“How would you have reacted if he did?”
Clary shook her head. “I don’t know. I’d like to think I would have been gentle but . . . I don’t know. I wonder, now, if perhaps there is someone else out there mourning poor Alfred as I am, but unable to show it. He should have his letters back, if it is at all possible. But how can I return the letters when I don’t know who it is?”
“Would you like me to try and figure it out?”
“Would you?”
Anne nodded and took the letters. “I’ll do the best I can.”
“Thank you.”
“Has anyone else read these letters? Did you show them to your son?”
“No. I would never tell Roger, or anyone else.”
“Has anyone else been in his room?”
“The maids have been in to dust, of course, and clean the fireplace, but he had no valet, and these were in a locked case. I found the key in his pocket when I was getting a suit of clothes for the undertaker. I’m the only one who has been through his things.”
Anne took a deep breath. “I have a favor to ask, my dear Clary. I’m deeply concerned about your nephew’s death.” She hesitated, but there was no way around this. “I have reason to believe that it was not natural.”
“Not natural? What do you mean?”
“I cannot tell you more. Please just know this: I don’t believe it was natural, but neither do I believe it was by his own hand.”
“But that means . . .” Clary paled, the faintest hint of color ebbing from her cheeks.
Anne let her come to the natural conclusion. “May I look through his room?”
She choked back a sob. “If you think it would help, please do,” she said, her voice thick. “I’ll take you up now, if you like, to look around.”
“I would appreciate that. Can we be discreet, though? I don’t wish Roger—or anyone else, for that matter—to know I’ve been looking through his things.”
Clary observed her closely for a minute, then nodded. “Roger is not home at the moment and won’t be for a few hours, and the maids are busy with preparations for visitors this afternoon. Some of my friends will be dropping around this afternoon, I’m sure, to express their sympathy. Now is a good time.”
• • •
In Alfred Lonsdale’s room, Anne threw back the heavy draperies, letting in the light. It was a large, airy chamber, with a full testered bed draped in blue damask, a mirrored wardrobe, and a dressing table. There was a chest of drawers with various toiletries upon it: brush, comb, clothing brush, a valet case, hair pomade, and scent.
And a Bible. She opened it and sat on the end of the bed. He had marked, with torn slips of paper, certain sections of the Old Testament, especially Leviticus, and in the New Testament, Jude. She understood why the sections were marked, and it saddened her. She had never thought of it one way or the other, she supposed—she had never had to think of it beyond her Bible readings—but to believe that who you were made you an outcast in the eyes of God . . . it could not have been an easy life, especially for a man pursuing the church as a career. Was that why he went to the church for a vocation? Had he been looking for hope, or peace or . . . salvation? There was nothing else in the Bible, no notes or letters to give her the answers she sought, so she set it back where she had found it.
She wished more than anything to read the letters; that was her most likely source to figure out who the other man was. However, she had access to this room for a short time, and she had best make haste. She thought of Dr. Fothergill; what would he want to know, if he had this opportunity?
Immediately she began to go through the wardrobe looking for any medicine or bottles. When she found one, a tonic, she examined it closely, pouring some into the washbasin. No green residue, no yew needles. Still . . . she made sure the stopper was firmly in and slipped the slim bottle into her pocket. There was a part bottle of brandy. No residue, no greenish tint, and no yew needles as far as she could tell from the little she poured into the water pitcher after shaking the bottle. She could not possibly take it, though she would tell the doctor about it. His portable writing desk contained financial papers and other items, but nothing of deep interest. Relentless, she searched every last inch of the room, and in a deep dark corner of the wardrobe she discovered, wrapped in oilcloth and tied with a ribbon, a small leather book, handwritten.
She untied the ribbon and opened the book, sitting down at the dressing table and reading the frontleaf. It was a journal, and had his name, Alfred Gabriel Lonsdale, then, in script, the words Not for the world would I expose my secret heart to the scorn of men. She closed the book and held it to her chest. It was a plea for privacy, and it rent her heart. “I wish I could abide by your wishes, Alfred,” she whispered. “But we must discover who killed you. I promise, nothing revealed within shall be exposed to the ridicule or contempt of others.”
She descended and told Clary about the journal, asking to take it with her—that wish was granted—then bid her farewell, promising to do her best to discover both who to return the letters to and who may have had any responsibility for his death. She left her with another warning not to tell another living soul, including her son and Anne’s mother, what they had discussed and what she had taken away.
Her soul was weary. Her sadness over Alfred Lonsdale’s death was growing, not receding, perhaps as a result of her visit to Clary. But still, she must go on. She would visit Alethea, as she promised, and see how the Birkenheads were doing after the wrenching few days they had suffered. If they were being shunned, as Alethea feared, she would suffer. Alethea lived for company and gaiety far more than Bertie, who was not afraid of solitude. She arrived at their door at the same moment as Osei returned Quin, after their jaunt. Quin, pale with weariness, asked them both to come in and take tea—or something stronger—with him. Anne agreed, but Osei said he must return the rented curricle to the livery.
“I will wait upon you this evening, my lady,” he said to Anne. “If you don’t mind.”
“I’d like that, Mr. Boatin. I have some things to discuss with you.”
Quin was helped in to the ground-floor sitting room on the shoulder of a footman—Quin called him Crabbe when he thanked him—followed by Anne.
Alethea, hearing them enter, descended. “Darling boy, how pale you are!” she said to her brother-in-law, rushing to help him. “I knew that was a bad idea, Mr. Boatin and you going out,” she scolded.
“Enough, Alethea, it was my choice. I do still have a choice, do I not?”
“Of course.”
Anne had never heard Quin so impatient, but it must become wearying, she thought, to have everyone fussing over you all the time. He was ill, but not lacking in mental facilities, and he knew his own limits better than anyone else. If he wished to test them, it was his right.
“Miss Hadley is visiting this afternoon,” he said, casting his sister-in-law an impatient look. “I hope you’ll be polite to her.”
“Of course I will.” Alethea’s chin went up. “You needn’t be rude, Quin.” She glanced over at Anne. “Are you here to visit me, or him?”
“Either. Both,” Anne said, taken aback. Grief was something that cut through every human emotion, leaving devastation in its wake. “I got your note. I’d be happy to visit with you together, or separately; I’m yours to command.”
“Come upstairs when you and Quin have had your chat.” She turned and swept from the room.
“There is tension between you,” Anne said, sitting down by the fire, opposite Quin. She stripped off her gloves and held her hands out to warm them. “I’ve never seen that before. You’ve always been so close.”
“I suppose I was a little cutting toward her.” He passed one bony hand over his face and squinted wearily. “She thinks I’m being foolish,” he said, glancing at her, then staring fiercely into the fire. “I have asked Susanna to marry me.”
Anne leaped from her chair and hugged him in an excess of joy. After the last few dreadful days th
e Birkenheads deserved happiness. “Oh, Quin, I’m overjoyed for you both! Susanna is a dear girl. I think you two suit most admirably.” Tears prickled her eyes. “And I know it is shocking for me to say, but I think she is already deeply in love with you. I’ll presume she said yes?”
He nodded and slumped back in the chair. “I’m grateful to hear you say that, Anne, that you’re happy for us. Bertie and Alethea had almost convinced me I was being unbearably selfish, sentencing her to a life of looking after an invalid.”
She gasped and stared. “They didn’t say that, did they?”
“Not in so many words, but if I hear one more time about a woman’s appetites . . .” He shook his head.
“I suppose it is because of their own relationship in the . . . their physical relationship, I mean. They think everyone as lusty as themselves.” She smiled, making her little joke.
Quin shook his head and didn’t respond.
“I’m sorry if my jest fell flat, dear boy. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Do you know them as well as you think?” he finally said, staring at her. His tone was exasperated.
“Know them? Of course I know them. What do you mean?”
“No marriage is without . . . without some difficult times. Some tension and distance.” He sighed. “It’s nothing, don’t listen to me. I’m tired. I think I’ll have a rest before Susanna comes. We are planning our wedding. I would enlist Alethea’s help, but you see how I am left to my own devices, though I’m sure Lady Sharples will assist once she learns Susanna is as determined as I, my income is more than sufficient and I’m prepared to be generous in the settlements.” He rang a bell beside him. “Alethea will be in her sitting room upstairs.”
The footman came.
“Crabbe, I am going to have a rest in the small salon,” Quin said. “I’m too weary to ascend.” The footman helped Quin to his feet and the two shuffled off, down the hall toward the back of the townhome.
The entire household felt fractured, like the death of Alfred Lonsdale had broken something wide open, leaving a raw wound. She fingered the stack of letters in her pockets, and the journal, too. What would it reveal? Taking in a deep breath she ascended. The drawing rooms on the first floor were sectioned off by folding screens. “Alethea?” she called out.
“Here,” came her friend’s ghostly voice from beyond the screens.
Anne followed the voice to the dim withdrawing room to find Alethea sitting, staring into the ashy cold fireplace. Her hands were folded in front of her, and her attitude was listless.
“My dear, let me ring for a servant to stir the fire.” Anne ordered the Birkenhead staff around as if it were her own. It seemed shockingly poorly managed to her, with no housekeeper to direct the staff. Within minutes of her brisk commands there was a fire blazing in the hearth and a steaming pot of tea on the table in front of the settee where Alethea still sat, an island of stillness in the household whirlwind. “When did you last eat?” Anne asked.
Alethea lifted one hand and let it fall without answering.
“Sandwiches for your mistress,” she said to the maid, who was departing the room. She’d have a second luncheon herself; food was the magic elixir to brighten the spirit, she hoped. At the very least, it would sustain life.
“Nothing seems to matter right now,” Alethea said, her tone dead of inflection.
“It’s been a shock,” Anne said gently. “Someone dying in your home, a dear friend, at that. I didn’t know you were so close until recently. How is Bertie?”
“Beside himself.”
“You said in your note that your acquaintances are shunning you. Surely that can’t be true?”
“Bertie says I’m imagining it, and maybe I am. I thought you had deserted me, too.”
“Oh, Alethea! I never would, you know. I never will.”
The other woman’s eyes teared, but she shook her head. “I have no certainty right now. I feel as though a rug has been pulled out from underneath us all, and that the world is now neither so sure nor so steady as I once thought it.” She brushed away the tears and impatiently shook her head.
They drank tea, and again Anne forced food on a grieving woman, her role for the last few hours, it seemed. Anne delicately hinted at Lonsdale’s secret life, but her friend was deaf to subtlety and didn’t appear to know of anything amiss. Finally Anne said, putting down her teacup, “Alethea, I am looking into Alfred’s death. I know how deeply you are concerned, not only for that but because of the gossip you feel is swirling around you, and how you suspect you are being ostracized because of how his death occurred. Will you come with me to the Assembly Rooms for the next ball? You must not let people send you and Bertie to Coventry. It’s not fair, and I’ll not have it.”
“I know I asked you to come to me, I know I said I was upset about it, but even if it is true, do you think we care right now?” She looked mulish, her face set in a hard expression of disdain. “I won’t go. Let society banish us; we have each other and Quin.”
“Has your friend Mrs. Hughes been to visit?”
Alethea merely shook her head.
“I’m sorry, my dear.”
“I don’t care!” she cried, a wail of misery. “I don’t care about anything right now. It is all wrong and false and people are horrible!”
In times of trouble one did not exhort a friend to cheer up, one provided love and comfort. However, it was her place to help her friend look forward. “You may not care now, but in time you will, and it will be too late. Society is fickle, and once they’ve taken against you . . .” She shook her head. “Please, Alethea, say you’ll come. Please.”
“No. I am done with them all.”
Anne sighed, but Alethea had always been dramatic when overwrought. “If you change your mind, you know how to find me. Now . . . I have some questions about Alfred Lonsdale. I know he was a friend, but how close?”
Alethea looked up and met Anne’s eyes. “I don’t know what to say. He was more Bertie’s friend than mine.” She shifted in her seat, and when she spoke again her voice had changed. It was higher, lighter, and she looked away from Anne into the fire. “You know how good Bertie is. Alfred was almost like another little brother.”
Cautiously, Anne probed deeper. “Did you know of his other friends? Alethea, I am asking in particular about Mr. Graeme. I know Bertie didn’t like him and ejected him from your home. Why?”
“You know my husband; once he takes against someone, he can be rigid and unforgiving. And . . . the gentlemen do get about more than we do. I assume he knew something unsavory about Graeme.”
“But what?”
“I don’t know, Anne, truly!”
Alethea was weary and irritable, and Bertie still was not home. “Will you tell your husband I wish to see him?” Anne asked, standing. “And do me a great favor; be kind to Quin about Susanna. You may have concerns, but I’ve known her for years. If your apprehension is for her, please, don’t worry. I have never seen her happier than when she and Quin are together.”
“You mistake me, Anne. My concern is not for her, but for him. I worry that she will expect from him what he cannot give.”
“Isn’t that for the two of them to work out? Weren’t there things you and Bertie had to work out when you first married?”
Alethea looked startled for a moment, and stared at her friend, her gaze searching, questioning. She shook her head and looked away, her voice indistinct when she replied, “Of course, yes, you’re right, Anne.”
• • •
When she arrived back at the Paragon townhome, her grandmother and mother were in the sitting room entertaining two of their friends, a powdered and wigged widow of gossipy repute and Lord Westmacott. Though she couldn’t bear to drink another cup of tea without a moment alone with a bordelou, Anne did visit.
As the three ladies chatted, Westmacott, sitting beside Anne, put one hand over hers. “How are you, my dear? Have you recovered from the awful scene at the Birkenheads’?”
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“I’m all right, but Alethea is still devastated and Bertie . . . he’s taking this dreadfully hard. As disbelief wears off, melancholy takes its place.”
“Truer words were ne’er spoken.”
“Did you know Lonsdale well?”
“Not well, I wouldn’t say. He was often at the Birkenheads’ of late, since he came to stay with Mrs. Basenstoke in August.”
“Mr. Roger Basenstoke didn’t care for his cousin. Why, I wonder?”
“They are very different gentlemen, Anne. Not everyone gets along.”
“Mr. Basenstoke has always seemed somewhat disagreeable to me, though he’s been helpful of late, with advice for the marquess’s secretary, Mr. Boatin, on where to find him a townhome to lease for the winter season.”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Boatin. What a dignified-looking young man he is. I find him most intriguing.”
“He is a wonderful person. He found a new secretary for my father, one who can ably assist his research. Papa is thrilled.” She paused, and ensured that her mother and grandmother were still taken up with gossip. She leaned into Lord Westmacott and murmured, “I was with Clary today. She is more upset than before, and I’m becoming deeply concerned. When I spoke with Mr. Lonsdale last he spoke at length about his concerns for his future, and his uncertainty of his chosen profession, the church, whether he was fit for it or not. He was melancholy, but many are saying he was self-destructive. I don’t think that. I’d appreciate any help I can get socially to counter that horrible rumor. It is hurting the Birkenheads and their social standing.”
“That is so sad!” He seemed torn and uncertain. Finally he said, “I beg your pardon, Anne; I will do what I can but do you truly think the other alternative, that he was murdered there, is to be preferred? Does that not put them in a worse light?”
She gasped and stared at him, meeting his pale protuberant eyes, lined with wrinkles he tried to hide with powder. “Has it come so far? Do people not still think it was natural causes?”
Lady Anne and the Menacing Mystic Page 19