The Candlelit Coffin (Lady Fan Mystery Book 4)

by Elizabeth Bailey

  “Only George? I thank you for the compliment, Fanshawe.”

  “My pleasure. Turn your back and stop complaining.”

  “If you’re going to start fondling, I’ll leave you,” said his friend, mock-severe, but he turned to face the other way anyway.

  “Pay no heed to him, my dear one. He’s merely jealous.”

  Ottilia chuckled as she was dragged into a convulsive embrace which she returned with fervour. A knock at the door made her husband release her, just as Joanie entered the room. Francis put in his request for coffee and the maid left.

  George had turned on her entrance and now cast a disgusted look at Francis. “Have you done? Or should I withdraw before I am subjected to another such revolting spectacle?”

  Francis, whose mood, Ottilia was glad to see, had lifted, merely cocked an eyebrow.

  “Wishing you were similarly engaged with this Cecile of yours?”

  Seeing his friend’s colour begin to rise again, Ottilia intervened. “Don’t tease him, Fan. Poor George is sorely beset.”

  Francis laughed. “Very well, I’m dumb.”

  “Not so dumb you won’t tell us of Charlton, I hope. Did you perhaps think to introduce the subject of the murder with him? It is everywhere talked of, after all, by Mr Rodber’s account.”

  Francis was playing with her fingers, but he looked up at this. “I didn’t have to. Charlton spoke of it himself.” He looked at George. “I don’t think he’s your man. He said it was a bad business and spoke of this Dulcibella in an impersonal fashion, I thought.”

  “Come, Fan, elucidate, if you please,” said Ottilia with a degree of impatience. “What did he say of her?”

  “That she was very easy on the eye, but less adept on the boards. He thought it a great pity she should be taken off in such a way. He would not wish it on any female. He seemed more interested in the grotesque nature of the crime than the victim herself, to be frank.”

  Ottilia did not think this necessarily proved disinterest, but George forestalled her before she could say so.

  “All well and good, Fan, but if he did the deed, he is bound to draw attention away from the girl, wouldn’t you say, Ottilia?”

  “I think he would take care to sound impersonal, as Fan puts it. I would not say it exonerates him. And since we know for a fact he was one of Dulcie’s followers, his reticence appears somewhat disingenuous.”

  “Well, I don’t see how one can say so without appearing to accuse him,” Francis objected.

  “Nobody is as yet accusing him.”

  “No, but I will if I have to,” said George.

  “But not before we have found out a little more from this Kate.” A trifle of irritation attacked Ottilia. “I must say it is an inconvenience you were obliged to do this hunt for the purse, George.” She saw her husband’s look of question. “No, he didn’t find it, Fan. But the nuisance is that I dare say Cecile will not now visit me as she said she might.”

  The words were scarcely out of her mouth than the door opened to admit the footman Tyler. “Mademoiselle Benoit, my lady.”

  Cecile tripped into the room, cast a glance around and stopped short at sight of George.

  The flurry of greeting as George presented his émigré to Francis who took time to express his condolences, was at once followed by the entrance of Joanie with a tray. Her husband undertook to dispense coffee, affording Ottilia an opportunity to observe the way Cecile’s gaze strayed, under her lashes, to the colonel when his attention was engaged elsewhere. There was hope then, given her sojourn with the players did not overshadow the suitability of her birth. Would George care? Ottilia was inclined to doubt it would weigh with him. And if, as he said, she had been kept close…

  Her thoughts faded as the girl herself turned on her a hardening gaze and then rose from the chair George had vacated and brought her cup and saucer across to the chaise longue.

  “I may sit with you?”

  Ottilia shifted her feet to make room. “Pray do. Forgive my unconventional pose. I am resting at my husband’s command.”

  Cecile cast a glance across to where Francis and George were standing as they sipped coffee. She lowered her voice and turned reproachful eyes upon Ottilia.

  “It was not pleasant what this colonel did ce matin.”

  “And you blame me, I take it?”

  The girl’s eyes dropped to her cup and a tiny sigh escaped her. “You must speak of the purse to him, bien sûr.”

  “I wish it had not been necessary.”

  The dark gaze raked her. “Also without result.”

  “Which is a pity, but at least it lessens the suspicion that rests with your players.”

  At that, her eyes flashed. “They are not my players.”

  Ottilia smiled. “I should have said friends perhaps.” She changed tack. “How well do you know Kate?”

  Cecile shrugged. “Not so well as Dulcie. She is strong with passion, that one.”

  “She behaves like a grande dame?”

  Cecile considered. “Perhaps it is more that she desires praise for her acting.”

  “Ambitious? She would like to be taken for a Siddons?”

  Cecile brightened. “Oui, you have it, madame. She would like that the world speaks of Katharine Drummond the great one, you understand?”

  “Then she was not jealous of Dulcie’s beauty, but of her popularity?”

  “Perhaps a little. But me I believe she despises Dulcie, who is not very good with the acting but even so the people come to watch her.”

  Which did not augur well for the beauty having confided in Kate. Nevertheless, Ottilia seized opportunity. “I should like to meet this Katharine Drummond. I must say I found her acting impressive.”

  Cecile smiled and Ottilia was interested to see how much her features softened. Had George been privileged to see the smile?

  “In this case, madame, I do not think Kate will object to meet you.”

  An interruption came from George, stepping in towards the sofa.

  “Cecile!”

  The tiny shock in the way she turned and a faint rise of colour in her cheek were decidedly tell-tale. But the tone was discouraging.

  “Oui, mon colonel?”

  George’s eyes registered the rebuff and his voice hardened a shade. “I want to ask you again about Paglesham. You recall I mentioned him earlier?”

  Cecile’s brows drew together briefly and then smoothed out again. “I remember.”

  “I had forgot, but my friend Francis here reminded me that Paglesham is a handsome fellow. Are you certain Dulcie did not favour him? Did she not speak of him at all?”

  The émigré’s look became wry. “Dulcie she does not trust men of this kind. She has told to me she believes they are like Jasper.”

  “In what respect?”

  “Jasper he is a man so pretty he thinks all women must like him, therefore it needs not that he is kind. Nor is he keeping faith with a woman, and Dulcie she says all such men are the same.”

  George let out a frustrated breath and Ottilia came in for his irritation. “What do you make of that, for heaven’s sake?”

  “Well, she isn’t going to put every good-looking man out of count, I can tell you that much,” said Francis, setting his cup on the mantelpiece.

  “By no means.” Ottilia put her attention back on Cecile, whose gaze had gone from one to the other in a puzzled look. “You are wondering why the gentlemen defer to me, I dare say.”

  Cecile shrugged. “Georges has told me you are with experience in such matters.”

  “It’s more than experience.” Francis, as ever, jumping to his wife’s defence. “She has an instinct and a mind more than capable of outfoxing any cunning murderer. She does not just investigate. She solves.”

  “Oh, Fan, pray don’t. You will give Cecile a perfectly false notion of my capabilities.”

  “There’s nothing false about it. Didn’t George beg me to bring you?”

  To Ottilia’s relief, the colonel in
tervened. “I’ve already told Cecile as much, and that I’m trusting to Ottilia to untangle this mess.”

  “Well, let us concentrate on the mess then,” said Ottilia in haste, turning back to the émigré. “Cecile, would you say that Dulcie might therefore choose a man who is not good-looking?”

  “But not of an ugliness.” The girl waved her hands. “C’est-à-dire, she likes a man who is kind, or who is — what is the word in English?” She switched to French, looking to George. “I would say raffiné.”

  “Ah, you mean refined, sophisticated.”

  Ottilia pounced on this. “Now that I can credit. An older man, with a worldly air, who shows her both kindness and admiration. Flattering to a young girl perhaps.”

  “Do we include Charlton and Edgcott in this category?” asked George.

  Francis gave a scornful laugh. “Edgcott? Sophisticated?”

  George nodded, turning to Cecile. “True. And you told me Dulcie paid him no attention. Paglesham does not fit, so who else?”

  “That reminds me,” cut in Francis. “I left Mama quizzing the fellow. I had best get back to her or I’ll be having a peal rung over me.” He came across to lean down and drop a kiss on Ottilia’s forehead. “I’ll leave you for a space, my dear one, since you are well enough attended.”

  She smiled up at him. “Indeed I am. See if you can discover more about Charlton, will you? He must surely fit the particulars.”

  Francis grimaced. “I’ll do what I can, though he is scarcely forthcoming.”

  With a word of farewell to the other two, he left. Ottilia at once reverted to the question at hand. “My steward, who was talking with the men of the company last night —”

  “A spy again?”

  Cecile’s indignant tone amused Ottilia, but she hastened to smooth her over.

  “I confess it freely, my dear, but you see I do not expect to talk to your male actors myself, though I hope you will help me talk to the women. Hemp was by way of being my deputy.”

  “Thus he spies for you, no?”

  “Yes, but in a good cause, Cecile. He has made friends with Jasper.” She gave a gurgle. “That young man annoyed my steward by asking him repeatedly to box with him.”

  George laughed out. “What, merely because he is black?”

  “Indeed, yes. And poor Hemp is not a pugilist.”

  “Ah, c’est ça. This is the man who goes with you on this Esplanade?”

  “Just so. And he thinks the actor Robert Collins has the right sort of attraction. Devil looks, he calls them.”

  “Rob?” Cecile’s tone became sharp. “I thought this at the start. The day you came to say, Georges, and madame tells us of this horrible news.”

  “You suspected him?” George, who had retired to the mantel, was eyeing the girl in a frowning fashion that Ottilia deprecated. That would not win him her affection. “You never said so before.”

  Her chin went up. “Do you think I will aid that you arrest one of my people?”

  “If he was guilty of killing your friend, I should hope you would.”

  The dark eyes flashed. “I would not. I do not betray my own.”

  George’s dagger look did not bode well, but Cecile spoke before Ottilia could intervene.

  “Alors, I do not think Dulcie will go with Rob, even if it was that he is not married. Rob is not kind and he speaks in a way of making one feel idiote, you understand?”

  “I know just what you mean,” said Ottilia, jumping in fast. “Is there no other who fits this notion of older sophistication?”

  Cecile gave that peculiarly Gallic shrug. “Of the men older? Lewis, no. Nor can I think of Monsieur Ferdinand, for though he is sometimes kind, he also is cross and he complains too much. Eh bien, there is Monsieur Fitzgerald, but I think he does not mix so much with the players.”

  Ottilia’s ears pricked up. A new name? “Who is Monsieur Fitzgerald?”

  “The manager of the theatre,” supplied George, who was staring at Cecile rather hard. Had she not mentioned this man before either? “A very respectable man, so far as I know. I’m not well acquainted with him, but he frequents the Rooms when he does not have a company in the town.”

  “What manner of man is he?”

  “You have seen him, madame.”

  Ottilia raised her brows. “Indeed?”

  “He it was who told me you wish to see me, when you visit me at the theatre, do you not remember?”

  A face floated in the back of Ottilia’s mind. “Rather stern-featured? Tall, I think.”

  “That is he, but I do not think he speaks with Dulcie more than any other.”

  “But he knows all the players well, I presume? You — or rather they, have been performing in Weymouth for some time, I imagine.”

  “Each year they come, yes.” Cecile was both frowning and eyeing George under her lashes again in a manner that struck Ottilia as furtive.

  “You’ve visited Weymouth in previous years then.” George was looking altogether stern. Suspicious? Ottilia remained silent, alert to the unspoken battle. Would it break?

  Cecile’s chin lifted. Defiance? “The last year only. Before, I remain with the sister of Madame Ferdinand for that I may learn better the English. I did not come then to this place.”

  “But you were here last year,” George persisted.

  “I have said.”

  “And still you don’t know which gentlemen in particular have courted Dulcibella Ash? Every man mentioned, apart from Paglesham, was here last year.”

  Interest burgeoned in Ottilia. “Is that so indeed, George?”

  “That much I ascertained from Rodber. As a matter of precaution when the season began, I had a list from him of last year’s visitors. Charlton and Edgcott were both on it.”

  “But not Paglesham?”

  “No, which gives one to think, if Cecile —” with a glance at his émigré which spoke volumes — “noticed no assiduity in the other two last year.”

  In one swift movement, Cecile rose from the sofa to confront him.

  “Of what do you accuse me, mon colonel? Think you I lie when I say I do not know which man it is who makes Dulcie enceinte?”

  George did not flinch. “I think you have omitted to say a deal that you do know. You have stated categorically that you will not betray your friends.”

  “Eh bien?”

  “That I understand. What I cannot understand is why you persist in denying what must have been obvious to you. Whether Dulcie confided in you or not, you know more than you are saying.”

  Cecile’s complexion had paled and her eyes glittered. “You are very clever, mon colonel, but you do not make me to speak by this means.”

  He did not back down. “I’ve tried a soft approach. I hoped, evidently in vain, that your affection for Dulcie would induce you to assist in the discovery of her murderer.”

  “This I have done,” Cecile protested. “I answer your questions.”

  “Briefly, and holding back, deciding whether or not you wish to answer. Nor did you mention Fitzgerald, which you might very well have done.” He threw up a hand. “Oh, you don’t choose to trust me, I know. But —”

  “Voyons, you are a fool, Georges!” Cecile turned on Ottilia. “See you, madame? Why is it the men say always this thing of trust?” And back to George, on a note of near contempt. “Trust you must earn it, Georges. It is not a thing one may give at the first instant. Madame expects not that I will trust, is it not so?”

  Ottilia had to smile. “I certainly had no reason to think you might trust me.”

  “Et voilà!” Triumphant, Cecile lifted her chin at poor George once more, staring boldly up at him, despite his infinitely superior height and the breadth of his shoulders. He looked decidedly overgrown at that moment as a trifle of defeat formed in his face, along with a wry twist of the lips.

  “Well, that has put me properly in my place,” he said.

  A slow blush crept up Cecile’s cheek and her belligerence collapsed. A sheepish smile
was cast upon George. “Alors, mon colonel, it is that I do indeed trust you more than you suppose.”

  “Do you? Truly?”

  She let out a sigh and sank back down onto the sofa. “I wish it, tu sais?”

  George relaxed back, clearly softened by the intimacy of the ‘tu’. “But?”

  Cecile nodded. “It exists, this but of yours, Georges.”

  “Tell me then.”

  She glanced towards Ottilia and gave a deprecating smile. “You, I think, will not judge of this Dulcie.”

  “But you think I will?” Thus George, his brows snapping together.

  “Yes, I think it.”

  “Try me.”

  Cecile spread her hands. “It is to me most shocking, but she is my friend. I do not say what I think when I see that she allows the liberty to such men as these who come to the door of the stage.”

  “How much liberty?” Ottilia asked.

  “Last year, I do not think she permits the thing most intimate. It is like the test to see who will be the best. And perhaps she does not love them. She meets with them only in the day, perhaps to dine, and she returns and chatters of the food or the gift. But this time it is different. This time she is in the glow almost from the first. She speaks of nothing, even that I ask. And then she goes to have supper at night, when the performance is finished, and she comes not back until it is very early in the morning.”

  “As she did that night,” Ottilia put in, “only she did not come back at all.”

  Cecile’s eyes darkened the more as they misted over and her lip trembled. Her voice became husky. “Yes, but I did not fear for her. I have thought instead the man will marry her, as she hoped. She told me of the bébé, as I said. I gave her money. I knew the man is here, for she did not stay out at night in the other towns where the players go to perform. It was in May, when first we came here. But Dulcie did not tell me who is the man.”

  George had watched her throughout this recital, a softened expression in his face, though Cecile had kept her gaze on Ottilia. But this loosened his tongue.

  “If you knew he was in Weymouth, you knew he could not be one of the players.”

  Her gaze went to his. “But no, Georges. I cannot be sure of this, for Dulcie she allows also the liberty with the players. They are comme ça, tu sais? They hug and kiss and touch. And sometimes, the men touch where they should not. And Dulcie she only laughs at them, even that she might push them away. But she does not mind the way Kate minds. They do not dare to touch Kate like this.”