing again and described how I'd found it.

  Grenville dabbed his mouth and returned the handkerchief to his pocket. "I suppose, if the appendage belongs to Cooper, we can conclude that Cooper took the horse when you left it, rode out to the marsh, met an enemy, fought, and lost his hand in said fight. But where is the rest of him? Carted away? Or did he drag himself away?"

  "If he'd gotten away from his enemy, he could not have gone far in such a state," I said. "Who knows what other injuries he sustained? Yet, no villager or farmer reports having a hurt man wander onto his fields or ask for help. And, if he did survive, why not return to Denis? Or make it to the nearest farm and send a message?"

  "The enemy might have taken him away," Grenville said. "Killed him elsewhere. Not a good thought."

  I looked across the open land to the copse and the gray curtain of rain coming toward us. "The trouble is, no one in these parts keeps things to themselves. Denis asked me not to let on that we were looking for Cooper, but everyone already knows it. If someone had seen Cooper being dragged or carted away-or even spied an unfamiliar face on the road-everyone for ten villages around would know. And someone would have told me."

  "Unless Cooper's enemy was a local person," Grenville pointed out. "Someone so familiar he would not attract notice-if he were seen driving a cart down a road, this would not be unusual. The question is, why should a local man kill Cooper?"

  "Many resent Denis taking over Easton's house and are not afraid to say so. I do not believe Denis understands how country people can close ranks. He is very much of the city. But why hurt Cooper and then keep it secret? If villagers wanted to drive Denis away, they would do so much more openly, I'd think."

  "Possibly, unless it is a direct resentment neither of us can guess." Grenville looked up at the windows of my house, which were framed with heavy stone pediments. "I understand why you want Lady Breckenridge gone. A dangerous atmosphere. But you will have to persuade her. She will never listen to me."

  "I believe you overestimate my influence," I said, smiling a little.

  "Not at all. She respects you. She respects very few, not that I blame her. Treasure that."

  I did. The fact that Donata Breckenridge was fond of me surprised me every day.

  Behind us, Lady Breckenridge emerged from the house. "Are you finished with your secret discussion?" she asked. "I mentioned taking up the carpet in your mother's sitting room, if you remember. If you had done so, you'd have found this in a little niche under the floorboards."

  She handed me a notebook. The curtain of rain I'd seen approaching took that moment to strike, and we hastened inside, my bundle again under my arm. Grenville propped the door closed against the wind, and I opened the notebook.

  The light in the hall was too dim to show me much, but I saw enough. "This is my mother's," I said.

  "I suspected so," Donata said. "I thought I should bring it to you before I pried into your family secrets."

  Chapter Thirteen

  That had been generous of her. Donata was quite interested in her fellow human beings. I'd caught her one evening in Grenville's private sitting room in his London house, uninvited, looking through his curios. She'd shown no mortification that I'd found her there.

  "I once pried through your husband's papers," I reminded her.

  "True, but I did not care about that. This is your mother. Quite a difference."

  "Thank you," I said.

  She pointed to the canvas under my arm. "I suppose you are not going to show me what is in that?"

  "No," I said abruptly.

  "It smells horrible. I'm not certain I want to see. But tell me, at least."

  Grenville broke in before I could think how to put it gently, "A hand that might be Mr. Cooper's. Lacey found it out in the marshes."

  Lady Breckenridge's eyes widened. "Good heavens."

  "You see why I do not want you here?" I asked.

  "Yes, I do understand the dangers, Lacey. I am not a simpleton. I do not like to see you here, either, but I have no say in the matter, do I? I believe I shall change my mind and stay on with Lady Southwick. There is a modicum of safety in her house, if one is not blinded by her bad taste."

  "And as long as you stay away from the end of Godwin's pistol," Grenville said, snorting.

  "Do you know, I do not believe he fired that shot." Lady Breckenridge looked thoughtful. "He seemed absolutely baffled, and there was too much smoke. I think he fired, and someone else fired at the same time, to make it look as though Godwin had accidentally shot at Lady Southwick."

  Grenville blinked. "Why on earth would they?"

  "Who knows? Perhaps one of the ladies grew tired of her so blatantly chasing the gentlemen of the party. You know that she spent much of the night in the bedchamber of Mr. Reaves."

  "With the vicar?" Grenville brought out his quizzing glass and stared through it. "Good God."

  "I do not think your vicar prays that much, Lacey," Lady Breckenridge said. "He's a Cambridge man, smooth as butter. Coerced a living out of Lord Southwick, but hopes to work his way back to Cambridge and to a bishopric. A seat in the House of Lords is what he's after."

  "A Cambridge man," I repeated. "I wonder if he knew Miss Quinn and her solicitor, or banker, or whatever he is."

  "I will ask him," Lady Breckenridge said.

  "No, you will not. You will go to O
xfordshire."

  She shot me a mulish look. "I am not your wife yet, Gabriel."

  "Damn it all, Donata. Do you think I want to ride out to the marshes and find bits of you lying about in the grass? Anything to do with James Denis is dangerous, and I want you well out of it."

  "What about you?" she returned heatedly. "He is practically holding you hostage. Suppose Mr. Denis decides he likes your services and threatens to make you a permanent part of his household?"

  "He will not."

  "He might whether you like it or not. I have heard the story of how he had you thrashed, then drugged and trussed up aboard a boat. If you do not return this man he's lost alive, what do you think he'll do to relieve his anger?"

  "All the more reason for you to go!" My shout rang through the empty hall. I noticed, distractedly, that Grenville had faded out of sight.

  "All the more reason for you to," Donata said, undeterred. "Give him what you've turned up and leave him. We will go together."

  "I cannot leave until Cooper is found."

  "Why the devil not?"

  "Because he threatened you!" Again, my voice thundered through the stairwell, an eerie echo of my father's. "He threatened you, Donata. And Peter. He hinted that he'd hurt you, and your son, if I did not help him."

  Lady Breckenridge stopped, her lips parting. "Peter."

  "Yes." I reined in my anger and took her gloved hands, so small and fragile against my large ones. "Donata, I never meant to draw you into my sordid affairs. If you no longer want…"

  I could not finish the thought. I was supposed to say, If you no longer wish to have anything to do with me, I will understand. I will release you. You have no need to stay.

  But I realized I could not open my fingers and let her go. I'd come to care for this lady a little at a time, my affection like a slow-growing flower that at last bursts into exuberant bloom. I had not realized until this moment how much I loved her.

  If I let Donata out of my life, she would return to the social whirl of her soirees in South Audley Street, her musicales for the creme de la creme. She'd never again have her life or that of her son threatened, or be tied to a man in the habit of finding severed hands in the marshes. I would return to my small rooms in Grimpen Lane, lonely and alone once more.

  I never wanted that life again.

  Donata returned the pressure of my hands. "I will go to Oxfordshire and see to Peter," she said. "When this business is done, come to me there."

  I lifted her fingers to my lips. "I will finish it swiftly, that I promise."

  She gave me a look that was pure Lady Breckenridge. "See that you do," she said.

  Grenville offered to have his groom take the horse back to Lady Southwick, and I relinquished the reins gladly. I had no desire to return to Southwick Hall.

  Before the groom assisted Donata into the carriage, I bent and kissed her lips, damn who watched. I savored the brush of her warmth, which would have to last me who knew how long. She touched my lips with her slim fingers, then ascended into the landau. Rain rolled from the landau's canvas top as Jackson started the horses, and the conveyance jerked forward.

  I watched the coach recede and vanish into the gray rain, still feeling Donata's fingertips on my lips. I'd thought myself hardened by my disappointments in love, but my heart held a little ache as she went. I was becoming used to her warmth next to me at night.

  To keep myself from growing maudlin, I made another search of my house. I lit lanterns that Denis's men had left behind, and I went through the place from top to bottom.

  I preferred to do this alone, without Denis's lackeys watching over my shoulder. Again, I went over my home, from the nursery that was now deserted and coated with dust, to the kitchens beneath the house where the candlesticks had been found.

  Denis's men had done a through job of removing rotting panels and timber, floorboards that I'd have had to replace anyway, and of ripping open the remaining furniture, which had been cheap and rickety to begin with. Anything of value in the house had been taken by the creditors upon my father's death.

  Gutting the house had torn out and discarded the last of my memories. Good riddance to them.

  I went to my mother's sitting room last. Donata had been right to search it again, and I put my hand over the notebook in my pocket. I was anxious to look at what my mother had taken such pains to hide from my father, but I needed better light. The ink had faded, and the pages were stained.

  I took my time going over the room, looking in drawers and behind the remaining furniture, shining my lantern up the chimney. The chimney was stopped, but with nothing more than years of soot. I'd be hiring a sweep soon.

  Planning renovations of the house made me feel better. Donata was right to tell me to strip it to its bones and begin again.

  I also knew I was procrastinating returning to Denis. I made myself go back downstairs, where I extinguished the lanterns, led my tied horse to a fallen stone I used as a mounting block, and climbed aboard.

  The rain continued to fall in earnest. I pulled my hat down over my eyes and turned the horse down paths that led to Easton's estate. The roads were far too muddy for a good canter, so I took the horse along at a slow trot.

  After a time, Easton's square house loomed out of the rain, warm and brick. One of the lackeys came forward to take the horse and help me dismount, and I went inside.

  I knew I'd never be given a moment to dry off, fortify myself, or hide my mother's journal, so I thrust my hat and greatcoat at the man who reached for it, retaining the bundle he tried to take from me, and went straight up to the study.

  Denis looked up from writing letters. The man was always writing letters, though I never learned what was in them. This one appeared to be long, but he only ever sent me notes of two or three sentences.

  When Denis saw my face, he put aside his missive and signaled the two men with him to go. When they hesitated, he actually raised his voice. "Out!"

  They went. After they closed the door, I hobbled to the desk and dumped my bundle onto it.

  "Is it Cooper's?" I asked.

  Denis pulled back the canvas. He stared down at the hand, his expression never changing. His body, however, went very still.

  "Yes," he said. "Cooper is dead, then?"

  "That, I do not know." I brushed my fingers through my wet hair and explained where I'd found the hand, and how I'd searched for the rest of a body to no avail.

  Denis sat back, steepling his fingers. He had not covered the hand again but fixed his gaze on it, as though not letting himself look away.

  "I want whoever has done this," he said.

  "I'd like to find him myself. I know you do not want magistrates, but he deserves to be caught and arrested."

  "No, he deserves this to be done to him at the very least."

  An eye for an eye. Justice served by James Denis.

  After a moment, he asked me, "What do you have to go on?"

  "Very little, unfortunately. I went back to the beginning again-my house, the last place he'd been seen. Cooper is not there, nor did I find trace of him in what remains of the outbuildings. I saw no sign of him on the marshes or the sands beyond-no footprints, nothing. No one I have spoken to has reported seeing an injured man, nor have I heard of any gossip of one being so treated."

  Denis's fingers tightened the slightest bit. "Leave no stone unturned, Lacey."

  "As to that, I would like to speak to your men," I said. "Individually, I mean. I want to know what they know about Cooper, if he mentioned anything about leaving or pursuing a matter somewhere in the countryside-to investigate something he thought might interest you, perhaps. They might have seen or heard something that seemed inconsequential at the time, but might be significant. Also, they might have some clue about Ferguson's death."

  Denis was studying me coldly. "You may be certain, Captain, that I have asked them."

  "Yes, but they work for you, and I imagine you stood them all in a row and demanded them to tell you what the
y knew. I want to interview them one at a time, alone, without you listening. That is a different thing."

  He fell silent. Though nothing of his thoughts showed on his face, I knew he was weighing every consequence of letting me ask questions, in private, of the men who worked for him. That he was considering it at all told me how much Cooper meant to him.

  After a long time, Denis gave me a single nod. "I will have them speak to you in the dining room, after supper. You will use the rest of this day to search. I am not so foolish as to believe you can accomplish this task alone, so I am sending out teams."

  I decided not to mention I'd recruited my own team. I had no doubt he already knew. "They need to be careful," I said. "The countryside can be dangerous if you don't know it."

  "I agree. That is why you will be directing them."

  My mother's notebook would have to wait. I hoped he intended to give me a bedchamber to myself, where I could be alone to read it, rather than expecting me to bunk down with his lackeys. With Denis, one could never be certain.

  I looked at the hand. "What will you do with that?"

  Denis tossed a corner of the canvas back over it. "Burn it," he said. "It is of no use to Cooper now."

  The afternoon's search proved less fruitful than the morning's. I managed to find Terrance riding toward Blakeney, and I told him I would be conducting the search with Denis's men. If he wanted to continue to help, fine; otherwise, he could go home.

  Terrance told me he'd continue. He seemed more animated this afternoon, less morose. I suppose he was happy that he had something useful to do.

  I took my handful of men toward Salthouse, with its rise of ground, open heath, and view of the sea. The ocean was gray with rain, the wind strong here. When it grew dark, we returned to Easton's, with nothing to report.

  I had been given my own bedchamber, I was happy to see. Bartholomew was there. He'd already unpacked my few belongings, had a fire stoked and the bed warmed and turned down. He asked as he drew off my coat, whether I wanted a bath.