The Gilded Shroud

by Elizabeth Bailey

  “What is it? Why do you look like that?”

  Her face cleared abruptly and she smiled. It was not the warm smile he treasured. It looked forced.

  “Perhaps you had best ring the bell again.”

  The puzzlement did not leave him as he crossed the room to do as she suggested. “I never thought it would come to this.”

  “If an information had not been laid, I don’t suppose it would have,” George said. “Without a witness there really is nothing to place Polbrook on the spot. It must be all supposition.”

  “Not entirely.”

  Francis caught the dry note in his mother’s voice and for a moment he forgot Ottilia’s odd conduct. “What do you mean, ma’am?”

  “The servants, Fanfan. Huntshaw heard Emily and Randal quarrelling. Both Cattawade and Turville in the stables can place him still in the house at a convenient time. And there is Abel’s word, too, both on time and—”

  “That cursed mysterious voice? Yes, I remember.”

  Ottilia had been watching his mother during this recital, and her gaze continued upon the dowager. But Francis could swear her thoughts were otherwhere.

  “Ottilia!”

  She started and looked round. “Yes?”

  “You say nothing to the purpose.” He gave a little smile, half hoping she would respond with a more natural one of her own. “Come, we are accustomed to have you set us all to rights.”

  Her clear gaze remained on his face, disconcerting in its intensity. “You are forgetting the key to the dressing room door.”

  His mind jumped. He had forgotten it. “What of it?”

  “Why should any lover be in possession of that key when he had the one to the outside?”

  “Well, to get into the chamber, I imagine,” George offered.

  Ottilia’s glance went to him. “He would not go to the chamber when Emily was out of it. He did not need a key to get in.”

  Francis was beset by a conviction that she was holding back, as if she might say more if she chose. His mother saved him from having to ask.

  “Remember we have not your insight, Ottilia. What do you imply?”

  She looked round at them all, and Francis saw reluctance in her face. “We must look within the house.”

  George uttered a short laugh. “Now you have lost me altogether, Mrs. Draycott.”

  “Yes, I am quite in the dark,” agreed the dowager.

  Francis saw the discomfort under which Ottilia laboured and wondered at it. What had she in her mind that she could not reveal before them all?

  “Oh, you must pardon me,” she said, as if goaded. “Until I have made further enquiry, it is best I keep my own counsel.”

  Francis was not surprised to see his mother’s evident displeasure. “Why? Can you not trust us, Ottilia?”

  There was now apology in both face and voice. “It is not a matter of trust. I fear to malign where it may not be deserved. If I voice my thoughts, I may cause irreparable damage.”

  George’s puzzlement was plain, but he was too polite to press her. Not so the dowager.

  “But I will not have this. Can there possibly be anything worse to hear than that we already know?”

  Without intent, Francis leapt to Ottilia’s defence. “Leave her be, ma’am. We have no right to tangle with Ottilia’s ethical considerations. We have burdened her enough.”

  He looked at Ottilia as he spoke and the warm gratitude in her eyes rewarded him. She smiled briefly—a real smile this one—and her gaze went back to his mother.

  “Sybilla, forgive me. I may be wrong, quite wrong. Let me but make enquiry tomorrow, and I promise I will speak. If I am right, I will speak.”

  For a moment, his mother eyed her, and Francis hoped she would leave it. Then she took his breath away.

  “You know who did it.”

  His eyes flew to Ottilia in mute question. She met them, looked again at George, who was gaping with lively astonishment, and then her gaze went back to his mother’s face.

  “I think I know, yes.” She drew a breath. “But I must be certain. I have also a task for you, Francis. You and Colonel Tretower together.”

  Francis had relied upon his friend to discover the whereabouts of Jeremy Bowerchalke’s lodging, but as he tooled his curricle in the direction of Pall Mall, it was Tretower who wanted clarification of their purpose.

  “What is it we must discover?”

  Mindful of his instructions, Francis went over what Ottilia had said.

  “If she is right that the fellow was hiding behind the bed-curtains during the murder, he is the only witness. We are to extract his confession of his presence, and have him tell us precisely what occurred.”

  “And if he refuses?”

  Francis laughed. “We are to bully him into speech, poor fellow. Ottilia was specific on that point.”

  Tretower sat back in his seat. “That explains why she wanted both of us to go. I can’t see the fellow resisting, can you? I don’t imagine much bullying will prove necessary.”

  Neither did Francis. “I will own myself astonished if he does not capitulate immediately. Assuming, of course, he can be made to be coherent for the space needed to tell his story.”

  “Almost I feel sorry for the fellow,” George commented. “Or I would do if we had not been obliged to witness your brother being carted off to gaol.”

  Francis could not forbear a shiver of distaste. It had indeed been a harrowing moment. More for Randal’s bewilderment than anything else. His brother had clearly not believed he could seriously be accused. Ingham, it had to be admitted, had been both courteous and apologetic, but inexorable nonetheless.

  Francis knew his mother had slept badly, and in truth his own rest had been fitful. Had it not been for Ottilia’s schemes for the day, he must have despaired. He knew she meant to question a member of the household, which was presumably what she meant by saying they must look inside the house, and he was determined to carry out his part.

  “I suppose there is no chance the fellow will be out?” asked George, scanning the windows of the house as Francis brought his horses to a standstill outside Bowerchalke’s abode.

  “I hope it is too early,” Francis answered, for he had set out with Tretower very soon after the Bow Street party had departed from Hanover Square.

  The groom leapt down and went to the horses’ heads and Francis was able to descend. George had gone on ahead and was already plying the door knocker with energy.

  It was several moments before any response came, and Francis began to wonder if they should have waited for the hour to advance. But at last footsteps were heard within, and there was the sound of a bolt being drawn back. The door opened a crack and a frightened face peered round. George put a hand against the door, a precaution Francis instantly approved.

  “Is Mr. Bowerchalke at home, if you please?”

  The girl, a maid by the mobcap sitting awry upon her head, gave a gasp of fright and looked even more terrified, her eyes popping.

  “Mr. Bowerchalke?” George repeated.

  “He can’t see no one,” said the girl in a quavery voice and tried to shut the door.

  George pushed it inwards. “No, you don’t.”

  The maid shrieked and backed hurriedly away as Tretower walked calmly into the narrow hallway.

  “He can’t see no one,” repeated the girl, cowering by the stairway.

  George was about to speak, but Francis, whose ears had caught the sound of muffled crying somewhere above them, put out a hand to stay him.

  “Listen!”

  Tretower’s head went up for a moment. Then he threw a troubled and suspicious glance at Francis before turning back to the girl.

  “What has happened here?”

  For answer, the girl burst into sobs. Francis exchanged a glance with George and jerked his head upwards. In a moment, he was leading the way upstairs, followed by Tretower. Francis made short work of the stairway, chasing the sounds of lamentation.

  They were co
ming from a room at the front of the house, outside of which several persons were gathered. A stout dame was leaning against the doorjamb, her apron over her face, helpless whimpers escaping from beneath it. Two young men, clad only in nightshirts, their hair tousled and their faces white with horror, were poised, one on the stairs leading on up, the other in the open doorway to the room at the side.

  Both strained faces were pointed towards them as Francis and George reached the landing. Taking advantage of his friend’s wearing full military rig, Francis waved him ahead and was grimly satisfied to see the youths shrink back, looking first at each other and then to the doorway from whence the sound of weeping emanated.

  “What the deuce is amiss here?” George rapped out. “Is that Bowerchalke’s room?”

  The boy by the door nodded. “Aye, sir, but he’s—he’s—”

  The fellow on the stairs gripped the banisters and thrust his head over the rails. “He’s dead.”

  Francis froze. “Dead?”

  “Murdered!”

  “Oh, dear God! Clear the way, George, for pity’s sake!”

  Tretower’s commanding figure filled the hallway. “Stand aside, if you please.”

  Both the young men shifted with alacrity, leaving him access. But the woman, who appeared to have heard neither their approach nor the brief exchange, was blocking the door. George towered over her.

  “Madam, stand aside!”

  “It’s the landlady, sir. She’s in shock.”

  This was the fellow on the stairs again. He at least had his wits about him.

  “You’ll have to move her bodily, George,” Francis advised in an under voice.

  Nothing loath, Tretower took hold of the landlady and shifted her willy-nilly out of the aperture. She hardly noticed, merely sinking down heavily. George took her weight as he lowered her to the stair. He spoke to the fellow standing above her.

  “Look after her.”

  His path now free, Francis pushed past and into the chamber beyond. One glance told its tale. In a far corner, a second maid was crouched, her racking cries echoing mournfully around the chamber.

  On the bed, lying in his own blood, lay Jeremy Bowerchalke, death white, with a scarlet gash across his throat.

  The housekeeper was in a belligerent mood, and Ottilia’s patience was failing.

  “Mrs. Thriplow, do you understand that his lordship has been removed to Bow Street? This is no time to be getting up on your high ropes.”

  “And do you understand, Mrs. Draycott,” returned the woman, arms akimbo and face red, “as I’ve got a clutch of girls half in hysterics for the master’s fate?”

  “Then help me to change it, Mrs. Thriplow,” said Ottilia, exasperated. “All I want is to talk to Mary Huntshaw about the contents of the jewel box.”

  “Mary has been troubled enough, ma’am. As it is, the poor girl is afeared as she’ll be accused.”

  “I have no intention of accusing her. I am quite sure she did not take the jewels. But I must know what I’m looking for, can’t you see that?”

  Mrs. Thriplow sniffed, and Ottilia could see her working her way around to find some other objection. She hastened to intercept it.

  “I see I will have to confide in you, Mrs. Thriplow. I do not scruple to do so, for I know I can trust your discretion.”

  The woman visibly softened, preening a little. “Well, it’s true as I know how to keep me tongue between me teeth.”

  “Just so.”

  Ottilia made a play of going to the door of the housekeeper’s sanctum and checking to see if anyone could be listening. Then she came back and confronted the woman across the barrier of the table.

  “You see, I know who took the jewels. I also think I know where they are hidden. But what I do not know is what jewels were in the box. Mary can supply me with that information.”

  The housekeeper sniffed again, but she clearly had no more weapons to produce. “I’ll have to send for Mary. Her ladyship set her to maiding that there Frenchie his lordship took and brung. And I know what I think of her.”

  “Yes, well, that is by the by. Please send for Mary at once.”

  She allowed the woman to waddle as far as the door before she stopped her. “Oh, Mrs. Thriplow?”

  The woman halted, frowning back at her. “Yes, Mrs. Draycott?”

  Ottilia assumed her best confidential manner and sidled up. “There was one other matter.”

  She paused, but Mrs. Thriplow looked merely puzzled. The ruse was working. She was lulled, believing Ottilia’s real business lay in the jewellery.

  “Do you remember when we first had our little talk?”

  “Yes?”

  “I asked you if you thought her ladyship had been involved with another man, do you recall?”

  Yes, there it was again. The housekeeper looked instantly discomfited, a tinge of pink creeping into her cheeks. Ottilia seized her advantage.

  “You look now just as you did that day, Mrs. Thriplow. Pray don’t attempt to turn away from me. You know, don’t you, just who it was?”

  The housekeeper’s fingers curled around one another and her lip trembled. “I don’t—I don’t—”

  Ottilia grew stern. “Mrs. Thriplow, it is too late. You can no longer plead ignorance. I know, you see, that he did it. He killed your mistress.”

  The woman’s eyes met hers in stark distress. “No. No. He couldn’t.”

  “He couldn’t, but he did. Oh, he didn’t plan it. I expect he was provoked. But he strangled her, Mrs. Thriplow.”

  The housekeeper’s gaze wavered and she staggered slightly. Ottilia caught her and guided her to a chair, inducing her to sit. Her eyes were wild.

  “I didn’t want to believe it. I knew he’d been favoured, the cocky little upstart.”

  “Yes, it had been going on for a long time, had it not? Miss Venner alerted me to that. Oh, she named no names,” Ottilia added, seeing Mrs. Thriplow’s head rear up, “but it was the reason she left the marchioness’s service. She could not approve when her mistress took up with a servant.”

  The housekeeper’s mouth pursed. “Venner weren’t the only one. Not that it was proven, mind. But I guessed it, and I should think Cattawade did, too.”

  “But neither of you said anything.”

  Her head came up again at that, defiance in her gaze. “Why should I? How should I? What could I do, tell the master? He’d not have believed it. Nor I didn’t dare try to remonstrate with the fellow himself, for he’d have denied it all.”

  “No, I can see how awkward was your position,” Ottilia soothed. “But when her ladyship was killed, you had your suspicions, did you not?”

  Mrs. Thriplow dropped her gaze, her cheeks suffusing. Her tone was gruff and resentful. “I might have. But I dursn’t think of it. Nor I didn’t have no reason to think it, excepting as I knew he’d been welcome in her bedchamber.”

  “But not recently, I fear.”

  The housekeeper’s head shot up, quick understanding in her gaze. “That’s why? She’d booted him?”

  Ottilia nodded. “So I suspect.” She became businesslike. “Now, Mrs. Thriplow, I need your help. You send for Mary as arranged and get that list written down for me. In the meanwhile, have you seen him this morning?”

  Before the housekeeper could answer, a violent knocking came upon her door and the butler’s voice was heard behind it, urgent and breathless.

  “Mrs. Thriplow, do you have Mrs. Draycott in there?”

  Ottilia went swiftly to the door and jerked it open. “What is it, Cattawade?”

  The butler’s urbanity had deserted him. “It’s my Lord Francis, ma’am. He says to come immediate, quick as you can.”

  A tattoo started up in Ottilia’s breast, but she lost no time in speeding through to the servants’ stairs, which were nearest, and calling back as she went. “Where is Lord Francis?”

  “In the front parlour, ma’am.”

  The butler was following gamely behind, but Ottilia outstripped him, her
mind racing this way and that, as if she might fathom the reason for this urgency. What in the world could have happened?

  She was not left long in mystery. As she came up to the ground floor and moved quickly to the vestibule, she saw Francis hovering by the parlour door. One glance at his face gave her the seriousness of his news.

  “Ottilia! In here, now.”

  He seized her as she reached him, hustling her inside. The dowager was there, sunk in a chair, her hands covering her face. A shaft of sheer terror cut through Ottilia.

  “What is it, Fan? Tell me quickly. Did you see Bowerchalke?”

  He caught her hand and held it tightly. “We were too late. Bowerchalke is killed. Murdered.”

  “Oh no! Oh, poor boy.”

  “The villain cut his throat.”

  Ottilia uttered a cry, releasing herself and throwing a hand to her mouth. “Oh God! He heard us speak of him. He knew young Bowerchalke could prove his undoing.”

  Francis was staring at her. “Who? Who is it you mean?”

  The time was past for prevarication. Ottilia felt the quiver in her voice and knew her hands were trembling.

  “Abel.”

  For a moment Francis only stared at her, his expression thunderstruck. “Abel? The footman?”

  “Yes.”

  He could not seem to take it in. Ottilia became aware that the dowager was on her feet.

  “Then that is why you would not tell us last night?”

  Ottilia moved past Francis a little towards her. “That is why.”

  “But Abel?”

  She turned. “Is it so hard to believe, Francis?”

  “Yes,” he said with emphasis. “I could believe many things of Emily. But that she would take up with the footman? I would never have imagined such a thing!”

  Ottilia was seized with a hysterical desire to giggle and knew she was close to the end of her tether. She moved to a chair and sat down, setting her elbow on the arm and sinking her face into her hand.

  “Fanfan, get her a drop of brandy.”

  She found Sybilla at her side. The dowager took her other hand and began to chafe it. “My poor child, you have borne too much.”