“You’ll answer to me, Harbisher. Name your friends, my lord!”
Francis threw up a hand. “None of that, Quaife. You will neither of you go out over this affair.”
The baron turned a snarling visage upon him. “Who are you to interfere? He’ll take my challenge and be damned.”
Harbisher started forward. “I’ll meet you, villain, when and where you will.”
Tretower stepped between them. “Enough, gentlemen!” He addressed the earl. “To what end, sir, will you meet him? Have you forgot whose name will suffer by such conduct? Did you not, in the very house in which your sister met a violent end, decry the tattlemongers who bandied her name? Would you now add to that chorus?”
Francis, glancing from Harbisher to Quaife, saw how these commonsense words, delivered in measured tones designed to appeal to reason, were having an effect. Quaife’s shoulders sagged and the lines of grief that had marked his features in their earlier encounter replaced the stiffened muscles of his anger.
“He is in the right of it.” His tone was dull and heavy. “Our differences apart, I desire no more ill words to fall upon Emily’s memory.”
At that, the earl’s ire sparked anew. “Do you dare speak her name, villain? You, who besmirched her vows to Polbrook and betrayed my trust?”
“Steady, man,” said George, holding him off with raised hand. Harbisher thrust it aside.
“You need not fear. Though the scoundrel riles my breast, I have recovered my senses.”
Francis cut in again. “As well, Harbisher. You do more harm than good, I promise you. Pray leave the discovery of Emily’s murderer in our hands.”
“So that is it,” came forcefully from Quaife.
Francis turned quickly and found the baron was looking not at the earl, but from George to himself. Quaife hissed a breath and grunted.
“I am suspect. Damn your eyes! I thought nothing of Hugh’s accusations. If he’d not made me so angry, I might see reason to excuse them. But this?”
Francis exchanged a glance with Tretower. Harbisher was now looking from one to the other of them, his brows drawn tightly together.
“Are you telling me you seriously believe he was responsible?”
Francis set his teeth. “I have not said so.”
Quaife let out a fulminating oath. “You have no need to say so. What, am I held to be jealous, is that it?”
At this, Harbisher’s nose went up, as if he scented a byway. “Jealous? Of whom, pray?”
Francis caught a frantic message from George’s eyes, but before he could fathom the reason, Quaife was responding.
“I’ll not sully her memory to please you, Harbisher.”
George’s relief was patent and Francis at once realised he’d been fearful of the mention of Bowerchalke. He had no time to ponder this, for he found himself once more the target of Quaife’s wrath.
“I’ll thank you to expunge my name from your damned list, Fanshawe! I’ll not deny my involvement, why should I? But I cared for Emily. We’d long parted, but we were friends. Murder? I’d no more have harmed her than I’d take my own mother’s life.”
Again, Francis was struck by the note of sincerity. He glanced to see how Harbisher took this and found him tight-lipped and brooding. He caught Francis’s look and his cheeks suffused.
“Ha! Then we’re back to Polbrook. I tell you, Fanshawe—”
“Thank you, I have heard enough from you on this subject,” Francis snapped.
“And you’ll hear more, be certain. I’ll not have done with this until I see him hanged.”
“Polbrook?” It was Quaife’s turn to frown. “Then he has not returned?”
“Let him not do so,” said Harbisher. “Let him but set foot in the country, and I’ll have him, be sure.”
“For the love of heaven,” said Francis, losing patience. “Are you determined to make bad worse?”
“What of the whelp?” asked the baron suddenly. “Have you thought of him?”
“Giles? What has he to do with it?”
Under Harbisher’s evident puzzlement, Francis heard George mutter at Quaife, briefly setting a hand to the baron’s shoulder.
“Hold your tongue, man!”
“I’ve naught against the boy,” the earl was continuing. “Never been one to visit the sins of the father upon the child.”
Realising he had failed to hear George’s utterance, Francis gave thanks that Harbisher had misunderstood Quaife’s allusion. The baron was frowning, his eyes on George, who was now looking at the earl.
“May I suggest, sir, that you let these matters be? As I promised you, I will undertake to keep you apprised of any developments.”
Harbisher glared at him. “You need not. I know who to blame.” He transferred his irate gaze to Francis, who with difficulty held his tongue upon a heated rejoinder. “Mind what I said, for I mean it. The moment Polbrook returns, I shall know it. And I shall know how to act.”
With which he strode to the door and tugged it open too swiftly for the knot of persons gathered outside. They dispersed in a hurry, but Harbisher cursed them all soundly and stormed down the vestibule.
“Damn the man to hell,” Francis muttered as George moved to close the door, throwing a warning glare upon the watchers beyond it.
Tretower turned back to Quaife. “You were about to mention Bowerchalke, I take it?”
Quaife nodded. “Wasn’t thinking. It wouldn’t do to deliver that whippersnapper up to Harbisher’s wrath.”
“Precisely,” said George. “But have you reason to suppose him involved?”
Quaife’s features took on a sneer. “Not he. Wouldn’t have the nerve. But I know Emily and the cub had her fan.”
“If ever there was a time for plain speaking, sir, this is it,” said Francis briskly. “It is vital for us to know just what occurred that night.”
He saw the man shift, as if he repressed a shudder. He shook his head. “I don’t know that I can help you, though God knows I would, for her sake.”
“Anything you saw. The smallest detail may be significant.”
“What about this fan?” prompted George.
The man blew out a breath of scorn. “One of Emily’s tricks. It was all a game to her. The luckless one was supposed to feel privileged to be given charge of the thing. He must return it to her carriage, in stealth and secrecy, don’t you know? As if the world were blind. At the carriage, he’d be persuaded to ride inside. Then at the house—”
“He was given a key and told to enter by the back door.”
Quaife’s brows went up and he regarded Francis almost with amusement. “You have done your work well.”
“Not mine, but let that pass.”
“You think Bowerchalke was afforded this treatment?” George asked.
Quaife shrugged. “I was downstairs when he went out. I saw him get into the carriage. The inference is obvious.”
Francis pushed for clarity. “Then you believe it possible Bowerchalke might have killed her?”
The man’s features paled a little and sagged. “I don’t pretend to know anything. Except that Emily is gone. Had I room for more than the desolation of this, I could only wish her end had been accomplished in some other fashion. I will bear the pain of it to my own grave.” His tone was husky by the end, and he put out a hand as if he would stop either of them from speaking. Then he went to the door and paused there with his back to his auditors. “I can’t think Polbrook would have rid himself of Emily by this means.”
Then he dragged open the door and flung up his head to confront the group of apparently disinterested observers gathered in the vestibule.
Francis moved, by common consent with George, to follow him. But of a sudden, Quaife let out an oath and plunged into the knot of men beyond. Francis cast a glance of surmise towards his friend, but Tretower was already in the doorway.
“The deuce! He has Bowerchalke.”
A moment later, Quaife was back through the door, dragging a terrifi
ed Jeremy Bowerchalke by the scruff of his neck and throwing him into the room before him. The boy stumbled forward, and Francis moved quickly to bear a hand as Quaife thrust inside and kicked the door shut behind him.
“There is the whelp. Ask him what he had to do with Emily that night.”
But the boy, trembling from head to foot and white to the lips, looked to be incapable of answering the simplest of questions. He leaned heavily on Francis’s supporting arm, and his frightened gaze went from his assailant to George and at last fastened upon Francis.
“S-s-sir,” he managed.
“Are you able to stand if I let you go?”
The boy nodded, but the instant Francis released him, he began to sink as if his knees were giving way. Francis grabbed him again, and George hastily fetched a chair. The lad dropped into it.
“What—what d’you—what—?”
The stuttering ceased and the boy swallowed painfully. Francis felt his sympathy stirred and longed for Mrs. Draycott’s presence. What would she look for? Remembering the palsied hand, Francis swept a glance down to Bowerchalke’s left and found the limb reposing at his side, almost unregarded. As the lad twitched and shifted, Francis noted that his right hand shifted with him while the left remained still.
“Easy, boy, easy now,” George said, as if he spoke to a halfbroken horse.
It was a tone Francis had heard him use often enough with raw recruits, and the youth responded to it. His right hand came up and pressed against his chest as if he might by this means calm his erratic breathing. In a moment, he was able to form words.
“What do you w-want with me?”
Adopting George’s example, Francis swallowed his own impatience and spoke gently.
“You have had a testing ordeal, have you not?”
The young man’s eyes flew up, and the terror reflected in their depths told Francis much more than words could have done.
“What—what do you m-mean, sir?”
“I am talking of my sister-in-law’s death, Mr. Bowerchalke.”
He shied in his seat and his gaze shot back to where Quaife stood, his bulk against the door. There was a stage wait of several moments, and then the baron lost patience, striding forward.
“Damn it all, boy, I know you were with Emily that night! What happened?”
“Gently, Quaife, for the Lord’s sake,” protested Francis.
George came up to flank the baron. “He shall not touch you, Bowerchalke. My word on it.”
Still the boy did not speak. Beads of perspiration appeared on his brow and he thrust a hand into an inner recess of his jacket. What he brought out he applied to his forehead, dabbing at the sweat.
Francis stared at the bundle in the boy’s hand. It was white, and no doubt Bowerchalke imagined he had his pocket-handkerchief in his fingers. But as he dabbed, first one end and then another fell down over his face.
It was not a pocket-handkerchief. Francis almost cried his amazement aloud, but he held off as he heard the youth gasp. Bowerchalke brought his hand down and stared with disbelieving eyes at the offending bundle.
Then he uttered a cry and flung it from him. Next moment, he had risen from the chair and bolted precipitately past George and Quaife, who made a futile grab at him, and was gone through the door.
Tretower turned fast, but Francis, already stooping to seize the discarded bundle, stayed him.
“Let him go!”
Rising with the bundle in his fingers, Francis let it fall to its natural length. He looked up and found Quaife’s eyes fixed upon the crumpled item hanging from his grasp.
As George returned, he regarded Francis’s trophy with a frown. “What the deuce—?”
“A lady’s silk stocking. We found the other behind the bed.”
Ottilia had possession of the key found in the late marchioness’s bedside drawer, but time had overtaken her. She had begun upon her second tour of the outer doors while Lord Francis was chasing after Lord Harbisher. But when she set foot in the domestic facilities in the basement, she had been twice waylaid, by the boots and the kitchen maid, each anxious to disassociate themselves from the murder.
“Abel said as how Cattawade told you I were there, miss,” said the boot boy, his anxiety plain. “Only I never come until I heard Miss Huntshaw a-screaming. And then my lord Francis come and he sent us all to the rightabout, miss.”
Ottilia had no doubt the boy was not involved, but she made a show of questioning him for his pride’s sake. “Did you enter the bedchamber?”
“No, miss. I weren’t allowed in the mistress’s chamber, not never.”
“And you saw nothing?”
“Only them as were outside the door, miss.”
“You did not return at any time?”
“Wot me, miss? With the mistress lying there all stiff and cold? Not if I could help it, miss.”
Ottilia smiled at him. “Then I think we may safely suppose you innocent of all blame.”
The boots heaved a sigh of relief and went off with his head high. The kitchen maid was less easy to fob off. Ottilia recognised her as the third of the maids who had accompanied Mrs. Thriplow’s domestic protest.
“Well, I do say as how I peeped round the door, miss, but I ain’t seen nothing, for the bed-curtains were all closed like and my lady inside ’em, by all accounts.”
“And after Lord Francis told you to return to your duties, did you come back again at any time?”
The kitchen maid, who had introduced herself as Betsy, shifted from one foot to the other, and a blush mantled her cheek. “Well, I can’t say as I didn’t, miss.”
“You did come back?”
The girl nodded. “Abel were there, you see, miss.”
Ottilia noted the wayward eyes, flicking this way and that. “He is a handsome fellow, is he not?”
The blush intensified, and Betsy fetched a lovelorn sigh. “Oh, miss. Not as he’d look at me.”
Ottilia eyed her with interest. “Why would he not?”
“Being as he’s the footman, miss, and I’m only Cook’s skivvy,” said the maid frankly. “Too toplofty for the likes of me is Abel.”
Which appeared to make no difference as far as Betsy’s own sentiments were concerned. Although Ottilia suspected it was merely the footman’s good looks and manly figure that had the kitchen maid sighing. She returned the girl to the matter at hand.
“When you went back, did you see anything more?”
“No, for Abel chased me off, miss. Said as how it were only him as was allowed near the place. Nor he wouldn’t let me look in the chamber.”
“Very proper,” Ottilia commented primly, and dismissed Betsy with a word of thanks.
It was clear by this time that to check for the door to which the key fitted must advertise her activities to the staff and she was obliged to abandon the plan for the moment. It had best be done at night, she decided, once everyone was in bed, for the servants went to bed early and rose equally betimes. Accordingly, that evening she took to her bed armed with a book, intending to read until gone eleven.
The contents of the volume, a lurid gothic tale by Maria Edgeworth extracted from Lord Polbrook’s library, failed to hold her attention, which kept turning upon the various pieces of the puzzle as she tried to slot them into place.
Lady Candia having chosen to abandon her own room and join the company these last days, it had proved testing to await the result of Lord Francis’s excursion. She could see the dowager chafing and could not blame her. When the gentleman returned, clearly big with news, but obliged to bottle it, Ottilia had been forced to employ subterfuge and find an excuse to leave the room.
Lord Francis had picked up the meaning look she threw at him as she left the parlour, and within a few moments he came looking for her, accompanied by Colonel Tretower. They slipped into the deserted dining parlour, where Ottilia was regaled with the story of their adventures. She made no comment until Lord Francis extracted the stocking from a convenient pocket.
&n
bsp; “Surely it proves something?” he asked as he handed it to her. “Is it the same as the other?”
“It seems so, but I have the other stowed in my trunk, so we can soon check.” Ottilia let the item sift through her fingers. “Assuming it is, I think we may safely place Bowerchalke at the scene.”
“What I want to know is,” said the colonel, “if it was Emily’s, how in the world did the fellow get the thing?”
“Oh, I expect she encouraged him to remove it from her leg,” said Ottilia. “Both stockings, probably. And when events became complicated, he stuffed them into his pocket.”
“And in his agitation dropped one?” suggested Lord Francis.
“Just so.” Ottilia sucked in a frustrated breath. “But it does not make him Emily’s murderer.”
“For my part,” cut in Colonel Tretower, “I am by no means convinced that Quaife is not our man. He could have said all he did to throw suspicion off himself. He knew Bowerchalke had entered the coach. Why should he not have followed? He pooh-poohed the notion of jealousy, but what guilty man would not? He has a motive. He is physically capable of the deed, unlike Bowerchalke.”
“But Bowerchalke was there, that much is plain,” said Francis. “Unless we are to suppose Quaife planted the stocking on him.”
“Less than probable,” agreed the colonel, ignoring the ironical inflexion. “But even without the stocking, I am strongly of the opinion Bowerchalke was there that night.”
“Why, if not because of the stocking?”
“His whole demeanour, his abject terror upon mention of the event, is enough for me.”
Lord Francis looked to Ottilia, frowning. “What are your thoughts, Mrs. Draycott?”
She answered with her usual calm. “As I said, because he was there, it does not mean he committed the deed.”
“No, and he has got a palsy. I took care to check upon that left hand of his and he does not use it at all.”
“Which leaves us squarely at point non plus,” said Colonel Tretower gloomily.
But Ottilia was not wholly despondent, although the problem nagged at her all day, fostered by an interview with Lady Dalesford. The dowager’s frustration was patent, and Ottilia seized a convenient moment to delay her employer when the countess and Lady Candia left the room to dress for dinner.
The Gilded Shroud Page 24