The Lady's Scandalous Secret (The Discreet Investigations of Lord and Lady Calaway Book 7)

by Issy Brooke

  “At that time, it was Walter Spenning.”

  Adelia felt things fall into place. Well, wasn’t it obvious now that Edwin Calcraft had many reasons to murder Walter Spenning? Business was one – love was another. Spenning had destroyed the happiness of Edwin Calcraft’s son.

  Something didn’t quite fit, though. “I still don’t understand why the younger Calcraft was disowned if nothing was proven against him. No charges were brought so he was, and is, effectively innocent. He could have come back before now, and explained it all to Miss Johnson, and married her. And why has he come back now?”

  Mrs Macauley shrugged. “I have told you as much as I know,” she said. “I must be getting home or Gordon will be frantic. Good day to you all. Please do send me a note if Miss Johnson takes a turn for the worse – I can return immediately if she asks for me.”

  Why would she ask for her and not Anne, who is nearer, Adelia wondered. But she smiled and thanked Mrs Macauley and Anne rose to kiss her goodbye.

  Adelia noticed that Mrs Macauley was carrying a book-shaped parcel done up in brown paper.

  She hadn’t arrived with it.

  Theodore went to fetch Bamfylde from the library and filled him in on the revelations as they walked back to the parlour. As soon as they took their seats, Theodore sprang back to his feet, fired up by energy and purpose.

  “We simply must call on Edwin Calcraft this very minute! We must get to the bottom of this!”

  Adelia winced.

  It was Bamfylde who sounded the note of caution. Carefully, he said, “If the father and his estranged son are having some kind of heartfelt reconciliation, perhaps we ought to leave them to it? He has not been back in Empton above an hour or so.”

  Theodore said, “Well, we don’t even know if it is a reconciliation.”

  “Even more reason to give them just a little space and time, darling,” said Adelia.

  Theodore started to sit again but he couldn’t rest. He hovered, paced, and then exclaimed, “Well, are we investigating or not? If we cannot find out about Calcraft directly, let us go into Great Yarmouth and speak to any businesses there which might have had dealings with the man or his son. We’ll find better sorts of folk there than here. And if Great Yarmouth fails, then we will go to Norwich.”

  “Very wise,” said Adelia. “You go off and do that, then.”

  “And what will you do?”

  “Oh, there are things here that I am still curious about,” she replied enigmatically.

  In the end, only Theodore and Bamfylde headed into Great Yarmouth. Bernard said that he felt his presence might be more of a hindrance than a help, though he gave them an address for a respectable dining room frequented by gentlemen of quality and business.

  Great Yarmouth was a bustling fishing port and was also becoming something of a tourist destination, though not as popular as the smaller and more picturesque towns up the coast such as Cromer and Sheringham. Although the weather was warm, the great flat grey expanse of the North Sea looked icily cold, and they didn’t linger long in taking a perambulation along the seafront. They sought out the dining room that Bernard had recommended, and found it to be just as comfortable and welcoming as he had suggested it was.

  They made themselves at home in the main dining room which was playing host to various men having long lunches that seemed quite set to stretch into the afternoon, and possibly after a few drinks, become an evening affair too. Once word spread that the stranger in their midst was an Earl, people were keen to come and introduce themselves at Theodore and Bamfylde’s table.

  Most of their chit-chat was of a general nature but Bamfylde was showing himself to be almost as able as Adelia in steering the conversations in the right direction. They hit gold when a portly gentleman called Hastings joined them. They had finished their meal and were sitting in dark leather chairs near to a low fire, nursing some post-prandial drinks.

  Hastings knew the older Calcraft quite well.

  “He was out on Hong Kong Island for years and years. He even speaks the lingo! Oh, but he hated it.”

  “China?” Theodore asked in surprise. “Why on earth did he stay there, then?”

  “No, he hated the army. Loathed it. He won’t be called Colonel now, just Mister. He was in military service for two decades and he won’t speak of it now. He considers himself a businessman, and he is. He exports the things that China wants, and imports what we want.”

  “And what is all that?”

  “Well, they want clocks and watches. I know, strange, but there you go. They want silver, too. As for the opium, let’s brush that aside. I don’t think that was ever Calcraft’s thing. He specialises in silver things and the horological side of it all. There are some good clock-makers in Norwich, you know.”

  “And what does he import?”

  “Oh, the usual. We want tea, we want silk and we want porcelain. I think he goes in for porcelain, mostly, with a bit of silk on the side. Tea’s more of a specialist thing, you know, out of his area of expertise. Oh, we export missionaries, too! Scattering schools all over the place in the name of Empire, aren’t we? But that is definitely not his bag.”

  “And have you worked with him?”

  “No, not really. Not directly. Most of my trade is with India, specifically Goa, so I’m more with the Portuguese side of things. Much easier language than Mandarin or Cantonese or whatever, I have to say. Our paths have crossed at trade events, that’s all, and in clubs and the like, over the years. And if I am honest, I have to say that I haven’t seen much of him lately. I think he might be retiring. But he’s never said so openly.”

  Theodore’s ears pricked up at that. “When was the last time he was seen, properly, about in company, do you know? Could it have been about a year ago?” He thought that Spenning’s death might have been a watershed.

  “Oh, years and years; five at least. He’s been getting more reclusive.”

  Theodore thought, well, that doesn’t fit so neatly into my idea. “Reclusive? Like Walter Spenning? Did you know that man? I think your businesses might have been similar, too.”

  Hastings barked out a laugh. “No one knew Spenning! Couldn’t stand the man. Bitter and surly and mean. You’d never see him in a place like this. Yes, he was in business, but he was one of those men who worked alone. He didn’t want to share profits, and he was terrified of sharing business secrets.”

  “And sharing control,” Theodore said, musing. “But didn’t Spenning and Calcraft work together at one time?”

  “Ages ago, yes, but not for long and it did not go well. No one thought that it could possible work out, and it didn’t. Spenning was always a reclusive miser. Calcraft was not; he’s simply withdrawn into himself with age. I suppose he’s made enough money and wants to retire in peace, and why not!”

  “And what do you think of Spenning’s strange death?”

  Hasting’s eyebrows shot up. “Last year? He slipped and fell, as far as I understand it. No one has mourned his loss, I am ashamed to say, but he wasn’t really the sort of fellow you’d go out and kill. The police came to that conclusion in the end. He was unpleasant but not … I don’t know. Not wickedly so. He wouldn’t have deserved to be murdered.”

  “Nobody does,” Theodore said.

  “Then you’ve not met my mother-in-law,” Hastings guffawed, and a few men nearby turned their heads to laugh along with the joke, and Theodore saw they’d get no more information for the moment.

  They took the train back to Empton.

  As they alighted at the station, Theodore said to Bamfylde, “Now here’s a totally different question for you. Adelia and I have been talking about this and we are not sure, and it is not really our place to pry any further, but you might have some insight. Are Bernard and Anne doing well for money? Is their financial situation secure? The house seems a little neglected, at the edges at least, and they keep a very small staff. The housekeeper seems perpetually drunk and she’s certainly carrying on with the manservant who see
ms to perform every duty from valet to butler to chopping firewood.”

  “There is always food on the table,” Bamfylde said.

  “Yes, but there is a certain lack of luxury that bothers me. A feeling that money is being eked out, not enjoyed. I would wish for my family to be doing better.”

  “The baron makes at least some of his money authoring books and articles,” Bamfylde said slowly.

  “But is it enough? What of this trust, this Blaisdell Trust – what’s that?”

  Bamfylde didn’t reply. He seemed ill-at-ease, which suggested to Theodore that he did, in fact, know something.

  And it was something that Theodore wouldn’t want to know.

  It was infuriating. Theodore hoped it wasn’t a matter of mere pride that stood in the way of Bernard and Anne asking for money. Heavens knew, Theodore and Adelia had heaps of the stuff and he was damned if he was going to go the way of the miser Walter Spenning and not spend it. It was there to make everyone’s life easier and happier. He would happily spread it around.

  But on the other hand, if Bamfylde was staying loyal to his half-sister and her family, that was very commendable. Clearly, the lad was torn.

  Then he realised that Bamfylde wasn’t silent because he was avoiding the question. He was staring up at the sky, almost ignoring Theodore. It was getting dark already, drawing into that pale twilight that drains the colour from everything.

  But there was colour – up in the clouds.

  There was a flash of green that seemed to shower a rain of sparks down about a mile away.

  They could hear, a few seconds later, a faint whizz and pop.

  Then the sky lit up with red, and more whooshing sounds were heard.

  “Where is it coming from? Has a building exploded?” Bamfylde said.

  Theodore made some connections. “We’re facing towards Calcraft’s house. Calcraft – tea, silk, porcelain. And what else do we import from China?”

  “Oh! Fireworks!”

  “Fireworks, indeed. Now, then, do you think that Calcraft is celebrating the return of his son?”

  “It appears so.”

  “But why?” said Theodore. “And, most importantly, why has all this happened now?”

  “Because his son has come home.”

  “Yes, but why has he come home now? Now that we are here? I rather fear that we are far more involved in all of this than we yet fully understand.”

  6

  Just before dinner that night, Anne came to see Adelia in her chamber. Theodore had pottered off somewhere, doing heavens knew what. Bernard and Anne kept a relaxed sort of house, and it really was true when they said “Make yourself at home” – they meant it, and it was easy to do so.

  Anne slipped into Adelia’s room. She had dressed for the evening meal in a plain red gown which was old but of a good quality. Adelia felt as if she were showing off when placed next to her daughter; she had dressed with care but now felt like an over-dressed mannequin in her modern town fashions.

  “Mama,” Anne said, “I must speak to you very plainly and urgently.”

  “Come in, sit down. Whatever is the matter?”

  “It’s Bamfylde. No, I don’t mean there’s anything the matter with him.” Anne folded her hands in her lap and gathered her thoughts. When she spoke again, her voice was measured and formal, as if the speech had been practised. “Now, Bamfylde has been asking me about money and how this household survives. He asked about the trust money and so on.”

  “Ah. I admit I am idly curious, myself. As a mother, of course, I want to be assured that you and Bernard are quite … secure. I cannot help but notice that … We can help … if …”

  Anne had closed her eyes as Adelia spoke. It made Adelia come to a halt. She couldn’t read her daughter’s facial expression.

  Anne said, “Mother, listen. I do not want to keep any secrets from you, because I can see that they are always, always harmful. The others have told me all about their problems, you know, in their letters. Every time that one of them has tried to keep something from you, it has caused complications. I do not want complications and nor does Bernard. It is all so very unnecessary.”

  “Very wise.”

  “And so here it is. You must know all of the truth without delay. Mama, Bernard’s income is small and barely keeps us in food.”

  “Has he no inheritance? When I arranged this marriage, I was sure that…”

  “He had a good income then, at the university, and stood to inherit a great deal from his father. You will remember that the good man died a few years ago?”

  “A sad loss.”

  “Indeed, and speaking of loss, he left nothing but debts. We were astonished. We’ve hushed it up, of course. And Bernard is of such a minor family that no one cared, in the end. It would not have made the papers.” Anne took a deep breath, and to Adelia’s astonishment, she began to smile. A wicked glint came into her eyes. “Mama, since then, it is I who have supported this family.”

  “You? But how?”

  Anne’s smile became a grin though she went a little pink in the cheeks. “Mama, I write books. I write novels, in fact. They are ridiculous, lurid, gothic, romantic tomes that are positively stuffed with remote castles, injured maidens, mysterious dark strangers and evil uncles. People are locked in cellars at least every other chapter.”

  Adelia felt her mouth slacken. Of all the things to hear one of her daughters say – and from all of her daughters, for it to be from this one – it was unbelievable.

  Yet hadn’t she always been a bookworm? A girl of strong emotions and wild passions? Indeed, had she not always been the heroine of her very own gothic novel? Suddenly it all made sense.

  Anne was watching her carefully.

  Adelia burst out laughing, and Anne relaxed too. Adelia clapped her hands. “This is the most wonderful thing that I’ve ever heard, and dear Anne, I am so very, very proud of you. Society might judge – oh, I suppose that it must – but truly this is marvellous and I simply must read one of these works.”

  Anne clapped her hand over her mouth and said, in a stifled voice, “Oh, no, mama, not that! I could not bear it.”

  “Nonsense.” Adelia jumped up and rushed to the door, intending to call for Theodore and tell him the amazing news, but her noiseless approach and sudden wrenching of the door startled the eavesdropper on the other side.

  Emily Johnson jumped up, and went absolutely scarlet.

  “Miss Johnson!” said Adelia in shock and creeping anger. What sort of person crept around listening at doors?

  Emily herself looked furious, as if she wanted to take the guilt of being caught and direct it instead at some other party. She glared past Adelia and pointed a thin finger towards Anne.

  “You write and sell silly little books? Immoral books? Tawdry, shameful books? How long has this scandal been going on? Oh, for the love of your husband and your son and your good reputation, please tell me that you don’t use your own name!”

  “Of course I don’t,” said Anne. She spoke calmly, as if Emily was engaged in a rational conversation and not screaming like a fishwife. “And furthermore, they are not silly nor immoral. They are light diversions, that is all.”

  “And they are for women, are they?”

  “They are naturally my greatest readership.”

  “Young women, who are so easily influenced? Young women, who ought to be reading the Scriptures and certain improving texts – not – not – fiction. Many eminent thinkers condemn the reading of novels! Young women are too impressionable! You could damage them! How can you live with yourself? Does this not cause unrest in your soul?”

  “No one is forced to read my books,” Anne said testily.

  “And you get money for your work, like a common …”

  Adelia stepped in before the accusations sank to a level that would do no one any honour. She said, sharply, “Miss Johnson! May I remind you that I was engaged in a private conversation with my own daughter. Might you elaborate as to why I
found you so close to the door?”

  “I – I had just come to knock and ask if you were coming to dinner,” Emily replied, lies all over her face.

  And she knew she had no real defence. Before Adelia or Anne could say anything further, Emily said, “But I can see you are all busy. Good day.” She spun around and stalked off rigidly.

  Adelia watched her go. Once she was definitely out of earshot, she turned to Anne who had remained seated. Her hands were knotted tightly in her lap. Her calm outward demeanour was being sorely tested but she was firm.

  “Oh, Anne, however do you stand her?”

  “Because no one else will,” Anne replied simply. “So I must. And I do believe she is a good person at heart. And she is so patient and loving with little Patrick. But really, it comes down to this – I treat everyone as I should wish to be treated myself. What, then, should I do now, but forgive her?”

  Adelia grimaced. “That’s a fine sentiment for Sundays but is hard to practice in real life without sounding like a prig.”

  “If I do good by it, then I will take the chance of sounding like a prig. That’s only a matter for others and their opinions. It is nothing to me. I answer to my own conscience. Come, now. Let us go down to dinner.”

  Theodore had been delighted to hear of Anne’s little money-making venture. Adelia told him that night as they dressed for bed, and he chortled to himself, just as she knew that he would. Of course, he would have given Anne and Bernard all the money that they needed, but wasn’t it rather thrilling that they were managing by themselves – and Anne was so much happier for it, too!

  He had seem similar flowerings in some of his other daughters as they seized the growing opportunities for women as the century trundled to a close. Mary had her horses and her stables, though that was rather less about making money and more about simply doing something, something productive with her time, something that aligned with her passions. Edith was obsessed with information and how all her connections could be used to help holidaymakers and vacationers plan more effective excursions. Margaret’s project was a vanity one, all about arts and crafts, supported by her husband Ramon – Theodore didn’t think they’d make any money either, and would probably lose a fair bit, but they had plenty to lose and it wouldn’t matter to them at all.