The Lady Fan Series: Books 1-3 (Sapere Books Boxset Editions)

by Elizabeth Bailey

  Francis fairly gaped after him, feeling stunned. Beside him, Tretower clicked a ruminatory tongue.

  “Well, well. Fascinating, wouldn’t you say?”

  Francis turned to face his friend, speaking the immediate thought in his mind. “He couldn’t have done it. He’s far too slight a man. He wouldn’t have the strength.”

  George nodded slowly. “But he knows.”

  Arrested, Francis eyed him. “Knows what?”

  “A great deal more than he is saying. Did you remark his aspect at the finish? I believe he was about to be violently ill.”

  Shock ripped through Francis. “You mean he saw it?”

  “Hideous, he said. Now wouldn’t you say that fairly describes the sight we have all been obliged to witness?”

  Having lain in wait unseen in the Blue Salon while the servants cleared away the remains of breakfast and tidied the dining parlour, Ottilia seized her moment to catch the butler alone, hissing at him through the connecting door. “Psst! Cattawade!”

  The elderly servant visibly jumped, turning quickly from his position at the round table by the window and dropping the cloth he was in the act of folding. At sight of who called him, his brows beetled and an austere look entered his face. Ottilia became impatient.

  “Do not frown at me, if you please, but come in here for a moment. I must speak with you alone.”

  Cattawade cast a brief glance towards the door to the vestibule, which remained firmly closed, and crossed in his stately way to where Ottilia awaited him. Without ceremony, she grasped his sleeve and pulled him through the aperture, closing the door behind him. His severity intensified. “What can I do for you, madam?”

  “Keep your voice down, for heaven’s sake! And come away from that door.”

  Thus adjured, he followed her into the centre of the room. Ottilia turned back to him and was relieved to note a glimmer of change in his aspect. The urgency of her manner must be affecting him at last.

  “What is the matter, madam?” he asked, in a lowered tone.

  “A great deal,” Ottilia answered at the same level, “but this will suffice. Have you any notion whence came the story of your mistress’s missing jewel box?”

  His brows parted and lifted sharply. “How did you know the news had broke, madam?”

  “From Sukey. She could not tell me who had begun the tale, however.”

  Cattawade eyed her warily. “I take it the story is true?”

  Ottilia nodded. “Mary Huntshaw and I discovered the theft on Sunday. But Mary promised to keep mum, and I believe she did. Indeed, she came to my room this morning while I was dressing expressly to assure me she had said nothing of it.”

  “You may trust to that, madam. Mary is a very truthful girl.”

  “Then who is not, Cattawade? Who could have set the story about?”

  The butler looked grave. “I cannot tell that, madam. This is a large household.”

  “I am aware. And a great deal goes on behind the scenes, no doubt, to keep everything afloat.”

  “Precisely, madam. Mrs. Thriplow and myself encourage the staff to be about their business as unobtrusively as possible.”

  Ottilia let out a frustrated breath. “Which means anyone might have been within earshot of the marchioness’s dressing room when Mary and I were in there. I have not overlooked that possibility, Cattawade. But why wait until now to pass on such a piece of news?”

  The butler looked struck, and his frown reappeared. “Because it affects each one of us, do you mean, madam?”

  “Just so.” Ottilia watched the implications sink in and reinforced them. “It smacks less of indignation than of mischiefmaking, do you not think?”

  From his expression, Ottilia saw that her words had gone home. She thought she read a trace of alarm in the man’s eyes and judged the time ripe to pounce.

  “By the by, Cattawade, was it Abel’s evening off that night you found me downstairs? Saturday, was it not?”

  Something flashed in the butler’s eye, but it was veiled so swiftly that Ottilia could not be sure she had seen it. She waited, letting her steady regard remain upon his. Cattawade endured her scrutiny for several seconds and then averted his gaze, flicking across the room and back.

  “Saturday, madam?”

  “The first night Lady Polbrook and I stayed here. Was Abel off that evening?”

  The butler now looked frankly puzzled, as if he wondered why she asked. Ottilia did not enlighten him. He appeared to have difficulty adjusting his mind to the change of subject.

  “Let me think, madam. The routine having been thrown out of kilter, Mrs. Thriplow and I have been obliged to make adjustments.” He was silent for a moment, and then his face cleared. “It should have been Abel’s evening off, madam, yes. I don’t recall as I sanctioned it, but if he took it, he was within his rights.”

  Ottilia digested this. “I see. And does he sleep out on such occasions, do you know?”

  “I’ve known him to do so, madam, yes. His mother resides at some little distance from the metropolis.”

  “But he is usually back at his post in the morning, I take it?”

  “I have never had reason to complain of his absence, madam.”

  An evasive answer, but Ottilia thanked him with a smile, adding, “I am sure you will keep your eyes and ears open, Cattawade.”

  The butler assented to this, if with a degree of bewilderment, and Ottilia allowed him to return to the dining parlour, while she whisked herself out of the salon via the door to the hall where she stood for a moment in silent contemplation.

  It was conceivable, then, that Abel had spoken the truth. In which case Ottilia had to have been mistaken in thinking she saw him that night. She was obliged to concede that her nerves had been on edge, and she could think of no perceptible reason for the footman to have concealed himself had he been there. Was she grasping at straws to lend to the suspicion there was a thief in the house rather than outside it? She chided herself for clinging to suppositions that failed to play out and thought how willingly she would lull such unwelcome thoughts to rest, if only Lord Francis was able to supply a satisfactory alternative.

  She was about to cross the hall to join the dowager in the parlour when a heavy tread stomping up the servants’ staircase caught her attention. It was followed by several lighter feet, which so surprised Ottilia that she moved towards the vestibule to investigate.

  The housekeeper presently hove into sight, halting as she reached the top of the stairs, one hand clutching the banister rail, the other at her weighty bosom. She was red-faced and panting and had clearly taken the stairs at a pace unsuited to her girth. Ottilia saw several peeping capped heads, perforce brought up short on the stairs behind. She took a step towards them.

  “What in the world is this, Mrs. Thriplow? A deputation?”

  The housekeeper drew a painful breath and surged forward, closely followed by her acolytes, among whom Ottilia was glad to note the absence of Mary Huntshaw.

  “That it is, Mrs. Draycott, if you’ve a mind to call it so.”

  “Dear me,” said Ottilia mildly. “May I ask the nature of your complaint?”

  A vigorous shake of the head was accompanied by the setting of the woman’s arms akimbo. “It’s for her ladyship to hear, ma’am, not you.”

  “I am her ladyship’s companion, Mrs. Thriplow, and I must partake of anything that promises to distress her, particularly at such a time.”

  The housekeeper glared. “Well and so you may, if you choose, but I’ll speak to her ladyship and that’s that.”

  Ottilia raised her brows. “I see. Then let us repair instantly to the parlour.” With which she turned at once for the hall, knowing Mrs. Thriplow, the wind taken out of her sails, would follow with a lessening of belligerence.

  Entering the parlour, Ottilia left the door open and approached the dowager, attempting to signal with her eyes as she spoke with exaggerated calm.

  “Here is Mrs. Thriplow, ma’am, with a matter she f
eels bound to take up with you. Oh, and several of the maids have come along in support.”

  Sybilla’s black eyes snapped dangerously, but she had evidently taken note of Ottilia’s silent warning, for she did not immediately break into her customary harangue. Instead, she surveyed the housekeeper from her head to her heels and allowed her gaze to take in the three maids at her rear — Sukey, Jane, and a third unknown to Ottilia — who were now looking a trifle apprehensive.

  “Well, Thriplow?”

  The housekeeper put up her chin. “I take leave to tell you, my lady, I’ll not have my girls put in fear of being took for thieves.”

  To Ottilia’s delight and approbation, the dowager’s stare was a masterpiece of incomprehension. “Who has so taken them, Thriplow?”

  Discomfited, the housekeeper fidgeted a little. “Well, no one ain’t, not yet. But that ain’t to say as they won’t, and I tell you straight, my lady, as none of my girls would dream of touching them jewels. Nor none wouldn’t go snooping in the mistress’s chamber to look for ‘em, neither.”

  “How did you know the jewels were missing?” asked Sybilla, wholly ignoring this protestation.

  “I didn’t know it, my lady. But someone did, and everybody does now. And if suspicion is to fall upon —”

  “Peace!” The dowager flicked a hand towards the three young women. “Have you anything to say?” Three pairs of eyes exchanged agonized glances. “Any of you?” There was a biting of lips and an assiduous studying of the carpet. “Has anyone accused you?” Three heads shook denial. “Very well, you may go. I have no doubt Mrs. Thriplow will speak for all of you.”

  From her stance by the mantel, Ottilia watched the clearly thankful maids shuffle out as fast as they could, closing the door softly behind them. But the dowager’s gaze darkened as it fell once more upon the housekeeper. Her voice was vibrant with anger, but her tone was level. “How dare you, Thriplow? What do you mean by it?”

  Ottilia expected a violent comeback, but instead the housekeeper’s shoulders drooped and she let out an overwrought breath. “I had to, my lady. There weren’t no other way to quiet them. I thought as I’d have a riot on my hands if I didn’t. I knew they wouldn’t say nothing of it to you, but I’ve had my ears dinned from the moment I got up out of my bed.”

  For an instant, the outcome held in the balance. Then the dowager let out a cackle. “Serves you right, you crafty old besom!”

  Mrs. Thriplow’s broad features broke into a grin. “It’s well for you to be calling me names, my lady, but it’s tried enough I’ve been these past days.”

  “Goodness, I should think you have,” said Ottilia. “I am so glad to know it was a ruse.”

  Trouble entered the housekeeper’s face. “Aye, but there’s truth enough to the business, ma’am. If them jewels has gone, what else is to be thought but they’ve been took by someone in the house?”

  Conscious of a frowning glance from Sybilla, as if she sought guidance on what might be said, Ottilia took an ambivalent stance. “It would seem to be the natural explanation.”

  Mrs. Thriplow sighed gustily. “Never did I think to see the day I’d be shamed by one of our own.” Her distressed gaze sought her erstwhile mistress. “I’d have sworn myself black and blue for the honesty of my girls, my lady, but now ...”

  “Temptation may attack anyone, Thriplow. We are none of us immune.”

  “Yes, for a pretty paste gewgaw or a bit of discarded lace, my lady. But them jewels is a hanging matter.”

  The housekeeper was a good deal upset, but Ottilia decided it was impolitic to palliate her distress with the notion of the murderer having perpetrated the theft. She returned to the nub. “Mrs. Thriplow, can you remember who first mentioned the matter this morning?”

  A pair of chubby hands were thrown in the air. “I couldn’t tell you, ma’am. They was all talking at once, and it took a deal of trouble to understand what the fuss was about in the first place.”

  “Were any of the male servants involved in the discussion?”

  “All of them, barring the outdoor fellows, though Jem and Turville came in from the stables in the midst.”

  Sybilla let out one of her impatient snorts. “You will never get to the bottom of it, Ottilia. Let it be. Anyone might have overheard us talking of it.”

  “My lady’s in the right of it,” said the housekeeper. “I’d have vouched for my girls as honest, but I’d not put it past one of them to be listening at keyholes. Nor Cattawade’s lot, neither. If I catch them at it, they know as they’d get a box on the ear as they’d listened with, but I can’t be everywhere at once.”

  “Very true.”

  With reluctance, Ottilia let the matter slide. It would be a waste of time to question every servant. Particularly since it was outside the interest of all to admit to foreknowledge of the theft. But she disliked the puzzle of it, which forced on her conflicting conclusions. A faint sense of desperation crept over her, and she fastened her hopes upon the result of Lord Francis’s mission.

  Retelling his experience, Francis discovered, had a beneficial effect. Whether it was the calm attention with which Ottilia Draycott listened, or the fact that he was no longer the cynosure of a collection of interested eyes, he was insensibly soothed by the necessity to relate what had happened at Brooks’s. What had felt momentous at the time acquired in the retelling a lessening of significance, and Francis began to think he had read too much into the matter. Mrs. Draycott speedily disabused him.

  “We must find out more about this fellow,” she said when he had finished. “If the marchioness had taken him under her wing, it must have been remarked.”

  “You think he might be the lover we are looking for?”

  A snort of derision came from his mother. “Lord in heaven! I thought I had known the worst of my daughter-in-law, but it seems I was mistaken. How old was this boy?”

  Rather to Francis’s relief, George chose to take up the question. “No more than two and twenty, if that. He looks as if he has barely reached his majority.”

  “Disgraceful! Had Emily no shame?”

  Mrs. Draycott put up a linger in that way Francis was coming to recognise, when she wanted to impart a caution.

  “We do not yet know that she did indeed entertain this young man with intimacy.”

  “Oh, don’t we just,” muttered his mother. “What other interpretation is to be put upon the matter?”

  “It may have been quite innocent,” said Mrs. Draycott in the mild tone she used when she wanted to pour oil on troubled waters. Francis felt a surge of admiration. So capable a female, and yet she possessed a capacity for empathy with everyone with whom she came in contact, or so it appeared.

  His mother, he knew, was in a mood to be ready to believe the worst. The discovery of the miniature under Randal’s pillow had upset her more, he thought, than any other piece of evidence as yet uncovered. Fortuitously, she had not called into question the fact of himself and Mrs. Draycott being alone together, and Francis had been careful to omit any hint of their both having been inadequately dressed at the time. His mother’s temper had been further ruffled when Mrs. Draycott had revealed that word of the jewel box theft had somehow spread amongst the staff, a complication which she had rightly foreseen would only add to the present disorder of the household.

  “What did you think of this man Quaife?”

  Francis dragged his attention back to Mrs. Draycott and the matter at hand, glancing briefly at his friend. “George was more inclined than I to regard him with suspicion because he asked after Randal. I thought he was sincere. He may have been fond of Emily.”

  “Well, Venner did say he had been her most favoured — er — companion.”

  “Don’t be mealy-mouthed, Ottilia,” snapped the dowager. “We all know what was the relationship between them.”

  “Yes, if we are to take Venner’s word.”

  George was quick to seize on this. “You doubt her?”

  Mrs. Draycott’s mischievous
look appeared, and Francis felt brighter for the first time that day. “To be truthful, I think the creature is more than a little mad. She might exaggerate, perhaps.”

  Francis was conscious of severe impatience. “Then who are we to believe? I had it settled in my mind that the Jeremy we looked for was this young fellow’s godfather, Sir Jeremy Feverel.”

  His mother started. “That is only too likely. I remember that fellow was used to hang around Emily. We must ask Harriet. She did not run with Emily’s set, but she knows everyone.”

  “Better still,” said Mrs. Draycott slowly, “we will widen our net even further.”

  “How, pray?”

  “I think you may readily assist, ma’am. Only think how much Lord Francis has found out by venturing forth.”

  “Do you imagine I am going to show myself in public?”

  His mother’s indignation did not appear to trouble Mrs. Draycott. She merely smiled, and Francis marvelled at her inexhaustible tolerance.

  “You need not go so far. But perhaps you may allow some select individual to visit you. Preferably one with a long tongue.”

  His mother burst into laughter, in which George readily joined.

  “You are quire unscrupulous, Mrs. Draycott,” Francis told her, but he could not help smiling.

  “No, why? I am merely trying to discover the answers to pertinent questions.”

  “What questions precisely?”

  She spread her hands. “So many. Who spoke or danced with Emily at the ball that night? Did she have the fan or not? Did anyone take it from her, or were they given it? Whom did she see? Whom did she talk to? Whom, in a word, was she consorting with in the hours before she was killed?”

  There was a silence. Francis supposed the others were thinking over these queries as he was.

  “With discretion,” she went on, “we may be able to discover whether this young fellow Bowerchalke was thought to be more to the marchioness than a mere protégé.”