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

by Elizabeth Bailey

  Her hand brushed the man’s cheek and found it damp. Recalling the sheen she had noticed on his brow and his damp palm, she wondered at it. Exertion? Or something more? Was the sweating profuse? In the periphery of her mind she took in having forgotten to put on her gloves and her hands were cold and possibly a trifle numb. She ran her fingers more firmly down Sir Joslin’s still features. The dampness was strong and unmistakeable.

  “He was sweating a great deal.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I had thought earlier he had exerted himself too much, but this signals some sort of illness.” Ottilia had moved to slip her hand beneath the dead man’s coat, looking for the condition of his shirt. It felt decidedly moist. “He is wet through, I think.”

  “But his body is still warm.”

  “Relatively. It will cool rapidly in this weather.” She gestured to the slack face. “See, there is already a waxen tinge coming in, though he may have died mere minutes ago.”

  “How long since the girl came to us, do you think?”

  Ottilia glanced across to where the companion was standing at a little distance, still clearly in shock, one hand firmly grasping Tamasine’s wrist. Both females were watching them. Ottilia lowered her voice.

  “Five or ten minutes? Perhaps a little more. There may have been some delay before she was sent for help. I daresay Miss Ingleby wasted a little time in trying to rouse him.”

  Francis frowned down at the body. “She said she had not moved him, for I asked her particularly.”

  “I doubt she would have the strength.”

  Her spouse was looking at Sir Joslin’s bent arm. “Is that wrist broken?”

  “It looks like it. There may well be other fractures from the fall. There is a contusion on his forehead which may have hastened his death.”

  “What, could he die from such a knock?”

  “I suspect he was dying in any event. A blow to the temple would likely make him unconscious, so that any effort to rouse him must fail.”

  She saw Francis’s eyes flick across to the two women. “Then you don’t think it was the fall that killed him?”

  Ottilia sighed a little. “For Tamasine’s sake, I wish I might rule it out altogether, but it has undoubtedly contributed, although it does not look to have been entirely responsible.”

  “Then what did kill him?” came with a trifle of impatience from her husband.

  “I wish I knew, Fan. It will take a post-mortem to be certain, but it looks very like an apoplectic seizure, apart from the sweating and the pupils. I cannot easily account for those, except to suppose he was suffering from an illness, which might have precipitated an apoplexy.” Suddenly she recalled Sir Joslin leaning on the chair back in the dowager’s parlour. Realisation struck. “He was supporting himself.”

  Her spouse frowned across at her. “What are you talking about?”

  “I believe he was already feeling out of sorts when he came to the Dower House. He had difficulty remaining upright then, I think.”

  Francis rose to his feet. “There is nothing more to be done for him.” He held out a hand and Ottilia allowed him to pull her up. “I had best see if there are men in the house who may carry him inside.”

  “The companion will know.” Ottilia moved towards the woman, raising her voice. “Miss Ingleby!”

  Thus addressed, the duenna started a little. “Yes?”

  Francis took over. “Are there male servants in your house?”

  “Why, yes. Joslin has —” Miss Ingleby broke off, threw a hand to her mouth, distress coming into her eyes.

  Moved, Ottilia crossed quickly towards her. “Do not upset yourself, pray. My husband only wishes to have Sir Joslin conveyed into the house.”

  The companion nodded, and Ottilia noted that Tamasine, whose eyes were still trained upon the body, showed no sign of personal grief nor appeared to notice that of Miss Ingleby.

  “There are two men who accompanied us from Barbados. Shall I —?”

  “Stay where you are,” Francis said. “I will find them.”

  He began walking towards the house, and abruptly Tamasine called after him. “Hemp and Cuffy.”

  Francis halted, turning back with a puzzled look in his face. “I beg your pardon?”

  “She means their names,” explained Miss Ingleby. “Hemp and Cuffy. Ask Mrs Whiting, the housekeeper — or the butler Lomax. Anyone will tell you.”

  Watching Tamasine, Ottilia wondered at her ability to follow conversations when she apparently had her attention elsewhere. Could one but persuade her to respond to a direct question, she might well have a deal to add to the picture. This being unlikely, however, Ottilia chose instead to tackle the companion.

  “Miss Ingleby, are you up to giving me an account of what happened here?”

  The woman looked surprised, but Ottilia did not trouble to explain her interest, certain Miss Ingleby was too shocked to dispute a stranger’s right to ask. Ottilia smiled at her.

  “You look exhausted. Why don’t you sit down?”

  She went to the low stone balustrade, thrust away the layer of snow that lay there, and then rubbed the damp and cold from her hands. With obvious relief, the woman sank down. She had not released Tamasine, who made no objection, but sat down beside her, looking expectantly up at Ottilia.

  “That is more comfortable.” Gentling her voice, Ottilia added persuasively, “Come, you will feel the better for unburdening what is in your mind.”

  A sigh escaped the woman. “Yes. I feel as if I can scarcely remember.”

  “I understand, but I have no doubt you will recollect everything once you begin.”

  Tamasine trained her eyes on her duenna’s profile as the latter drew a deep breath. Again, Ottilia was moved to wonder at the child’s ability to fix her attention.

  Miss Ingleby averted her gaze from the body. “Tamasine chose to walk with Joslin and I had gone on a little ahead. I am not at all sure what happened. I was down here, and I heard Joslin laughing. I looked to see what amused him, and then he — he lost his balance and fell.”

  “How did he fall? Was it immediate? Did he pitch forward? Did he reel where he stood? Tamasine told me that he put his hands to his head.”

  The girl’s gaze turned swiftly to Ottilia. “He fell over and over.”

  A faint frown creased Miss Ingleby’s forehead. “I don’t recall. I was so shocked to see it. He fell headlong, I think. And then he rolled.” A sobbing gasp escaped her. “He landed at my feet, all in a heap.”

  “And you knelt to him at once, I imagine?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I called him. He didn’t answer.” It came out in spasms, a staccato recital. “I felt for his pulse. But then I saw he was breathing. With difficulty. Dragging his breath as if it hurt. His eyes were closed. He looked — he looked asleep, but heavily.”

  “Did he seem to be in a stupor?”

  Miss Ingleby looked up, a trifle wild-eyed with the recital of her recollection. “Yes, I think. I tried to wake him.”

  “How?”

  “I shouted. I may have shaken his shoulder.”

  “But you did not try to move him.”

  “Onto his back? No, for I thought he might have broken a limb. I did not want to make bad worse.”

  “You did right,” Ottilia soothed. “Then what happened?”

  Miss Ingleby’s cheeks were wet, unregarded tears seeping from her eyes. “I didn’t know what to do. I sent Tamasine for help.”

  “I came for Lady Fan,” piped up the girl, her bright smile lighting her face.

  “That was well done of you,” said Ottilia, but returned her attention immediately to the companion. “What happened after Tamasine left you?”

  Miss Ingleby shook her head. “I hardly know. Joslin’s breathing quietened, and I thought he was recovering. I called him again and again, but to no avail.”

  “His breathing grew less and less?”

  A great sigh lifted the woman’s shoulders and she sagged. “I
could not judge. He looked so peaceful, as if he was merely asleep. If you would ask me just when he ceased to breathe, I cannot tell you. By the time your husband arrived, he had gone.” She shuddered. “It was all so quick. It seems impossible he could be dead, and yet…”

  Her eyes strayed to the body and she began softly to weep. Ottilia laid a hand on her shoulder, but her gaze was drawn to Tamasine. The girl was looking puzzled, as if this display of grief had no meaning for her. She watched in silence for a moment, and then turned her blue orbs on Ottilia.

  “Why is she crying? She did not love Joslin. She is not his cousin.”

  Miss Ingleby’s sobs redoubled and she withdrew her hand, which all this time had still been clutching Tamasine’s wrist. Ottilia watched the girl closely, alert for any untoward motion.

  “Your companion is in shock, Tamasine. And I am sure she was fond of Sir Joslin. One does not need to love someone to be shocked and grieved at their passing.”

  Tamasine blinked. “You are not crying.”

  “But I did not know your guardian.”

  The girl rose abruptly, moving to stand over the body. Ottilia followed closely, standing beside her, with one hand ready to seize the girl, should she make any attempt at leaving the area. The last thing needed at this moment was for Tamasine to go off exploring.

  In a gesture that said more about her state of mind than any peculiarity of speech, the girl put out one foot and prodded at the inert body. “He is not pretending.” The tone was matter-of-fact.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Leaning down, Tamasine cupped her hands to her mouth. “Joslin, are you dead?”

  Ottilia grasped the girl’s arm and pulled her gently back. “My dear child, he cannot hear you.”

  Tamasine turned to look at her and the china-blue eyes went suddenly dim. Then the girl opened her mouth wide and began to scream.

  Chapter 3

  The wails reached Francis’s ears as he stood in the wide hall, in rapid conversation with the housekeeper. She was a small woman, a trifle too stout for her height, giving her a dwarfish look. She had been staring up into Francis’s face as he explained the situation, and it was evident the reality of events had not yet fully penetrated her mind for she seemed dazed and unable to do more than nod from time to time. Before he had an opportunity to request her to find the two servants, the screams from outside distracted them both.

  “Miss Tam, that is.” The woman put her hands to her ears in a gesture Francis took to be automatic. “I’d best make her room ready.”

  She bustled, turning towards the stairs, but Francis reached out to seize her arm.

  “Wait, if you please!” The housekeeper looked at his hand, blinking confusedly. “I need the services of your two servants, Mrs Whiting. Cuffy and Hemp, I think it was. We cannot leave Sir Joslin lying out in the snow.”

  Her gaze widened and at last the expected shock leapt into it. She nodded several times. “Yes. Yes, I will get them. Or no, I will tell Lomax.”

  But even as she spoke, the green baize door at the back of the hall opened and a spare man of middle years came through. He stopped short at sight of Francis, a frown descending onto his brow.

  “What’s to do, Mrs Whiting? Shouldn’t you go up?”

  “It’s the master, Lomax!” The housekeeper moved towards the newcomer with pudgy hands held out. “This gentleman says he’s dead!”

  The man’s features blenched, although he accepted Mrs Whiting’s hands and held them briefly, his eyes flying to Francis.

  “I’m afraid it is true,” Francis said, his tone suitably grave, if loud against the continued lamentations from outside. “Sir Joslin had the misfortune to fall down the garden steps.”

  Lomax put aside the housekeeper and came up to Francis. Eyes of an oddly light grey looked searchingly into his. ‘He was killed by the fall, sir?”

  Francis found himself in a quandary. The notion did not march with Tillie’s analysis, but how much was it politic to reveal? He opted for caution. “We cannot be certain of anything until a doctor has seen him. For the present, I am anxious to have your master conveyed into the house. I gather a couple of fellows by the names of Hemp and Cuffy may be willing to assist.”

  For a moment the butler did not speak, but only eyed Francis in a considering way that he found decidedly disconcerting. Not to mention discourteous in a mere servant. Then the fellow seemed to make up his mind.

  “I’ll fetch them, sir.”

  Turning on his heel, he made all speed towards the green baize door and disappeared through it. Mrs Whiting had sunk into a cane chair placed by a large table to one side of the hall, upon which reposed a plethora of unrelated objects. His attention on the housekeeper, Francis vaguely took in a couple of candelabra still stuffed with last night’s stubs, a collection of scattered papers, along with a whip, an odd man’s glove, and several open containers spilling over with odds and ends.

  It struck Francis as peculiarly masculine, besides arguing a lack of that sort of order usually obtaining in the houses of the English gentry. And with the death of the principal householder, the situation looked set to deteriorate. On impulse, he put a question.

  “Who will take charge now that your master is dead?”

  Mrs Whiting’s glance flew up, dismay writ large upon her countenance. She drew a shaky breath. “I hardly know, sir. I suppose Miss Ingleby — or no, there is Miss Tam’s aunt, I believe, but I have no acquaintance with her.”

  “She was not in the West Indies then?”

  “No, sir.”

  “But you were?”

  “All of us,” said Mrs Whiting on another uncertain breath. She brushed a distracted hand across a plump forehead. “At least — not the maids or the cook.”

  “But yourself and Lomax?”

  She nodded, looking a trifle puzzled at this line of questioning. Francis knew it was scarcely his business, but he had not learned a trick or two from his darling wife for nothing. Tillie would wish to know every tidbit of background detail, and he might as well glean what he could. He persisted.

  “Miss Ingleby was also of the party who came from abroad, I gather?”

  The woman’s astonishment was plain, but she answered willingly enough. “Yes, sir. Miss Ingleby has been with Miss Tam since she was fourteen. None knows better than she how to do when Miss Tam…”

  She faded out, rising with a little difficulty and moving towards the closed front door. Francis became aware that the cries of the young girl were growing louder. Before the women could enter, the party from the nether regions crowded through the green baize door: the butler, followed by two burly black men dressed in the livery of footmen. One glance instilled confidence these men were eminently capable of bearing the burden of the dead man’s body.

  “Ah, Cuffy and Hemp, I presume? Good day to you. Let us go and secure your poor master.”

  Upon which, Francis turned for the front door just in time to witness Miss Ingleby entering, dragging behind her the recalcitrant source of the unceasing racket. Tempted to cover his ears, he refrained, standing aside as the cavalcade swept into the hall.

  “Oh, hush, Miss Tam, do,” the housekeeper begged, having attached herself to Tamasine in a bid to assist by pushing from behind.

  Miss Ingleby had the girl fast by one wrist. “Upstairs at once!”

  Francis was tempted to protest at this treatment. Surely a more gentle approach would better serve? The girl had suffered a severe shock. Then it was borne in upon him that the squeals were rather those of protest than sorrow. At what point the quality of the girl’s cries had changed, Francis could not say, his attention having been elsewhere. He recalled the oddity of her earlier behaviour and the discussion concerning her sanity.

  He raised his voice. “My wife is still outside with Sir Joslin?”

  Miss Ingleby checked briefly in her way to the stairs, throwing a glance over her shoulder. “Lady Francis said she would await your coming.” Then the woman proceeded on her wa
y, admonishing her charge as she went. “That is enough, Tamasine. Cease this nonsensical noise at once, or it will be the worse for you.”

  Again conscious of a sliver of sympathy for the child, Francis signalled to the waiting coterie of male servants and headed for the front door.

  Ottilia watched the two footmen lay their burden down upon the coverlet of the four-poster in the apartment given over to Sir Joslin’s use. It was of a fair size, but a cursory glance around showed it to be sparsely furnished. Besides the bed and bedside cabinet, there was only a large press and a long mirror, no doubt hired along with the house. Making a mental note to find opportunity to search the press, Ottilia returned her attention to the matter at hand.

  Both the fellows Cuffy and Hemp, notwithstanding their great bulk, had dissolved into grief at sight of the wreck of their master. Neither one, to Ottilia’s mingled sympathy and surprise, openly sobbed or ventured any remark. Instead, they obeyed Francis’s terse instructions on the manner of lifting Sir Joslin’s corpse, their tears falling freely throughout.

  The care with which they handled him was marked, although they were panting with effort by the end. Ottilia read affection in the way the older of the two took time and trouble to dispose the limbs suitably despite the evident disarrangement of bone caused by his fall. As the men stepped back from the bed, Francis went forward.

  “That was kindly done, and I must thank you.”

  He held out a hand to the nearest of the footmen, the younger of the two, whose colour was several degrees lighter than that of his colleague. Ottilia saw the fellow hesitate, glancing first at the hand and then at his fellow. The older man gave a brief nod — of permission? The other wiped his hand quickly down his costume and then reached to take the one proffered by Francis.

  Francis shook the hand and smiled. “Are you Cuffy or Hemp?”

  “Hemp, sir,” said the fellow, his voice low and deep, in keeping with his large athletic frame.

  “You were fond of your master, I think?”

  Hemp put up a thumb and wiped at the residue of tears under his eyes. “Master Joslin was a good man.”