by Issy Brooke
“Of course it isn’t,” Adelia said with heartfelt sympathy. “It feels as if it goes against all the right order of things. Has the reverend visited you yet? In these darkest of times, you can find an opportunity perhaps to strengthen your faith.”
“God? God? If there is a God then He did this!” Lady Beaconberg said in a low and angry voice, still staring at her hands. “Why would I invite such a God into my house and my heart willingly?”
“It is perhaps not the direct work of God here though His ways are mysterious,” Adelia said, already out of her depth, theologically speaking. Church was, for her, a way of structuring the turning of the year and a nice place to go when one wanted a little peace. But this sort of talk was definitely better left to a man of the cloth.
“No, you are right. It was not the work of God. Indeed, it was the work of man.”
There was another uncomfortable silence. But Adelia and Grace had both, during their long lives, visited many people in mourning and both had learned to wait out the pauses. Grief came in so many shades.
“The work of man,” Lady Beaconberg repeated and sat up straight, all of a sudden, like an India-rubber band had snapped into place. “But who?”
Adelia slid a sideways glance at Grace. Grace stifled a cough and said, in a gentle voice quite uncharacteristic for her, “My dear lady. Your good husband was an honourable and decent man. I understand he was driving home last night?”
“Yes.”
“And then what happened?”
Lady Beaconberg snorted indelicately. “Is it not already the talk of the district?”
“No, of course not. And if it were, I should not listen to it.”
It was a lie that they all accepted. Lady Beaconberg said, “Well, they say that he had had rather too much to drink, and was driving his own carriage home at great speed in the dark last night. They say that he lost control on the bend in the road by the river, and the horse plunged through the wooden fence, which was rotten, and over the bank, and into the river. Somehow the horse got out of the river but he was drowned in the carriage.”
“In the carriage?” Adelia asked. “I thought he was driving. He would have been up top.”
“Exactly!” Lady Beaconberg said, leaning forward. “It makes no sense.”
“And yet,” Adelia went on, almost to herself, “My Theodore did see Lord Beaconberg drive past them alone that night, and he does vouch for the state of inebriation.”
Lady Beaconberg shrugged. “And was not your own dear husband in a similar state?”
“Yes, but...” and Adelia stopped herself, for contradicting a woman who had been widowed less than twelve hours previously was certainly rude. She swallowed her words. “Well, what do the police say about the matter?”
“Just what I have told you. They are convinced that it was an accident. And when I asked about how he could drown in a carriage that he had been driving himself, they shuffled around and said that in his desperate and confused state, while trying to get to safety, that he somehow crawled into the carriage. But that is impossible. Only a circus trickster could perform such contortions – and even if he could, why would he?”
“It is ... odd,” Adelia said. The way that Lady Beaconberg had described it, yes, it seemed very strange indeed. But the woman had received a great shock and it was only natural to cast about searching for explanations, for reasons, for some kind of meaning. To realise that one lived in a pitilessly objective and uncaring universe was terrible and terrifying. One would perform mental tricks of the most elaborate kind to avoid facing that idea.
“Odd?” Lady Beaconberg said, her voice beginning to rise. She slid forward to the edge of her chair and leaned across, grabbing Adelia’s hands before Adelia had a chance to react. “Odd? A crime has been committed, Lady Calaway, a crime of the most dreadful kind. My dear husband has been murdered, and the police have dismissed me as a silly and hysterical woman. Only you can help me!”
“I?”
“Speak to your husband, I beg you, I implore you. And you know that I am not a woman who begs anything of anyone.”
That was, indeed, true.
“Speak to Lord Calaway and use every means at your disposal to convince him of what I have told you. He can uncover the truth, I know it. I heard about what happened at Mondial Castle – forgive me, the memories must be painful, and I would write to the poor Lady Mondial, but ... well, you know.”
Adelia withdrew her hands with a wrench.
But Lady Beaconberg blundered on, wrapped up in her own grief and desperation. “So you must talk to him and persuade him of my case! He would surely not permit such a crime to go unpunished. He is a gentleman.”
And I am a lady, no matter my birth, Adelia thought, and I played a part in the uncovering of the murderer at Mondial Castle too. But the world, I suppose, must never know that. And I cannot answer this rude woman back.
Grace felt no such compunctions. She got to her feet quite suddenly, animated with a sprightliness that suggested either a much younger woman – or an older one in a rage. After all, Dido, Lady Mondial, was her own granddaughter. She said, “I am sure that my son can find time in his busy schedule to assist you, Lady Beaconberg. I was saying only the other week to the Duchess of York that though we among the better classes of people may bicker and fight amongst ourselves on matter of status and degree, yet we can still come together regardless of rank when help is needed.”
It was stab after stab all wrapped up in icy politeness. Adelia marvelled at Grace’s keen dagger-words. Grace delivered the killer blow as Adelia stood up. “And while you wait for Lord Calaway, you will find the time at last, I am sure, to write to Lady Mondial, won’t you?”
Grace did not wait for an answer. She swept out of the room and Adelia followed, not daring to look back at Lady Beaconberg.
Six
It was still morning. Theodore and Cecil sat together in companionable silence in Cecil’s study, smoking and reflecting on the events of the previous night. Theodore liked his son-in-law very much. He was older than Mary, and seemed in his quiet, measured manner to be even older than his years, bringing him much closer in temperament to Theodore. And Theodore had heard that women often chose husbands who were like their fathers, which was an interesting proposition until he remembered that another of his daughters had married a man with a deeply unenviable character trait. He managed to dismiss that uncomfortable notion by reminding himself that all the marriages of his daughters had been, to a large extent, arranged; they had had the freedom to say no, at least in principle, but the matches had not begun in the throes of passion. Passion had been cultivated and learned over time.
The spaniel on the rug yawned and rolled over, enjoying the rest after his early morning frolics. A clock chimed the hour of eleven. The silence was broken.
“Was Beaconberg in the habit of driving in such an intoxicated state?” Theodore asked, pulling on his pipe.
Cecil nodded. “He was in the habit of doing most things rashly and half-drunk at the very least. The thing is, for him to have seemed as drunk as you describe, he must have been exceedingly far gone. He was one of those habitual drinkers who are so used to it that they have to be half-drunk merely to appear sober.”
“Poor Lady Beaconberg.”
“Oh, poor nothing,” Cecil said. “Between you and me, and don’t think me a gossip for you know that I am not, but that woman has always had her own life quite separate to her husband’s.”
“You cannot mean ...”
“Oh, indiscretions? No, I would not suggest that. There is nothing that is widely known, at any rate. It is simply that they always seemed to be two people who lived in the same house and yet only encountered one another merely to argue.”
“It was not a happy union?”
Cecil laughed. “May God forgive me for speaking ill of the dead, but his death will be a blessed relief to her ladyship. She will enjoy the attention of being in mourning but mark my words, she will perform the part f
or the shortest possible time and before we know it, wedding invitations will be flying about – not for her daughter, but for herself, and this time I am sure she won’t settle for a mere viscount. She’ll hitch herself up a few more rungs on the ladder. I would lay money on it.”
“I see.” Or at least, he thought that he did, but he made a mental note to ask Adelia about it later.
Talk then turned to other matters, and Theodore forgot all about it until he walked with Adelia after a late luncheon through the grounds that surrounded the Grey House. Though it was not a country estate by any means, the Parker-Greys enjoyed a respectable few acres of beautifully landscaped gardens which even included a rather silly folly tucked away along a flagstone path, hidden from the house by hummocks and trees and bushes and cunning hedges.
“They could employ a hermit,” Adelia said, looking at the circular tower.
“I’d happily take the post,” Theodore said. “All I’d need would be my books.”
“And what about me?” she said in mock indignation, elbowing him.
“Oh, you could come and visit, for I should need brandy to be delivered from time to time.”
She laughed, but it faded as she said, “Last night, did you notice anything strange about the people coming and going in the hall when we were all woken up?”
“Yes,” he said. “It was all strange. What do you mean?”
“I saw a maid make a signal to another person but I didn’t see who it was.”
“That could have been anything,” he said. “Although I must confess I checked all the doors last night when I came in – don’t laugh at me, I just knew I should not be able to sleep unless I did so – and found one unlocked just as before.”
“In the kitchens?”
“Yes, that area. I locked it firmly, of course. That could be linked to your signalling servant. There is mischief afoot. They will be selling food or something. What about those Romani said to be camped near here?”
“You know as well as I do that they are not likely to be involved. I shall not romanticise them as Mary does, but nor shall I scapegoat them.”
“Perhaps Mary was sleepwalking again,” Theodore said.
“Perhaps it was just the ghost. You do realise that our daughter’s nocturnal perambulations are likely to be the ghost?”
“Oh yes, though I cannot work out the hoof-prints.”
“You should examine the soles of her shoes!” Adelia teased him.
Her laughter, which always made his belly feel warm and tingly, reminded him of what Cecil had said about the distance he perceived in the marriage of Lord and Lady Beaconberg. He changed the subject and said, “I heard that you visited Lady Beaconberg this morning? How is she bearing up?”
“Ah. I was working up to mentioning this to you. She is heartbroken, of course.”
“But is she really? Or is it an act?”
Adelia stopped and stared at her husband. He frowned. “What?” he said. “I am allowed to be insightful, you know.”
“But you’re not insightful about emotions – my dearest heart, love of my life – someone else has said something. Who, and what?”
He sighed because he knew he would not win. He didn’t even try. “It was Cecil, actually. He suggested that it won’t be long before Lady Beaconberg finds herself a new husband with an even better title than a lowly viscount.”
His wife sighed. “Cecil is probably right. But you must understand that she was utterly distraught this morning. Although in truth, I think it’s because she believes there to have been foul play and the police have dismissed her ideas. That rankles with her. She has taken this rejection quite to heart. But it’s common in those who are grieving to fix upon one thing, no matter how strange it might seem to those of us on the outside.”
“Foul play? Impossible, I am afraid,” Theodore said. “It was clearly an accident.”
“I tried to say as much, but she would not hear of it. She was almost on her knees, begging for your help.”
“My help?”
“Yes, in solving the case.”
“But there is no case,” Theodore said in confusion. “I was up half the night with the police, don’t forget, so I have the facts of the case straight from those who know. Here it is: Beaconberg was far gone, too far gone in his cups to have any business driving anywhere. I know that for a fact, for I was with him myself. I left the club and engaged a cab to bring me back here. On the way, we were overtaken by Beaconberg driving his own carriage, quite alone, standing up on the front in a wild state, and he shot past us in a frenzy.”
“You yourself had been drinking,” she said.
“I had, but not to excess, and the cab driver himself will surely back my story up. And now on to the tragic event itself,” he said, a little cross that Adelia could be suggesting that he had been too drunk to have known what was going on. “He must have been continuing to travel at a breakneck speed. There is a point where the road curves around and the river lies quite far below, and the banking is steep. He overshot, and the horse and carriage broke through the fence and tumbled to his death. He was found half in and half out of the carriage window, drowned.”
“And that is Lady Beaconberg’s main concern,” Adelia said stubbornly. “Why would he have been inside the carriage if he had been driving?”
“He was only half in. He was definitely driving,” Theodore replied, feeling equally stubborn. “I saw him with my own eyes. The police feel that as the horse galloped out of control, and they went down the bank, he must have tried to jump to safety but perhaps was caught in the flying reins or hit a tree and bounced back, finding the only thing to grip was the carriage itself. The door may have swung open and he grabbed it. I do not know if he could swim but perhaps he thought he could float to safety within the carriage itself.”
Her scrunched-up face showed him that she didn’t think it remotely likely and now that he came to lay it out to her so plainly he was beginning to feel some doubt in the story himself. “It sounds like a dangerous piece of road,” she said.
“Only when a man is reckless, as poor Beaconberg was.”
“And why was he so reckless?”
“Oh, Adelia! I know you feel keenly for your friend –”
“She is not my friend.”
Theodore was briefly taken aback. The two women seemed to chat together most amiably! He rallied and continued, saying, “I know you feel keenly about this matter, but Beaconberg was in something of a fury that night, and together with the alcohol, was simply not thinking straight. It is a tragedy.”
“What was he in a fury about?”
“A business matter, I believe. Sir Arthur was also there.”
“Then don’t you think you ought to speak to Sir Arthur?”
Theodore glared at her in exasperation. “Why? I cannot possibly pry into their business dealings. Adelia, please assure Lady Beaconberg that the police have done everything they can to ascertain the truth in this matter and that with time, she will come to see the reason behind it all.”
He could see that Adelia would do no such thing. He offered her his arm and they returned to the house in silence.
AND YET IT NAGGED AT him.
Confound the pair of them, he thought angrily. The seed of doubt had been placed in his mind and he could not shake it loose.
He wandered from room to room in the Grey House, trying to imagine what it would be like to plunge down a steep bank while perched atop a runaway Brougham. I would jump clear of it, he thought to himself. I would jump at the first hint of danger, and roll, and maybe break a bone or two; but I would survive it. And a fit man like Beaconberg, be he drunk or not, would surely bounce off a tree or two but yet walk away from the accident – unless he hit his head, which he did not, because if he did, how did he then come to be half in and half out of this carriage?
The thought then struck him that perhaps Beaconberg had not been found half in and half out. A policeman had told him so, but that did not make it true. Art
istic licence and colourful additions to the story could have begun already. Perhaps he was fully out of the carriage, simply floating nearby, his head concussed from a blow with a tree or the carriage itself.
What of the horse, he found himself wondering. Didn’t someone say the horse was all right? How could that be true? Someone must be mistaken.
And what of the furious manner in which Beaconberg had been driving as he had shot past?
Sir Arthur could perhaps shed light on that, but as Theodore had told Adelia, he was somewhat loath to enquire into the personal business between the two men without a very pressing cause to do so.
It was no use. Though Theodore did not believe there had been any foul play that night, he was also unsettled by the implausible aspects in the story as had been recounted to him by the police. He had to lay those doubts to rest, and so he reluctantly returned to York, and to the club where he had spent the previous evening.
IT WAS ONLY MID-AFTERNOON and the club was quiet. Members had been and gone for their lunches, and while a few groups of men still gathered for quiet conversations, the bulk of the place was the domain of the staff until the evening bustle began anew. The doorman did not recognise him, as he had not been on duty the previous evening, and was about to turn Theodore away but he was luckily ushered in by a member just leaving, who recalled speaking to him and Lord Beaconberg, and who was happy to vouch for his admittance.
The member mentioned the death, of course. It was first on everyone’s lips. “Dashed business last night – but always likely to happen to a man like him, I should say!” the man said, tipping his hat and hurrying away. Theodore had nothing to say in reply to that. It seemed oddly callous.
Once inside, he began to accost as many of the serving staff and general servants as he was able to, hunting for anyone who might have seen Lord Beaconberg the previous night. By and large, most of the staff could not tell him anything, but were happy to talk as it gave them a few minutes of rest, and he was passed from servant to servant, all with nothing to tell him but taking up a great deal of time in which to tell it.
