“So you are going into Northminster?” she said.
“Yes – do you have any commissions for me?”
“Not this morning,” she said.
“Are you going to the rehearsal?” he asked.
“I have no wish to, but I think I had better,” she said. Then she came a little closer and added quietly, “I was most surprised when he mentioned Hal Blanchfort. Did Eleanor say anything about it?”
“No.”
“I hope it does not come up again. Perhaps I should ask him not to mention him to her.”
“I should not, if I were you,” said Felix. “That would only be bait to a man like that. He is the sort to ask questions.”
“You are right,” she said. “It was as if he knew. That was what I found so disconcerting. To ask me, if I remembered his liking theatricals! Has he heard something, do you suppose? Is it possible?”
“No, I think he simply assumed you would know having been his sister-in-law. There cannot be anything else to it.”
“I hope you are right,” she said. “Hal was as well known for his love of acting as Lord Rothborough. It is my guilty heart always fearing discovery.” She closed her eyes. “Forgive me.” He was not sure if she was addressing God or him in that moment. Then she went on, “I should not have burdened you with this. It was thoughtless of me.”
“No, I am honoured that you did,” he said. The word was perhaps stronger than was wise, but it had moved him that she had confided in him.
She gazed at him and he saw her struggling to repress her emotions. She moved her hand towards him briefly, and then pulled it away sharply before turning away and leaving the hall.
Chapter Eighteen
“Lord Mayhew?” Emma said. “She never mentioned anyone of that name.”
“Is there even such a title?” Lord Rothborough said. “I have never heard of it. A barony, I suppose.”
“If it exists,” said Giles. “I don’t have the Peerage to hand.”
“I have one at my house,” said Lord Rothborough.
He had arrived back to find two welcome friends sitting with Emma. Lord Rothborough had come to deliver Lady Maria for her visit, Lady Maria having decided last night that she would come at once to Emma’s aid.
“And it is just as well I did,” she said to Giles. “Present or absent, Mrs Gordon seems intent on causing trouble to everyone!”
“I don’t suppose she sees it that way,” said Giles. “I think she is driven entirely by her own needs. There is something pitiful about it.”
“My husband is always so sympathetic to miscreants,” said Emma.
“It is the only way to get inside their heads,” said Giles.
“So what will you do now?” said Lord Rothborough.
“That’s an interesting question,” said Giles.
“She must be fetched back, surely?” said Emma. “She cannot be allowed to abandon her children.”
“Or at least she must pay for their maintenance,” said Lord Rothborough, “for it may not be obvious to you, Mrs Vernon, but it will certainly be better for them to be safely lodged here than live some rackety existence with her. If this Mayhew has elected to be her protector, then he may be prevailed on to assist her in her duty.”
“In cash rather than in kind?” Emma said. “Oh, I suppose so, but what if we had not wanted the responsibility? We have not been consulted in the matter.”
“Not overtly,” said Giles. “But I think she saw that we would not abandon them. She has, in her own peculiar way, made provision for them. Perhaps when she was at your cousin’s house, she had planned to leave them there and go and live with this Mayhew, but she realised that he would not be willing to accept responsibility for them –”
“Whereas we are the softest touches in the world, it seems!” Emma said.
“Yes, but you cannot say you do not care for them,” Giles said.
“Yes, yes, they are charming creatures and I love them already – I cannot help myself in that! But it is so much work and disruption, not to mention expense!”
“Then I will go to London and see if I can find her. One way or another, she must be made to face her responsibilities.”
“I am going up on the noon train,” said Lord Rothborough. “We can travel together. And the Peerage may yield a little useful information about Lord Mayhew.”
“I may even get my sauce boat back!” said Emma.
“I shall do my best,” said Giles.
Lord Rothborough’s copy of the Peerage revealed that Lord Mayhew was the Baron Mayhew of Cannock in Staffordshire.
“Ancient, obscure and perfectly respectable,” remarked Lord Rothborough.
“And the present lord appears to be unmarried and aged twenty-six,” said Giles.
“I wonder if he has a residence in town,” said Rothborough, handing Giles an up-to-date London Post Office directory.
“Probably inhabited by the dowager and six unmarried sisters,” said Giles. “Yes, my lord, he does. Hill Street.”
“You have somewhere to start, then,” said Rothborough. “Although it is not likely that you will find her there. Mistresses are generally kept in more discreet quarters.”
“I wonder how they met,” said Giles, having made a note of the address.
They set off to catch the London train. As a travelling companion, Lord Rothborough could not much be improved upon. As a director of the railway he had a specially-fitted-out first class carriage at his disposal, and each time the train stopped at a station, James Bodley would appear at the door to ask if anything was required. The luncheon basket was luxurious, the newspapers plentiful and the conversation stimulating. Rothborough also had various blue books and research papers to hand, and Giles was able to use the time to improve his own knowledge of various bills that were going before the House. After a brief debate with Rothborough over the content of one of these – the gist of which Giles felt to be foolish and therefore unenforceable, an opinion which he expressed with more warmth that he might have done in other circumstances – his Lordship remarked, “Parliament still doesn’t appeal to you? There is a vacancy at Broxhampton – a nice safe seat, you know. They would be glad to have you.”
“No, no,” said Giles. “You know my opinions about that.”
“Yes, but hearing you talk like this, it pains me to think what the country may be losing.”
“It is losing nothing. A miserable fool who dislikes London would be no asset.”
“Perhaps I should speak to Mrs Vernon,” Rothborough said with a smile.
“Ah, that’s quite unfair, my lord,” Giles said. “But I do not mind if you do. She entirely understands my perversity, and she herself would prefer I remain a gentleman rat-catcher.”
“Is that how she describes you?” Rothborough said, laughing. “Dear me! But how delightful.”
“Speaking of Mrs Vernon,” said Giles, “there is a matter I meant to ask you about. The diamond crescent you were so kind as to give her on our wedding – it is by far the most valuable jewel she has –”
“And it was in the box with her others, for Mrs Gordon to remove?” said Rothborough.
“Unfortunately yes. I think she did not like to mention it for fear you would have thought her careless with it, which is not at all the case. Naturally I hope I can recover it, if I can find Mrs Gordon before she decides to sell it. However, it struck me that it would be a good item to dispose of in haste. There would be no difficulty in her doing so. Is it marked at all?”
“Yes, it will be. It is from Garrards. Maria picked it out. I had in mind a pair of wheat sheaves with pearls, but Maria said they were de trop, which I still don’t quite understand. But she said a diamond crescent would be far more to Mrs Vernon’s taste, and how could I argue with that? It was a pretty thing, certainly. And you want to know how much it cost, I suppose?”
“It would be useful, in the circumstances, yes.”
“A hundred and twenty guineas,” said Rothborough.
&nb
sp; “Thank you,” Giles said, a little astonished at the sum. It was all too easy to imagine Mrs Gordon brazenly trading the diamond crescent for cash, perhaps telling some tale of woe to get herself a better deal. “Dear God, we have been easy pickings for her! Her son told me that there had been a quarrel in India with the Colonel and his wife about a missing necklace. This woman has wrought havoc across several continents.”
“So, have you settled on a scheme to find her?”
“After I have been to Hill Street, and assuming that yields nothing, I will go and see Mrs Vernon’s cousin. They stayed there before they came to us, and he may be able to give me some more information.”
“And you will lodge with me, I hope?”
“Thank you, my lord, it would be an honour.”
“Bodley will look after you as well as Holt. We must make you like London at least a little. And I will come with you, if I may? I might be of some use to you.”
“Certainly you would be,” said Giles. “Thank you.”
“It is no trouble. I have no appointments tomorrow, except one.” He hesitated. “I have some delicate business of my own to deal with.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Giles said.
Lord Rothborough glanced away for a moment.
“I should send you as my advocate,” he said. “The person in question has a high opinion of you. She has told me so herself. But you might not agree to plead my cause.”
“Are we speaking of President Martinez’s widow?” Giles said.
Rothborough nodded.
“I am extremely worried about her. She will take nothing from me. She accepts my letters and that is it. I only want to help her, to make her comfortable, in the most discreet way possible, with no compromise to her honour or her reputation. I do not want that from her. Or rather, to be frank, I would like nothing better, but I am not such a fool to think that is appropriate now! She has been ill – she has made light of it; I am concerned there is more to it. I only want her to see a good physician, but she will not allow me to send anyone to her.”
“But she will see you?” Giles asked.
“I am permitted an hour tomorrow,” he said. “She lives like a contemplative nun. I’m surprised I do not have to speak to her through a grille. And she threatens me with that sometimes, that she will go into a convent, and that will surely kill her! Perhaps that is what she wants, a slow immolation! She cannot forgive herself her sins. I thought that was the whole purpose of being a Roman, that you told the priest your sins, he absolved you and that was that. But it seems not.”
“I will see her if she wishes,” said Giles, “but I doubt she will want to see me. I think she might take the idea badly.”
“Why?”
Giles hesitated, trying to find the correct form of words.
“That summer, at Stanegate,” he said, “there was a matter between us which she may consider gives me the upper hand over her.”
Lord Rothborough gazed at him.
“Truly?”
“I cannot go into details – I gave her my word,” Giles said.
“I had no idea,” said Lord Rothborough, “and yet, now I think of it, the way she has spoken of you does suggest that you did her some great service.”
“It would not be fair to take advantage of that,” said Giles. “But if she is not well, her friends ought to do what they can. If she will see me, then –”
“I will see what she says. Perhaps you are exactly the man to make her see reason – not that she is, in essence, unreasonable, but her circumstances seem to have wrapped her up in this wretched state and I can no longer reach her.” He sighed. “If only my situation were different: if I were a free man, then I would not hesitate to make her my wife – if she’d have me, that is! That is by no means certain.”
Chapter Nineteen
Felix was struggling to complete his dissection of the late Mr Edwardes’ leg. There was nothing complicated about the task, and in fact it had yielded some excellent results. He recovered more fibres, some of which were worsted, and others that were definitely red flannel. He also found some fragments of rusted iron, which might also be matched to the nail in the yard at Oil Mill Lane.
Usually this sort of detailed, painstaking work was exactly what he required to force himself into a calm and rational state of mind, but on this occasion he was failing. He had sent a message up to Major Vernon, only to discover he had gone to London unexpectedly. He was left alone with his unpleasant thoughts.
His only comfort, and it was slight, was that he had not actually kissed her, but the desire to do so – and more – strongly persisted, and that was a torment. He wished to know her in the deepest sense, to have her in his arms and hear her confess all the secrets of her heart. He wanted to soothe her tears and make her happy.
He stood in his laboratory, his scalpel in his hand, wondering if such feelings made him guilty of adultery, if desire alone, without action, was the greater part of that particular crime. He was extremely glad to be interrupted by Inspector Coxe.
“Major Vernon told me to come and see you, sir,” he said. “Regarding the late Mr Edwardes.”
“Did he mention why he had gone to London?” said Felix.
“His note said it was a family matter,” Coxe said.
“It must be a serious business for him to go to London,” Felix said, “for he detests the place.”
“Aye, sir, he has said that to me,” said Coxe. He was peering at the dissected leg. “Is this –?”
“Yes, the late Mr Edwardes,” said Carswell. “Let me show you what I have found.”
It was a great relief to have to turn to business. Coxe was a quick learner and asked a great many intelligent questions. The result of the conversation was that they decided they would go down to Oil Mill Lane and see if they could find anything else that might prove Edwardes’ presence there.
The day had not warmed up, and a nasty damp wind, full of sleet, turbulent and vindictive, surrounded them as they walked down to Oil Mill Lane. Felix felt miserable and chastened by it, longing for warm oblivion, perhaps from whisky or uncomplicated conjugal relations, if such a thing could exist.
“Are you married, Inspector? I think Major Vernon said you were,” said Felix, as they made their way through the maze of debris in the yard.
“Yes, indeed, sir. Four years come Christmas,” said Coxe. “And this is the kind of weather makes you glad of it. Watch yourself there, sir –”
“Thank you!” said Felix, narrowly avoiding a sharp-edged obstacle. He had a momentary vision of himself, like Mr Edwardes, with an untreated wound, not caring about the approach of death, indeed welcoming it because the secret he carried was so unspeakable. He stopped for a moment, looking up at the house and feeling more certain now that Edwardes, the blithe and flashy tailor, had been there.
“There we are, sir,” said Coxe, pointing to the protruding nail, with a tape tied to it.
“Do you think this whole thing would collapse if we tried to pull out the plank?” Felix said.
“I think it might, sir.”
“I shall just have to see what I can get from this in situ, then,” he said crouching down with his hand lens. The sleet was now thick, making the light inadequate. However, Coxe found some canvas and arranged it over the piles of timber and packing cases to make a shelter, and produced a pocket lantern to give Felix some light.
“Thank you, Inspector,” said Felix, impressed. In these improved conditions he managed to scrape some of the surface of the nail for rust and collect more threads.
“So he’s leaving in a hurry,” said Felix, trying to picture the situation in which Edwardes might have found himself. “Perhaps he trips slightly, and falls onto the nail, like so, and then, struggling to get free, it drags through the flesh, leaving a long incised wound.”
“What I don’t understand about this, and forgive me, sir, if I’m being ignorant,” said Coxe. “Why is it just his underdrawers getting caught on the nail? Where is the
stuff from his trousers?”
“I found some worsted this morning, so that must be it,” said Felix, looking down at what he had harvested for more signs of black wool.
Coxe stiffened suddenly.
“Did you hear that, sir?” he said. “There’s somebody in the house.”
“What? Are you sure? I could swear you locked the door.”
“I did,” he said. “I’d better go see, just in case.”
“Perhaps it is Miss Amy,” said Felix, “having a tryst.”
“That’d be too handy,” said Coxe and made his way back across the yard.
Felix wrapped up his samples carefully and put away his tools, and grimacing at the sleet, followed him a few minutes later from the haven of the makeshift shelter back through the tortuous path into the workshop.
He reached the threshold and knew at once that something was terribly amiss. There was a loud bang that sounded like the front door had been slammed shut. He hurried through the kitchen into the back hall and saw Coxe lying on the floor by the door to the staircase, writhing and struggling to right himself.
~
“Mr Harper and I consider that it may have been a knuckle duster that did the damage,” said Felix.
Inspector Coxe was now lying on a bed in the Infirmary, attended by his wife. He had received two severe blows to the back of his head from the intruder, which had caused deep contusions and some fracturing to the skull. He had passed into unconsciousness for some time, which was to be expected, but Mr Harper, having a special interest in cranial cases, had taken charge on their arrival at the Infirmary and had done his usual swift, meticulous work. Coxe was now alert, if in a weakened state.
“I did wonder if that were it,” Coxe said, “before I went out like a light. And if you’d not been there, sir, I’d have died most like.”
“Don’t say that, John,” said Mrs Coxe. “Please –”
“I felt him crack me twice,” Coxe said. “He meant to do for me.” Mrs Coxe grimaced and her husband reached out and caressed her cheek. “But he didn’t, and that’s that.”
“Thank God,” murmured Mrs Coxe.
The Fatal Engine Page 17
