Masquerade of Vengeance (The Rutherford Trilogy Book 3)

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  “Quite right, and I’m grateful for your help, landlord. Now, what exactly have ye heard?”

  “Firstly, one o’ t’footmen at Mr de Ryde’s says as ’ow the valet thought he saw someone peerin’ in at t’French window at Denby House on t’night o’ t’murder. He couldn’t be sure because he was at t’bedroom window above, and ’is eyes bain’t too good, sithee. But if Sir Eustace was killed by a burglar, ’appen that was t’bloke, ’anging about waitin’ to break in.”

  Watts nodded. “Not much help to us now, though.”

  He reserved the opinion that it might equally have been the man who was planning the murder.

  “I reckon not, but there’s more to come,” said Perkin, in a slightly deflated tone. “Goin’ back to t’afternoon o’ Mr de Ryde’s accident, one o’ t’gardeners at Firsdale Hall reckons he saw a gennelman slippin’ in to t’grounds o’ Denby House by t’side gate leadin’ from t’lane between t’two.”

  “What gennelman?” snapped Watts.

  Perkin shook his head. “That he can’t say, Mr Watts, try ever so, as I did mysen. He bain’t more’n sixpence in t’shilling, think on.”

  “I’ll see him nonetheless — his name?”

  The landlord supplied it, and Watts made a note.

  “Anything more?”

  “Well, ay, reckon so,” said Perkin slowly. “Tha did ask about t’night o’ Lord Mayor’s ball, wantin’ to know if anyone’d been seen around these parts where they ’adn’t ought to be. I don’t reedy know where this ’elps ’ee, but reckon it’s worth tellin’. Someone else saw a gennelman makin’ use o’ that there gate to Denby House latish on that night — leastways, ’e might not ’ave been a gennelman, but ’e was wearin’ a cloak, which was all this bloke could make out, seein’ as it was dark.”

  “Now that is useful,” said Watts approvingly. “I’ll need to know this man’s moniker, too.”

  “Well, mebbe that’s a mite difficult,” Perkin demurred. “This bloke was up to no good himself that night, sithee — in fact, he’s a poacher. Not that owt’s ever been proved, tha knows — but he’ll not thank me for puttin’ t’law on him, an’ I’ve to think on my trade, sithee.”

  “Yes, well, ye deserve to have something overlooked, seeing that ye’ve been helping in the King’s business. Tell ye what, persuade this cully to come here and have a word with me, and no questions asked about his own doings that night. Eh?”

  Perkin said doubtfully that he would do his best, and would let Watts know if and when it was possible to make an appointment.

  “But I doubt tha’ll get any more from ’im than what I’ve told ’ee — come to that, I don’t reckon any on ’em can tell more. I asked ’em a mort o’ questions mysen, think on.”

  Watts soothed the landlord’s injured pride by saying that he had done splendidly, and that doubtless no more could be learned by further questions.

  “But it’s my business to put ’em personally, ye see, no matter how reliable my informant. In the meantime, I know I can rely on ye to keep your eyes skinned, and your mummer shut, eh?”

  On this friendly note they parted.

  Watts spent the rest of the morning following up the landlord’s information, but at the end of it all learned nothing further. As he had expected this kind of result, he was not unduly discouraged.

  He contrived a brief meeting with Justin in the afternoon to pass on the information.

  “Don’t take us much further, I fear, guv’nor, though it confirms some of our theories,” he said apologetically. “That groom Mott, for instance, who says he heard someone in the stable the night afore Mr de Ryde’s accident — well, we reckoned that’s the way the curricle was tampered with. One thing, though, strikes me, and that’s this mention of gentlemen being seen on two suspicious occasions, using the side gate access to Denby House. The gardener at the Hall — more’n a bit slow in the uptake, I’ll admit, guv’nor — but swore on the good book that it was a gennelman, and no ordinary labouring cove as he saw. Tried to shake him, but he stood firm on that, though he couldn’t identify him.”

  “But the other witness, the poacher, you’ve not interviewed yet? He could have been mistaken — after dark, y’know.”

  “True, sir, though I reckon only the gentry wears cloaks. I’m anxious to have a word with that cully, see if I can learn more. But if they’re both in the right of it, and they did see a gennelman — well, guv’nor, I don’t need to say more.”

  “Indeed not. Healey was threatened in the temple by a man wearing a cloak and mask on the night of the Lord Mayor’s ball. That man could have been going to the ball as a guest, if this poacher is correct in identifying him as one of the gentry. Ergo — but I don’t need to underline the conclusion, Joe, not to you. The time seems to fit what Healey told us, though perhaps when you interview the man he can verify this.”

  Watts nodded. “The only newcomers to the district who’re gentry are Mr Cholmondeley’s guests, sir — yes, that’s for certain sure. And we do have our eye on one of those guests already.”

  “Agreed, but yet I don’t know … we must find out more about them, by hook or crook. I hope to achieve something in this way tomorrow on the excursion to Rievaulx, but in the meantime I wonder if you can do a little snooping, Joe? There’s that pretty housemaid of yours at Warton Manor — could she smuggle you into their quarters, do you suppose, while they’re all absent from the house? There must be some clues to identity lying about in their bedchambers — letters, other papers, even possessions which give a hint?”

  Joseph Watts pulled a face. “Most irregular, guv’nor, as ye very well know.”

  “But often necessary for the ends of justice,” countered Justin. “Very well, I’ll admit I don’t in general favour the Jesuitical approach! Only this is murder, and there might be more yet.”

  Watts winked. “Bless ye, guv’nor, I was only pullin’ your leg, but I reckon ye know that.”

  In the evening, all the Firsdale Hall party with the exception of Sir George, whose injury was a deterrent to social outings, and Harry, who acknowledged he was bored by dramatic performances, set out for the Theatre Royal.

  Justin made no complaint about being required to squire three females without a companion of his own sex, but he found himself missing Rogers. He had a shrewd notion that he was not the only one.

  The party alighted from their carriage at the entrance in Lop Lane, and were ushered into the box which Sir George reserved permanently for his use, although that was not very frequent. Anthea glanced around the theatre as the others were arranging themselves on the crimson covered chairs, and approved its classic style.

  “Do you notice who our neighbours are?” Justin whispered, as he took a seat beside her.

  Anthea glanced quickly at the next box, then away again.

  “I might have known,” she replied, in the same tone, “from the hubbub! Mrs C never can do anything without making a piece of work about it, can she?”

  The criticism was not unfounded. Directions were being issued by the minute to the hapless visitors whom the Cholmondeleys had brought with them.

  “Pray sit here, Mr Barnet — no, I do not think you will see so well there — let my husband take that chair! My dear, you will not mind being a little to one side, I know —” this to her husband — “and you may have that chair, Mr Fulford — oh, no, but then you will be in Mr Reade’s way —”

  “No matter to me, ma’am,” replied that gentleman gallantly. “Truth to tell, I’m not vastly addicted to play going, and shall most likely drop off in the middle.”

  She protested at this and began on another bout of directions. As it was all plainly audible to the boxes on either side of them and caused some amusement, it was treated almost as an extra performance.

  Presently they were all seated to her satisfaction, and she had leisure to look about her. Her eye at once alighted on the occupants of the neighbouring box, and she uttered a cry of delight.

  “Lady Marton! Now if
this isn’t beyond anything extraordinary, as we so rarely attend the play! Only with this being quite the most popular of Mr Sheridan’s pieces — so sad about his death, you know, but we all must go some time, I suppose — and then our visitors found themselves with nothing in particular to do, so we thought it a good opportunity for them to see our theatre —”

  She was leaning over the edge of the box, speaking in a voice that carried to everyone nearby. Fortunately, a good many others in the auditorium were also cackling away, as Justin phrased it, so no one took much notice.

  Julia soon managed to staunch the flow of her conversation by saying that they would all meet in the lobby during the intervals, and everyone was able to settle down for the performance.

  The floodgates were opened again, however, when the first interval arrived. Mrs Cholmondeley enthused indiscriminately about the performers, Julia and Anthea having to bear the brunt of her raptures, as Cholmondeley was chatting to Louisa.

  Sir John Fulford made his usual attempt to place himself close to Anthea; but this time her reception of him was so extremely cool as to dampen even his ardour. Evidently she preferred the company of his hostess.

  “The lady’s not in a receptive mood,” said Barnet in low tones. “You’ll do no good there at present.”

  “Did myself no good yesterday,” admitted Fulford glumly. “Met her out for a drive with that chap Rogers — must admit I was a bit on the go and driving cow-handedly.”

  “Half seas over, old fellow, by my recollection,” retorted Barnet, grinning.

  Fulford grimaced, resigning himself to conversing with Justin, who had that moment joined the group.

  “How are you enjoying the play?” Justin inquired of the group. “Doubtless you’ll have seen it before, I dare say.”

  All except Reade assented, though Barnet and Fulford both admitted that it was some years since.

  “I suppose you’ll have seen it in London,” Justin continued. “At which theatre — the Lane or the Garden?”

  “Yes, certainly in London,” agreed Fulford, “though damme if I can recall where.”

  “Would it have been since they were both rebuilt after the fires? It was a cruel stroke of fate, was it not, that both should have been burnt down within a short time of each other — Covent Garden in the autumn of ’08 and Drury Lane in the following spring. If you do chance to have been to a performance in the new buildings, what did you feel about the enlargement of the auditorium? It seems to me that nowadays a sense of closeness and intimacy between actors and audience is missing, very different from the old days when I was up at Oxford and attended performances occasionally.”

  “I haven’t been to either since the reconstruction,” said Barnet, “but I’d agree it’s essential to be able to see the actors’ facial expressions, as so much is conveyed in that way. If this is lost in the present buildings, I’d agree it’s a devilish shame! What say you, Fellowes? You’ve been there, I expect.”

  “Well, I’m seldom in London, as I’ve told you, but I do chance to have attended performances at both the new theatres. Yes, you may be in the right of it, though I hasten to add that I’m no true judge.”

  “I can’t lay claim to being an ardent follower of the drama any more than these two,” put in Fulford with a shrug. “The play’s the thing, as that fellow Shakespeare said, I think — but as to watching actors’ expressions, well, I’m tolerably satisfied if they only leap about the stage enough.”

  “Like Edmund Kean?” suggested Justin, smiling.

  Fulford and Barnet appeared nonplussed, he noticed, while Reade merely continued to look as bored as he had done throughout the conversation. It seemed that the actor’s name meant nothing to them. Fellowes, however, was better informed.

  “That chap who made his first appearance a couple of years back, and was a prodigious hit? Never seen him myself, but, as I say, I’m seldom up in London these days.”

  “There are one or two taking bits of muslin here,” whispered Fulford to Barnet. “Over there, look, filly in the aquamarine gown and her companion — approachable, would you say?”

  “Don’t think they’re bits of muslin,” declared Barnet, after a quick glance. “Moreover, there’s a damned unpleasant looking fellow escorting them.”

  “Just our luck,” Fulford shrugged.

  The interval bell sounded, and there was a general scramble to resume seats.

  Noticing that Fellowes was hanging well back from his party, Justin moved over to Anthea; after a quick whispered word in her ear, he detached himself from the others and entered the cloakroom.

  As he had hoped, no one was within but a bored attendant almost asleep in his chair. Justin left the door open a crack through which he could see into the lobby, then when the audience had quite dispersed, he cautiously emerged. There was no sign of Fellowes.

  He ran lightly down the staircase into the foyer. No one was about here, either, since the performance had now resumed. He moved quickly to the entrance door and passed through into the street. It was dusk outside. He moved cautiously round the corner into narrow Lop Lane, away from the lights of the theatre.

  A quick glance showed him two men standing in conversation against the wall. At once he drew back into the shadow of an adjacent doorway, straining his eyes to identify them.

  The plump outline of Fellowes presented little difficulty, but it was several moments before he could make out who his companion might be.

  When he did, it came as no surprise to realise that it was Ross.

  The groom had accompanied the party from Firsdale Hall on the box of their coach. Fellowes and Ross again; had their meeting been arranged, or was it fortuitous? And what was their business together?

  He strained his ears to try and catch some of what was passing between them, but to no avail. He was not close enough, nor dare he move any nearer without betraying his presence.

  After a few minutes, he decided that there was nothing to be gained by remaining where he was, and less likelihood of attracting their attention if he returned to the theatre at once, before they made a move themselves. He suited the action to the thought, gliding silently back by the way he had come.

  He entered the box just as quietly, resuming his seat beside Anthea. Julia flung him an impatient, scolding glance; but as the scene at present was the lively one between Sir Peter Teazle and his wife, she wasted no more time upon him. As for Anthea, after she had raised her brows inquiringly and received a nod promising explanations to follow, she also gave her attention to the play.

  At the next interval, he briefly informed her of the meeting between Fellowes and Ross.

  “Why, then, it does look as if they are in some way involved in this monstrous crime, don’t you think, Justin? I know you and Watts are satisfied that Ross can’t be the murderer, since Healey is so positive that she doesn’t recognise his voice.” She hesitated, lowering her whisper to a mere thread of sound. “I’ve been thinking that over — do you suppose she might have lied about it? Through fear, perhaps?”

  He shook his head. “No, you’re forgetting that there are other objections in the way of casting Ross in that particular role. It may be, however, that he’s an accessory. But we’d best postpone this discussion for the present.”

  This was well advised, for the Cholmondeleys’ party had gathered round them again, making conversation more general. The acting was praised, especially that of Miss Campbell as Lady Teazle.

  “Oddly enough, I’d a fancy as a boy to tread the boards,” said Fulford, with a laugh. “Not that I ever showed any marked ability for acting, or for anything else, come to think of it! My schoolmasters evidently didn’t labour under the delusion that they were nurturing a genius.”

  “Which of our distinguished places of learning had the privilege of educating you?” asked Justin.

  “Oh, Westminster,” replied Fulford casually. “Damned stuffy place, too. Where did you go, Mr Rutherford?”

  “Harrow, but the authorities endeavo
ur to forget that fact,” said Justin with a grin. “It took the masters some years to recover.”

  This caused general laughter, and Cholmondeley launched into a monologue about his own schooldays which lasted until the interval ended.

  They all returned to their seats, becoming increasingly engrossed in the play as the action accelerated, and outbursts of laughter were punctuated by tense moments when one might have heard a pin drop. Anthea sat on the edge of her chair holding her breath during the scene where Lady Teazle hides behind a screen to avoid discovery by her husband during a compromising situation.

  It was over at last, the epilogue spoken by Miss Campbell, and the audience dispersing amid general enthusiasm. On the way out, a brief interchange between the Cholmondeleys and their neighbours confirmed arrangements for the outing to Rievaulx on the following day.

  CHAPTER 17

  Anthea was not the kind of female to wear her heart on her sleeve, so she appeared to be in her usual spirits; but under the facade of normality, a good deal of unhappiness was concealed.

  She had been taken unawares by the strength of her feelings for Rogers. She had realised that he appealed to her more than any other man she had met, and that she felt vaguely dissatisfied at their relationship being on the same light, flirtatious footing that she enjoyed with others. She had felt instinctively that she could look to him for support in moments of stress, which was the reason why she had run into his arms after her fright at the fire in the gipsy’s tent at the Knavesmire.

  But until he had declared his love, it had never seriously occurred to her that she, too, was in love and for the first time. Her response to his embraces had been as wholehearted as any man could desire, and in keeping with her temperament. Why, then, did she have to spoil it all by refusing to marry him at once, as he so ardently insisted? What perverse streak in her made her tempt fate so far as to risk losing him?