Silence in the Library

by Katharine Schellman

  Lily bit down a sharp reply. “I have some news, Father. And it is … It is not good.”

  He raised his brows at her, one finger marking his place in his book as he let the pages fall closed. “From your morning ride? How peculiar.”

  “We did not end up riding.” Taking a seat in the chair opposite his, Lily told him as gently as she could of Sir Charles’s death.

  Mr. Pierce’s face remained impassive until she got to Bow Street’s involvement and the investigation of the murder. His eyes grew wide, then narrowed, and his hands tightened on the carved arms of his chair.

  “Nonsense,” he said sharply, glowering at her. “Nonsense. Well-bred people simply do not do that sort of thing. I hope you’ll not repeat such slanders to anyone else.”

  “Father, I was there. I saw—”

  “The Bow Street riffraff is always trying to puff itself up with importance, making trouble for their betters. You should know not to give them any credence.”

  Lily shook her head. “Sir, the evidence was …” She shivered, remembered the pile of bloody linens. “It was damning. Someone killed your friend.”

  Mr. Pierce looked away from her, his chin lifted and his expression unreadable. “Well, I am sorry for them, having to deal with such unpleasantness,” he said, taking up his book once more. “I shall pay a condolence call, of course, and offer my services as I might.”

  Lily stared at him. “Is that all you have to say?”

  “What do you want from me, Lily?” he replied, looking up from his reading. For a moment she thought there might be the glimmer of a tear in his eye, but he blinked and scowled and it disappeared before she could be sure it wasn’t a trick of the light. “It is a terrible accident, to be sure, but I am not going to cry over it. When you get to be my age, you begin to expect that your fellows will soon pass from this earth.”

  “You are barely past fifty, Father,” Lily pointed out. “And even so, one would think that the murder of a friend deserves more than a cold acknowledgment.”

  “I will thank you not to discuss my age,” he snapped, and Lily nearly threw up her hands in defeat. “And Sir Charles was older than I am. He was a friend, true, but my going to pieces over his death does no one any good.” He looked back down at his book.

  This time Lily caught the slight tremor of his shoulders as he took a deep breath. He was upset, perhaps even devastated, and pretending as hard as he could not to be.

  He was a man who could and did feel deeply, as evidenced by the mourning he still wore for her mother more than twenty-five years later. But he would have died himself before he let those feelings be shown in his manner or his words. It made her want to seize the book he was reading and throw it at his head. It made her want to cry for him. And for herself. “You can have feelings, you know, Father. The world will not stop turning.”

  He didn’t look up. “Yesterday’s mutton was too tough. Tell your cook to prepare tonight’s dinner more carefully. I am already concerned about my health, as I hope you recall. Surely you do not wish me to suffer from indigestion as well.”

  Lily opened her mouth to reply, then shut it sharply, her hands clenched around the arms of her chair.

  Her father glanced up. “Well, go on. And you really ought to avoid making faces like that, unless you want to give yourself wrinkles ahead of your time. Your dear mother had the most beautiful complexion,” he added, his voice dropping to a murmur.

  There was no point in arguing or even answering. She stood and made to leave the room.

  “What are you wearing?”

  Lily’s hands clenched in the folds of her skirts, and she didn’t turn to face him. She knew exactly what he meant and what he would think of it. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a discussion. “A riding habit, Father. They are customary, you know, when a lady intends horseback riding.”

  “But it is green.” He pronounced the word with shock bordering on outrage.

  “Yes, it is,” she said. Without waiting for his reply, Lily stalked out of the room, unable to resist slamming the door behind her. Ignoring her father’s instruction to speak to Mrs. Carstairs—the mutton had not been tough—she didn’t stop moving until she was in her own room.

  Lily leaned back against the door as soon as it was closed, her fingers pressed to her temples. Was this going to be her life now—dodging her father’s demands and suffering through his moods until he finally had enough and left?

  Straightening, Lily shook her head, though there was no one else there to see the gesture. However he might choose to act, she was mistress of her own home. Her life no longer revolved around his whims.

  Whether or not he wanted to admit it, he was as upset by his friend’s death as she was—and no doubt even more concerned for Frank’s well-being. And she had made a promise to Mr. Page to write while the morning was still fresh in her mind. So that was what she would do.

  Pulling out a fresh sheet of paper, Lily settled at her writing desk, dipped her pen with a quick, decisive stroke, and began to write.

  CHAPTER 9

  “And apparently we must find a new governess before the end of the month, and how we shall do that I’ve no idea; it took us the better part of six months to find this one—Lily? Lily, are you paying attention?”

  Lily jumped, suddenly realizing she had been staring at the same shelf of books for over a minute without seeing it. “I apologize, Margaret, my mind was elsewhere. You were saying?”

  Lily had hoped to hear from Mr. Page the next day, at least a note if he didn’t have time to call. But the pressing desire to avoid her father had driven Lily from the house before the day’s first post arrived.

  Margaret Harlowe had called that morning. After exclaiming in delight to find Lily dressed in colors once more, Margaret had asked for her company on a shopping expedition.

  Lily had just sat through an entire breakfast of her father’s criticism of her breakfast room, thinly veiled as a litany of the merits of the breakfast room in his own home. She’d jumped on the invitation, then suggested they turn their steps toward the shops on Oxford Street. The closer they stayed to Wimpole Street, she reasoned, the more likely she would be to overhear any gossip about Sir Charles. She had followed Margaret from the stationer’s to the lending library, keeping up with the conversation without really paying attention. Now she looked up to find her friend frowning at her.

  “Is it your father?” Margaret asked, grimacing in sympathy. “I cannot believe he has simply installed himself in your home. The nerve.” She shook her head. “And how revolting that he’ll not even say how long he intends to stay. We’re to visit Mr. Harlowe’s parents near Clapham soon. You are welcome to come with us if you need to escape him.”

  “I may take you up on that offer,” Lily said, feeling grim. “I’ve no wish to be chased from my own home, but if it is a choice between standing on principle and seeing him every day … But it isn’t only him.”

  Margaret gave her a sideways glance as she carried her books toward the desk. “You’re thinking of Sir Charles?” she asked. The notice of his death had appeared in the paper that morning, with plenty of hints in the gossip columns about the suspicious circumstances. Lily had, after only a little hesitation, told her friend what had really happened.

  Lily nodded.

  Margaret looked thoughtful while the titles of her books were entered in the ledger and the librarian took them away to make a parcel for delivery to her home. “I’ve not heard any particular gossip about it, but I shall keep my ears open. It seems this is becoming a habit for you, Lily,” she added as they made their way out of the library. “If twice makes a habit. It seems so odd to think about. A murder on Wimpole Street!”

  “No odder there than in the middle of Mayfair,” Lily pointed out.

  “Well, I do not know about that,” Margaret said thoughtfully as they linked arms to stroll down the street. “If one goes by the reports in the paper, murder so often has to do with money, and there is plenty
of that in Mayfair. Which was the trouble for the Harpers—or the lack of money, as I recall. Do you think this Sir Charles was killed for his fortune?”

  “If he had one,” Lily said. “I haven’t any idea if he did. He has property, certainly, but that does not always come with money.”

  “You could ask your father,” Margaret pointed out. “It seems like the sort of thing he would keep track of—”

  “Would you mind if we stop for a bite?” Lily asked suddenly as they passed a confectioner’s shop. She wasn’t particularly hungry, but a glance through the windows had shown her that the shop was an almost exclusively feminine retreat, suitable for ladies who would otherwise have been looked at askance for dining in public. It was exactly the sort of place where the sort of woman she wanted to find might pass an hour or two.

  As soon as they entered, Lily laid a hand on Margaret’s arm, keeping them both by the doorway for a moment while she evaluated the room. In one corner, a young lady read a letter while a woman who looked like her governess enjoyed a decadent pastry. Close to the door, two young matrons shared their opinions on the recent theatre season at Drury Lane. And by the windows, two older women, one in a resplendent turban, were talking in loud whispers about two of their neighbors, living in adjacent houses on Cavendish Square, whom they suspected of having an affair.

  Lily hid a satisfied smile and, beckoning to Margaret, chose a table by the window as well. While an aproned waiter took their order, eventually returning with a pot of tea and several small confections, Lily returned to what Margaret had been saying about her struggles to find a suitable governess for her two daughters, whether they would need to learn Italian rather than French, and the likelihood of finding someone who could prepare girls with sufficient knowledge to be successful political wives.

  After the tea arrived, however, Lily leaned forward, beckoning her friend to do the same. “I need to be indiscreet for a moment,” she whispered. “And I need your assistance. Do you think you can gossip loudly enough to be overheard by those two women?”

  “Gossip about what?” Margaret whispered back.

  “About how you found out Sir Charles Wyatt has been murdered.” Lily smiled briefly before assuming a shocked expression, raising her voice just enough to carry to the next table. “Surely not! The notice in the paper this morning gave no such details of his death. How can you be sure?”

  Margaret looked panicked for a moment before an encouraging nod from Lily made her clear her throat and speak in a loud whisper. She stumbled a little over her words but performed her part creditably. “The … the butcher boy. Who delivered our meat this morning? He also delivers to their house, and … and the cook told my dresser. Who told me.”

  “But—murdered in his own library! And not five blocks from where we sit at this moment. I cannot believe it to be true. Sir Charles was always such a gentleman—”

  “Excuse me, dear ladies.” The woman in the splendid turban cleared her throat, leaning closer to Lily and Margaret’s table. “I don’t mean to intrude, but I could not help overhearing. Were you by chance speaking of that tragic incident on Wimpole Street and the death of Sir Charles Wyatt?”

  “Good heavens, yes,” Lily said, while Margaret receded gratefully into her chair. “I read about it only this morning, which was a great shock, as he had been a close acquaintance of my father for years. And yet my dear friend here”—a nod to Margaret, who jumped a little at being included once more—“tells me there is a rumor afoot that he was in fact murdered. I can scarcely credit it!”

  “Oh, my dear.” The second woman shook her head, though there was an edge of delight to her expression as she leaned forward. “Your friend is tragically correct. We know everything that passes in this neighborhood, and we have it on good authority that Sir Charles’s death was certainly not a natural one.”

  “Indeed,” agreed the one in the elaborate turban. “We of course heard of it mere hours after that Bow Street fellow found evidence of”—her voice dropped—“murder. And when I was at Fowler’s not one hour ago to purchase new draperies for the back parlor—with the most delightful rose pattern—I ran into Mrs. Hammond, who told me that she had it directly from her husband. His brother is Mr. George Hammond, you see, who is one of the family’s solicitors. He had to attend them last evening to discuss the provisions of the will. And they had to explain the whole matter to him. So you may be sure it is a reliable report and not simply some rumor.”

  “How horrid!” Lily said, gazing at them with rapt—and encouraging—attention. “But a gentleman like Sir Charles! So respected, so upstanding. Who could have any reason to do such a thing?”

  The woman in the turban lowered her voice. “My understanding of such things is that they are nearly always to do with money. And from his style of living, I imagine Sir Charles had plenty of that.”

  “But he had only a son and a nephew to inherit from him,” the second lady pointed out. “And judging by their style of living, he was already more than generous. No, there are always two possibilities, not one: love or money. Perhaps Sir Charles was having an illicit affair—”

  “Surely not at his age,” Margaret interrupted, shocked into speaking up.

  The two women exchanged a look, then chuckled. “Oh, my dear,” the one in the turban said, still laughing. “Such appetites do not wither with age. And they certainly did not for Charles Wyatt, who … well, one does not like to speak ill of the dead, but before his first marriage—and before the second one as well—he apparently was quite the skirt chaser.” She dropped her voice nearly to a whisper. “I have even heard rumors that he has a natural child tucked away in the country somewhere.”

  “Some men are insatiable,” the second woman said darkly, punctuating her pronouncement with a glower over the rim of her teacup.

  “That was when he was unmarried, as you said,” Lily said. She knew plenty of rumors about Frank’s own amorous tendencies—starting with stories of him kissing various village girls behind more than one stable when they were young and only growing when he was old enough to become a man about town. But Sir Charles had been a man her own father’s age. If there had been rumors about his affairs, they had never been repeated where a young girl might hear them. “I thought he and the new Lady Wyatt were quite attached. Could he truly have betrayed her?”

  “Well, he was certainly fond of her or he’d not have married again. But whether she was strongly attached, I could not say,” the first woman said, a thoughtful frown drawing down her brows. She absently poured herself a second cup of tea, considering the question. “I had the pleasure of meeting the new Lady Wyatt several times during the spring season. As you say, she is both charming and beautiful—”

  “But her family was quite penniless before her marriage, which accounts for her staying single so long, you know,” the second woman put in. “Young men must worry about such things as an income; it puts us ladies at quite a disadvantage. A man in Sir Charles’s time of life, and with his wealth, can ignore such concerns and marry only to please himself.”

  “And he certainly was pleased,” the first woman agreed. “But I could never tell whether there was any true affection on her part.”

  “She seemed fond of him when I saw them together,” Lily said slowly, remembering the friendly rapport she had witnessed after Lady Wyatt was injured.

  “Oh, she was always every inch the doting wife in public,” the turbaned lady agreed. She leaned forward, her eyes glittering. “But who knows what her private feelings were? With him so much older and her family so poor, one can only assume a mercenary motive for the union. If she were only passingly attached, and if it became apparent after the wedding … well, he may not have considered it a betrayal.”

  “But who then would have”—Lily leaned forward again, dropping her voice further—“done it?”

  “Lady Wyatt or the other woman,” said the second woman, still looking grim. “Or the other woman’s husband.”

  “Gracious, Ang
elica!” the woman in the turban exclaimed. “What a morbid turn of mind you have. Depend upon it, my dear, there is a much simpler explanation. Mrs. Hammond told me the family believes it was a burglar.”

  The second woman tittered, looking embarrassed. “Oh, certainly, that is the most likely answer. Or one of the servants.”

  “I am afraid we must be going,” Lily said, standing abruptly. Margaret, a confused moment later, followed suit. “Thank you for your assurances. Doubtless, as you say, it was a burglar.”

  “You are most welcome, dear ma’am … I did not catch your name?” the woman in the turban hinted, her eyes alight at the prospect of more gossip.

  Lily pretended not to hear, occupying herself with gathering her things, saying polite farewells, and herding Margaret toward the door. Behind her, she heard the ladies resuming their tête-à-tête, still eagerly speculating about their neighbors:

  “Poor Lady Wyatt. First the shock of losing her husband, then to discover that he was actually murdered … Did you hear the news about Lydia Sanderson? She claimed they were going to Bath for her husband’s health, but it turns out they had been forced to let their property to satisfy his creditors …”

  Margaret waited until they had gained the park at Cavendish Square before collapsing dramatically to a bench, fanning herself. “Gracious, Lily, how do you do it? With such wide eyes and innocent looks? I could barely keep my countenance or think of anything to say when you needed me to.”

  “You did marvelously, and I am so grateful for your help,” Lily said, as warmly as she could while her mind was still occupied with thoughts of the Wyatt family. “I’ll not ask it of you again, I promise.”

  “Yes, I should prefer to stay as far away from murder as possible,” Margaret agreed, shuddering. “Now, I believe we left my carriage back on Oxford Street? After a performance like that, I am dearly in need of a rest.”

  * * *

  When Lily entered the drawing room of her own home, she was torn between wishing she had stayed away and guilt that she hadn’t returned sooner. Jack sat there, clearly waiting for her. And with him, glowering from the chair he had claimed as his own, was her father, cane planted between his feet and his hands clasped around the top as he fixed Jack with a narrow-eyed stare.