The four militiamen at once proceeded through the house, two going directly to the second floor. They worked in pairs, banging on the doors with the butts of muskets and shouting to the inmates to get up and come on out.
Leaving his junior to supervise the attack, George opened the door to the breakfast parlour and looked in. It was empty, but the fire had been lit and covers laid for breakfast. Satisfied, he left the door wide and waited for the players to appear. He disliked using the tactic, but it undoubtedly worked to take his suspects by surprise.
First to appear around the corner of the corridor was an irate Mrs Ferdinand, the colourful huge shawl George had seen before flung around her shoulders and a frilled nightcap tied around her chin. She stopped short at sight of him and threw up her head.
“Colonel Tretower! Heavens above, sir, what is the meaning of this rude invasion?”
George bowed and indicated the parlour. “Go in, if you please, ma’am.”
“I do not stir until you tell me what this is all about.”
“My reason is sufficient, Mrs Ferdinand, and you will know it when I am ready to tell you.”
He spoke with every evidence of politeness but his words did not appease the impresario’s wife. She stared at him in silence until The Grand Ferdinando himself was heard protesting at a roar in the corridor behind.
“This is an outrage! An outrage, I tell you! Don’t jostle me, you looby, how dare you?”
A sound of exasperation escaped Mrs Ferdinand’s lips and she turned to call out. “Arthur, come here, for heaven’s sake! There is no need for you to add to the cacophony.”
An apt description, for the voices coming from every direction were growing in volume as one player after another came into sight, variously garbed in night attire with dressing-gowns or coats sketchily thrown over. Two of the actors staggering down the stairs had managed to tug on breeches and George at once resolved to have them turn out their pockets at need.
The complaints were understandably voluble as Mrs Ferdinand, evidently accepting the inevitable, herded them into the parlour. George, standing back at the door and busy counting heads, paid little heed to the chattering hordes, speaking one atop the other.
“What the deuce is going on?”
“Has the colonel run mad?”
“I’ve never been so insulted … treated like a criminal indeed!”
“Move, can’t you, Lewis? I’m trying to get to the fire.”
“What we need is breakfast.”
“What in God’s name is the time?”
And then a straggler halted, drawing George’s attention with a flare in the dark eyes raised to his face. Recognition hit and an uncomfortable combination of guilt and want swept through him as his gaze took in the raven locks falling about her shoulders and the long white nightgown under a light wrap, bare toes peeping beneath.
“Colonel?”
It was accented in French and husky. George struggled to respond with his usual insouciance. “Mademoiselle?”
“Why do you do this?”
He hesitated. He had formed the scheme upon receipt of the information she had shared with Ottilia. She was bound to realise it in due course and it was evident she was already furious. He stiffened his resolve. Duty came first. He would be obliged to explain himself, but not now.
“That you will learn presently, mademoiselle. Go in, if you please.”
He kept to English deliberately, refusing to allow his partiality to permit him the indulgence of treating her differently to the rest.
She lifted her chin, a defiant little gesture of pride that could not but touch him, and stalked into the parlour to join the others. George followed her in and raised his voice.
“Silence, if you please!”
It took several moments for the milling players to settle into quiet, one shushing another. Mrs Ferdinand made no attempt to assert her authority. Seated in her chair by the fire, she eyed George with ill-concealed contempt. God help him, he was on his own with these unruly players, it seemed.
“Thank you,” he said, when at last the murmurs ceased. “I must request you all to remain in this room until I give you leave to move out of it.”
The battery of eyes shifted, looking from him to their fellows and back again. George checked the faces and found one missing.
“Where is your young Jasper?”
“Likely out as usual,” offered the dark lean man. Rob, was it?
But at that moment, George heard Sullivan’s voice.
“Come along, sir, there’s no sense in dragging your feet. All the others have done as they were asked.”
“Damn you, get off me!”
The impresario, who was surrounded and had, George now realised, been fending off his people’s questions, now thrust his way to the door, emitting his customary roar.
“Jasper, get in here, you slothful muck-worm! If the rest of us have to suffer, you can too. Get in here at once, boy!”
The young man had already appeared around the corner, Sullivan at his back with one hand firmly grasping the collar of the fellow’s nightgown. Jasper was red-eyed, pale with lack of sleep and sullen, his hair tousled and his bare legs moving at a stagger.
Ferdinand grabbed him as he reached the door and thrust him into the room. “Wretched boy! If you aren’t arrested this day, it will be a miracle.”
Jasper all but fell into the arms of the huge man — Aisling, was it? — who lost no time in throwing him off so that he staggered into the others and was passed around like a rumpled parcel, the players collapsing into laughter until Mrs Ferdinand called a halt.
“Sit him down, for heaven’s sake, and stop behaving like a set of children in the nursery. Settle down, all of you.”
George left them to it and signalled to Sullivan, lowering his voice.
“The men are carrying out the search?”
“I set them to it the moment we had them all out, sir. Except that young rascal.” A grin creased his junior’s face as he nodded towards the players in the parlour, who were finding seats and settling where they could. “Tried to hide and got himself tangled in his bed-curtains, silly young chub.”
George threw up his eyes. “Go and supervise, Sullivan. I don’t want them throwing the rooms into total disorder. They can hunt without making a mess.”
“Right, sir.”
His lieutenant sped off and George was about to go into the parlour when he heard footsteps labouring up the stairs from below. Moving to the bannister, he looked over. The landlady was toiling up, burdened with a heavily loaded tray, an unknown man behind her, armed with a massive teapot in one hand and a large coffee pot in the other.
Reaching the top, the woman halted, eyeing George with fear and doubt.
“I’ve brought tea and coffee, sir. That’s all right, is it?”
George gave permission at once, feeling that it might do something towards appeasing the players for being routed out of their beds at an early hour. The response was gratifying.
“Annie, you treasure!”
“God, the woman reads minds! I’m gasping for a cup of tea.”
“Move, Aisling, so Annie can set it on the table.”
“Any chance of a bun or something? I’m starving.”
George remained outside the parlour while the hubbub of setting out the accoutrements for the beverages was going forward. The large man, having set down his pots, came out again, hesitating as he looked at George, who raised his brows.
“Yes? You’re the landlord, I take it?”
The man nodded, touching his forelock. “That’s right, sir. Annie — me wife, that is — has got hot rolls ready. Can I bring ’em for the company, sir?”
“By all means.”
With a word of thanks, the man hurried off and was soon followed by his wife. George moved a little away from the door, listening to the sounds from above and along the corridor that betokened the search was underway. He hoped with fervency that Sullivan managed to stop the men from ma
king a pig’s ear of the business. The last thing he needed was a barrage of complaints about bedchambers having been rendered uninhabitable, although his men could scarcely turn them over without making something of a shambles. Well, if they did, they did. It was in a worthwhile cause and he would just have to endure the consequences.
His unruly mind slipped to the single consequence he had failed to anticipate. How the devil he was to make any sort of headway with Cecile after this was a bugbear of the worst order. Especially as he must needs question her further since her discussion with Ottilia showed she clearly knew a great deal more than she had admitted at the outset.
The owners of the property reappeared in a few minutes with a batch of new-baked rolls, butter and pots of jam and honey, accompanied by a large fruit cake. The players, already occupied in drinking, fell upon the proffered food with a good deal of relish. George found his stomach grumbling, but when the matronly female they called Hilde came across to ask him if he wished to partake of the refreshments, George refused.
“Thank you, ma’am, but not on duty.”
Reminded of his purpose, she gave him a questioning look.
“What is this duty, Colonel? Where are your men?”
George looked her in the eye. “Searching your rooms, ma’am.”
Her gaze widened and she let out a gasp. Then she turned back into the parlour and burst out with the news on a note of screeching hysteria.
“They are searching our rooms! Turning the place upside down!”
An exaggeration, but what could one expect from players? The instant cacophony of protest and comment that broke out presently returned the atmosphere to one of suspenseful anticipation that gave George some satisfaction. He did not want them complacent. He wanted them scared enough for the murderer to make a slip and give himself away. If indeed he was amongst them.
Within a short time, the men hunting the first floor rooms arrived with fists full of purses. George signed to them to wait out of sight and at last entered the parlour.
Ignoring the players, who rapidly fell silent to stare at him, he looked around the room. The large table was scattered with cups, plates and the rest of the paraphernalia brought in by the owners. He spotted a smaller table in a corner and headed for it, Lewis and Wat moving hastily out of his way.
Watched by his audience, George felt rather as if he were on the stage himself as he hefted the table and carried it nearer to the door, setting it down in an open space. For the first time this morning, a faint amusement lightened his sombre mood as he recognised his action was inducing both fear and bewilderment. Leaving the table in place, he left the room again and was gratified to see Sullivan coming down the stairs from the floor above, the two men detailed to search those rooms behind him, similarly carrying purses.
“Is this the lot?”
“All they could find, sir.”
“Right. Have them set them all down on the table there, Sullivan.”
With which he went back into the parlour and watched the reactions as the men came in and dumped their finds in a pile on the table.
“That’s my purse!”
“Damnation, they’ve taken all our purses!”
He lost track as Sullivan came up to murmur close. “Sir!”
George kept his eyes on the men’s work. “What is it?”
“We found the stash of guineas among the dead girl’s things.”
“The purse?”
“No, sir, I mean the rest of the hoard. But I wouldn’t let the men bring it.”
“Quite right. We’re not concerned with that. Only with what was in the purse.”
“Well, I counted it and it’s all there, sir, so no one’s had a go at that.”
George had no chance to answer. An arctic voice interrupted him.
“Colonel Tretower!”
He turned to find the matriarch at his elbow. She was last seen in her chair by the fire, but the appearance of the purses had roused her to evident wrath.
“What in the world is all this, Colonel?”
He did not flinch under her fiery stare. Nodding at Sullivan, who stepped back, he moved to the table again. “It is, as you can see, ma’am, a collection of purses.”
“Yes, but why? What do you want with them?”
“I am going to check each one, ma’am, and its owner may watch me do it.”
He could not forbear glancing at Cecile, who was sitting at the big table, her pose rigid and her features tight with strain. She caught his eye and flashed him a look of deep reproach. The sense of guilt swamped him all over again. Wrenching his gaze away, he buckled the feeling down. Duty first. Presently he would deal with the aftermath.
He seized the first purse that came to hand and held it up. “Whose is this, if you please?”
None responded at once. And then the little fellow Wat stepped forward with obvious reluctance, raising his hand.
“It’s mine.”
George beckoned him over, opened the purse and emptied its contents onto the table. The coins were of small denominations, only one golden guinea among them. George scooped up the coins, slid them back into the purse and handed it to the obviously relieved Wat. George gave a grim smile as he reflected the fellow must think himself now safe from suspicion. Let him think it. It was possible it was so, if Dulcie’s purse was found in amongst this lot.
He picked up a second one and the girl Kate scurried across, making a grab for it. George held it out of reach.
“Not so fast, ma’am.”
“But it’s mine! You’ve no right to look at what’s inside!”
George spoke on a gentler note than he had yet used. “I’m sorry, miss, but I am investigating a murder. Or had you forgotten?”
Her mouth fell open and a look of horror entered her eyes, mingling with despair. Her voice became a squeak. “But you can’t think I killed Dulcie!”
“I am making no accusations, Miss Kate. I am merely trying to ascertain what these purses contain and who they belong to. Now then.”
Without further ado, he emptied the purse onto the table. A few coins fell out, along with a crumpled handkerchief, a little gold ring, and several silver containers. Kate scrabbled to seize them all up, dissolving into tears. George made no attempt to stop her, merely handing over the purse so she could stuff everything back inside. No doubt the little hoard was of personal significance, but it was of no use to him.
The next purse belonged to the impresario, who took a high hand and demanded whether George expected to find Dulcie’s severed finger in it. A remark which drew several sniggers and an admonition from his wife.
“Stop it, Arthur! Is this humiliation not enough without you making foolish jokes?”
The purse was full, but not with Dulcie’s missing coins. George returned his property to Mr Ferdinand and the exercise carried on. The players rapidly became bored, those who had their purses back recovering their sangfroid sufficiently to be able to return to refreshing themselves. Talk became general as the pile diminished and George’s disappointment grew.
At last every purse was claimed. Dulcie’s golden guineas had not materialised. Either his men had not found all the purses or the murderer was cleverer than he had hoped. He recalled that Aisling and the fellow Rob were wearing breeches. Both had already claimed a purse, but that did not preclude them having Dulcie’s.
“Sullivan!”
His lieutenant stepped back into the parlour. He had waited outside the door with the men at ease in the corridor. “Sir?”
“You see those two gentleman wearing breeches?”
The fellow Rob’s head shot up and Aisling’s gaze widened, his ears going red.
“I do, sir.”
“Turn out their pockets for them.”
Rob leapt from his chair, his cheeks darkening as his eyes sparked. “What the devil is it now? If you think I’m letting that fellow dig into my breeches —”
Sullivan was practically in his face. “Turn out your pockets, sir, or I’ll
do it for you.”
Rob glared with defiance, but the man Aisling hastily thrust his hands into his breeches and pulled his pockets inside out, showing them empty.
“Nothing, see. Nowt in ’em, sir.”
The lieutenant nodded at him. “Thank you, sir. Now then,” he added, turning back to the other.
“Oh, for God’s sake turn them out, Rob, and let’s be done with this farce.”
This from the middle-aged Lewis. Jasper, seated now at the table near the window after recovering his own purse, bare of anything but a couple of small coins, began to giggle.
Rob cast him a glance of dislike and folded his arms, glaring at Sullivan. “You want to know what’s in them, you turn them out.”
His junior glanced at George, who nodded. With obvious reluctance, Sullivan plunged a hand into one pocket and brought out a handkerchief. Searching next in the other, his own face a trifle high-coloured, he came out empty-handed.
“Ha! Disappointed, eh? Well, you can’t win ’em all, captain.”
“I’m a lieutenant, sir,” snapped Sullivan, retreating.
“Now what?” demanded Mrs Ferdinand, looking decidedly triumphant. “I presume you did not find what you were looking for?”
“No, ma’am, unfortunately we did not. However, the exercise was necessary.” George cast a look across the players’ faces, most of which looked relieved rather than showing the contempt evidenced in both Rob and the matriarch. “You will be glad to learn no doubt that suspicion does not rest solely with the company. That does not mean any of you are out of count, but you may rest easier for knowing that I did not find the purse I was seeking.” He bowed. “I apologise for the inconvenience. I have no further need of you. However —” He paused, looking towards Cecile. “If you will be good enough to give me a moment of your time, mademoiselle, I have a few matters with which you may be able to assist.”
All eyes turned to Cecile, whose dagger glance was unlikely to be missed by anyone. Mrs Ferdinand intervened.
“If you mean to interrogate the child —”
“Ma’am, I do not interrogate,” George snapped, losing his grip on his temper for once. “Nor have I any intention of subjecting mademoiselle to annoyance.”
The Candlelit Coffin (Lady Fan Mystery Book 4) Page 11