The Gilded Shroud

by Elizabeth Bailey

  “Oh yes, Mama, do come with me. I am sure I should be the better for your company, for I am so overset, I scarcely know what I am doing.”

  But Sybilla had no attention to spare for her daughter. Her keen gaze raked Ottilia. “And what are you proposing to do once you have me safely out of the way?”

  Ottilia preserved her countenance. “My dear ma’am, I cannot imagine what gave you the notion that I wanted you out of the way.”

  “You need not dissemble. I suppose you will be off questioning the servants without me.”

  The accusatory tone made Ottilia smile. “To be frank with you, ma’am, I believe I may make more headway on my own.” She was obliged to interrupt an indignant retort. “Do not bite my head off, ma’am. All I meant was that the servants are more likely to open up when they are not confronted with the marquis’s mother.”

  A reluctant sigh was drawn from the dowager and her little spurt of defiance died. “That I cannot deny. Very well, do as you wish. But I will want a full report.”

  “Of course. But in any event I will question no one today, for I must take a last careful inspection of the marchioness’s bedchamber to ensure all is safe to be removed and packed away.”

  Ottilia became aware that Lady Dalesford, apparently recovering from her stupefaction, was looking in puzzlement from one to the other.

  “Do we seem to be talking in riddles, ma’am?”

  The countess did not answer this directly. “You are questioning the servants?”

  “Of course she is questioning the servants. How else are we to find out what happened?”

  “But if Randal—”

  “We are not dealing in ‘if,’ Harriet. We must proceed on the assumption that Randal did not kill his own wife.”

  Lady Dalesford covered her eyes with one hand. “How can you, Mama?”

  “Did you expect me to be mealymouthed? Nothing is to be gained by refusing to look at the thing squarely.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But nothing. Emily is dead. Randal has vanished. If Ottilia cannot find evidence to support the view that her death has nothing to do with his departure, I may live to see my son tried by a jury of his peers. I have faced that, and so must you.”

  The countess, surging up from her chair, brushed this aside. “What I am trying to ask you, Mama, is why this burden falls upon Ottilia—oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Draycott.”

  “Pray don’t. We need not stand upon ceremony.”

  “No, well, be that as it may, if Randal has gone, why in the world is Francis not the one to undertake these investigations?”

  “Because your brother, competent as he has shown himself in dealing with the aftermath of this horrible affair, has not Ottilia’s genius.”

  Here Ottilia felt bound to intervene. “I wish you will not say such things, ma’am. You will give Lady Dalesford an entirely erroneous impression.” She looked directly at the countess. “Your dismay is perfectly understandable, ma’am. Your mother exaggerates. If I have a knack, it lies perhaps in observing what others might not. And in this particular, as I have already had occasion to explain, I can more readily observe because I am not intimately involved.”

  Lady Dalesford did not appear to be convinced. Her brows went up. “My dear Mrs. Draycott, if you have impressed my mother enough for her to be calling you a genius, I am ready to believe you possess far more than a ‘knack.’” All at once she smiled, reaching out across the table to grasp Ottilia’s hands. “I must thank you. If you can indeed find out the truth and clear my brother of suspicion, I shall join in singing your praises to the skies.”

  Ottilia laughed and pressed the hands holding hers before releasing them. “I must beg you will do no such thing. And although I am satisfied there is sufficient evidence to support the belief that your brother is innocent, I cannot persuade myself that it will convince a jury.”

  “Then pray do all in your power to change that view.”

  Ottilia thanked her, and refrained from pointing out that until another suspect had been discovered, nothing would avail to determine Lord Polbrook’s complete innocence.

  It was no bad thing, Ottilia felt, to send mother and daughter off together. There must be a deal to say upon the event that was not for the ears of a virtual stranger. She hoped Sybilla might be encouraged to unburden herself of the distresses that had come upon her these few days. Hard to believe so little time had passed, so eventful seemed the period.

  As she climbed the stairs on her way towards the late marchioness’s bedchamber, Ottilia wondered whether Lord Francis had yet reached Bath. He had opted to drive his own curricle and four, saying it would make for better speed, despite the disadvantage of having to secure suitable teams at the various stages. The marquis kept no horses on that route, although Lord Francis had said that he believed his brother stabled pairs all along the road to Portsmouth. Which confirmed the likelihood of his having gone by that way, since it was clearly a route he took frequently. Ottilia made little headway in calculating how long it might take Lord Francis to get back with his niece, especially taking into account the likely condition of the roads, and was dismayed to discover in herself an eagerness for his return.

  This was absurd. She must suppose it to be mere impatience to communicate her findings. Not that these were in any way substantial. Indeed, she could hardly be said to have found out very much at all. The potential entry point for a lover was spurious, to say the least. And all one could take from what Sukey had told her was the certainty that at seven o’clock the marchioness was already dead. Which was substantially proven, according to the doctor’s calculations.

  Ottilia found it in her to be glad, after all, that there was little likelihood of seeing Lord Francis for a day or so, giving her more time. It would be decidedly embarrassing, after the buildup she had been given, to have so little to show for her efforts.

  Arrived at the fatal chamber, she slipped a hand through to the pocket beneath her gown and groped for the key. Fitting it into the lock, she hesitated briefly before going in, unable to resist a glance back into the vestibule to check she was not observed. There was no one in sight, and she swiftly turned the handle, removed the key, and entered, locking the door again from the inside.

  Turning, Ottilia noticed the bed-curtains had been pulled open on three sides, no doubt by the undertakers to facilitate the removal of the body. The bed linen had been drawn down the bed, but was otherwise undisturbed. She glanced across to the chaise longue. The silken dressing robe was just where it had been left. Looking to the mantel, she found the clock to which Sukey had referred: a small gilt case clock with an ornately decorated face. To either side were delicate china figures. Emily, Lady Polbrook, had been a woman of feminine taste, it seemed.

  This notion was borne out by a painting above the fireplace of an idyllic country scene of nymphs upon a picnic, a charming set of miniatures upon one wall, and the ornate and gilded design framing the long mirror. The bed-curtains, which Ottilia had not taken in upon her previous visit, were of deep blue velvet, but the posts and tester were painted white and covered in gilt. Ottilia began to suspect that the occupant of the room, despite the gruesome ugliness of her corpse, had been in life a handsome creature. There must, Ottilia thought, be somewhere a portrait of the dead woman. She would seek it out.

  Meanwhile, there was work to be done. There was nothing to be gained by inspecting the bed. The soiled linen must be thoroughly scrubbed, although Ottilia might suggest to the dowager the advisability of burning the sheets, or giving them away to the poor. She was not easily dismayed, but the thought of using them caused a riffle of disgust she was certain would be echoed by anyone in the house.

  The chest at the foot of the bed boasted many pairs of shoes set neatly side by side and one atop the other, with several parasols laid behind them. Ottilia made a cursory inspection of the night table cupboard housing the chamber pot, and turned her attention to its single drawer above. This proved to contain little more
than a bible, a few discarded hairpins, a large key that excited her immediate attention, the stub end of an old candle, and a few oddments of paper, scribbled with notes. Ottilia had no hesitation in reading them, but found nothing incriminating. The flowery hand that had written them was of interest, and there was but one of potential significance.

  It was a scrap torn from a sheet, and on it had been written a single letter and three numbers: Q230.

  Ottilia stared at it for several moments. There was nothing to say it had any bearing on the night in question. Indeed, it almost certainly had not, since it was buried under a selection of other notes, most of which appeared to be matters relating to the household, reminders—one to speak to Thriplow, for example, or a list of ladies’ names perhaps for an invitation. But this was a curious item. Ottilia pocketed it, slipping the rest of the papers back into the drawer.

  Shifting her attention to the key, she turned it over and over in her hands, recalling the dowager’s notion that an enterprising woman might supply one to a lover. Was this a key to an outer door? It appeared heavy enough, yet was not so bulky that it could not be concealed in a pocket beneath a gown, as Ottilia found when it followed the slip of paper into her own. She debated whether to keep it there, but decided it was safer where she had found it and slipped the key back in the drawer. She must warn the dowager to leave its contents untouched.

  She shut the drawer and headed for the dressing room, which was where she expected at least to find more clues to enable her to form a clearer picture of the late marchioness’s character. The underclothing flung with haste upon the floor still lay where it had fallen, and Ottilia let it be. Also untouched was the open drawer of the dressing commode, with its collection of glass pots, several left open with their silver lids scattered and flecks of colour spattering over everything. The marchioness, it was evident, had been a woman of untidy habits.

  Not so her personal maid. Ottilia opened the larger clothes press, one of a set veneered, like the dressing commode, with oriental lacquer. She found gowns, bodices, and petticoats folded with meticulous care and laid up in perfect order, each item in its allotted place in the trays lined with marbled paper. She would swear the late Lady Polbrook’s impatient fingers had touched nothing here that night.

  Turning to the second, Ottilia found a similar pattern of order, where her ladyship’s bonnets were carefully stowed together with a selection of pelisses and scarves. In the drawers under the press cupboards were found her ladyship’s undergarments: stays, shifts, and stockings, together with her night attire and those accoutrements necessary to a lady’s complete appearance.

  Finally there was a modest old-fashioned chest of drawers. As Ottilia opened the top drawer, it was immediately apparent that within it a hasty hand had rummaged, throwing out of kilter a selection of frivolous accessories.

  Ottilia looked without touching, noting gloves with strings tangled about them, handkerchiefs thrown pell-mell, indeterminate articles of silken sheen twisted about one another. Poking through the mêlée was a satin garter, one of an embroidered pair of pockets, and the edge of a bejewelled mask.

  Had the fingers that wrought this shambles belonged to the marchioness? What could she have needed in this motley collection? If her purpose was an assignation with her lover, these seemed scarcely the sort of accessories through which to be hunting. A garter? Ottilia conjured the image of the woman’s dead body into her mind. She’d worn no stockings. Had they been discarded along with the other undergarments? She looked across to the untidy pile on the floor. Had Emily taken them off at that time they would be on top, and no such accoutrement was visible. No, they must have been removed later. In which case, where were they? And where indeed were the garters that had held them up?

  Crossing swiftly through to the bedchamber, Ottilia pulled the bedclothes down. Wrinkling her nose at the revived odour and the myriad stains, she gingerly twitched the sheet. Nothing. With a mental note to make a thorough search for the missing stockings before delivering the room up to the dowager’s ministrations, she went back to the dressing room to study the drawer again. Dismissing the notion of the marchioness needing a garter, she looked over the rest of its visible contents.

  Were there fans in here? No, that made no sense, for had not Mary Huntshaw seen the fan that was a Polbrook heirloom discarded among the paints and powders? Without rummaging herself, Ottilia could see nothing that might aid a woman in the expectation of entertaining a man in her bedchamber. Yet if Emily had not hunted through this drawer, who had?

  There was only one way to find out. Going through to the bedchamber, Ottilia looked about for the bellpull. Seeing it, she crossed and tugged upon it with vigour. Then she went back into the dressing room to check the other three drawers of the chest. There were fans aplenty, knots of ribbon, gloves and strings, mittens and muffs, fur tippets, feathered headdresses, knotting-bags, artificial flowers, girdles, and trinkets. In a word, all the little accessories indispensable to the lady’s needs. But everything was neat and orderly, nothing out of place.

  Ottilia was about to return to the dressing commode to examine the glass pots when footsteps sounded without and an unseen hand tried the door handle. The key to the dressing room was still with Lord Francis. Ottilia went into the bedchamber and unlocked the door. Opening it, she found Huntshaw at the dressing room door in the little lobby outside the chamber, looking white and fearful. She let out a sighing breath, clapping a hand to her bosom.

  “Oh, it’s you, miss.”

  “Indeed it is,” said Ottilia lightly. “What, did you suppose your mistress had risen from the dead?”

  The woman shivered. “I didn’t know what to think, miss. It gave me such a turn when the bell went.”

  “I hope you will pardon me for having startled you, Mary, but I need your help.”

  The maid’s mouth drooped. “Is it—is it time to be sorting my lady’s things?”

  “Not now,” Ottilia said gently, laying a hand on her arm. “And you need have no apprehension. The task is to be undertaken by the Dowager Lady Polbrook and Lady Dalesford. You will merely assist them.”

  These tidings made Huntshaw look, if anything, even more fearful. “Then what do you want of me, miss?”

  “Come with me, if you please.”

  Ottilia led the way to the dressing room, noting how Mary shuddered as her glance fell upon the disordered bed. The sooner it was cleared up and the memories laid to rest, the better. But the open drawer proved an immediate distraction.

  “Lordy, what a mess!”

  “Just so, Mary.” She put out a restraining hand as the woman’s fingers reached towards the drawer. “Don’t touch it! At least not yet.”

  Huntshaw looked at her. “I hope you don’t think I left it in that state, miss.”

  Ottilia smiled her reassurance. “I have seen enough of your handiwork to know you could not have done. What I wish to ask is whether you think her ladyship might have searched for something in this drawer.”

  “Not she,” said Mary without hesitation. “If my lady had been in there, she would have left the drawer open and the things all strewn about, and I’ll stake my life it weren’t open when I came in that morning.”

  “That is rather what I suspected. Besides, I cannot think what she could have wanted among this stuff, can you?”

  “Nothing, miss. Nor I don’t think she’d have been wishful to have put on any jewellery, for I’d already laid up what she was wearing that night.”

  Ottilia’s heart skipped a beat. “Jewellery? She kept jewellery in this drawer?”

  Mary’s mind had obviously leapt to the same conclusion that was jangling in Ottilia’s. A horrified expression came into her eyes and she reached out immediately towards the drawer. Remembering, she looked to Ottilia.

  “Shall I—?”

  “Yes, for heaven’s sake, look!”

  She watched in rising trepidation as the woman pulled the drawer out further, thrust aside the intervening articles
with trembling fingers, and reached deep into the back. Ottilia could tell by the changing expressions on her face as her arm swept back and forth that her worst fears were confirmed.

  Huntshaw withdrew her hand, staring blankly at Ottilia. “It’s not there, miss.”

  Chapter 8

  Ottilia gazed at the woman. “Do you mean a jewel box?”

  The maid nodded, her eyes becoming frantic, as she once again thrust her hand into the drawer and hunted with increasing panic as she spoke.

  “It’s a wooden box but covered in velvet so’s no one would think anything of it. My lady kept the key on a chain around her neck. Except at night. She put it in the little drawer beside her bed.”

  “Well, it’s not there now,” Ottilia said grimly, “for I have already looked through that drawer.”

  “Stolen!” Tearful now, Huntshaw once more removed her hand from the drawer. “The box is gone, miss. And if the key’s not there—”

  “Stand aside,” said Ottilia curtly. “Let me try.”

  Seizing a handful of items from the drawer, she instructed the woman to set them aside. Before long there was a pile of articles laid higgledy-piggledy on top of the press and the drawer was empty. Ottilia stood back with a defeated sigh.

  “There is no box.”

  Huntshaw peered into the drawer, as if she might conjure the box back into its place. “But who would steal it? Who would know it was there?”

  “Evidently someone did.”

  “But only my lady and myself knew where her jewels were kept. Besides, they weren’t always in that drawer. We were used to move them every few weeks. Sometimes my lady would even have me take some out of the box and secrete them between the folds of her gowns.”

  Ottilia eyed her absently, her mind roving possibilities. “But not on this occasion?”