With which he collapsed once more into his chair, to all appearances a broken man. Deeply appreciative, despite the required solemnity of the occasion, George had the greatest difficulty holding back a laugh.
He was once more attempting to leave the room when Cecile, jumping up from her place, called out in urgent tones.
“Monsieur le colonel!”
George turned on the instant. She thrust her way through the intervening bodies to stand before him, her reddened eyes and blotched countenance nevertheless determined. Without will, George gentled his tone.
“Mademoiselle?”
“You have not said. How did she die, Dulcie?”
George hesitated, once again the cynosure of all eyes, question and apprehension rife amongst them. Ought he to say it? There was no reason to withhold the awful truth, yet he was loath to burden this girl with the worst of the event.
“Colonel?”
Mrs Ferdinand was standing in the doorway, regarding him. George braced, keeping his gaze impartially passing across all.
“Dulcibella Ash was found in a cemetery just outside the town. She was placed in a freshly dug up coffin, from which the remains of another had been evicted. She had been stabbed to death. The coffin was left open with candles burning around it.”
The inevitable astonished silence was this time broken by Lewis Payne.
“Good God! No wonder you think it was one of us!”
Cecile uttered a cry and pushed past George without ceremony. He watched her vanish down the corridor, cast a glance back at the rest of the players, apparently petrified, and went out, closing the door behind him.
A murmur of voices broke out at once within the room, but Mrs Ferdinand, awaiting him with a patience he could only admire, gave a wan smile.
“I am sorry we forced you to that. Quite horrible.”
“And highly theatrical, ma’am.”
She sighed. “Too true. They will be speculating all day.”
“One can scarcely blame them when all is said, Mrs Ferdinand. It is quite normal.”
A faint laugh came from the lady. “I’m afraid it is nigh impossible to obtain any sort of normality from a company of players, colonel. Trying is the bane of my existence, I assure you. Shall we repair to the morning room?”
George followed her across the hall to the second higgledy-piggledy parlour he had entered earlier, reflecting that where the formidable dame failed, he was unlikely to succeed. Remembering his thought of writing to his friend Fan, he determined to lose no time in so doing once he was able to escape from this house of near lunacy. Although, he belatedly recalled, had not Fan’s wife been recently brought to bed? In which case, there was scant hope of persuading Fan to bring her to Weymouth.
Well, if he must manage on his own, he must. He might at least glean from Mrs Ferdinand a more comprehensive picture of the individuals with whom he had to deal. If he recalled correctly, Ottilia had spent her time in discovery of this kind. He might do well to emulate her tactics.
Having read his friend’s letter for the second time, Francis refolded it and slotted it into one of the convenient alcoves in his bureau. Closing the lid, he remained seated, staring at the inlaid pattern in the wood without seeing it, his thoughts as disturbed as ever they had been.
Truth to tell, he was torn. Extraordinary — and typical, if Tillie had been her normal self! — that this request came hard on the heels of his discussion with Lister. He had shelved the whole matter, hoping for advice first, but as yet no letter had arrived from the Dowager Lady Polbrook. Weymouth was within reasonable reach. Tillie might undertake the journey without ill effect. But a murder? And a particularly gruesome one, by George’s account.
Was it wise to subject her to the trials and tribulations of another investigation? Or could it be just the thing to draw her out?
Upon the last occasion he had sworn, not for the first time, never to allow Tillie to involve herself in another such ghastly affair. Yet there was no denying the bizarre nature of the one his friend described, coupled with the equally bizarre dramatis personae, was precisely calculated to pique the insatiable curiosity that characterised his beloved Ottilia. Under normal circumstances. Dared he hope this promising avenue might pierce the abstraction that had enwrapped her since the fateful miscarriage of the birth?
She’d wept little, which confused Francis. Tears he could have dealt with. This dull acquiescence was so unlike his Tillie, it was anathema. Oh, she made pretence of being affectionate, but her smiles were perfunctory and there was no trace of love in her dulled eyes, usually so clear and true.
And nothing interested her. Nothing! Mistress of his home she might be, but she had left all to Mrs Bertram in the last difficult weeks of her pregnancy and showed little disposition to take up the reins again, beyond agreeing to the menus and otherwise telling Mrs Bertram to do as she saw fit, as his worried housekeeper reported. When he drove her out to take the air, she came with a show of willingness. She even looked when he pointed out views and agreed they were fine. He recalled drawing her attention to some wildflowers of which he knew she was fond.
“Very colourful,” Tillie had said, in a tone particularly colourless.
Francis felt inescapably aggrieved, though he tried not to show it. He knew not what to do, or whether to take this step, his indecision compounded by guilt at the dreadful necessity forced upon him to choose between his wife and his unknown son.
He had not hesitated, despite his brother-in-law’s doubts. Patrick Hathaway, whom he had called in the moment Doctor Lister had expressed fears of a complicated birth, had put him on the spot at a crucial moment.
“There is no guarantee we can save both, Fan, and Lister agrees. If we are to preserve my sister, we have no choice but to use forceps to extract the infant.”
Aghast, Francis stared at him. “Is that dangerous?”
“Extremely so for the child, especially as we are not sure just what is preventing its exit.”
“Is there an alternative?”
“To let the birth go ahead naturally, but the blood loss will be hazardous for Ottilia. She might not survive it.”
Stark terror blinded Francis to everything but his wife’s danger.
“Then there’s no choice, Patrick. You’ll save my Tillie at any cost.”
His brother-in-law laid a hand on his shoulder, gripping it, and giving him a look that pierced Francis to the heart. “What if Ottilia does not agree with you?”
Francis flung off his brother-in-law’s hand. “Do it! I allow my wife a deal of licence, as you well know. But not when it comes to her life. I won’t take that risk.”
The ensuing nightmare had wracked him, but he’d had room only for overwhelming relief when Tillie came through at the expense of their first born. Francis felt a pang when Patrick told him the baby had been a boy, but he could not pretend to anything more. It was not as if infant mortality was uncommon. Patrick, in an unnecessary bid to console him, had said he lost more infants at birth or within a few days or weeks than he could boast of saving.
“There is every hope Ottilia may have better luck next time, though I would advise caution for some weeks. She must be allowed to heal.”
Fearful of putting Tillie through this again, Francis was more than careful. He dared not go beyond a gentle caress, which only added to the growing distance between them. He felt it acutely and had no notion how to bridge the gap.
The sound of wheels rolling on gravel brought his mind back and his eyes focused on the coach rumbling down the drive. As it turned into the sweep towards the entrance, he saw the crest on the panel. His heart lifted. His mother had answered the call in person.
Walking quickly across to the door, he left his study and traversed the corridor swiftly to the galleried entrance hall, running down the stairs just as Rodmell sailed out from the nether regions, accompanied by both footmen.
“I apprehend it is the dowager marchioness who has arrived, my lord,” said the butler, procee
ding in a stately fashion to the front door.
“Yes, and thank the Lord for it!”
Francis beat him to the post, wrenching open the aged arched door and flinging it wide. He crossed the flagged porch and waited only for the carriage to come to a standstill before rushing up to seize the coach door and drag it open. The dowager’s features burst upon him in a flood of intense relief.
“You came yourself! Oh, I am beyond thankful to see you, Mama!”
Listless, Ottilia gazed out at the distant hills, counting the peaks created by the treetops. It was as good an occupation as any and Patrick had told her to engage only in restful things. This dictum afforded a convenient excuse to avoid re-entering an existence that felt futile and wearisome. If only Francis would let her alone. Or stop treating her as if she were a china doll he was fearful of breaking.
Truth to tell, all she wanted to do was to lie here in the haven of her parlour and never move again. She did not wish to engage in the petty day-to-day alarums that must drag her out of her comfortable cocoon. She had neither energy nor inclination for anything and it only served to put her on the fidgets when Fan would keep trying to rouse her.
The sound of the door opening made her hackles rise. Not again, please God!
Turning her head, Ottilia beheld not her husband as she expected, but her mother-in-law standing in the aperture, regarding her.
“Sybilla!”
“In person, my dear Ottilia.”
The dowager moved into the room and closed the door. In bewilderment Ottilia eyed the elderly creature with features so like her son’s strong-boned countenance, but with brows more delicate and grey dappling her hair.
“How do you come to be here? I had no notion you were planning a visit.”
Sybilla’s black eyes raked her in a critical fashion as she came to stand by the daybed. “No more had I, my child. Francis sent to me.”
Quick wrath swept into Ottilia’s breast. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!”
A wry smile crossed the dowager’s lips. “Yes, I suspected you might not be best pleased.”
Ottilia suppressed the discomfiting emotion. “Pardon me, Sybilla. Of course I am very glad to see you.”
“Liar! But you will be in due time.”
Hardly aware how she sighed, Ottilia made to shift her legs to the floor. “I’ll ring for refreshments.”
The dowager put out a staying hand. “Stay where you are. I’ve already had tea with Francis.”
Which no doubt meant her megrims had been under discussion. With mixed feelings, Ottilia settled back and watched Sybilla pull forward the chair standing near the wall that Francis invariably used when he sat with her, which seemed to happen less and less. A pang smote her and her throat became taut. She fought the threatening tears. She was not going to turn into a watering pot. Nothing was more tedious for a husband than a wife who was forever falling into melancholy.
Sybilla set the chair close beside her and sat down, reaching to pick up Ottilia’s flaccid hand. “Now, my precious girl, tell me everything.”
It was a moment before Ottilia was able to speak at all as a wave of misery engulfed her. She struggled to suppress it. She did not want to feel.
“There is naught to tell, Sybilla,” she managed, aware her voice was husky. “It is only Fan fussing as usual. I’m perfectly all right.”
The hand holding hers squeezed tight for a moment. “Come, my dear, you know that is untrue. One glance was enough to tell me you are not yourself, even had Francis not written as much to me.”
Ottilia was obliged to suppress an impulse to snatch her hand away, but she could not keep the irritation from her voice. “I wish he would let me alone!”
“He’s anxious about you, Ottilia, and no wonder. This is not like you, my dear.”
“What is not like me? Merely because I prefer to be quiet for a while is no reason for him to rally the troops. As if the whole household was not already in a plot to force me into doing things I don’t want to do.”
“Exactly so, my dear child. You need look no further for a reason. You are in general so engaged and interested, you can scarcely blame them.”
Ottilia let out an exasperated sigh. “Well, I do!”
“You blame Francis.”
The accusation hit home and Ottilia felt the inevitable guilt well up. “I know he only does it because he cares for me, but why can’t he see —?”
“Because he cares for you, my dear. He is blinded by his affection.” Sybilla gave the hand she held another squeeze. “I believe it has been so with him from the first. You are all the world to him, you know.”
“As is he to me.” This time she could not prevent the seep of tears and the husk in her voice became pronounced. “That makes it so hard. I try not to be a burden, to deserve his goodness. He is endlessly indulgent and I’m a wretch to treat him so badly.”
To her dismay, and indeed irritation, Sybilla fell into laughter at this, releasing the hand she was holding.
“I fail to see what you find amusing.”
“Yes, I can see you do, my child. Never mind. When you have been married a few more years, I dare say you will understand.”
“I thank you. I look forward to it.”
Her sarcasm only made the dowager laugh harder. Ottilia waited in silence for her mirth to abate. All desire to weep had left her, though she was aware how tumultuous and unpredictable were her emotions at this present.
“You’ve not been two years married, Ottilia,” said Sybilla at last. “You have much to learn of the state. An episode such as this is bound to provoke a deal of dissension.”
The episode leapt from the back of Ottilia’s mind where she had banished it, to the fore. Her stomach tightened, but she was given no opportunity to indulge remembrance.
“Let me tell you what we have decided.”
“You have decided?”
The black eyes snapped. “Don’t dare to object. You are in no case to be making decisions.”
“I’ve no wish to make any,” Ottilia snapped back.
Sybilla disregarded this. “Your Doctor Lister suggested a sojourn at the coast and the plan is —”
“What, he means to drag me out —”
“— to take you to Weymouth for a few weeks.”
“Weymouth? A seaside resort?”
“Sea air is bound to revive you, and you may take ambling walks until you recover a little of your usual energy.”
The very thought of ambling walks made Ottilia feel perfectly filleted. “I don’t want to go.”
“Didn’t you express a desire to treat your husband more amiably?”
“I didn’t say —”
“Or at least to refrain from behaving like a thwarted child?”
“Sybilla! I never said any such —”
“You will go to Weymouth like a dutiful wife and spare the poor boy from going out of his mind with worry.”
Recognising the implacable note in her formidable mother-in-law’s voice, Ottilia knew she was defeated. She eyed Sybilla, aware of a faint resurgence of the customary humour that had long been absent from her spirits.
“Well, if you put it like that, ma’am, I suppose I must capitulate.”
An amused smile rewarded her. “Excellent. I will tell my son to set all in train for an early departure.” She got up and started towards the door, halting before she reached it and looking back. “By the by, Ottilia.”
“Yes?”
The black eyes twinkled at her. “You need not suppose you will be permitted to relapse. I am coming with you.”
Chapter Four
Francis greeted his friend with pleasure, but a trifle of misgiving crept in when George began almost immediately upon his troublesome murder.
“I’d hoped to have a word with Ottilia at once, my dear Fan. Where is she?”
“Walking on the beach with Hemp in attendance.”
“Hemp?”
“Hemp Roy, her steward.”
“Ah, Roy, ye
s. Isn’t that the black fellow who came to me with your note to give me news of your projected arrival? Who is he?”
Francis made an exasperated noise. “A whim of Tillie’s. He was involved in the imbroglio last Christmas in the house of my mother’s neighbour and Hemp ended at something of a loose end. Ottilia chose to succour him and I admit he has proved useful.”
He had sent Hemp on to Weymouth on Saturday ahead of the main party, which defied convention to travel down on Sunday, by which time the footman and a couple of maids who had accompanied him had made all ready in the house hired for the duration.
“My thanks, by the by, George, for taking this place on my behalf. My mother is pleased with the location. Is that the famous new Esplanade below us?”
“So I understand. The thing runs for near half a mile, with the purpose of creating an agreeable walk. I am told it has improved the place no end, though you may find the streets sadly dirty and narrow for the most part. If you stick to the fashionable quarter, it is pleasant enough. Where is the dowager?”
“Bullying the master of ceremonies into submission, I imagine. She is at the Assembly Rooms for the purpose of putting all our names down and, if I recall correctly, to get a recommendation for a cook. When I left her, she was just about to descend upon the unfortunate fellow.”
George laughed. “That sounds like your formidable mother all right. The matriarch of these infernal players is of the same cut. I’m persuaded Ottilia is going to revel in this lot.”
The ever-present shadow crossed Francis’s heart, and he felt obliged to nip this optimism in the bud. “Don’t get your hopes up, my friend. I’m by no means sure this ruse is going to work.”
George’s mobile eyebrows rose steeply. “Ruse? What do you mean, Fan?”
A sigh escaped Francis. “I’ve not told her yet.”
The Candlelit Coffin (Lady Fan Mystery Book 4) Page 5