“I’d wager she employed help, milady,” Mary said. “She’s a canny businesswoman and ambitious; she knows the value of such trade as yours. She’d no’ want to disappoint you.”
Anne turned to Osei. “It was lovely of you to come with us to church Sunday. Lydia was overjoyed to see you.”
“Bath seems to have made me a desirable companion to her,” he rejoined dryly.
“She has come to appreciate your perfect good humor. I wonder if Lolly is still ensconced on Milsom? I haven’t heard from her.” Their stop at Milsom was in vain. No one was home, Anne was informed at the door by the maid. No one. “Neither Lady Lydia nor Lord John?”
Nor Miss Broomhall, who had gone out with Lady Lydia, the maid said with a curtsey.
Anne returned to the carriage. “Unusual,” she said, settling her gown about her. “Lydia has complained about her inability to go anywhere.”
“Mayhap having Miss Lolly there has enabled her to go out and about,” Mary suggested.
“But I am available; she knows that. I would do anything for her.”
Mary glanced at her but remained silent.
“What is it? Speak your mind, Mary!”
“Milady, Miss Broomhall is the sort that Lady John would find a comfort, especially in her state, and it may be easier to feel that she is not imposing with Miss Broomhall.”
“You’re likely right. Let us return to Pierrepont Place, for I wish to call on Mr. and Mrs. Birkenhead, to make sure my friends are recovering from the shock and horror of last night.” She had another motive. Who but his closest friends might know if Mr. Lonsdale was likely to kill himself? Two stops would hopefully tell her much, this to his friends and one to the Basenstoke home, to see how Clary was doing after the death of her nephew, upon whom it appeared she doted. Perhaps she could ascertain if Roger’s note to the doctor had been prompted by Clary or was his own broadside.
Knowing what it was that likely killed Lonsdale worried her. If it wasn’t by his own hand, who could do such a thing? Who had the knowledge necessary to concoct the poison and the opportunity to give it to Lonsdale? Perhaps reconstructing Lonsdale’s day would give her some insight and questioning those closest to him would reveal his frame of mind.
The Pierrepont house was transformed by mourning, the knocker off the door and straw quieting the cobbles. A maid was keeping watch, recognized Anne, and let her in. She asked Osei to accompany her and sent Mary home with her burdens to organize Anne’s winter wardrobe.
She and Osei were shown into the sitting room that overlooked the narrow street outside. Alethea, solemn and gowned in dark gray, entered. Anne, her composure broken by her friend’s evident suffering, advanced across the room and embraced her. Alethea sobbed on her shoulder for a moment, then Anne held her at arm’s length, examining her face. Lines and dark circles under her lovely eyes were a haunting visual reminder of the pain of losing a close friend. “How are you, my dear one? Did you sleep at all? How is Bertie?”
Alethea didn’t answer, she just shook her head. There was a dragging sound in the hall, and Quin, carrying a book, hobbled into the sitting room, looking wan and weary, his thin frame trembling with the exertion of joining them. Always attentive to her brother-in-law, Alethea bid them all sit, as Anne introduced Osei to them both. They sat close to the fire, the blaze warding off the foggy miasma that enveloped Bath as the day progressed.
“How is Bertie?” Anne repeated, after assuring herself that her friends were doing as well as could be expected after the trauma of the previous night.
“He is devastated,” Alethea said. “There is no other word for it.”
“He seemed particularly attached to Lonsdale, as to a son or nephew,” Anne commented. “I knew him but little, however he was an exceedingly polite gentleman, good company. We strolled in St. Swithin’s churchyard for a time on Sunday and I came to know him somewhat. Tell me, did he seem unduly distressed to you lately?”
Alethea and Quin exchanged glances.
“He was troubled over his future,” Quin said. He passed one hand over his forehead and squinted. “He was unsure he would be able to find a position as a vicar. No livings had been offered so far.”
It was more than that, Anne knew from their conversation. Perhaps he had not confided in them, not wishing to worry them unduly. But it was too late to be sensitive to that; the young man was dead, and she wanted to know why. These people who loved him would surely feel the same. “Perhaps that explains something he said to me,” she said, watching them both. “He seemed set on disavowing his profession. I know I can speak frankly in this company, or I would not repeat his words, but he spoke of . . . of sins he had committed that made him ineligible for the post. He seemed to think he would be stripped of his theological standing in the Church of England. What could he have meant by that?”
Alethea shook her head and Quin frowned. And yet . . . Anne could see there was something they were not telling her, something they both knew but would not share. Youthful indiscretions? Gambling debts? A secret family of illegitimate children? Not one of those possibilities fit with what she knew of the fellow. She was frustrated by their silence, but how could she blame them for keeping the secrets of a friend now unable to defend himself?
“It’s too bad. I felt he was on the point of sharing his burden with me, but we were interrupted,” she mused, still watching their faces. Perhaps if they thought Lonsdale was about to confide in her it would reassure them, and it was naught but the truth. But it was no good. She hesitated about revealing what else he had said, about his moral dilemma, and later the decision he had made regarding it. She’d have to think about that.
They spoke of other things for a moment, and Anne raised the topic of Thomas Graeme. “He will certainly be wounded by Mr. Lonsdale’s death; they seemed close friends. Bertie appears to dislike Mr. Graeme, though I can’t imagine why.” She stole a glance at her friends. “He was most put out the other night when Lonsdale invited him to the musical evening with the Italian singer. There was an argument; I think Bertie demanded that Graeme leave.”
“Anne, what is this?” Alethea asked, her expression hardening into something perilously close to anger. “Why the questions? What are you saying?”
Anne cocked her head and examined her friend. The sudden spurt of annoyance could be completely innocent, brought on by sadness and emotional fragility, or it could be something else, borne of some awareness that there were secrets among friends that could invite grim interpretations. Anne wasn’t sure why she felt it was the latter, but it was there, in Alethea’s irrational anger. It didn’t mean there was any actual guilt or knowledge of guilt, but secrets led to more secrets in her experience. “I’m not saying anything, my friend. I’m trying to decipher things I have noticed that seem odd, or unexplainable. Among them Bertie’s reaction to Mr. Graeme; as much as your husband says the young fellow is ‘not quite the thing,’ he did not appear to merit resolute banishment and an argument between two friends as close as Bertie and Lonsdale. I am merely . . . curious.”
“I think your curiosity is vulgar,” Alethea said, her tone harsh.
“Alethea, please,” Quin pleaded. “Lady Anne is our friend; she means nothing bad, I’m sure.”
“Quin doesn’t know you as I do, does he?” the woman said, glaring at Anne.
Alethea could be hotheaded and impulsive, attributes that had made the two girls close if troublesome companions at a young age. As with many girls, they could be passionately attached friends, then quarrel and become mortal enemies for a time, enlisting other girls into their war; that’s the way it was at a boarding school for young ladies, warring factions using rumor and scandalous gossip in the place of swords or bullets. Then a sudden shift; something would bring them together and they would be friends again. Alethea was tempestuous with a brittle temper, but it would not last. “I don’t mean to intrude,” Anne said, her tone gentle.
But Alethea’s anger had been roused and for the moment the fire
could not be smothered. “I know you fancy yourself more intelligent than the rest of us, but you have brought your suspicious prying into my home, and I don’t like it.”
Her words, razor sharp, stung. “I do not think, Alethea, that I’m more clever than others. You should know better. Don’t be so . . . so . . .” She stopped and shook her head. She had been drawn into patterns from their school days, and those were long gone. With sympathy she watched Alethea’s expression; her friend was only holding herself together with a great effort. “I’ll not quarrel with you, my dear friend,” she said gently. “I’m so deeply sorry for your loss.”
Osei said, his tone mild and placating, “I cannot help but fear that my presence here is contributing to some misunderstanding, that you cannot speak as freely as you would if I, a stranger, were gone.” He glanced back and forth between the two women. “I will leave soon enough and then two such close and dear friends as you ladies clearly are can set your differences aside and make peace.” He glanced over at Quin. “As rude as it may be for me to thrust myself forward, I would beg a boon, Mr. Birkenhead. I have recently secured a townhome for my employer in Bath and wish to understand the city before he arrives in a few days. Would it be too much to ask for your assistance? I sense in you a like-minded individual, judging by your reading matter.”
The tension in the room wavered and shimmered, but began to dissipate.
Quin smiled faintly. “Mr. Boatin, you find me out.” He held up what he was reading, his finger inserted where he had stopped and a pair of spectacles dangling from his other hand. “It is a book given to me by my doctor’s wife, a published collection of letters by the late Ignatius Sancho, who passed a few years ago.”
“I have read it,” Osei said, without mentioning that they had met the doctor’s wife that very morning. “He was an accomplished writer and had much to offer to Britons on the subject of those of us born in Africa who now dwell in your country.”
Quin frowned. “But how can I help you discover the city? You see in me a wreck of a man, barely able to tolerate a carriage ride.”
“My employer has allowed me funds to hire a carriage at any time, and I have found a livery that has superior well-sprung vehicles. An hour of your time would give me a better knowledge of the city for my employer’s benefit.”
“Why not let Lady Anne guide you?” Alethea said, her frostiness a little thawed. “She certainly knows the city.”
“Not as well as Quin,” Anne said. “I have spent relatively little time here over the most recent years.”
Quin put his hand on his sister-in-law’s to stay her. “I would be delighted, Mr. Boatin. Alethea, dear, it may help me get my mind off poor Lonsdale. I feel certain I will be safe with this gentleman.”
“Perhaps tomorrow then?” Osei said, rising. “I will be guided by you. I understand you must be available to your brother in a time such as this, when he has lost a close and dear friend.”
“Tomorrow is perfectly fine.”
Anne rose too. There was no point in staying. She turned and to her friend said, “Alethea, I mean no harm. I trust your love of me to know that, in your heart.” Her voice broke there, and she cleared her throat. “I will leave now too, and pray I have not offended in a deep sense. I’m going to see Mrs. Clary Basenstoke this afternoon. May I carry any message, or word from you and Bertie? Or has your husband visited there today, perhaps?”
“I think Bertie went there this morning to pay his condolences. But . . . thank you for the kind offer,” Alethea said. Her lip trembled and tears welled. She sniffed. “I didn’t mean to snap. I feel . . . last night was so dreadful . . .” She trailed off and caught back a sob.
“I understand, my friend,” Anne said, hugging her close. “We’ll take our leave.”
The carriage was awaiting them by the door. They mounted, heading back to Anne’s grandmother’s house. “Thank you, Osei, for your brilliant intervention,” Anne said. She waved to her friend, who stood in the window, then closed the curtain and turned back to the secretary. “Alethea was very angry with me, I’m afraid, and I’m not sure I understand why. What did I say or do to make her so full of ire?”
“I don’t think it was anything in particular you said, but . . . may I be frank, Lady Anne?”
“Please do, Osei.”
“When you are on the trail—pardon me and understand I truly mean no disrespect—you get a sharp look in your eyes and in your tone. It can seem intrusive, though you don’t intend it so. You almost quiver with excitement and curiosity and your eyes shine.”
“Add that my nose gets wet and you will make me sound like a hunting dog, Mr. Boatin!” she said with a laugh.
“You are offended! I’m sorry, my lady.”
“Not at all, Osei, not at all. Dogs and cats are better than most humans I know. But you have given me food for thought. I understand how that would feel from Alethea’s aspect, when I consider that Lonsdale was a dear friend. My eagerness in the hunt for a solution may have seemed . . . indelicate. I was tactless and forward. I will try to restrain the quivering and sharp look in future.”
She returned home to have an afternoon meal and allow Mary to fit some of her new gowns. As she dined with her mother in the woman’s room, the countess, looking decidedly weary, did not engage in her usual tittle-tattle.
“Mother, is everything all right?”
The woman looked across the small table. “I suppose I’m saddened by the news of that poor young man. Clary must be devastated. Alfred was like a son to her.”
“He seemed such a lovely young man.”
“He was. I knew him, of course. Since he arrived in Bath he had often accompanied Clary on her visits here. He was special in so many ways, ways few in society would appreciate.”
“What does that mean?”
Her mother simply shook her head, her expression pensive. “I can’t explain. He and Clary were close, especially with Roger being as he is.”
“As he is?”
“Cold as a codfish. Roger is a good son, but he lacks any depth of feeling.”
“I’m surprised to hear you say that, Mother. I did not think that you would have counted that against him.” Her mother was not the soul of warmth herself.
“I know what you think of me, Anne,” she said, raising her head and glaring at her daughter. “But I have had troubles in my life, things you will never understand.”
“I know Jamey is a trial to you, but—”
“Don’t!” The countess, trembling, stared down at the tablecloth as she raised one hand, palm toward Anne. “Not now. I wish not to speak of this today, please. If you are done . . . ?”
Anne nodded. “Mother, I . . .” She wasn’t sure what to say so instead she simply stood, circled the table, and put one hand on her mother’s shoulder. It quivered under her touch. “I’ll give Clary your sympathies, shall I?”
“Yes, and tell her she can come to me if she needs to talk.”
“I will do that.”
After a word with her grandmother, Anne engaged the carriage once again. The Basenstokes lived in a newer elegant townhome on Walcot Parade, not a long distance and walkable, but she had other destinations in mind. The fog had burned off. A weak stream of sunlight broke through the clouds, but the day still felt gloomy and damp. The knocker was off the townhome, and an air of desolation clung to the residence.
Anne was known to Mrs. Basenstoke’s staff, though, and as the daughter of the mistress’s oldest friend she was allowed in. She sent her card in and was summoned to the sitting room on the ground floor.
“Anne, oh, Anne, how good of you to come,” Clary cried, standing and holding out her arms.
They hugged and then sat, Clary in a gilt wood armchair upholstered in the delicious figured silk she preferred, Anne opposite her in a morocco leather chair. They were by the window, mellow October light now streaming in through sheer draperies. “Mother sends her warmest regards. You are to go to her when you are able. She hopes she will find
you comforted by your family’s support through this?” Anne let her tone rise, obliquely asking about Roger’s treatment of his mother through a wretched ordeal.
Clary reached over and grabbed Anne’s gloved hands, squeezing and staring at her steadily. Mrs. Basenstoke had prominent eyes, dark and lustrous, damp at the moment with unshed tears. “Do you speak of Roger?”
“I hope he has been a comfort to you?”
She dropped Anne’s hands and sighed, staring out the window. “I wish . . .” She shook her head.
“You can talk to me, Mrs. Basenstoke.”
“Clary, my dear; call me Clary. I know others retreat behind our society’s veil of correct behavior, but that is a chilly and lonely place to live.”
“Clary, then,” Anne said with a smile.
“Do you know, I saw you when you were just days old,” the woman reminisced. “By then Barbara already knew Jamey was . . . was going to have problems. You were her saving grace, her beautiful girl.”
Anne tried not to show how startled she was. That she should be anyone’s saving grace, much less her mother’s, was staggering.
“I know you don’t realize it, but Barbara loves you dearly . . . in her own way.” Clary paused and frowned. “She loves Jamey too, as much as she is able.” Clary had neatly avoided speaking of Roger.
“Mother says you were close to your nephew, and that Mr. Lonsdale was a wonderful young man. Are you . . . have you heard how he died?”
Trembling, she nodded. “Mr. Birkenhead was here an hour ago.” She clutched her hands together in her lap and sobbed. “He t-told me how poor Alfred died. It’s appalling!”
Anne thought of her conversation with Dr. Fothergill. “What did Bertie . . . Mr. Birkenhead say?”
“That poor Alfred died of a digestive ailment, sudden and violent.”
Anne nodded. “Truly terrible. I was there and saw him. He suffered only briefly, as far as I can tell, apart from the digestive upset that had plagued him all day.”
Lady Anne and the Menacing Mystic Page 14