The Gilded Shroud

by Elizabeth Bailey

  “No, miss. They were all in the box. And I put back the necklace and the crescent for the hair that she was wearing.”

  “Then we can be sure the box was in place when you went off to bed.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “What we can’t know is whether the jewels were taken before or after her ladyship was discovered.”

  Huntshaw gaped at her. “You don’t think—but who would—?”

  Ottilia did not mince her words. “Either the murderer, or a sneak thief who had prior knowledge of the whereabouts of the jewels and took advantage of the chaos of the hour.”

  The maid looked frankly appalled, and no wonder. Then a horrified gasp escaped her and she clapped a hand to her mouth.

  Ottilia frowned. “What is it, Mary?”

  “You don’t think—” The woman broke off, swallowed, and tried again. “You don’t think it was me, do you, miss?”

  A faint laugh was surprised out of Ottilia. “If it were, you have shown yourself an actress of calibre, Mary. No, I think we may safely acquit you. But we may not say the same for others.”

  Before she would dismiss the lady’s maid, Ottilia went through the pile of undergarments on the dressing room floor, shaking out each item and handing it to Mary Huntshaw. No stockings, no garters. But when she picked up the dressing robe from the chaise longue, the woman gave a sudden cry.

  “There, miss. Underneath.”

  Ottilia looked where the woman pointed and saw what the trail of silken material had concealed. A pair of spangled garters lay half coiled under the chaise. Then the stockings had been removed here. Her mind painted an image of the scene, which was all the proof Ottilia needed that a lover had indeed been in the chamber.

  “But the stockings. Where are the stockings?”

  She spoke almost absently, throwing glances about the room. From the puzzlement in Mary’s face, it was evident she had made no such jump as Ottilia’s imagination had furnished. It was time and past she examined the extent of the maid’s knowledge.

  “Mary, do you not see what this means?”

  The woman began to look apprehensive. “How do you mean, miss?”

  “Come, Mary, you are no fool. Her ladyship was not alone that night.”

  A red stain mantled the woman’s cheek. “I did wonder, miss.”

  Ottilia pressed her advantage. “Have you not wondered in the past? You were involved in Lady Polbrook’s intimate concerns, as her personal maid must be. And you have often heard her quarrel with the marquis on the subject of unfaithfulness, have you not?”

  Mary nodded, looking deeply miserable. “But I never saw it, miss. If—if my lady had a lover, I never knew it for certain.”

  “She was discreet where you were concerned, is that it?”

  “She never mentioned no one. She never said.”

  The maid bit her lip, but Ottilia continued to regard her, knowing her own silence would work more in her favour than any amount of probing. Sure enough, within a moment, the dam burst.

  “Oh, I wish I could say it wasn’t so, but I can’t. What else was I to think when she’d send me to bed before ever I’d done what was needful? Just as she did that night. And the bedclothes all rumpled in the morning! Times I saw the imprint of two heads on the pillows, and I knew his lordship never come next or nigh my lady of a nighttime. What else was I to think?”

  Unregarded tears were trickling down Mary’s cheeks and Ottilia was satisfied. The woman’s distress was genuine. She had not been in Emily’s confidence, and the little deceits had dismayed her.

  “Dry your eyes, Mary,” she said gently. “No blame attaches to you, be sure. Speak of this to no one, if you please.”

  “I wouldn’t, miss,” averred the woman, sniffing as she applied her pocket-handkerchief to the wetness at her face. “I’ve never said nothing to nobody, no matter what I thought.”

  “I believe you. And pray keep silence over the disappearance of the jewel box as well. We would not wish to add to everyone’s upset with such a tale.”

  “No, miss. You can trust me, miss.”

  Ottilia smiled at her. “Thank you. Now let us see if we can find those stockings.”

  But a thorough search failed to turn up any sign of them. Ottilia sighed with discontent. Little though stockings counted in value against the momentous loss of the jewels, the mystery of their disappearance niggled. While the fan and the jewel box were both susceptible to several ready explanations, she could not account for anyone removing the stockings from the scene. They had not been used for a ligature, for the imprints of a man’s fingers had been clearly marked on the marchioness’s neck. No other reasonable excuse offering for their disappearance, Ottilia was obliged to lay the problem to one side for the time being.

  Impatient now for the dowager’s return, for it was imperative she was told about the missing jewels as soon as may be, Ottilia sought to distract her mind with an examination of Emily’s portrait. Learning from Mary that this was to be found in the Blue Salon, she released the lady’s maid at last and repaired thither to discover the likeness displayed above a sideboard where the light from the window struck it into prominence.

  Ottilia studied it with interest. If the painter had been faithful to his subject, the late Lady Polbrook had been a magnificent creature. She was pictured in the romantic style of an earlier decade, with high curled and feathered hair of a soft shade of brown and ringlets caressing her white neck, about which a jewelled circlet hung, reposing upon a full white bosom. Her nose was straight, her lips prettily curved, and a pair of vivacious green eyes smiled upon the world in a look captured by the artist, perhaps unconsciously, that gave at a glance the reason for the sitter’s popularity. It was a look both flighty and serene, as if its wearer possessed supreme confidence in the efficacy of her own attractions.

  The marchioness must have been years younger at the time the portrait was painted, but Ottilia could not suppose the inner being to have changed, even if the flesh had shown signs of aging. The inevitable comparison between this and the wreckage she had contemplated in the bedchamber could not fail to incite a resurgence of dismay in Ottilia, together with a surge of sympathy. Whatever she had been, no woman deserved a death so monstrously unpleasant.

  She found herself thinking with sadness of the unfortunate marriage in which Emily had been entangled. Was it any wonder her unhappy alliance had driven her to a life of degradation? What a pity she and the marquis could not have found in each other that felicity of domestic content which might, in the end, have saved her from a fate as tragic as it was horrific.

  Ottilia’s determination redoubled to discover the man who had thus ended the poor creature’s life, even should it prove to be the husband. In her heart of hearts, she was convinced it was not so. But she must establish it beyond reasonable doubt. Yet that was not enough. She must find out the true culprit and have him answer for his deeds.

  Sounds of an arrival distracted her, and she went into the hall to find at last the dowager and her daughter just entering from the street, with Cattawade and the footman Abel exiting by the front door to fetch the countess’s portmanteaux and bandboxes under the direction of that lady’s personal maid.

  Leaving the servants to their labours, the ladies put off their cloaks, which Venner took from them, and were ushered into the parlour by Ottilia.

  “You were in the right of it, Ottilia,” said the dowager, sinking into her favoured chair by the fire. “I feel the better for the change. Though we are decidedly late, due to my daughter’s fuss and bother about her luggage.”

  “And then we took tea, for Mama was parched,” said the countess.

  “We might have been later still,” said Sybilla, ignoring this, “for Harriet would have had me to church, but nothing will induce me to show myself abroad until matters have been resolved.”

  “I daresay the Almighty will forgive you, ma’am,” said Ottilia with a smile.

  “Well, on second thought, I did not care to go my
self,” put in Lady Dalesford, “without being habited properly. How shocking if we had been seen out of mourning in St. George’s on a Sunday!”

  “Worse, to have had all the fools of London gaping at us and daring to offer condolences when we know full well they are dying of curiosity.”

  “Very true, ma’am,” Ottilia agreed. “But I have matter here, unfortunately, that will inevitably return your attention to the difficulties of your situation.”

  Sybilla flung up a hand. “Oh, what now, pray?”

  The story of the disappearance of the jewel box put all thought of the opinions of the outside world out of court. The countess appeared even more perturbed than her mother.

  “Great heavens! Who in the world could have taken it?”

  “Don’t be a widgeon, Harriet. Ottilia has just told you the options.”

  “But why should the murderer make off with Emily’s jewels?”

  “That is a very good question,” cut in Ottilia before the dowager had an opportunity to squash her daughter once more. “But if it was the murderer, we can be even more certain he was not your brother.”

  Lady Dalesford brightened. “No, indeed.”

  “On the other hand,” put in the dowager, “there is also the possibility that the jewels were taken after Emily was found dead. Which means we have a thief on the premises.”

  “One of the servants? Surely not,” protested the countess. “Why, they would know one of them must be immediately suspect.”

  “I am inclined to agree with you, Harriet. Any servant making off with the jewels would be wise to run away altogether.”

  “Just so,” said Ottilia, “which is why I have warned Mary to keep silent about the loss.”

  This move being approved, Ottilia held her tongue on her own thoughts. Unlike the other ladies, she could not dismiss the notion of the theft having been perpetrated by a member of the domestic staff. She was most perturbed by the clear indication that whoever took the jewels knew very well where they were. Even assuming someone had got past Abel, which she had yet to ascertain, that someone would have had very little time in which to abstract the jewel box. Even more difficult to escape Abel’s eye with it on their person, never mind where they might secrete it afterwards.

  Lady Dalesford was standing at the mantel, resting an elbow upon it and leaning her chin on her hand. Abruptly she straightened.

  “Stay! Could Francis have taken the jewel box?”

  Sybilla snorted. “Francis has as little need to be stealing his sister’s gems as Randal himself.”

  “I don’t mean he stole them. But might he not have removed them for safekeeping?”

  Ottilia gave this short shrift. “It is a good thought, Lady Dalesford, but no. For one thing, Lord Francis was not in a state of mind to be thinking as clearly as that. For another, he probably has no notion where the marchioness kept her jewels.”

  “Only too likely,” agreed Sybilla. “Why in the world should he?”

  “Besides, I have it on the authority of Mary Huntshaw that the hiding place was changed from time to time.”

  The countess nodded. “Yes, I do the same thing.”

  “And even if Lord Francis had taken them,” pursued Ottilia, “I am sure he would have mentioned it, or given them into the dowager’s keeping.”

  “I begin to wish it had been so,” said Sybilla on a sour note. “The alternative quite sinks my spirits.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, Harriet, I had far rather believe poor Emily was strangled by her lover in a fit of rage than for the sake of a fistful of jewels.” She glanced suddenly at Ottilia. “Can it be the same man who took the fan?”

  “The fan?”

  Ottilia explained how Emily’s personal maid had seen the Polbrook heirloom in the early morning, but that it had not been there when Ottilia first went into the dressing room. “Which means it need not have been the same perpetrator, for the fan was definitely taken after the marchioness was found. We do not know when the jewels were taken.”

  Lady Dalesford uttered an exasperated cry. “Lord, it is all so muddled and difficult! How will we ever unravel it?”

  “Piece by piece,” Ottilia soothed. She smiled. “Meanwhile, I have told Mary Huntshaw to be ready to assist you both tomorrow. I think we may safely put the room in order now and lay up the marchioness’s effects.”

  The countess shuddered. “A prospect which has effectually ruined my appetite.”

  “Poppycock,” said the dowager on a bracing note. “You must be excessively hungry, for you ate nothing for breakfast.”

  “No, and I doubt I can eat anything now.”

  “I daresay you will find,” said Ottilia, “if you force yourself to begin with, that your appetite will swiftly return. It must be close on the dinner hour. Shall I ring the bell?”

  She spoke in a tone of deliberate cheerfulness, which in no way reflected her own state of mind. The discovery of the theft of the jewels had set up a train of speculation, the import of which was decidedly unnerving, particularly now that Ottilia had seen the portrait. With every encouragement to think of the late marchioness as an adulteress, she was yet reluctant to impugn her with the possibility of the unsavoury liaison that was running in her head.

  Breakfast upon the following morning was enlivened by a conference with the dowager’s favoured seamstress, who had been fetched by Miss Venner. By the time Ottilia came down, the discussion was already in full swing. That the dowager’s efforts had been hampered by the interventions of her daughter was evidenced by Sybilla’s ruffled temper and Lady Dalesford’s decidedly sulky air.

  Having waved Ottilia to a chair, the dowager turned back to the elderly little creature who was standing alongside the taller lady’s maid.

  “Then that is settled, Biddle. You will go back to Bruton Street with Venner. She will unearth the two gowns from the attics, and you may take them away to make the alterations.”

  “I still think you ought to have gauze or silk,” put in the countess in a petulant tone.

  She was seated opposite, partaking of a hearty breakfast—despite her avowed distaste for food—of baked eggs flanked by buttered bread rolls and a plentiful supply of coffee. From the spread of viands set out to tempt the ladies’ appetites, it was evident Mrs. Thriplow had succeeded in restoring some vestige of normality.

  “It will be thought very odd if you appear in that dreadful bombazine.”

  “Bombazine is perfectly acceptable wear for mourning,” said Sybilla tartly. “Besides, one of the gowns is crape.”

  “Crape! Could anything be more old-fashioned?”

  The dowager ignored this. “That will be all, Venner. Thank you, Biddle. As quick as you can do the thing, if you please.”

  The sewing woman curtsied. “Yes, my lady. It won’t be more’n a couple of days, my lady.”

  “That will be satisfactory. Off you go with Venner.”

  The maid was holding open the door, and the little woman waddled out. Lady Dalesford did not wait for the door to be shut.

  “I declare, Mama, you are as obstinate as a pig! We shall be the cynosure of all eyes in no time at all, and it will not do to be dressed in a manner as disrespectful as it is inferior.”

  “Be silent, Harriet,” Sybilla snapped. “I have no intention of parading myself in public, and you, if you have forgotten, will be safely immured at Dalesford Hall.”

  “Do you suppose there is no society around Dalesford Hall? I am sure we shall be inundated with visitors from the moment of my return. Well, I shall insist upon Candia at least sporting something fashionable. Black satin and velvet is the coming thing, I hear.”

  “No doubt Candia will have her own views,” suggested the dowager. “She is as headstrong as Emily herself.”

  “I will say for Emily,” returned the countess roundly, “with all her faults, she had excellent dress sense. She would not have been seen dead in bombazine.”

  The moment the words were out of her mouth, she realised
what she had said. Her eyes flashed quick remorse, and she instantly put out her hand across the table.

  “I did not mean to say that. Pray forgive me, Mama.”

  Sybilla took the hand and gripped it, her tone gruff. “Of course you did not mean it. Forget it. One cannot be minding one’s tongue for every little common expression.”

  Consuming a sustaining meal on her own account, Ottilia reflected how momentous events were apt to draw families together. Tempers became frayed, but rifts were more readily mended than in the ordinary way. She adopted a tone of deliberate cheer, throwing Sybilla a glance of mischief.

  “I must admit I am glad to be bearding Mrs. Thriplow, instead of joining the two of you in your labours in Emily’s bedchamber. I can imagine no more fruitful task to engender a positive barrage of bickering between you. I pity poor Mary Huntshaw.”

  Both ladies burst into laughter and Ottilia was relieved to have lightened their moods. There was enough, heaven knew, to fret them. She resolved to keep her latest suspicion to herself.

  Mrs. Thriplow poured ratafia into a glass for herself, handed a cup of tea to Ottilia, and then she seated her bulk in the comfortable chair on the other side of a round table. Ottilia waited while the housekeeper settled, putting her feet up on a low stool situated precisely for the purpose. She took a sip from her glass and let out a contented breath.

  “That’s better. It ain’t no manner of use trying to answer a lot of questions if a body ain’t comfortable.”

  “Quite right,” said Ottilia, looking round the housekeeper’s inner sanctum.

  It was a small room, stamped with the woman’s personality, if a trifle overfull of knickknacks alongside the cupboards and heavy ledgers necessary to her duties, and a single window let in a modicum of light from the street above. Like all long-serving retainers, the housekeeper evidently did herself well, reserving to her own use a motley collection of pieces of old china no longer serving the family by reason of some small chip or crack, and a respectable selection of expensive beverages. Ottilia had been offered a choice of tea from a locked store, coffee—no doubt liberally laced with sugar—and a variety of wines. Wishing to keep a clear head, she had settled for tea while her hostess excused herself from joining her and opted for ratafia.