“You couldn’t describe him, I suppose?” said Felix.
“Aye, I can – and I will, in case I forget it. In fact, I know who he was. It was the man the Major and I saw in Market Craven. The hook-nosed man on the ballad sheet. I think you’ve seen that, sir, haven’t you?”
“Yes, but I had no notion that he was flesh and blood. But you and the Major think he is?”
“Couldn’t be more sure of it, sir,” said Coxe, with a wince. “Especially now.”
“How can you joke about this, John?” Mrs Coxe said. “When you could have died.”
“But I didn’t, did I, sweetheart? And I shall be off until New Year, so you shall have the chance to get sick of me about the house, getting under your feet. And on full pay too!”
Mrs Coxe shook her head and managed to smile.
“Mr Harper said he’s put wires in your skull,” she said. “I think they have made you soft-headed.”
“That was the knuckle duster,” Coxe said, touching his bandaged head gently.
“I think Captain Lazenby wants to speak to you,” said Felix. “And I must go and see Miss Roper. She may be able to tell us something now about who had keys to the house. Perhaps.”
He was doubtful with good reason. When he got to her room, he found Miss Roper in a profound slumber that at once struck him as suspicious, especially when he failed to rouse her. He examined her eyes and found her pupils reduced to pinpoints; at the same time she was pale and her skin felt clammy to the touch. He propped her up on the pillows, trying to shake her into wakefulness, now extremely concerned about her limp physique and slow breathing. He called for the nurse.
“How long has she been in this state?”
“I don’t know, sir. She had a visitor, sir, that seemed to have cheered her up, and then she went to sleep.”
“Who was it?”
“Oh, I don’t know, sir, a gentleman.”
“But he didn’t give you his name?”
“No, sir, he was with her when I came back to her. I was away with Matron. She needed me in the women’s ward.”
“Can you describe him?”
She thought for a moment.
“Tall and a big nose on him. And a green coat with fur on it.”
“When was this?”
“An hour or so, I think, sir.”
Miss Roper now began to wilt in his arms. That her visitor had supplied her with more opium seemed more than likely, and that the visitor was Coxe’s attacker, seemed also to be likely. He sent a message to Captain Lazenby and Coxe to this effect, and then set about doing what he could for her, realising that they would need to purge her body of as much of the opiate as they could. Tolley came in to assist him with it, and it was a long, distressing and exhausting business, with slender odds of success.
She did revive a little, although she was naturally weak and exhausted. A great deal of strong, sweet coffee and constant attention was required to keep her conscious. At one point, seated in a chair shivering, her voice the faintest, hoarse whisper, she began to beg to be released.
“Please, please, let me alone. Can you not let me go?”
Tolley, who was sitting in front of her rubbing her hands urgently and giving her the most earnest attentions, showed that he had the making of a truly brilliant physician by telling her a long and silly tale of a poisoned dog that he had saved, and how the dog was now a mother of the finest, smartest brood of puppies ever born, the best sort of working dogs a farmer could want. This made her smile and cry at the same time, and seeing it, Felix felt he would have willingly given up both his Christmas and New Year holiday for Tolley.
They had got her into something like a reasonable state by late afternoon. They left her under the watchful gaze of one of the more senior nurses and having made sure that evidence was preserved for analysis (a grim duty which Felix would have to attend to in due course) they went to their quarters.
Felix discovered that Tolley was now off duty until Monday.
“Why don’t you come back to Hawksby and dine with us?” Felix said. “And stay the night? I can show you the slides I was talking about. And you can lie in your bed all morning, if you like.”
“Will not Mrs Carswell mind?” said Tolley.
“She won’t,” Felix said. “To be honest, I should have asked you long ago. Will you?”
“Yes, of course. Thank you.”
“You can give me a second opinion on Nigel, since you seem to have an inclination towards animal medicine.”
“He’s a dog?”
“A wild fox. My wife took him in. He has a fractured femur.”
“That sounds... interesting,” said Tolley.
“He has already bitten my man,” Felix said.
He knew he was using Tolley a little. He wished for the distraction of a guest, as he had no wish at that moment to find himself accidentally alone with Lady Blanchfort – and there was no doubt that she would be relieved for the same reason. But he was also doing him a kindness. A little holiday from the grim realities of the Infirmary would do him good.
As they were leaving the Infirmary, they spoke to Peterson, the police surgeon in the hall. Peterson, who was duty surgeon for the night, had just been in to see Coxe.
“He is making good progress. He has an iron constitution,” said Peterson. “And I will keep close watch on Miss Roper. Captain Lazenby has posted a constable on the door in case this fellow attempts to return to the Infirmary.”
“He’d have the cheek of the devil if he did,” said Felix.
“With luck they will pick him up before too long. Captain Lazenby has put a good number of men on it,” said Peterson.
“I don’t know if he’ll be that easy to find,” said Felix. “But we are due for a turn of luck in this case.”
“I would have thought,” Tolley said, when they were in the carriage, “that luck ought to have nothing to do with it. Surely the results come through the elimination of all possibilities.”
“In an ideal world. But there are never enough constables to search every alley and attic, and criminals, being human, are as unpredictable as they are predictable.” He laughed. “I think I must be quoting Major Vernon. That’s exactly the sort of thing he would say.”
“Do you know when he will be back from London?”
“No, but soon, I hope. If anyone can track our hook-nosed man down, it is he.”
Having found quarters for Tolley, and entrusted him to Jacob’s care, Felix went to find Eleanor.
She was asleep on the bed in her dressing-gown, curled up under a quilt. She had a play script in her hand.
“What time is it?” she said, as he gently woke her.
“After seven. Dinner time.” He picked up the play script. “What part did you get?”
“Margaret, a highland maid. I have to die on stage. I sacrifice myself so that Mr Truro can marry Miss Fleming, and then die of a broken heart.”
“Heavens,” said Felix, flipping through the script, which was entitled, ‘Maid Margaret – a romance of the Highlands.’ “You have so many lines.”
“I know,” she said. “And I think Miss Fleming is put out. This is her usual part – that is even her copy. They have done it before. I don’t know how I shall remember all of it. I was never any good at getting by heart.”
“I will help you,” said Felix.
“You will?”
“Of course,” said Felix.
She knelt up on the bed and wrapped her arms about him, demanding to be kissed. He obliged.
“Do we have to go down to dinner?” she said.
“I’m starving and I’ve brought Sam Tolley back with me, and he is too. He will give you a second opinion on Nigel.”
“Tolley?”
“I’ve told you about him, surely? He is one of the dressers at the Infirmary, and an excellent fellow.”
“But you will not sit up drinking late with him?” she said, stroking his cheek.
“I promise,” he said, and kissed her agai
n, reminding himself of all his resolutions of the previous evening. How difficult could it be with such a bewitching creature?
“I am looking forward to seeing you die on stage,” he said. “You will have to wear your plaid.”
“Oh, I shall,” she said. “And you must teach me how to do that lilting accent – like old Miss Jeanie at Pitfeldry. That is the true Highland accent, is it not?”
“Yes, but you would be better with my mother. She can do it perfectly.”
“Then perhaps we should send for them – for Christmas.”
“They would never come away at such short notice, not in the winter, certainly. They might be persuaded next summer, if my father can find a man he trusts enough to take over his duties.”
She nodded and said, “Perhaps by next summer there will be a good reason for them to be here. If we are industrious, that is. Yes?”
They had certainly been industrious the previous night, Felix thought, as he went to dress, trying fiercely not to be unnerved by the implications of her remark. He had made his resolution and he must stick by it, strange and foolish dreams notwithstanding. But the more he tried to persuade himself, the less convinced he felt. He found himself instead gazing at the looking glass and seeing Lady Blanchfort in his mind’s eye, as if she were a ghost in his dressing room.
He went downstairs and found the lady in question sitting in the library with Tolley.
He wondered if she would revert to that frosty hauteur of their early acquaintance. In fact, he rather hoped she would, and possibly even reproach him for bringing back an inconvenient guest. He would have liked at that moment to have found her annoying and difficult.
But she smiled at the sight of him, and he knew then that she was suffering from the same affliction as himself. They were drawn to one another by those mysterious processes of attraction that in humankind led to either heavenly happiness or hellish depravity. It was as simple and wretched as that, and there was nothing that they could do about it. It could not be extinguished, only suppressed; and like a rebel force put down with sufficient brutality by the legitimate powers, there would always remain the dream of liberation.
Chapter Twenty
There was a dowager living at Lord Mayhew’s house in Hill Street, but it was not his mother. The widow of a baronet with several children at her feet, she was startled to have such visitors on a Sunday morning. She was anxious to point out that she knew nothing of her landlord, that the business of the house rental was all in the hands of her brother – Mr Clairmont, a barrister who lived in Russell Square and managed her affairs.
“I have never laid eyes on Lord Mayhew,” she said. “I suppose he does not like to see strangers in his house so has not called. Perhaps it is just as well, for I would have pointed out the faults in the property to him.”
“Is Mr Clairmont in town at present?” Giles asked.
“No, he is away on the Western Circuit,” she said. “But I have his address, if it is of use to you.”
They thanked her, took their leave and then drove east and north, to where Emma’s cousin, Mr Stephen Calthorpe, lived in Canonbury Square.
The square was wreathed in Sunday quietness, and a light frost gave the greenery of the gardens an elegant decoration. They sent in their cards and waited in the carriage to see if Mr Calthorpe would admit them.
“These new squares are not so bad, all in all,” said Rothborough, looking about him. “Though not so new, now. It must be over twenty years since these went up. Oh, for a market garden hereabouts – one could make a fortune!”
“London eats everything in her path,” Giles said. “If I had a market garden here, I should keep it as a market garden.”
“There is some sense in that,” said Rothborough. “You would have plenty of customers.”
“I think it is sentiment rather than sense,” said Giles. “I like to see the country in a city still. That is what I like about Northminster. The countryside there does not feel like a distant cousin whom one has never met, but a near neighbour.”
Mr Calthorpe would see them, and they were shown into a small back parlour, where Mr Calthorpe, extremely stout but magnificent in a brown damask dressing-gown, staggered up from his chair with the aid of two sticks and his servant so that he could greet them.
“Major Vernon, at last! Little Emma’s husband! By all that is marvellous!” he said, shaking Giles’ hand with great enthusiasm. “Good to know you, sir, very good, though I fear I know exactly why you have come today.” He gave a sigh. “And my Lord Rothborough! An honour, a great honour for this house! Please, come sit, gentlemen. Sherry, Eliza!” he said to the servant, who looked as old as he did.
“Which sherry, sir?” she said, going to the cupboard and unlocking it.
“The best, my girl, of course!” said Mr Calthorpe. “And some of those little almond cakes.”
“You aren’t allowed those, sir,” said Eliza. “Dr Hopewell said. Nor the sherry, by rights.”
“For our guests, Eliza! And I promise I will not take any cake,” he said as the wine and the cakes were set out on the table. She left, looking dubious. “She has a notion that sherry is bad for my soul and my body. She listens to too many sermons. I should not let her go roaming about listening to fashionable preachers, but make her go with me to St Saviours, where I know the parson can be relied upon to speak only for ten minutes and on a sensible subject.”
“He sounds excellent, sir,” said Lord Rothborough. “Anything more than twelve minutes for a sermon is not to be endured.”
“Quite, my lord, quite,” said Mr Calthorpe, pouring the sherry. He took up his glass and sipped it with some satisfaction, and gazed at Major Vernon for a few moments before saying, “I knew I should hear from you sooner or later, sir. It is about that hussy, is it not?”
“Mrs Gordon?” said Giles.
“A hussy,” said Mr Calthorpe. “I dislike that word and would not use it lightly of any woman, but she –” He broke off, shaking his head. “Dear me. And she threw herself on your mercy, I have no doubt, yes? And said shocking things about me. That I was a miser, yes?”
“She was not polite, certainly, sir,” Giles said.
“So what has she done now?” said Mr Calthorpe.
“She left my house two nights ago but without the children. I think she has come back to London in the company of Lord Mayhew. Do you have any knowledge of this gentleman?”
Mr Calthorpe groaned and drank down the rest of this sherry.
“Oh yes, I know his Lordship, coxcomb that he is! His late father used to come to me for business advice, much good that it did him – for he was a noodle with a taste for gambling, the fool – and he left his affairs in shocking order. I felt a sort of obligation to the family, at least to the widow and the girls. I made some investment suggestions for her, and his young Lordship took that as an excuse to attempt to dun me for cash. I was foolish enough to make him a gift of some small amount in memory of his father, but he read me all wrong, and would come here, begging. And that of course is how he met Mrs Gordon. Here, under my roof!” He reached for the sherry and poured another glass. “What a business. And of course, when she left, she – well, there is no delicate way to put this – took what she could. Fortunately I keep my valuables well secured so there was no real damage done. But she did take a pair of good quality pillowcases.” He shook his head.
On any other occasion Giles might have smiled at that and relished the story, knowing how it would make Emma laugh, but today he could only feel an uncomfortable mixture of pity and annoyance.
“So, she has gone again, but left the children with you?” Mr Calthorpe said.
“That seems the only creditable thing she has done,” Rothborough said.
“They are a large responsibility, though,” said Mr Calthorpe. “And expensive. And that youngest one I do not think should be charged to Captain Gordon.”
“Sandro,” said Giles, thinking of the pleasant half-hour he had passed with the child, teachi
ng him to make animal sounds with the aid of an old picture book. He realised then that he would happily take charge of him and his siblings, no matter the expense nor the difficulty. Mrs Gordon had stolen the wrong things. The sauce boat, the diamond crescent, the money, the pillowcases indeed – what did they matter? The real treasures were those children.
“Ah yes, Captain Gordon,” said Lord Rothborough. “What do we know of him?”
“Very little,” said Giles. “I suppose you had some correspondence with him, sir, when the plan was first made for her to come here?”
“Yes,” said Mr Calthorpe. “They were respectful letters, though, and she was painted as quiet and virtuous and anxious to do her best for the children. I decided it was my duty to help them. After all, I have no children of my own, and now Emma’s boy has fallen on his feet – title and all – well, he does not need me so much. He is doing well at Oxford, I understand?” Giles nodded. “I thought I could at least do something for the children, pay for their schooling and so forth. I had a thought the eldest one would like to go into the City – I have a good many friends there still – but all he would talk of was soldiering. I suppose at that age it would seem a dull prospect.”
“You said Lord Mayhew came here quite frequently?” Giles said. “Do you know where he was living? He has let his house in Hill Street, that much we know.”
“I think I have a note from him somewhere with the address on it,” said Calthorpe. “I will get Eliza to find it for you.”
When the servant had been sent on her errand, Mr Calthorpe said, “I think you are right, my lord, those children are fortunate to be with my cousin and Major Vernon. But, sir,” he added, turning to Giles, “I am a man of my word. I promised Captain Gordon that I would pay for their education, and I will stand by that. You must send me all the details and I will make the necessary disbursements. Within reason, of course! Eton, perhaps not,” he added with a chuckle. “But then again, it is a fine school!”
“I am sure Mrs Gordon would be delighted,” Giles said.
“She will have to give them up entirely, of course,” Calthorpe went on. “If she has made herself Mayhew’s mistress, then she is not fit to have charge of them. I will pay for their education if they remain with you and Emma, Major Vernon.”
The Fatal Engine Page 18
