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

by Elizabeth Bailey

  “In here, if you will, Sir Thomas.”

  Confusion sent Ottilia shooting to her feet. She shifted out into the room and turned in time to see Francis usher in a gentleman of scholarly aspect.

  “Sir Thomas Ingham, ma’am. My mother, the Dowager Marchioness of Polbrook, sir.”

  The Bow Street justice! Neither Ottilia nor Sybilla had been present when he had arrested the marquis earlier. Ottilia had opportunity to observe him as he bowed over Sybilla’s hand. He was of middle years, bewigged and soberly dressed, with a pair of spectacles on his nose.

  “And this is Mrs. Draycott.”

  “Ah, the very lady I am anxious to meet.”

  Ottilia liked the firmness of his handshake and was immediately struck by his air of calm assurance.

  “Sir Thomas has questions, Mrs. Draycott, that I am not equipped to answer.”

  The resumption of formal address hurt her, although she knew Francis held to it merely because of the presence of a public official. She tried for her habitual composure and was relieved when it came quite easily.

  “Indeed, sir? I shall be happy to tell you anything you wish to know. Although I trust Lord Francis has told you enough to set you on the path of the right man.”

  He nodded, rubbing his palms together in a curiously un-business-like way. “Yes, yes, you need have no fears on that score. My men have been despatched.”

  “And Colonel Tretower has sent his own troop scouring the town,” Francis added. And, with a look at Ingham, “Not that I suppose they will be needed, but George was very willing and I wished to leave no stone unturned.”

  “My lord, indeed we are very glad of the help. Our men are first rate, but we lack manpower. Funds, sir, always the question of government funds.”

  “Was it Abel who laid an information?” asked the dowager.

  “He gave no name, my lady,” disclosed Sir Thomas, “but Grice, in whom he confided, was satisfied from his lordship’s description that it is the same man. He brought something by way of evidence.”

  Reaching into a capacious pocket in his coat, Justice Ingham brought out a small object and held it up. Ottilia stared at the oval frame in which a woman’s face was depicted.

  “Lord Polbrook’s miniature?”

  Francis started forward, seizing the little portrait. “It is the image of Madame Guizot. Evidence, you say? Confound his impudence!”

  Sybilla was looking from the item in her son’s hand to Ottilia. “Is that the one you found under Randal’s pillow? Do you say the villain had the temerity to purloin that as well as everything else?”

  “And dared to present it to Bow Street to strengthen the case against Polbrook,” said Francis, his tone savage with fury.

  Justice Ingham held out his hand. “If you will be so kind, my lord, I cannot yet allow it to be returned.”

  Ottilia watched Francis hand the frame back as, with an obvious effort, he overcame his ire and gestured the visitor to a chair.

  “Will you sit, sir?”

  Sir Thomas politely indicated that Ottilia should first seat herself, and then took the chair opposite, in the dowager’s usual place. Francis joined his mother on the sofa.

  “Now, Mrs. Draycott, I will be much obliged if you will tell me the whole.”

  Ottilia gave a mirthless laugh. “The whole? I don’t know where to begin, there is so much.”

  To her relief, Francis came to her rescue. “I have already related most of what we found and what you told us earlier. But I was unable to give Sir Thomas a precise account of what happened that night.”

  “Well, neither can I,” Ottilia pointed out. “I was relying on poor Mr. Bowerchalke for that.”

  Sir Thomas coughed, drawing everyone’s attention. “Naturally none but the participants can know just what occurred. What I am after, Mrs. Draycott, is an account of your suspicions. You see, until we have this footman apprehended, I have nothing at my disposal which may justify allowing the marquis to go free.”

  Ottilia nodded. It was just as she had foreseen. “It is supposition, of course.”

  “So much I had understood.”

  “But I think there is sufficient to show that it must have been Abel who murdered Lady Polbrook.”

  Sir Thomas gave her a prim smile. “I am open to persuasion.”

  “You will find her a remarkably acute woman, sir,” cut in the dowager.

  A gentle laugh was cast in her direction. “Ah, feminine intuition.”

  “Nothing of the sort,” snapped Sybilla. “Ottilia would scorn to stoop to anything so paltry. She has a fiendishly clever mind.”

  Justice Ingham was not noticeably abashed, but he put out a deprecating hand. “Assure you I intended no offence, my lady.”

  “Shall we allow Mrs. Draycott to tell it as she will?”

  Ottilia threw Francis a grateful glance, and though the dowager grunted, Sir Thomas inclined his head in her direction.

  “Mrs. Draycott?”

  She gathered her thoughts for a moment. Then she looked up towards Justice Ingham.

  “This is what I think happened. Bowerchalke accompanied the marchioness home from the ball that night. They did not leave together, but he was seen to enter her coach. When they arrived, Emily — the marchioness —”

  “Emily will do, ma’am,” said Sir Thomas. “You need not interrupt your narrative for trifles.”

  Ottilia smiled and thanked him. “Emily sent him round the back armed with the key and instructed him to wait for her signal.”

  Sybilla was regarding her intently. “The candle in the window?”

  “Just so. It had been, sir, an established pattern with the marchioness, as I found out from her former lady’s maid.”

  Sir Thomas rubbed his hands. “We will take your sources as read for the moment, ma’am. Pray continue.”

  Ottilia retraced her thoughts in her mind. “Was this his first visit? Again, we cannot know. But I suspect it was.”

  “What makes you think so?” asked Francis.

  “Remember that Emily applied fresh paint and powder to her face, and she wore a silken dressing robe. I think she had seduction in her mind.”

  Francis was frowning. “But when? And how signal the fellow when Randal was there?”

  “I think the boy was in the chamber throughout. Emily had told her maid not to wait up, but Mary disregarded this. She had fallen asleep in the chair in the dressing room. I suspect Emily gave her signal before ever she knew Mary was there.”

  He sat back. “Yes, I see. Go on.”

  “While Emily was being undressed, Lord Polbrook came in. Bowerchalke hid himself behind the bed-curtains. He heard the row. When the marquis slammed out of the room, perhaps Emily went to get rid of Mary. Bowerchalke may or may not have come out of his refuge, but then Lord Polbrook returned and he necessarily hid again.”

  The dowager let out a snort. “It sounds like one of these absurd French farces.”

  “I was thinking just that, Mama.”

  “Yes,” Ottilia agreed, “it would be funny if it were not so tragic.”

  “Go on, Mrs. Draycott.”

  There was sharpness injustice Ingham’s tone. Ottilia wondered if he was impatient of these divagations.

  “At last they found themselves alone. Emily ensured Mary had gone, and hastily rid herself of the encumbrance of extra clothing and applied rapid aids to beauty. By this time, Bowerchalke must have returned the fan, for her throwing it carelessly down shows her impatience.”

  “And then she proceeded to seduction,” Francis said.

  “One assumes so. She may even have taken the precaution of locking the door. Evidently they sat together on the chaise longue, where Emily perhaps removed her garters and divested herself of her dressing robe.”

  “At which point,” put in Sir Thomas with a preliminary cough, “they — er — indulged in criminal conversation, I take it?”

  “No.”

  “But surely —”

  “They may have got
as far as the bed. Indeed, I am certain they must have done. Emily was likely on the bed when Bowerchalke was encouraged to unroll the stockings from her legs, for he was in possession of them when they were interrupted. But no act of intimacy took place.”

  Sybilla reared up in her seat. “Ottilia, what in the world can you mean? At the outset you made it plain Emily had so indulged.”

  “Yes, but not with Bowerchalke. Pardon my plain speaking, Sir Thomas, but her thighs were bruised. As I understand it, the boy was slight. He could not have inflicted such damage.”

  Francis was looking appalled. “Then you imply it was Abel who —? But if she had given him up, and with her new lover just a hairsbreadth away —”

  Ottilia clasped her hands tightly together and looked down at them. “I think Abel forced himself upon her.”

  “Dear Lord!”

  “She is right,” uttered the dowager in accents of suppressed agitation. “She is right, as always.”

  Ottilia looked up, facing them now that the worst was said. “When Abel came in —”

  “How, if she had locked the doors?” demanded Sir Thomas. Francis took that one.

  “He had a key to the dressing room. It is how he managed the theft.”

  “Almost certainly through the dressing room,” said Ottilia, “because he may then have taken note of the fan. But I doubt Emily thought of locking that door once Mary had left the place. It was likely habitual for Abel to enter by that way. However that may be, when he came in, he was heard. The door opening, or perhaps he called out. Bowerchalke, already in a highly nervous condition, naturally assumed it was Polbrook back once more and hastily concealed himself again.”

  “Then he must have heard it all?” Justice Ingham was beginning to look a trifle grim.

  She nodded. “Which is why Abel killed him. There will have been some sort of argument between Emily and him. She had given him up and I daresay had reneged on her promises to him. Abel was in an excitable state; perhaps he had been drinking while he took the porter’s chair in the hall. He was certainly a good deal the worse for wear in the morning, but that is hardly surprising in the circumstances. He had seen the marquis leave the house and thought himself safe to take his chance and make his protestations. Emily repudiated him, as she must do with Bowerchalke in the wings. Abel lost control and forced her to coitus. She fought him, but was overcome. Maddened, fearful perhaps of the consequences of what he had done — she may have threatened him — he strangled her.”

  “And then walked away,” Francis said.

  “Ran away, more like,” suggested Sir Thomas.

  “I suspect he wasted some time in panic and remorse. Not knowing what else to do in the middle of the night, he went to his chamber, there to think desperately how he might avoid retribution.”

  “And Bowerchalke?”

  “One can only imagine his repugnance and dismay, Sybilla. When at last he dared to emerge, what did he see? How dreadful was his situation. Emily brutally murdered, he a witness throughout. Who would believe him? He could not even identify the perpetrator, for he did not know him. All he had was a voice. The poor boy must have been terrified. What would you? He fled.”

  Ottilia sat back, as exhausted by the telling as if she had participated in these events herself. Her auditors were silent. She stole a glance at Francis and found him regarding her with a distant look. Was his imagination playing over the scene for him? Sybilla’s disgust was patent. Ottilia allowed her gaze to shift to the magistrate from Bow Street.

  Sir Thomas’s eyes crinkled at the corners and his lips lifted a fraction. “I am inclined to side with her ladyship, ma’am, in reference to your powers of observation and deduction. A pretty tale! If true.”

  Ottilia shrugged. “It is as near as I can judge it, sir. Sadly, the witness upon whom I had relied is unable to assist us.”

  He nodded. “But the principal is still alive.”

  “And at large,” Francis pointed out.

  “Not for long, I hope. Once we have him, we will endeavour to unravel this history.”

  The dowager let out one of her characteristic snorts. “What need, when Ottilia has done it all for you?”

  “Ah, my lady, but hearsay is not evidence. A conviction rests upon testimony or a confession.”

  A horrid premonition seized Ottilia. She sat up. “You will not torture him to get it?”

  Sir Thomas’s brows shot up. “My dear lady, we are not in Spain. I trust we have more civilisation than to conduct ourselves in the manner of our forefathers.”

  “But why, Ottilia, does it concern you?” Sybilla demanded. “Don’t you think the fellow deserves punishment?”

  “Due justice, yes. But responsibility does not rest with Abel alone. We are not always master of our fates.”

  “You mean he was led astray by Emily,” said Francis. “Partly. And the inequities of our society.” She brushed off an unaccustomed feeling of depression. “But this is hardly the moment to indulge in political debate.”

  Sir Thomas Ingham rose. “Quite right.” He dropped his head a little and looked quizzically at her over the top of his spectacles. “A pity you cannot run for Parliament, ma’am. I should certainly support your candidature.”

  Ottilia was obliged to join in the general laughter, although Sybilla was looking thoughtful, as if she seriously considered the possibility. Sir Thomas bowed in her direction.

  “I will take my leave of you now, my lady.” And to Ottilia, “There are one or two points upon which I may need clarification, for I have not all the background to your reasoning. But that can wait until we have the suspect apprehended.”

  His departure signalled the breakup of the circle, the dowager declaring she was famished and it was high time a repast was served. Francis elected to go back to Bow Street with Sir Thomas to find out, if he could, what progress had been made and to confer with Colonel Tretower, with whom he would take refreshment at a convenient inn.

  Ottilia found the day dragging. She ate with Sybilla, and then there was nothing to do.

  “It seems excessively odd not to be pursuing our investigations,” remarked the dowager presently.

  Ottilia sighed. “I was thinking the same thing, ma’am. I cannot imagine how we are to fill our days.”

  Sybilla threw up her hands. “For my part, I can think of nothing I would welcome more than the tedium of my former life.”

  Ottilia was aware of her employer’s eyes following her around the room. At length the dowager broke into testy speech.

  “Sit down, child. You are fidgeting me to death.”

  Ottilia threw herself into her accustomed chair. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. It is this waiting I cannot endure.”

  “That is it exactly. Have no fear. When the matter is settled once and for all, there will be all manner of problems besetting us.”

  Ottilia thought of the complications arising from the marquis’s actions, not to mention the ensuing scandals gathering about the family’s head, and was silenced.

  But her eyes crept obstinately time and again to the case clock on the mantel as the hours crawled by.

  Chapter 20

  The only sound was the scratching of Francis’ pen. On George’s advice, they had closed both blinds and shutters and doused all the candles bar the single one by the light of which Francis was writing a letter to his sister. That it was merely to provide himself with an occupation he did not deny. It seemed preferable to fretting the hours away.

  His mother had refused to go to bed and was asleep on the sofa next the wall. Ottilia was, he hoped, dosing in one of the chairs. She had been fretful and uneasy. So unlike herself. She had told Francis it was the inactivity she could not endure. Once she had begun, inexplicably, upon some foolishness of being in some way to blame for Bowerchalke’s death. Francis had scotched that without compunction.

  “That is absurd, Tillie. How could it be your fault?”

  She had clenched her hands into fists. “If I had spoken last nig
ht of my convictions of Abel’s guilt, we might have acted sooner.”

  Francis had taken her fisted hands and held them. “It would have made no difference. According to the doctor, Bowerchalke had been dead for hours when he was found.”

  She had regarded him with painful anxiety. “You mean Abel went there directly? It was done at night?”

  “Did you think he had gone in broad daylight for such a purpose?”

  “I don’t know. I had not thought. I only know he did it.”

  Francis had tightened his hold. “This is not like you, Tillie. Think it through. He had to take time to realise his position, to decide to act. I imagine he knew where Bowerchalke lived, for the boy had been known to Emily some weeks. It is likely Abel was sent with notes for the fellow.”

  “Doubly galling to him,” Ottilia had said, and he’d known from her expression that her quick wits were in play, following his reasoning.

  “Indeed. He goes to the house, but he is precipitate. That is probably why he neglected to take his booty with him. There are too many comings and goings. Perhaps Bowerchalke is not yet home. He must wait for the place to quieten, and perform the deed under cover of deepest night.”

  “How did he get in?”

  “Bowerchalke’s chamber was on the first floor. An easy climb for a man of Abel’s size and agility. The window must have been open, for it had not been broken. He slipped in and murdered the poor fellow while he slept.”

  To his satisfaction, Ottilia looked immeasurably relieved. She did not refer to it again, and he hoped the matter was closed in her own mind. Nevertheless, he was increasingly anxious about her. She seemed distrait, and once or twice he caught a glance from her of something unfathomable, but acutely disturbing. What could have distressed her? Unless she was at the point of exhaustion, as his mother had earlier suggested.

  He resumed the account of events he had started. After all, Harriet would wish to know, and it might as well be written now as later.

  It was eerily silent. The servants had long gone to bed, but he wondered how many of them were able to sleep in this house of unrest. Outside he knew there were men on the qui vive. It was uncannily like camp in wartime, with soldiers snatching those few precious hours while others stood guard.