“I suppose there is no chance the fellow will be out?” asked George, scanning the windows of the house as Francis brought his horses to a standstill outside Bowerchalke’s abode.
“I hope it is too early,” Francis answered, for he had set out with Tretower very soon after the Bow Street party had departed from Hanover Square.
The groom leapt down and went to the horses’ heads and Francis was able to descend. George had gone on ahead and was already plying the door knocker with energy.
It was several moments before any response came, and Francis began to wonder if they should have waited for the hour to advance. But at last footsteps were heard within, and there was the sound of a bolt being drawn back. The door opened a crack and a frightened face peered round. George put a hand against the door, a precaution Francis instantly approved.
“Is Mr. Bowerchalke at home, if you please?”
The girl, a maid by the mobcap sitting awry upon her head, gave a gasp of fright and looked even more terrified, her eyes popping.
“Mr. Bowerchalke?” George repeated.
“He can’t see no one,” said the girl in a quavery voice and tried to shut the door.
George pushed it inwards. “No, you don’t.”
The maid shrieked and backed hurriedly away as Tretower walked calmly into the narrow hallway.
“He can’t see no one,” repeated the girl, cowering by the stairway.
George was about to speak, but Francis, whose ears had caught the sound of muffled crying somewhere above them, put out a hand to stay him.
“Listen!”
Tretower’s head went up for a moment. Then he threw a troubled and suspicious glance at Francis before turning back to the girl.
“What has happened here?”
For answer, the girl burst into sobs. Francis exchanged a glance with George and jerked his head upwards. In a moment, he was leading the way upstairs, followed by Tretower. Francis made short work of the stairway, chasing the sounds of lamentation.
They were coming from a room at the front of the house, outside of which several persons were gathered. A stout dame was leaning against the doorjamb, her apron over her face, helpless whimpers escaping from beneath it. Two young men, clad only in nightshirts, their hair tousled and their faces white with horror, were poised, one on the stairs leading on up, the other in the open doorway to the room at the side.
Both strained faces were pointed towards them as Francis and George reached the landing. Taking advantage of his friend’s wearing full military rig, Francis waved him ahead and was grimly satisfied to see the youths shrink back, looking first at each other and then to the doorway from whence the sound of weeping emanated.
“What the deuce is amiss here?” George rapped out. “Is that Bowerchalke’s room?”
The boy by the door nodded. “Aye, sir, but he’s — he’s —” The fellow on the stairs gripped the banisters and thrust his head over the rails. “He’s dead.”
Francis froze. “Dead?”
“Murdered!”
“Oh, dear God! Clear the way, George, for pity’s sake!”
Tretower’s commanding figure filled the hallway. “Stand aside, if you please.”
Both the young men shifted with alacrity, leaving him access. But the woman, who appeared to have heard neither their approach nor the brief exchange, was blocking the door. George towered over her.
“Madam, stand aside!”
“It’s the landlady, sir. She’s in shock.”
This was the fellow on the stairs again. He at least had his wits about him.
“You’ll have to move her bodily, George,” Francis advised in an under voice.
Nothing loath, Tretower took hold of the landlady and shifted her willy-nilly out of the aperture. She hardly noticed, merely sinking down heavily. George took her weight as he lowered her to the stair. He spoke to the fellow standing above her.
“Look after her.”
His path now free, Francis pushed past and into the chamber beyond. One glance told its tale. In a far corner, a second maid was crouched, her racking cries echoing mournfully around the chamber.
On the bed, lying in his own blood, lay Jeremy Bowerchalke, death white, with a scarlet gash across his throat.
The housekeeper was in a belligerent mood, and Ottilia’s patience was failing.
“Mrs. Thriplow, do you understand that his lordship has been removed to Bow Street? This is no time to be getting up on your high ropes.”
“And do you understand, Mrs. Draycott,” returned the woman, arms akimbo and face red, “as I’ve got a clutch of girls half in hysterics for the master’s fate?”
“Then help me to change it, Mrs. Thriplow,” said Ottilia, exasperated. “All I want is to talk to Mary Huntshaw about the contents of the jewel box.”
“Mary has been troubled enough, ma’am. As it is, the poor girl is afeared as she’ll be accused.”
“I have no intention of accusing her. I am quite sure she did not take the jewels. But I must know what I’m looking for, can’t you see that?”
Mrs. Thriplow sniffed, and Ottilia could see her working her way around to find some other objection. She hastened to intercept it. “I see I will have to confide in you, Mrs. Thriplow. I do not scruple to do so, for I know I can trust your discretion.”
The woman visibly softened, preening a little. “Well, it’s true as I know how to keep me tongue between me teeth.”
“Just so.” Ottilia made a play of going to the door of the housekeeper’s sanctum and checking to see if anyone could be listening. Then she came back and confronted the woman across the barrier of the table. “You see, I know who took the jewels. I also think I know where they are hidden. But what I do not know is what jewels were in the box. Mary can supply me with that information.”
The housekeeper sniffed again, but she clearly had no more weapons to produce. “I’ll have to send for Mary. Her ladyship set her to maiding that there Frenchie his lordship took and brung. And I know what I think of her.”
“Yes, well, that is by the by. Please send for Mary at once.” She allowed the woman to waddle as far as the door before she, stopped her. “Oh, Mrs. Thriplow?”
The woman halted, frowning back at her. “Yes, Mrs. Draycott?”
Ottilia assumed her best confidential manner and sidled up. “There was one other matter.” She paused, but Mrs. Thriplow looked merely puzzled. The ruse was working. She was lulled, believing Ottilia’s real business lay in the jewellery. “Do you remember when we first had our little talk?”
“Yes?”
“I asked you if you thought her ladyship had been involved with another man, do you recall?”
Yes, there it was again. The housekeeper looked instantly discomfited, a tinge of pink creeping into her cheeks. Ottilia seized her advantage. “You look now just as you did that day, Mrs. Thriplow. Pray don’t attempt to turn away from me. You know, don’t you, just who it was?”
The housekeeper’s fingers curled around one another and her lip trembled. “I don’t — I don’t —”
Ottilia grew stern. “Mrs. Thriplow, it is too late. You can no longer plead ignorance. I know, you see, that he did it. He killed your mistress.”
The woman’s eyes met hers in stark distress. “No. No. He couldn’t.”
“He couldn’t, but he did. Oh, he didn’t plan it. I expect he was provoked. But he strangled her, Mrs. Thriplow.”
The housekeeper’s gaze wavered and she staggered slightly. Ottilia caught her and guided her to a chair, inducing her to sit. Her eyes were wild.
“I didn’t want to believe it. I knew he’d been favoured, the cocky little upstart.”
“Yes, it had been going on for a long time, had it not? Miss Venner alerted me to that. Oh, she named no names,” Ottilia added, seeing Mrs. Thriplow’s head rear up, “but it was the reason she left the marchioness’s service. She could not approve when her mistress took up with a servant.”
The housekeeper’s mout
h pursed. “Venner weren’t the only one. Not that it was proven, mind. But I guessed it, and I should think Cattawade did, too.”
“But neither of you said anything.”
Her head came up again at that, defiance in her gaze. “Why should I? How should I? What could I do, tell the master? He’d not have believed it. Nor I didn’t dare try to remonstrate with the fellow himself, for he’d have denied it all.”
“No, I can see how awkward was your position,” Ottilia soothed. “But when her ladyship was killed, you had your suspicions, did you not?”
Mrs. Thriplow dropped her gaze, her cheeks suffusing. Her tone was gruff and resentful. “I might have. But I dursn’t think of it. Nor I didn’t have no reason to think it, excepting as I knew he’d been welcome in her bedchamber.”
“But not recently, I fear.”
The housekeeper’s head shot up, quick understanding in her gaze. “That’s why? She’d booted him?”
Ottilia nodded. “So I suspect.” She became business-like. “Now, Mrs. Thriplow, I need your help. You send for Mary as arranged and get that list written down for me. In the meanwhile, have you seen him this morning?”
Before the housekeeper could answer, a violent knocking came upon her door and the butler’s voice was heard behind it, urgent and breathless.
“Mrs. Thriplow, do you have Mrs. Draycott in there?”
Ottilia went swiftly to the door and jerked it open. “What is it, Cattawade?”
The butler’s urbanity had deserted him. “It’s my Lord Francis, ma’am. He says to come immediate, quick as you can.”
A tattoo started up in Ottilia’s breast, but she lost no time in speeding through to the servants’ stairs, which were nearest, and calling back as she went. “Where is Lord Francis?”
“In the front parlour, ma’am.”
The butler was following gamely behind, but Ottilia outstripped him, her mind racing this way and that, as if she might fathom the reason for this urgency. What in the world could have happened?
She was not left long in mystery. As she came up to the ground floor and moved quickly to the vestibule, she saw Francis hovering by the parlour door. One glance at his face gave her the seriousness of his news.
“Ottilia! In here, now.”
He seized her as she reached him, hustling her inside. The dowager was there, sunk in a chair, her hands covering her face. A shaft of sheer terror cut through Ottilia.
“What is it, Fan? Tell me quickly. Did you see Bowerchalke?”
He caught her hand and held it tightly. “We were too late. Bowerchalke is killed. Murdered.”
“Oh no! Oh, poor boy.”
“The villain cut his throat.”
Ottilia uttered a cry, releasing herself and throwing a hand to her mouth. “Oh God! He heard us speak of him. He knew young Bowerchalke could prove his undoing.”
Francis was staring at her. “Who? Who is it you mean?”
The time was past for prevarication. Ottilia felt the quiver in her voice and knew her hands were trembling.
“Abel.”
For a moment Francis only stared at her, his expression thunderstruck. “Abel? The footman?”
“Yes.”
He could not seem to take it in. Ottilia became aware that the dowager was on her feet.
“Then that is why you would not tell us last night?”
Ottilia moved past Francis a little towards her. “That is why.”
“But Abel?”
She turned. “Is it so hard to believe, Francis?”
“Yes,” he said with emphasis. “I could believe many things of Emily. But that she would take up with the footman? I would never have imagined such a thing!”
Ottilia was seized with a hysterical desire to giggle and knew she was close to the end of her tether. She moved to a chair and sat down, setting her elbow on the arm and sinking her face into her hand.
“Fanfan, get her a drop of brandy.”
She found Sybilla at her side. The dowager took her other hand and began to chafe it. “My poor child, you have borne too much.”
Ottilia tried to refute this and could not speak. Sybilla’s black eyes reproached her.
“You could have told me your suspicions. Why did you not?” The dowager’s gaze softened and she threw out one of her dismissive gestures. “You need not tell me. You thought you would repel me, that I could not believe Emily would sink so low. That was naive of you, Ottilia. But then you have not moved in the circles in which I have lived.”
A glass appeared in front of Ottilia and she looked up to find Francis holding it out, a worried frown in his eyes.
Sybilla took the glass and urged it upon her. “Drink it, my child. It will recover you.”
Obediently, Ottilia took it and put it to her lips, sipping gingerly. The golden liquid burned her lips and sent fire down her throat. She coughed.
“Finish it.”
That was Francis, a peremptory note in his voice with which he had not previously addressed her.
“Let her take her time,” Sybilla said, and gave a dry laugh. “Francis is almost as shocked as you, my dear. It is not nearly as uncommon as you suppose, Fanfan, for ladies of high birth to amuse themselves with a handsome footman. Decidedly immoral, of course, and grossly unfair upon the victim. It takes him out of his proper sphere and gives him ambitions which can never be fulfilled.”
“Is that what you think happened to Abel?” Francis asked.
Ottilia, reviving a little, chose to answer this herself. “I think she gave him his conge, and perhaps she did not fulfil her promises to him.”
“What promises?”
She shrugged. “I cannot tell that. But the theft of the jewels and the fan suggests it. For some while I believed that was all he had done.”
“You think he took both?”
“Not at the time. I am sure then he thought only of escape. But in the morning, when the opportunity presented itself —”
“And I left the man to guard the door!”
“You are scarcely to blame for that, Fanfan. You could not have known. Besides, did you not suggest he had a key to the dressing room, Ottilia?”
She nodded and sipped a little more of her restorative. “I daresay he stole that, too. I doubt Emily would have given it to him.”
“But I have the key,” Francis objected.
“Yes, but Abel had been Emily’s lover for years. On and off, I daresay, like Quaife. And if the key was lost, she had only to have another cut. She had done it for the back door for a key to give her lovers.”
The dowager made a derisive sound in her throat.
“In any event, I am certain Abel took only the fan to begin with.”
Francis jumped in. “He must be the man Jardine heard about, who tried to sell the thing to a fence.”
“Just so. When I encountered him in the basement that first night, I suspect he had just come from there.”
“The man was masked, Jardine said. Then was it Abel you met last night in the dressing room?”
“Without doubt.”
The dowager was looking grim. “Do you say he only went for the jewels when he discovered the fan was too well-known to be saleable?”
Ottilia nodded. “But it may be he had it in mind for some time, before the murder even, for he certainly knew where the jewels were kept. They were moved from time to time, but he may well have kept track of them. When he thought he had succeeded in throwing us off the scent, he seized his chance, making us take the view that the murderer made off with the jewels.”
Francis let out a grunt. “He appears to have acted with remarkable coolness under the circumstances.”
“Oh no. He made several mistakes,” Ottilia said.
“Which is how you came to suspect him,” suggested Sybilla.
Ottilia shivered a little. “I did so almost from the first.”
“How?” demanded Francis. “You said nothing of it.”
“It was so distasteful, I found it incred
ible. Which is why I foolishly dismissed my suspicions.” She sighed. “At least, I tried to. But the possibility kept forcing itself upon my notice. There were little things, unexplained, that did not fit.”
“The mysterious voice?”
“For one thing, yes. Abel was guarding the door when the fan was abstracted. He made a point of hinting his eye was on the bedchamber door.”
“In hopes of making you think someone had slipped past?”
“Just so. Abel introduced discrepancies in the time. He was in the hall when his master came home. But a full hour after Emily? When Polbrook had been to the same ball and he clearly meant to accost her? I missed badly with that one, for Mary Huntshaw was witness to their quarrel, and she could not have taken so long to undress her mistress.”
Francis’s dark eyes lit with understanding. “That is what you meant last night when you blamed yourself. Do you say Abel lied about the time?”
Ottilia nodded. “He set the whole pattern on that lie. I now think it likely your brother began his preparations for departure no later than three. I suspect he was gone from the house by four or shortly thereafter. Abel said he went to the stables and did not think it worthwhile to go back to bed. Where did he go, then? What did he do? Then, too, Abel was ‘too toplofty’ for the kitchen maid. Abel’s name had an odd effect on Mrs. Thriplow, and her manner showed she knew the identity of Emily’s lover. Venner also gave me to understand that Emily had taken up with a servant. And Abel denied having been in the house the night I saw him in the basement.”
Ottilia realised her breath had shortened and saw that her free hand had curled tightly into a fist. She straightened it fastidiously and looked up to find Francis looking dumbfounded. When her eyes shifted to Sybilla, the latter threw up her hands.
“You make it sound obvious.”
A little laugh escaped Ottilia. “Sometimes it is the very thing that stares us in the face that we find hardest to see.”
“But it wasn’t obvious,” said Francis flatly. “You have put it together piece by piece. But it fits. He must have panicked several times. Why invent the mysterious voice unless he supposed Randal’s guilt would not hold water? Especially if he overheard Pellew’s supposition of the time of death. And then he must have put about the news of the jewel box disappearing in order to sow unrest and cast suspicion upon the other domestics.”
The Lady Fan Series: Books 1-3 (Sapere Books Boxset Editions) Page 30
