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

by Issy Brooke

  Adelia felt that Anne was over-interpreting Adelia’s feelings. All Adelia wanted to do was to have a bit of a moan and then move on. But she took Anne’s advice in the spirit that it was given, and let the matter drop.

  Something else occurred to her, then. “Anne, we all received post this morning at breakfast.”

  “Yes. And you’re going to ask me about the letter that Emily opened, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. She tucked it away hastily. Have you any idea who might have sent it?”

  “Actually, I do, for I asked her. She did look a little distressed and she said it was from Mrs Pickworth.”

  “Mrs Pickworth! She of such charitable acclaim?”

  “The same. But Emily wouldn’t tell me what it said.” Anne frowned. “And mama, I am sure that it is not suspicious at all.”

  “Hmm.” Adelia was bursting with curiosity already. She began to formulate a plan.

  “So, what do we do next?” Anne said.

  And Adelia kept her plans to herself, mostly. She simply said, “Your father is concentrating on Mr Calcraft. I will continue to look into Mrs Spenning, though I shall have to come at it sideways. Can we pay a call upon the vicar’s wife, do you think?”

  “Certainly. When?”

  “As soon as is both polite and possible.”

  They called at the vicarage that very day, and as soon as they had the required information, Anne and Adelia headed straight into Great Yarmouth. It was a much calmer day and the wind was low. The sea was almost glass-flat in patches and seagulls whirled high above, calling plaintively.

  For now they had Florence Spenning’s maiden name. Adelia had been curious for a long time about the woman’s past. She was so much younger than her husband. He had never married before. Perhaps, of course, he had seen the error of his single life and chosen a young wife so that he might get an heir.

  But that had never happened.

  So, Adelia wondered, what was Mrs Spenning’s background? Who was she, when she had been simply Miss Florence Arkwright?

  They headed to the workhouse and entered the church that lay alongside. It was cool and almost empty. Adelia had hoped to find a clergyman to assist them, but instead the only person they were able to speak to was a hoary old woman with a hairy chin and even hairier fingerless gloves. She was dusting the pews with a grubby cloth and was more than willing to stop her work and talk to them.

  And yes. She had heard of Miss Florence Arkwright.

  “What sort of family does she come from? Are they local?” Adelia asked first.

  “No, not local at all. They were from Cromer, I believe, but I have not heard of them for a long time. Probably all dead now.”

  “Ah. And were they in trade?” Adelia thought that it would be likely that Mr Spenning had met the young Florence through business, probably that of her father.

  Again, she was wrong. “No, no, they were just middling sorts. They had a small shop for a while. That’s all I know.”

  “Have you any idea how Miss Arkwright met Mr Spenning?”

  “She came here. Something happened to her. It wasn’t her choice. It never is.”

  “Illness?” said Adelia, fearing something much worse. What would send a young woman to a workhouse?

  The usual, unmentionable things.

  “Illness?” cackled the old lady. “I suppose for some it’s an illness of a sort.”

  “Mrs Gadd!” came a clear young male voice from the entrance to the church.

  She shot to her feet, her knees creaking. “Vicar! These folks here want to talk about Mrs Spenning.”

  “Then these folks would be better to consider the matter of their own immortal souls rather than indulging in gossip about others.” He advanced upon them. He was in his twenties and fierce with a burning religious passion. There was a look in the eye that young zealots got. A certain way they wore their black clothing like holy armour.

  Anne tried to speak to him, but Adelia hung back, knowing that it was useless. And Anne got nowhere, and within five minutes there were back out on the street.

  “Well, that was useful,” said Adelia. “So the young lady fell into trouble and came to the workhouse. I can imagine that the trouble was of the usual sort that affects innocent young girls.” She sighed.

  “But this makes it even more strange that Mr Spenning would choose her for a wife!” Anne cried.

  “It depends on what sort of wife he was wanting,” Adelia replied. “And don’t plenty of men like the idea of saving a fallen woman? That way they get undying gratitude for ever and they can see themselves as a saint. And don’t forget that he was a controlling man. He controlled his finances and no doubt he’d control his household too. And who is more easily controlled than a woman who has absolutely nothing of her own, not even her own good name?”

  Anne put her gloved hand to her throat as she thought it all through. “Good heavens,” she croaked. “Do you think he was a … monster to her?”

  “Perhaps. Would it not account for the way she is now?”

  “I think that yes, it would. I do feel sympathy for her, if our speculations are true.”

  Adelia nodded and sighed. The interaction, and its implications, had left her feeling cold and slightly nauseous. “Let us take some refreshments before we continue,” she said. “I have spotted some respectable-looking teashops.”

  There were plenty of places to eat and drink. It was early in the holiday season but the whole town was catering, now, to day trippers as much as it could. They spent a pleasant half-hour trying cakes and sandwiches in a place almost entirely covered in doilies and lace before deciding to walk along the beach.

  But they didn’t get that far.

  Young Archibald Calcraft was in town and he had spotted them first. He bowed low, and went pink in the face, clearly feeling awkward. They had never yet met him under normal circumstances, which explained his embarrassment.

  He had two brown-wrapped parcels in his arms, and another tied on rather clumsily to the belt around his waist. He shifted his load and looked, at any moment, to be in danger of dropping it all to the ground.

  “Mr Calcraft, sir, whatever are you doing?” Anne said plainly, with all the directness of her father.

  He grimaced. “I am on something of a hunt,” he replied. “I have been to every pawnbroker, jewellery, antiques dealer and general shop in the town.”

  “Are you looking for something in particular?”

  “No, just items of a most general sort. I am trying to buy back everything that my father has just sold.”

  Adelia said, “I often have an urge to clear the house of clutter…”

  “No, it’s not that. He just seems to be on a mission to sell absolutely everything, starting with the most valuable. Even things that I thought had great sentimental meaning to him! I have been able to get his favourite clock back. His carved walking stick, alas, will never be seen again.”

  “Doesn’t he need his walking stick?”

  “He has others. Though here’s the odd thing – he is selling things that he needs. I don’t understand it. We don’t lack for money. There is no reason for this wholescale disposal of his whole life.”

  “What does he say when you ask him? We had heard he intended to travel,” Adelia said.

  “I heard that rumour too, but I don’t believe it, for he has said nothing of the sort to me. In fact, he says very little to me. He mutters to himself, and he rushes from the room. And every morning when I get up, the house is a little emptier.”

  “Where is your father now?” Adelia asked, starting to feel alarmed by the description of a man who could possibly be unwell.

  “We came into Yarmouth together. I was trying to stick close to him, to prevent him from further mistakes. But then he saw a certain Mr Yate, and he left so as to speak to him, and refused to allow me to accompany him. I decided I’d make the most of the opportunity to continue to undo the damage he has been wreaking.”

  “Who is Mr Yate?” Adelia sa
id.

  “I believe he is a solicitor. But he’s not our usual one. That’s Mr Hedges.”

  “Do you know what business he had with Mr Yate?”

  The largest parcel slipped in Mr Archie Calcraft’s fingers and he had to do a little shuffling dance to one side to get things right again. “I’m awfully sorry, no, I don’t. I say, I hate to dash off but you really must excuse me … my fingers are going numb, and …”

  “Oh! Of course. Please, good day to you.”

  He nodded and inched away, muttering and cursing as he headed for a cab.

  Anne said to Adelia, “Mrs Spenning is all very well, but I do think we ought to look at Mr Calcraft too. And we need to tell papa all about this.”

  “We do. Let’s walk on the beach another day.”

  They hurried back to Litton.

  19

  They spotted Mrs Macauley as their carriage rolled into the driveway of Litton. She was walking towards the house, and she stopped and stepped to one side when she heard the wheels crunching on the gravel.

  She waved madly at them, grinning, and caught them up as they disembarked.

  “I have news!” she said.

  “Let us get inside and get changed, and ring for some refreshments, and…” Anne said, but she was interrupted by the ebullient Mrs Macauley who was hopping from foot to foot.

  “No, I must tell you this information immediately, or I shall simply burst! And there is no need to change on my account, as I am calling on Miss Johnson, not yourselves. Oh, how rude that sounds! Anyway, you know what I mean. I have brought her some peppermint creams. Nothing settles a stomach like a peppermint cream.”

  “How thoughtful of you.”

  “No, it’s entirely selfish. I would not sit at home and eat half a box of sweets, but if I am at an invalid’s bedside then it’s perfectly acceptable. Anyway!” cried Mrs Macauley, now interrupting herself. “My news! I was having lunch in Yarmouth today.”

  “So were we – what a shame we didn’t see one another.”

  “I was at Bonnet’s. And you?”

  “Oh,” said Anne. “The other side of town entirely.”

  “Then you should have been at Bonnet’s. For as well as the very best Darjeeling tea, I had the best place to eavesdrop on some gossip for you. Apparently, Mr Calcraft made quite the scene in a small private dining room last night!”

  “Which Mr Calcraft?”

  “The elder. The dotty old man. And guess who was on the attack, berating him?”

  “I cannot,” said Adelia.

  “Oh, you simply must play.”

  Adelia glared until Mrs Macauley sniffed and carried on. “Very well. It was Mr Hedges, the solicitor!”

  “Now that is interesting. What was the cause of the argument?”

  Adelia was astonished when Mrs Macauley was able to calm her own excitement and finally tell her.

  “Apparently, Mr Calcraft has rewritten his will! Mr Hedges is furious. He has always dealt with the Calcraft affairs. So for Mr Calcraft to rewrite his will with a different man – well, you can see the slight, can’t you?”

  “I can indeed. And who was the new solicitor?”

  “Mr Yate. It’s not a name that I know. There was some debate about who he was. He seemed to be newly come from London, which tells you something, doesn’t it?”

  “Does it?” asked Adelia in confusion.

  “Well, who would willingly leave London for here? He is either retiring or in disgrace. Although if I were a man, I should make sure to retire in disgrace, for one might as well take down two birds with one stone!”

  “Indeed. Mrs Macauley, this is all very helpful.”

  “I know!” she replied, beaming. “I am a detective at last! And now, I must pay my call upon Miss Johnson. These creams won’t eat themselves, you know!” She sailed off up the steps to the house and was swallowed into the gloom.

  Adelia remained where she was.

  Anne looked at her. “Mama? Are we not going to speak to papa?”

  “Yes, we will. But later today, Anne, I have a fancy to pay a call upon Mr Calcraft. We know he was in Great Yarmouth just now, but hopefully he will return this afternoon.”

  “What will we ask him?”

  “Everything.”

  Anne reluctantly disappeared to her duties. She ran the household with the lightest of touches, which allowed for the drunken housekeeper to run riot with the general man about the place, but for all that, things were not in complete disarray. Such a way of doing things would not have been acceptable in London. But here, it seemed to fit.

  The servants, for all their faults, seemed loyal and had all been in their posts for years and years. Adelia had pressed Smith for her insights, and Smith was swollen with disdain and disapproval of “the whole lot of them” but could not offer any actual examples of wrongdoing on a scale to trigger a dismissal. That seemed to disappoint Smith who had clearly wanted the opportunity to lay waste to the household’s domestic staff like an avenging angel and then rebuild it under her own strict direction.

  Adelia asked a servant to tell her where Miss Johnson was. Apparently, she was receiving Mrs Macauley in the parlour downstairs, as the fire was lit there against an unseasonably cold day. Adelia could have whooped. This was exactly the opportunity that she had been hoping for.

  She slipped up the stairs and along the corridor towards Miss Johnson’s rooms which she knew were now unoccupied. Everyone was busy elsewhere and this part of the house was quiet at this time of the day. She knocked at the door anyway, just in case Miss Johnson and Mrs Macauley had come back up, but there was no answer.

  Her heart pounded. She knew she was doing something very wrong and she felt a little ashamed of herself. She could not possibly tell Anne about this. Somehow, her daughter’s effortless kindness made Adelia feel even worse. But then Adelia reminded herself that this was a murder investigation. Did morals really matter when someone was dead?

  She opened the door and peered into the sitting room. The double doors to the bedroom were also open, making it feel like one large space. The desk in the large window had one painting on it, evidently in a preliminary stage. Adelia was drawn to it even though, at this point, it was merely a mass of pale pencil lines and some light watercolour washes. It was still exquisite, brimming with life. There were orchids framing a central image which looked like it was going to be a hummingbird.

  It felt even more of a transgression to slide into the bedroom. The windows had been opened and the fire was unlit. It felt fresh and a little chilly. It had been tidied up and everything was in its place. There was no sign of a letter.

  But there was a notebook tucked under the pillow.

  Adelia inched towards it. All the while, she told herself she would not look – but she knew that she had no choice. She didn’t want to touch it at first. She lifted the pillow and looked at it.

  It was a diary. She could not look at that. She would not. But there was a piece of paper lodged between the cover and the flyleaf. She poked at it with her finger.

  It was the letter from Mrs Pickworth.

  Adelia, feeling hot from tension and unease, grabbed it and read it swiftly.

  It was, in most respects, exactly as she might have imagined. But there was something else hiding in Mrs Pickworth’s words, too.

  It started with the usual pleasantries. I hope that you are making a good recovery from your indisposition at our talk in Great Yarmouth. I was distressed to see you unwell but I was reassured to see that you were taken care of. Lady Blaisdell-Smith and the Countess of Calaway are both remarkable women and I trust that they will ensure your swift return to good health.

  All that was standard. Adelia read on. You have been so good to us in the past and we do hope you might be prevailed upon, if your schedule permits, to assist us later this summer in a similar campaign as before. Your talent is extraordinary. Our discretion will, as always, be paramount. You need not fear a repeat of the unfortunate revelations that occurred last
time.

  The letter concluded with a few more polite phrases.

  Adelia read it twice in utter astonishment, and then replaced it with the diary. Her hand hovered over it. She wanted to know what it contained.

  But she just could not take that final step. It was an ultimate betrayal.

  And she didn’t think, now, that Emily Johnson was a murderess. Therefore, if a life was not at stake, what reason could she have for reading another’s most private of things? She had no justification at all. She would not be able to look herself in a mirror.

  Furthermore, she told herself as she left the rooms, no murderer worth their salt would have written “I did it!” in their diary. Would they?

  She quickly went looking for Theodore, and found him in the library with Bamfylde. Bernard, apparently, was locked up in his study with some urgent work. A deadline loomed – had quite gone past, in fact – and the baron had given orders he was not to be disturbed, except for food, which was to be delivered every two hours.

  Theodore was still brooding upon his hasty mistake that had led to the wrongful arrest of Mrs Spenning. He sat morosely at the table, his elbows upon it, his chin resting on his hands. There were papers spread all about them.

  Bamfylde was frowning at the documents and idly doodling. He struggled with the written word, and throughout his youth had channelled his frustration and sense of inadequacy into troublesome and occasionally violent behaviour. He was a man now, and better able to contain his emotions, but he was clearly ill at ease in being closeted up in the sort of room that could only ever have bad memories for him.

  Both of them perked up as soon as she started to speak. First, she told them what she had learned about Calcraft and the rewriting of his will.

  “He is ill!” Theodore said, slammed his fist on the table. “I simply know it! Calling his son home – putting his business affairs in order – rewriting his will – these are all the hallmarks of a man who knows his time is at an end!”

  “Or perhaps he really does intend to travel,” Bamfylde said.