A Scandalous Deception

by Lynn Messina

  In the matter of the murdered dandy, however, there was almost a surfeit of concern, for the Gazette reporters, who felt a proprietary sort of entitlement to the dead man, had been determined to keep the rivalrous newspapermen craning their necks at the door away from their corpse. In addition to those parties, the Bow Street Runners had been called to handle the proceedings in an official capacity.

  The victim was clearly not languishing for want of attention.

  And what if, standing there in the entry of the newspaper office, she had resolved to solve the mystery of the poor man’s death? How would she begin to discover that information? Would she start with the London Daily Gazette? Was the newspaper central to the stabbing or merely incidental? Had the dandy been in the process of seeking out the office when he met his end or had he stumbled in in hopes of getting help and perhaps saving himself?

  It was impossible to tell from the evidence.

  The newspaper, she didn’t doubt, would quickly identify the victim, but she didn’t need an article to know quality when it dropped dead at her feet. The victim was a gentleman of wealth and breeding, and to discover who wished him harm would require interviews with the ton, a truly terrifying prospect for a woman who had stammered her way through six seasons. Even the most harmless inquiry about her health brought on nonsensical stuttering and a flush of embarrassment. It was madness to believe she would have the composure to ask members of the beau monde intrusive questions about their movements and relationships now. How would she even frame her sudden and unexpected interest in their lives? “Bear with me, please, as I am in pursuit of a killer.”

  In every way that mattered, the events of the London Daily Gazette murder differed from the events of the Lakeview Hall murder, and Bea was welcome to consider herself free of any further obligation.

  She could devote all her energies to worrying about how her family would receive the news of Mr. Davies’s sudden and unexpected death with an entirely clear conscience.

  Naturally, such an occupation appealed little to her, and she picked up the biography of George Stepney she had been reading the night before. She’d found the early chapters of the poet and ambassador’s life surprisingly engrossing, with its humble beginnings that nary hinted at the greatness to come, but now the story wasn’t holding her interest. One precocious scholar at Cambridge’s Trinity College was just like any other precocious scholar at Trinity.

  Her cynical assessment wasn’t fair to Mr. Stepney, and it certainly wasn’t fair to his biographer, whose writing style she had admired only the day before.

  No, the problem was she was too distracted by the scene at the newspaper office to focus on the words, for now that she had given herself permission not to think about the dead man, her mind could consider nothing else.

  “You are a perverse creature,” she said softly, returning to the book with renewed determination. But it was no use. No matter how she tried, she could not erase the image of the murdered dandy with the bejeweled jade knife jutting out of his back. How perfectly in line the instrument was with his aesthetic, she thought now in the quiet of her bedchamber. If consulted prior to his stabbing on the weapon he would most like for the deed, she felt certain he would have chosen just such an artifact from one of the display cases in the British Museum.

  She smiled as she imagined the care and deliberation with which he would approach the selection, considering, as he examined the museum’s assortment of ancient knives from all over the world, which one would best complement his burgundy greatcoat and enhance the overall picture of beautiful youth mercilessly cut down in its prime.

  It had been almost three years since her visit to the museum, but she knew its collection of knives to be extensive, with many lovely examples from India, China and Africa. Craftsmanship varied depending on the time period of construction, as some examples had been forged more than two millennia ago in primitive fires. Others were exquisitely made implements, with glittering jewels meant to dazzle the eye, she recalled, picturing a particularly stunning piece that had held her attention for several minutes. Its handle had also been carved from jade and had graceful latticework on the bottom of the hilt.

  Was it latticework?

  No, it was more swirly, more like a flourish than an actual design. Indeed, as she closed her eyes to focus her mind more strongly, she realized the elegant design resembled a horse’s bridle.

  That’s right, she thought. The hilt had been carved into the shape of a horse just like—

  Heart pounding, Bea sat up straight and even though she knew it was ridiculous to think the two knives were the same, she couldn’t quite convince herself that her conclusion was entirely outlandish. Her memory was dim, certainly, but they looked so similar.

  She would get no rest until she confirmed it.

  At once, she began planning a trip to the British Museum for the following day. She would have to go alone, of course, for showing undue interest in its knife collection would alarm her family. They would also be disturbed when she insisted on speaking to a librarian about one knife in particular—especially, as she expected, the dagger in question would no longer be in the collection.

  But how to arrange a solo visit?

  In many respects, it should be easy, as her family displayed little interest in the artifacts of the British civilization—or, indeed, any civilization. Her aunt had visited the venerated institution only once and had begrudged every moment of the experience, which had been undertaken at the request of her elderly aunt, Lady Wattingford. Desiring to see the Townley collection of classical sculptures before she died, her ladyship had insisted her niece take her, and Vera, finding her offspring impervious to the demands of familial obligation, dragooned Bea in their stead. Although Bea was no more fond of the irascible Lady Wattingford than her cousins, she’d enjoyed the outing immensely, especially when she managed to slip away for a half hour to discover the museum on her own.

  The challenge, of course, would be in convincing them to allow her to go with only her maid in tow. Her aunt would be scandalized.

  Or would she, Bea thought.

  In the last few weeks, Aunt Vera had taken pains to make it clear that the standards to which she held her own daughter did not apply to her niece. She would object vociferously to Flora undertaking such an excursion but most likely would have no strong feelings about Bea doing so. After all, she was little known among the ton, so it was doubtful anyone would recognize her and object. In addition, the Hyde-Clares were particularly ill-suited to the requirements of solace, something Bea had learned firsthand when her parents died and discovered again when Lady Wattingford finally cocked up her toes after years of threatening to expire. Her aunt and uncle were so embarrassed by death, they avoided each other’s gaze for almost two months in the wake of her ladyship’s passing. Given their discomfort, they would probably be grateful for the thoughtful way she removed herself from their presence in the wake of Mr. Davies’s unexpected death. Eager to be spared the awkwardness of her grief, they would happily wave her off and tell her not to return until the museum closed.

  A greater concern was the knife itself, Bea thought, for she knew how incredibly implausible her deduction was. More probably, she was misremembering the design of the other one. Far from being a horse’s head carved out of jade, it would almost certainly turn out to be a hawk’s head molded in bronze that had been tinted slightly green by the air.

  And yet as much as she told herself to be reasonable in her expectation, she could not quite squelch her excitement. Earlier, she had professed disinterest in the dandy’s murder, and as sincere as it had been, she knew it was based partly on an inability to imagine a purpose to her interest. The circumstances of his death had simply made it too difficult for her to investigate.

  But now she had a piece of information she could probe on her own without anyone’s permission, and she discovered, to her horror and delight, that she couldn’t wait to get started. Had the British Museum been open at that hour,
she would have put on her pelisse, marched out of the house and hailed a hack to Russell Street.

  Alas, the beloved institution did not open again until ten the next morning and she had to content herself with pacing her bedchamber while she alternately assured herself that it was and wasn’t the same knife.

  Truly, she didn’t know which actuality she wanted to prevail. If it wasn’t the same implement, then her involvement in the murder would be at an end, which, although disappointing, would no doubt be for the best. The dead man in the London Daily Gazette offices had nothing to do with her, and inserting herself into the mystery would be as foolhardy as it was foolish, for she had naught to gain but the ready ridicule of her family and society. She could even see the caricature by Mr. Rowlandson of her dressed in the uniform of the Bow Street Runners with a caption that mocked her as a new recruit.

  Her interference, if exposed, could earn her the attention that six seasons had failed to secure, a horrifying prospect.

  But, oh, how she longed to interfere!

  The discovery that Beatrice Hyde-Clare was clever hadn’t just struck her relatives as a disconcerting revelation; it had also struck the girl herself as one. Although life had given her many opportunities to display her intelligence, it had not done so in a format within which she felt comfortable. Trading bon mots with eligible partis in glittering ballrooms required a level of clarity she was too easily flustered to attain. Struggling for a witty reply, she would settle for a belatedly plodding one, which would flatten the conversation and dampen a suitor’s interest in continuing it. Knowing how badly she’d bumbled the response would make her overly aware of herself, which had the inevitable effect of further undermining her confidence and deadening her mind. Entirely undone, she would stare dumbly and wait for the moment to pass.

  Naturally, knowledge of the unavoidable outcome further degraded Bea’s ability to answer cleverly and her stock in society dropped as quickly as her faith in herself. Six seasons of self-conscious stupidity had even blunted her ability to discourse in private, and rather than embarrass herself further, she had surrendered to silence. Her discomfort was so acute, she would have failed to take even if a mean-spirited heiress hadn’t emerged early in her first season to scathingly call her a drab thing.

  And then suddenly, finally, providence provided her with the ideal setting to display her intelligence—incongruously, the scene of a murder—and she comported herself so favorably she managed to impress the Duke of Kesgrave with her acuity. Based on nothing but her insistence that she had figured out who the murderer was, he had gathered the entire company in the Skeffingtons’ drawing room, fetched a Runner from town and given her the floor to unmask the villain.

  Bea was humbled by his belief in her, yes, but more than that she was emboldened, and now that another opportunity to test her detection skills had presented itself, she was eager to see how she would perform.

  Indeed, there was something thrilling in the uncertainty because for so many years her failure had been assured.

  Having settled the matter, Bea picked up the Stepney biography, climbed into bed and turned to the page describing an exchange with a particularly challenging tutor. With the vague concerns that had been fluttering on the edge of consciousness now fully lodged in her mind, she knew she could finish the chapter on Trinity and perhaps the next one as well.

  Indeed, two hours later, Stepney had not only entered the diplomatic service but was en route to Brandenburg. Pleased with her progress, Bea yawned, returned the book to the night table and blew out the candle. She fell asleep almost as soon as she put her head down on the pillow.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The next morning, Bea awoke with invigoration and eagerness and immediately summoned her maid to help her don a walking dress.

  “We’re going to the British Museum today, Annie,” she said cheerfully while the dark-haired girl pulled a light-blue gown out of the wardrobe. “And that is not the royal we, as Prinny might use, nor is it a reference to me and my family. By we, I mean you and I, Annie. Do be ready to leave at eleven.”

  This statement, uncustomarily bold and wholly without precedent, startled the servant, who paused to tilt her head to the side before promising to be ready at the prescribed time.

  Bea smiled happily. “Delightful.”

  Her mood remained buoyant fifteen minutes later when she entered her breakfast room, for she could not wait to have her suspicions confirmed. She could even picture the moment she stepped into the room with the extensive knife collection and saw the empty space where the jade dagger should have been. Evincing surprise, she would locate the nearest librarian and interrogate him on its strange disappearance.

  In this sanguine mood, she greeted her family, who were still gathered around the table, even her uncle. “Good morning,” she said brightly.

  Aunt Vera muttered something incomprehensible in response and looked at her husband with a fierce frown. Catching her disapproval out of the corner of his eye, Uncle Horace acknowledged her displeasure by raising the newspaper slightly higher. His wife harrumphed.

  Although this interplay was unusual for Aunt Vera, who typically allowed her husband to read the newspaper at the table unaccosted, Bea paid it no heed as she listened to Dawson describe the breakfast options. At the mention of food, her stomach growled furiously, which she tried to cover up with an unduly eager request for eggs. Then she glanced around the table to see if she needed to apologize for the rudeness. Her aunt’s cross expression remained focused on her husband, whose interest in the newspaper was more studied than genuine, as his eyes remained steady and did not move across the page. Russell’s gaze was fixed firmly on his plate, which was empty, and he didn’t look up when Dawson asked if he wanted another serving of eggs. Flora was likewise distracted, examining the lace that edged the sleeve of her morning gown.

  The intense concentration was unusual for the breakfast room, but it did not detract from Bea’s positive mood and, observing the sun shining through the window, said, “My goodness, it’s a lovely day.”

  Nobody spoke.

  As the statement could not have been any more benign or banal, the deafening silence it elicited was entirely out of the ordinary. Undaunted, Bea asked her aunt what her plans were for the day, suggesting that a stimulating walk through the park might be in order for the brisk but sunny February day.

  Aunt Vera looked down at the table and muttered something about calling on her sister.

  Bea nodded and looked at her cousin. “What about you, Russell? Perhaps a ride on Rotten Row while the weather is so lovely or maybe along the heath?”

  He, too, kept his gaze averted as he mumbled, “Yes, perhaps. Thank you.”

  Untroubled by their strange behavior, Bea said brightly, “I have made plans myself and encourage you all to consider joining—”

  “No, dear, stop,” Flora said gently, reaching across the table to grasp her cousin’s hand in her own, her eyes full of pity. Then she turned angrily to her father. “For goodness’ sake, Papa, we agreed you would be the one to tell her.”

  Uncle Horace coughed awkwardly and raised the London Daily Gazette even higher, so that his chin now stuck out below the bottom of the newspaper.

  Flora scoffed in disgust, turned to her cousin and announced with simple straightforwardness that Teddy was dead.

  Bea blinked, uncomprehending. “Who?”

  Aunt Vera whimpered in distress as Flora said with tragic understanding, as if not at all surprised by her cousin’s inability to grasp the truth, for it was too consequential, “Theodore Davies, darling, the love of your life. He has died.”

  “Oh, goodness, yes, Teddy!” Bea said loudly.

  How could she forget something so hugely significant as the death notice she herself had placed less than twenty-four hours before?

  Naturally, her family attributed her reaction to shock at the tragic news. Flora rushed over to embrace her, Russell patted the air in the general vicinity of her hand, Aunt Ve
ra mewled again, and Uncle Horace said, “I trust you will not let this development undermine your intention to find a husband. Onward and upward, right, my dear?”

  Given that the dead man, as far as any one of them knew, had a wife and two children, Bea didn’t think this was a particularly insensitive remark, but Flora chastised her father for his lack of tact and Russell glared at him disapprovingly as he said, “There, there,” to his cousin.

  As a concession to her aunt, who seemed genuinely distressed by the death of Mr. Davies, Bea assured her uncle he was correct. “Indeed, yes, sir. I am more resolved than ever to find a husband”—she peered beneath her lashes at Aunt Vera to see how she was receiving these remarks—“as a tribute to Teddy, may he rest in peace.”

  The answer was taken very well indeed, for her aunt perked up immediately and expressed her approval for the sentiment, which she considered to be everything a dead lost love would long to hear. “As you observed, it’s a lovely day. Perhaps later we can take a drive to Lincoln’s Inn and inspect prospects.”

  Flora looked at her mother in horror. “My cousin has just suffered a very shocking loss and cannot realize what she says. Even though she knew logically she had no chance of happiness with Mr. Davies, I’m sure she nurtured hope in some small corner of her heart that he would abandon his wife and children for her sake and they would live together in shame and mortification in some hovel on the edge of a slum. A bright, beautiful dream has died today and we must be patient with her as she tries to figure out how to mourn. To that end, we must all keep her company in the drawing room and be on hand if she needs anything.”

  Bea could not say which horrified her more: Flora’s vision of her future in which she lived in dishonorable squalor or her plan for her present. The lowered expectations and dismal compromises of the former indicated a truly despairing view of spinsterhood while the latter would constrain her movements and prevent her from visiting the museum.