“In other words, your lips are sealed,” fumed Sybilla.
He bowed again, not wasting words in denial. Ottilia, watching Lord Francis, guessed he at least realised there was no future in argument.
“Is it ‘when,’ Jardine?” he asked, changing tack. “Can you be certain of that?”
The lawyer drew in breath and gazed briefly at the ceiling. “No, my lord, I cannot.” He interrupted a hasty exclamation from the dowager. “I can offer one assurance. If Lord Polbrook has followed an intention he had before the distressing event, then it is certainly his design to return.”
“Whereas if he ran off after strangling his wife, it is only too possible that he will keep on running,” said Lord Francis with sangfroid, drawing Ottilia’s admiration.
“Why in the world cannot you tell us this intention?” demanded Sybilla with heat. “What if it has a bearing on the case?”
“Improbable, my lady.”
“How do you know? And I should infinitely prefer to judge for myself.”
“Leave it, ma’am,” Lord Francis interposed. “Jardine has his instructions. Besides, anything he might be able to tell us can lead to speculation only, and we want facts.”
“What I want is my son,” retorted his mother, a note of hysteria in her voice.
“And you shall have him,” soothed Ottilia, going across to lay a hand upon the elder dame’s shoulder. “Do not forget that Mr. Jardine has set his recovery in train. There is much we may do meanwhile.”
The lawyer threw her a look in which she might have read a modicum of gratitude, should she choose to believe him capable of such an emotion. He looked to Lord Francis.
“If there is nothing further, my lord, I shall take my leave of you.”
“By all means. No doubt you will keep us informed of any developments.”
A nod, a bow to the dowager, and Mr. Jardine was gone. The dowager barely waited for the door to close behind him.
“Wretched man! You should have insisted upon his telling us all, Francis.”
“To what end? You know as well as I that he would never betray Randal’s confidence.”
“Indeed.” Ottilia moved to take a seat opposite the dowager. “And you will gain nothing by alienating his willingness to serve you.”
“Then what are we to do?” Sybilla demanded. “You have already said there is likely little more to be learned from the servants.”
“We must look elsewhere.”
Lord Francis threw himself onto one of the sofas, his eyes going to Ottilia. “Had you no success while I was away?”
“Indifferent, but a couple of worrying facts have come to light.”
“Such as?”
Ottilia thought she detected a resurgence of anxiety in the dark gaze, and wished she might have had better news to impart. There was no point in withholding what there was.
“I’m afraid we have discovered that your sister-in-law’s jewel box is missing.”
A faint groan escaped him. “As if the fan was not enough. With all its contents?”
“I presume so. Mary Huntshaw is convinced it was not abstracted by the marchioness herself, for she claims the drawer—which was considerably disordered—would have been left open. We cannot place the time of the theft except that it occurred after the point when Mary put away the items Emily was wearing that night.”
“Which leads one to suppose they were taken by the murderer.”
“Or by the same person who took the fan, which we know occurred after Mary had discovered the body and before you locked the dressing room door.”
Lord Francis dropped his head in his hands with a groan. “Lord help me, but that mistake looks like to cost me dear!”
“There is nothing to be gained by sinking into a slough of self blame,” said the dowager tartly. “You did what you did and there’s an end.”
Raising his head again, his lordship shot a fulminating glance at his mother. “If I am not even permitted to indulge in a moment of protest—”
“Save it for the rest, boy. We are by no means out of the woods.”
His eyes returned to Ottilia. “Don’t spare me, will you?”
She was obliged to smile. “I should not dream of it. I am sure you can stand a knock as well as your mama.”
To her delight, he broke into laughter. “A knock? A battering might better describe it. But go on, pray. What other alarms have you in store for me?”
“Well, although I have discovered several possible means of entry and exit, one is so insalubrious that I find it difficult to believe it was used. And there must needs to have been assistance from within the house to accomplish the others.”
She explained in a few words her excursions through the basement and the location of the door that led to the outside privy for the use of the domestic staff and the pathway used by the night soil men.
“The devil! I had hoped the lover theory would yield results.”
“It may yet. I have been too occupied to pursue the matter. Furthermore, although the other doors seem more likely, it is one of the ways into the house and should not be altogether discounted.”
Lord Francis sighed. “What else?”
His tone provoked Ottilia into a mischievous mood. “I wish I had something worthy of such resigned fatality. But alas, there is only Abel’s mysterious voice.”
“Mysterious voice? Oh, dear Lord! Enlighten me, I beg.”
A gurgle escaped Ottilia, but she caught sight of the dowager, who looked as if she might explode at any moment, and hastily swallowed her mirth.
“Pardon me, ma’am. It is no matter for laughter, I know. The case is, Lord Francis, that Abel has belatedly recalled that he left his bed in the small hours for the purpose of going to fetch a glass of water. He never reached the kitchens, it appears, for he heard an odd sort of gargling noise and a man’s voice.”
“For pity’s sake!” Wrath had succeeded the resignation. “Why the devil could he not have spoken of this before?”
“It seems he had little sleep that night, and in the press of the morning’s events, it escaped his memory. He was aware that this would cause a degree of censure.”
“I imagine he might well have been. Tell me it all, if you please.”
Ottilia gave him the gist of her interview with Abel, and was relieved that he chose to take an opposite view to that of Sybilla.
“It could be damning, I daresay. But we may equally suppose this mysterious voice of Abel’s belonged to another as to Randal. Especially taking into account your observations upon the scene. What of the timing? Does this point to a later hour than we suspected?”
“Unfortunately we are unable to pinpoint the time,” Ottilia said regretfully. “The best Mary Huntshaw could do was to suggest it was after one in the morning when the marchioness came home. Abel puts the marquis’s arrival after two. We can therefore say only that the quarrel must have taken place somewhere between two and three, at which point your sister-in-law was still alive. She was definitely dead by the time Sukey left the chamber as the clock struck seven. Although Cattawade is uncertain about the time he was asked to fetch brandy from the cellar, from the testimony of Abel and Turville in the stables, I think we can assume the carriage was sent for around four or a little later.”
“Which means there is a good clear hour between three and four during which Emily could have received another man in her chamber,” said Lord Francis eagerly.
The dowager snorted. “Who then killed her before walking calmly out of the room, according to Abel.”
“We do not know he was calm,” said Ottilia. “Abel merely stipulated the turning of the door handle. There were no footsteps. Therefore our murderer must have crept to the door as quietly as he could. That does not necessarily suggest a calm state of mind.”
“It suggests a guilty one.”
“Perhaps.”
Lord Francis suddenly slapped a hand on the arm of the sofa. “One moment! We are placing the time of the murder between Ra
ndal’s leaving Emily and his leaving the house altogether. Why should the lover not have been in her room after that?”
“Regretfully,” said Ottilia, “because it does not square with Abel’s voice, which came before. Recollect that he was the one to be sent to rouse them at the stables, after which he made no attempt to go back to bed.”
“And let us not forget,” added the dowager, “that Pellew says the time of death could readily have been earlier than four.”
Lord Francis’s disappointment was so obvious that Ottilia felt impelled to comment upon it. “Pray don’t despair, sir. I am sure we have a trick or two yet to play.”
He nodded. “I am too tired to think clearly. Is this all of your current findings?”
“I’m afraid it is.” Although it was not quite all of her thoughts, but these she preferred to keep to herself for the moment. Remembering her interview with the housekeeper, she added, “Oh, except that Mrs. Thriplow gave me to understand that the marquis and his wife had never enjoyed an affectionate relationship.”
“You may say so with confidence,” Sybilla said with candour. “I had reason enough to regret that Polbrook—my late husband, I mean—made the alliance, but it was a settled thing for years. Randal could not have wriggled out of it, even had he wished to.”
“Did he ever express such a wish, ma’am?”
The dowager shrugged. “Boys can always be counted upon to wish to marry some quite unsuitable creature, but there was nothing serious.”
Ottilia glanced quickly at Lord Francis, wondering that he kept silent. She tried to read his expression but found it bland. Perhaps his plea of tiredness was indeed to be taken at face value. He had driven a great distance. If he knew anything, on the other hand, he clearly had no intention of revealing it before his mother.
“Meanwhile,” he said, as if he had been thinking of something quite other, “what is our next move?”
Ottilia could not resist. “Your next move, my lord. You cannot expect your mama and me to do all the work.”
Francis eyed the companion with misgiving. “I mistrust that look in your eye, Mrs. Draycott. Just what is in your mind?”
An unmistakable look of mischief crept into her features, and Francis was conscious of the oddest sensation to which he could not have put a name. As if a jug of warm water had been trickled onto his chest.
“I think it is time to go out into the world to hunt out suspects. Do you belong to a gentleman’s club? Of course you must. White’s?”
“Brooks’s,” he countered. “You are suggesting I visit my club. And do what? Ask around to find if anyone there has been so careless as to make Emily his mistress and strangle her?”
“Don’t be an imbecile, Fanfan.”
“Well, dear Lord! All I will get is half the fools of London gaping, and the other half offering commiserations to which I have no notion how to respond. I won’t do it.”
“I hope you will think better of that decision, my lord, for it is imperative that we shift our ground.”
There was no reproach in Mrs. Draycott’s voice, but her clear gaze made him feel churlish. Yet he was reluctant still. “How will it help?”
She smiled then. “If there is a killer out there, he will approach you. He will not be able to resist.”
Francis was disappointed. “Surely you are not naïve enough to suppose that every man who attempts to make his condolences to me must be suspect?”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” his mother cut in. “What in the world are you thinking of, Ottilia?”
She looked from one to the other. “I expressed myself badly perhaps. Of course you must take note of what is said and of the manner of any approach.”
“Discounting, I presume, my immediate circle of friends who are bound to speak of the matter?”
Mrs. Draycott’s eyes opened wide at him. “By no means. Can you swear to every one of your friends?”
“I would like to think so, but I daresay not. How very unsettling.”
“What must he look for, Ottilia?”
Francis began to be interested. Had his mother gauged the measure of this woman more readily than he? He waited while she frowned in thought.
“Most people,” she said at last, “will be reticent, perhaps embarrassed. Or they may speak eloquently, but say very little. It is in the nature of genuine feelings for people to have difficulty in expressing them. Be wary of those who are effusive. That may denote a gossipy disposition, but you will already know who has that tendency. Otherwise, it is likely the effusion is insincere.”
“Ingenious,” Francis commented. “Anything else?”
“It may be too much to hope for, but it is possible someone may hint at your brother’s involvement. Delicacy must keep the subject closed for most, but a guilty man will wish to assure himself that the finger is pointing elsewhere.”
“Gracious, Ottilia, how in the world do you do it?” asked his mother in accents which mirrored his own grudging admiration. “I should never have thought of that in a million years.”
Mrs. Draycott’s laughter caught at some distant chord inside him, one that had not been touched for many a year. He almost missed what she said.
“I assure you there is nothing miraculous in my reasoning. Whenever I wish to analyse human reactions, I think back to the conduct of my nephews. It is like viewing the world in microcosm, but in high relief, for children are much more obvious than their adult counterparts.”
“But you have made a study of adults, too, anyone can tell that,” said the dowager, echoing Francis’s thought.
Then he found Mrs. Draycott was regarding him with amusement in her features. “I am naturally curious, as Lord Francis divined at the outset.”
“Did I so? But I had not supposed you had an ambition to become the prime mover in an investigation of murder when you chose to take up this appointment.” The ripple of laughter sent a wave of warmth through him and a new thought struck. “However,” he added, eyeing her with suspicion, “it has more than once occurred to me that you are taking an uncommon delight in the proceedings.”
A guilty look crossed her face, but mischief leapt in her eyes. “Dear me, am I so obvious? Then I must freely confess that, ghoulish as it may seem, and particularly indelicate of your own and Sybilla’s feelings, I am indeed enjoying myself immensely.”
For the life of him, Francis could not suppress a burst of laughter. For the first time since the start of these horrific proceedings, his mood lightened.
Dinner was enlivened by the presence of Colonel Tretower, who greeted Lady Dalesford with every evidence of pleasure. Ottilia, watching the access of gallantry in the colonel’s manner and the flirtatious response, was highly entertained, despite the dowager’s evident disapproval. Whether this was due to a general tendency to deprecate her daughter’s conduct or to an idea of it being inappropriately lighthearted in the circumstances, Ottilia did not know, but she thought it an excellent thing if it had the effect of dissipating the prevailing atmosphere of gloom. There could be no doubt the countess beguiled the male element wherever she went, for a lively air coupled with her scatterbrained impulsiveness was just the combination to set gentlemen’s heads in a whirl. Added to which, Lady Dalesford was a handsome woman, safely married, and therefore perfect prey for a little harmless dalliance.
It was fortunate, Ottilia felt, that young Lady Candia was not as yet equal to joining the company, for her presence must have cast a damper over this lighter mood.
“I told her she should have a tray in her room,” disclosed the countess in accents of sympathetic concern as she took her place at the table. “The poor child has been weeping her heart out.”
“And you left her?” demanded Sybilla.
“Oh, she is asleep now. Besides, Venner insisted upon sitting with her. You know how she dotes on Candia.”
“None better. She is positively maudlin about that child.”
This caught Ottilia’s attention. “Pardon me, ma’am, b
ut how is this?”
The dowager was engaged in deciding between a dish of chicken and a pie, but she looked round. “How is what?”
“Is it not a trifle odd for your maid to be so very fond of your granddaughter?”
“It would be,” chimed in the countess, “but that Venner was Emily’s personal maid when she came to this house.”
Ottilia was conscious of a leap of hope. “Was she indeed?”
“Oh yes. Venner was in support of Emily when Candia was born. She had no part in the nursing of her, of course, but she became excessively attached to the child.”
From across the table, Lord Francis caught Ottilia’s eye. “What is in your mind, Mrs. Draycott?”
She put out a staying hand. “Presently, if you please, my lord.” She turned to the dowager. “When did Venner come to you then, ma’am?”
Sybilla, having settled upon a portion of pie, looked up from controlling how much Cattawade was laying upon her plate. “I cannot recall exactly. She has been with me these five or six years.”
“At the least, Mama,” put in Lady Dalesford. She leaned towards Ottilia across the colonel, placed between them. “She fell out mightily with Emily. I believe their final quarrel could be heard all over the house.”
“Harriet!”
As the countess turned enquiringly to her mother, Sybilla put a finger to her lips, indicating with a jerk of her head the continued presence of the servants. Ottilia was not much surprised to see Lady Dalesford cast up her eyes, as if the indiscretion were of no account. She was evidently of that order of being, much prevalent in Society, who thought of domestics as so much furniture at any moment when she did not require their services. Which was the main reason, Ottilia reflected, that servants were so well informed about their employers’ affairs. It was an unconscious arrogance, but it dimmed the lustre of the countess a trifle.
She felt indebted to Lord Francis for introducing a less controversial subject.
“How have you fared, George?”
Colonel Tretower gave a little sigh. “Not so very well, I’m afraid.” He glanced from the butler to an attendant housemaid, and hesitated, evidently picking his words with care. “You’ve heard about Bow Street’s move, I take it?”
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