“Ha! You’re here at last, are you, young Fanshawe, you rascal? Wish you’d take this woman off my hands. Fleeced me, she has, the wretch. Left me without a feather to fly with.”
The dowager uttered a snort. “Poppycock! Pay no heed to him, Francis.” Then, turning on the general and lowering her voice, she added, “Instead of exercising your wit at my expense, Leo, you will be better employed telling him what you’ve discovered.”
The general dismissed his servant, what time Francis apologised for his tardiness. His mother waved this away.
“I did not wait only because Leo has news of Captain Edgcott.”
General Godfrey caught her words as he turned back to look up at Francis, with an unusually grim expression. “Gone to ground. Hasn’t been seen since Saturday. Rodber thinks he’s popped off to one of the other resorts along the coast. Myself, I reckon he knows Tretower has an eye to him for this murder and don’t choose to loiter.”
“You may be right. Did you notice if Paglesham has also gone?”
The general’s brows shot up. “That young upstart? Here’s here all right and tight. What d’ye want with him? You can’t think he did the deed.”
“He is on our list.”
“What, that ninny? If he said boo to a goose I’d be astonished. No, no, boy, you have him wrong, I’ll be bound.”
Francis eyed him with a good deal of interest but his mother forestalled him.
“He may be a ninny to you, Leo, but the fellow admits to a liaison with the dead girl.”
The general whistled. “Does he so? How d’ye know it ain’t a mere boast?”
“Why should it be? He’s a pretty young man, even if he is an impertinent coxcomb, though he fawned enough to me.”
“Besides which,” put in Francis, “the girl specifically mentioned him for a suitor.”
“That may be, but it don’t mean he’s got gumption enough to carry out such an elaborate ceremonial as this killing. Wouldn’t credit the fellow with that much imagination.”
Francis could not but agree. “In fact, we don’t think he did do it, but he may have been complicit in the act.”
General Godfrey squinted up at him in a shrewd look. “Think he set Edgcott on to handle the business on his behalf?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“Well, the feller’s vanished, that’s all I can tell you, m’boy.”
Inviting George to stay and dine with them had been both politic and a move to allow Ottilia more time to think. She was beset with a familiar niggle of having missed something. On this occasion she put it down to the nuisance of being obliged in the main to rely on reported conversations rather than conducting her own questioning of the gentlemen involved.
Although Francis was becoming adept at eliciting just the sort of detail to set her mind in a bustle as she sifted facts. Yet, like most men, he lacked that almost innate feminine ability to snap from one position to another in a leap having nothing to do with logic. It could be disconcerting to the male mind, as poor George had discovered with the highly intuitive Cecile.
Nevertheless, with everything taken together there was much for her to ponder. She allowed the conversation to flow around her as she partook rather sparingly of Mrs Horne’s excellent fish pie, finding it still hard to swallow despite the softness of the well-seasoned fish and mashed potato. Aware of her husband’s narrow glance, she flashed him a smile of reassurance and hoped he would not call attention to her abstraction.
The dowager was engaged in argument with George as to the advisability of attempting to train young Perkin up to soldiering.
“Once a thief, always a thief, my dear Colonel.”
“A leopard does not change his spots, you think, ma’am?”
“He might change, but temptation will dog him and the day will come when he cannot resist.”
George finished the last of his preferred sirloin and set down his fork. “For my part, I believe the lesson of this murder will prove a sufficient deterrent. Your man Hemp, Ottilia, thinks the boy’s fear of retribution from this Truggery is stronger than his fear of the rope. Although I have instructed Sullivan to keep the threat alive if he has any trouble from the boy.”
Ottilia caught a flashing glance of concern from Francis and thrust down on the instant rise of indignation. To her relief he took it in her stead.
“A trifle ruthless, George. You’ll not win Tillie’s approval with such tactics.”
George’s mouth became set in grim lines as he eyed Ottilia. “I’m sorry if it goes against the grain with you, but if he’s to learn discipline —”
“He’s a frightened child, George,” she interrupted, unable to refrain from breaking out. “Moreover, he’s far too valuable to risk losing at this juncture, if you need a more cogent reason than pure fellow feeling.”
George reddened and Sybilla intervened. “That is unfair, Ottilia. You can’t expect the colonel to fawn over a guttersnipe.”
“I don’t expect it.” She turned her irate gaze on George. “I promised Perkin none would hurt him. I did not agree to let him go so that you might at once return him to a state of terror.”
“I’ve no intention of so doing,” returned George with a heat equal to her own. “It’s for his own safety, as well you know. And since Fan has already told those players of his value to the investigation, it is not a moment too soon.”
Ottilia opened her mouth to retort, but Francis put up a hand. “Enough, Ottilia!”
He spoke with a quiet authority she was obliged to recognise. Swallowing her spleen, she forced a faint smile. “Pardon me, George. I am afraid recent events have revived my sensibilities. I will say no more.”
He looked visibly relieved and his tone dropped. “No, it’s my fault. You’ve suffered enough — indeed, far too much. I should have been more circumspect.”
Sybilla, with her customary habit of rising to the occasion, reached out a hand for the bell and rang it. “Give the colonel a little more wine, Francis. I requested Mrs Horne to provide us with fruits and cheese to finish. If we are to attend the theatre to see the new play, a light meal is in order, I think.”
“Do you go, George?” asked Francis as he replenished his friend’s glass.
“Unlikely. A waste of time and I’ve much to do. However, if I can’t catch Rodber beforehand, I might have to follow him there.”
“You are trying to find out about this house where our man was seen carrying the girl into a coach?”
“If possible, Fan. The difficulty is we don’t know which house it was. Sullivan had no luck with the ostler, and he had no chance to try him again today. But if we can pinpoint the place, we may hope our witness can recognise it.”
“Or he may recognise the guilty man perhaps?”
Something shifted in Ottilia’s mind. “Not if he was already wearing the mask.”
George lowered the glass from which he’d been taking a sip. “But if we know the house, that won’t matter. He has to have been lodging there, even if he took the place temporarily, and his actions speak for him.”
Ottilia met his glance but her attention was turned inward. “Would he take her to his lodging?”
“Why shouldn’t he?” demanded the dowager.
“Precisely because it must incriminate him. This was not a careless murder. It was well planned.” She turned to George. “I suspect you may find the place is no lodging house, but a brothel.”
Chapter Fifteen
Ottilia found herself under immediate scrutiny from all three pairs of eyes. She was saved by the entrance of Tyler, who removed the remains of the meal at Sybilla’s request, loaded up the two hovering maids and instructed them to fetch up the dessert. In the presence of the servants, Francis struck up a spurious discussion with his friend about the weather, which had turned windy with the threat of overnight rain. But the instant platters of fruit and cheese had been set upon the table, the dowager dismissed Tyler and cut the men short.
“Never mind the rain, you
two. Ottilia, if it is not just like you to come out with something so outrageous. What in the world made you suppose this dreadful man would take Dulcie to a brothel, of all places?”
Rueful, Ottilia looked from her mother-in-law to George’s frown and Francis’s quirked eyebrow. “Dear me. I fear I was thinking aloud.”
“You don’t get out of it that easily,” said her spouse, faint amusement visible in his eyes.
“No, and I don’t stir from this house until you explain yourself.”
Ottilia had to laugh. “Very well, George, though I have not fully thought it through as yet.”
“But what made you think of it at all?”
“Your hope the murderer would prove to have lodged in this house. He is far too circumspect. Any landlady must inevitably put two and two together once news of the murder came out. But a bawdy house is another matter. I imagine a man might hire a room with no questions asked. Very likely no one would even trouble to notice whom he brought with him. And he could slip out in the early hours without being seen.”
Her husband looked sceptical. “What, carrying an unconscious girl?”
“Why not? If questioned, he had only to assert she was asleep, or drunk. But I should doubt if any would be stirring in such a house. Not the servants certainly.”
Sybilla balked at this. “But the clients, Ottilia? Don’t these places cater for them at all hours?”
“Not in a town like Weymouth, Mama. In the capital, yes.”
Ottilia regarded her spouse with a faint lift of her brows. “Is that a guess, Fan, or do you happen to know?”
He grinned across at her. “It is common knowledge among gentlemen, of course.”
She smiled. “I will take your word for it. For my part, I should have supposed any clients still awake would be otherwise engaged.”
George was regarding her with his frown still in place. “Be that as it may, let us not forget our murderer had his coach waiting.”
“By arrangement, I imagine, George. Remember, he planned it all to the letter. He collected Dulcie before midnight, took her to this house where he drugged her, knowing Truggery and Stowe would be digging up the coffin. He waited until two or thereabouts and then carried her to the coach, in which we must presume he had already secreted his weapon, his candles and a tinder box. And the rest we know.”
Silence fell while her auditors digested this. Ottilia could not help her imagination presenting her with the remainder of that night’s doings and the thought of poor little hidden Perkin’s dismay at the unfolding events could not but obtrude.
“He must have bribed the coachman pretty heavily,” Francis observed at length. “The fellow can’t have been blind and deaf to the proceedings.”
“His own coachman?”
Sybilla’s tone was sharp but George cut in before Ottilia could answer.
“Too risky. We cannot find that a coach was hired anywhere locally. I would guess he went further afield. To Dorchester perhaps.”
“Or Lyme Regis,” said Ottilia, thinking aloud.
“No. I checked while I was there. And before you mention him, there was no sign of Edgcott either, despite his having made himself scarce.”
“Yes, that does make it look black for him.”
Francis was eyeing her with the look she knew well. “What are your objections to him, Tillie?”
She hid a smile at the acumen with which he read her now. “Your account of him does not lead me to think him capable of quite so elaborate a scheme, notwithstanding what Justice Shellow told you of his customary activities, George.”
“Shellow judged against his stooping to murder,” the colonel reminded her.
“Yet he sounds a ruthless individual. But a man who goes about things directly, not in the roundabout fashion of this murder.”
Francis gave her a keen look. “There is something in that. He would likely have strangled her and thrown her body in the woods, just as he said when he spoke of the candles being an homage to the girl’s beauty.”
“But they were not intended for that. Nor, as I surmised at the first, to throw suspicion upon the players,” Ottilia offered.
“What, then?” Thus the colonel, frowning.
“To present any investigation with a dilemma meant to confuse and to set you, George, hunting for hares.”
His brows flew up. “Me? You think the dratted villain was specifically targeting me?”
“Well, he clearly knew you for the highest authority in the neighbourhood. It was likely you would be called in, failing a constable.”
“There isn’t one.”
“Nor a justice of the peace nearer than Dorchester. Which presupposes our murderer knew the town and its environs very well indeed.”
The notion set her mind a-roving across new territory as George’s frown descended again.
“Edgcott, Charlton, Fitzgerald,” he said, counting on his fingers.
“Not Paglesham, then?” put in Sybilla on a note of disappointment.
“She’s already discounted him except as a conspirator with Edgcott,” Francis pointed out, an edge of eagerness in his voice as his gaze turned on Ottilia, dragging her from her thoughts. “You’ve just ruled out Edgcott, and I don’t for a moment believe Charlton did it.”
“Fitzgerald!” George was triumphant. “I said so at the outset, did I not?”
But was it as simple as that? Ottilia was again beset with a tease of being unable to see what she was becoming convinced was staring her in the face.
A knock at the dining parlour door produced Tyler again, looking a trifle harassed as he addressed Sybilla. “I am sorry to disturb you, my lady, but —”
He got no further. A figure ducked under his arm and darted into the room.
George leapt to his feet. “Cecile!”
She flicked him a glance but passed him and ran to Ottilia’s side. “Forgive, I beg, madame. I have little time.”
Ottilia caught George’s chagrined look, but addressed the girl at once. “What is amiss, my dear?”
“A little thing only but tomorrow perhaps I cannot come and I think I must tell you.”
Francis had also risen and he pulled out a chair. “Won’t you sit down?”
She cast him a brief glance. “Non, merci. I stay but a moment.”
“Thank you, Tyler, that will be all,” said the dowager, signing to Francis to pour wine. “Sit down, mademoiselle, and take a glass.”
Thus adjured, Cecile plonked into the chair, but waved away the wine. “I need nothing, madame, merci.”
Ottilia captured the flailing hand. “Come, Cecile, what is the matter?”
She drew a visible breath and, rather to Ottilia’s amusement, turned her eyes on George, still standing by his chair, his gaze fixed upon her. “It is that I hear Madame Ferdinand speaking with Monsieur Fitzgerald.”
“Good God!” George came around the table to stand over her. “What is it? We have just this moment past concluded…” He faded out at Cecile’s sudden frown.
“You think he it was who killed Dulcie?” She released her fingers from Ottilia’s grasp and clutched instead at George’s wrist. “It may be so, Georges. He says to madame it is better for Kate that Dulcie is dead.” She let go and fluttered the hand. “Not such words, no. I do not tell it well.”
Ottilia intervened, distracted now from the path her mind had been following. “Be calm, Cecile. Tell us just what was said, if you can.”
She shrugged. “Exactly, I do not remember. Madame says he has prejudice. For Kate, you understand. While Dulcie is alive, he says none will look at Kate upon the stage. Also he is angry that Monsieur Ferdinand gives the good roles to Dulcie and now only he gives them to Kate, when Dulcie is dead.” She looked from Ottilia to George and back again. “It is important, no?”
“Extremely valuable, Cecile,” Ottilia told her on a note of reassurance. “Was there anything else?”
She seemed to ponder, her eyes seeking George again, who kept silent though his gaze d
evoured her. “It was of Dulcie,” she said at length. “And perhaps he has reason. Madame and Monsieur Ferdinand took her from the kitchen. She was young. This I have known, since Dulcie she told me. But Monsieur Fitzgerald he thinks it was to use Dulcie for profit, not for the sake of Dulcie, you understand. Thus it seems to me he does not care that she is dead and perhaps if that, he also cares too much for Kate and for her sake, he has done this thing.”
She cast a pleading look around her auditors, and there was both hesitance and dismay in her voice. “It is possible, no?”
“Very possible, my dear, and we thank you for taking the trouble to come here.”
A tiny smile flickered. “I have come to tell you, madame.” Her eyes turned on George. “I did think perhaps you may be here.”
This frank admission caused the colonel to colour up. His voice became a trifle gruff. “Are you going back to the theatre? May I escort you?”
Ottilia exchanged a questioning glance with Francis, but Sybilla broke out.
“Are you intending to arrest the fellow, Colonel?”
“Not tonight, ma’am.” He looked to Ottilia. “We need positive proof, I think, don’t you?”
Indeed they did, for uncertainty rankled despite this little reported piece of byplay. But she had to smile at the colonel’s new brand of caution.
“I am glad to hear you say so, George. It is all conjecture at this juncture. But Cecile has at least provided us with a potential motive for Fitzgerald — if he is indeed our murderer.”
Which, although she did not say it aloud, was not a solution she altogether favoured.
Determined not to make a mull of things a second time, George held his tongue only until he had Cecile on his arm outside the door of the Fanshawes’ lodging and was guiding her to the Esplanade.
A glance around was enough to show him there were few persons hardy enough to brave the darkening skies. A couple of liveried men were hastening along the walk and a distant fellow, accompanied by a barking dog, was walking on the beach where the tide was coming in from a choppy sea.
The prospect was uninviting but the opportunity too good to pass up. And it was but a short distance to the theatre. He slowed his pace.
The Candlelit Coffin (Lady Fan Mystery Book 4) Page 31