I immediately complied, not allowing myself a moment to reconsider.
By the time Gage returned with the earl’s butler and two footmen—all of whom appeared to have been summoned from their beds—I stood a foot away from Feckenham, doing my best to appear meek and compliant. I knew horrified and alarmed—the emotions any respectable young lady should feel upon such a discovery—were beyond me. In any case, my reputation was well set. No one would believe it if I suddenly began to shriek with hysterics and threaten to faint.
With Gage’s assistance, the body was carried into Lord Redditch’s townhouse and deposited into Feckenham’s bedchamber. A groom had been dispatched to inform the earl and countess, who were attending the theater. In the meantime, Gage and I were ushered into the drawing room to wait for them.
The butler tugged at his hastily donned attire as his gaze dipped to my single white glove. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll request a pot of tea be made ready.”
In his absence, I removed the other glove, deciding it would be more peculiar to continue to wear one glove than none. Gage helped himself to a fortifying glass of the earl’s whiskey from the sideboard while I struggled not to worry about the repercussions of this evening’s crimes. Given the state of my mind, I was tempted to partake of a wee dram myself, even though I’d never been a great devotee of whiskey. However, I’d consumed a glass of madeira at Lady Bearsden’s soiree, and while its dulcifying effect had been ruthlessly nullified by the murder of Feckenham, I felt it better not to drink any more spirits.
It was difficult to believe only five days prior I’d waltzed through the ballroom upstairs and watched an effigy of Guy Fawkes burn on the dining room table. Then my most pressing concerns had been avoiding Lady Felicity’s flinty gaze and one baron’s particularly fetid breath. How fast things changed. As they were about to for Lord and Lady Redditch, their eldest son and heir having been killed, practically on their doorstep.
I offered the stalwart butler a smile of gratitude when he returned with the tea tray.
“I trust the groom will be able to locate his lordship and her ladyship swiftly,” he assured me, displaying a grandfatherly urge to offer comfort. I noted in his absence, his clothing had also been set to rights.
“Hotchkins, isn’t it?” Gage asked, rejoining me.
“Yes, sir.”
“I imagine you’ve been with the family for many years.” It was phrased with compassion rather than as a query, but the butler answered the implied question anyway.
“I’ve been fortunate to serve his lordship for thirty-two years, sir.”
“So you’ve known Lord Feckenham all his life, then. My condolences.”
It might have been a trick of the light, but the slight flicker in the old retainer’s eyes appeared to me to be a wince. “Thank you, sir.”
Gage’s brow furrowed with concern. “As I’m sure you noticed, his lordship was attacked on the street but a few dozen feet from the house. Did you happen to notice anything out of the ordinary this evening? Any odd noises or suspicious fellows hanging about?”
“I wish I had, sir. But everything seemed as usual. Only the Lawsons in the house adjacent leaving at about ten o’clock.”
I glanced at the clock to see that it was half past eleven. Which meant the Lawsons had departed too early for them to have noticed anything unusual either.
The sound of a carriage being pulled up to the door propelled Hotchkins toward the entry. “If you’ll excuse me. That must be the earl and countess.”
Gage and I rose to our feet, waiting for Lord and Lady Redditch to join us. My skin felt tight across my bones, and dread swirled in my stomach. How much had the groom told them? Did they already know the worst, or would we have to reveal it to them?
My question was soon answered by the countess’s flustered voice. “What is this, Hotchkins? Billy intercepted us leaving the theater, insisting we return home. Some nonsense about Feckenham. Well, where is he?”
“I believe I’ll allow Mr. Gage and Lady Darby to explain that, my lady. They’re waiting for you in the drawing room.”
The silence that followed this pronouncement reverberated with a horror so palpable I wanted to speak just to fill it with something else. Then there was a flurry of footsteps rushing toward the room.
“What is it?” Lady Redditch gasped, our reputations preceding us. “What’s happened to my son?”
“It grieves me to inform you that . . .” Gage began, but before he could finish the statement, Lady Redditch swooned, latching on to her husband’s arm. Between the earl and the butler, they maneuvered her over to a sofa before she collapsed, moaning her son’s name.
“Find her ladyship’s maid,” Hotchkins ordered the footman standing in the doorway. “And tell her to bring her ladyship’s smelling salts.”
The earl sank down beside his wife, chafing her hands as she stirred fitfully. His gaze lifted to Gage. “He’s dead?”
“I’m afraid so, my lord.”
This seemed to stupefy him for a moment, for his ministrations to his wife ceased.
“My lord, shall I send for the physician for her ladyship?” Hotchkins asked softly.
“I . . .” He seemed to mentally shake himself and then nodded. “Yes, yes, do.”
Gage and I returned to our seats, feeling odd standing over Lord and Lady Redditch as the butler departed.
It took several moments longer for the earl to speak again, his eyes wild. “When? How?”
“Just a short time ago. In the street outside. He was attacked.”
In deference to the countess’s anguish, Gage’s explanation was brief and concise, but she still keened like a wounded animal.
“Attacked?” the earl exclaimed, his round face growing red. “By whom?” His eyes flared wide. “You don’t mean . . .”
Before he could say the words, the door opened to admit an older woman wearing a phlegmatic expression.
The earl stepped aside as she bustled forward. “She’s had a great shock, Hettie.”
“So I’ve heard. Come with me now, my lady,” she coaxed, managing between herself and Hotchkins to usher the weeping Lady Redditch from the room.
Once the door had shut behind them, the earl whirled back around to face us, apparently having relocated his self-possession. “Now, what’s this? Don’t tell me these bodysnatchers are trying to burk the nobility now.”
I studied the earl’s face, wondering how natural it was that he’d almost immediately suspected the burkers. It was true the current inquest was featured in all of the newspapers and broadsheets, and so must be on everyone’s minds, but none of the criminals had been seen in Mayfair.
The guarded look in Gage’s eyes told me he was contemplating the same thing. “Such a scenario makes little sense. For one, I’m sorry to say, your son was stabbed. Though it was the blow he suffered to his head when he collapsed to the pavement that killed him.”
“But why wouldn’t that make any sense? Stabbing a fellow seems a simpler way of killing him than some of the more contrived methods I’ve seen mentioned in the papers.”
Gage’s leg muscles tightened next to mine, telling me he was gathering his patience. “Because a stab wound would immediately alert the medical school or surgeon who purchased the body to the fact there had been foul play.”
At first, it appeared the earl might argue further, but then comprehension dawned in his eyes. “Ah, yes. I see.” He frowned down at the medallion-patterned Axminster carpet under his feet, his narrow shoulders slumped. “Then what about a footpad? They prowl the streets of Mayfair as well as the East End.”
“It’s possible,” Gage conceded with a frown. “But I searched his pockets. Nothing was taken, and he had quite a healthy bankroll on him.”
I glanced at him in surprise, realizing he must have done so after they’d taken the body upstairs.
&nbs
p; The earl growled. “Gambling.”
“That was my assumption. Did he do so often?”
“Nearly every night. Had the devil’s own luck.” He shook his head in begrudged wonder. “Never knew a man who had such good fortune with the cards.”
My husband’s gaze slid sideways to meet mine, and I could tell he was thinking the same thing I was. Perhaps Lord Feckenham was helping that luck along. Perhaps someone found out.
“Wait.” Redditch glanced between us in startlement. “You think someone deliberately murdered my heir?”
“The evidence does seem to point in that direction,” Gage said.
Redditch sank back into the sofa as if he’d had the wind knocked out of him.
“Does that surprise you?”
He lifted a hand to rub his forehead. “Actually . . . no.”
I straightened, surprised by his frank answer.
“Why do you say that?” Gage pressed.
But before the earl could reply, the sound of raised voices in the entry reached us.
“What’s happened? Is it Father?”
The earl pushed himself upright as a younger man burst into the room. The sight of the earl seemed to dumbfound him momentarily, for he stood blinking at him. Then his breath left him in a rush and he charged forward.
“Thank heavens! You are well, sir?”
“Yes, my boy,” the earl replied, seeming discomforted by his son’s concern.
This must be the younger son Lady Redditch had spoken to me about at her ball. The one she’d been eager for me to paint a portrait of. Whether or not he was given over to dissipation, as his mother had jested, I didn’t know, but he certainly didn’t look it. His build might have been average, but his face and form were more than handsome.
“Then why did Hotchkins send for me so urgently?”
“It’s your brother.”
His face flushed, and his hands fisted at his sides. “What has he—”
“He’s dead,” his father stated bluntly, cutting off whatever he was about to say.
A range of emotions swept across the young man’s face—shock, alarm, pain—but the one that most interested me, though it had only registered for a brief moment, was relief.
I looked at Gage, curious whether he’d noticed the same thing I had, but he was intent on watching the interplay between the father and son.
“How can that be?” the son was demanding to know. “Has there been an accident?”
“I’ll explain in a moment,” the earl retorted, silencing him. “First, let me see Mr. Gage and Lady Darby on their way.”
With this firm directive, we were forced to follow him out into the hall, where Hotchkins stood waiting to assist us. While Gage helped me into my mantle, the earl pressed a hand to his forehead again, suddenly appearing overwhelmed. His ruddy face had drained of much of its color, and dark circles shadowed his eyes.
“What is to be done now?” he murmured, clearly out of his depths.
Gage accepted his greatcoat before replying in a deceptively indifferent voice. “I can send a servant to Bow Street, if you wish. I am on good terms with a number of the Runners and could recommend one to you.”
“A Bow Street Runner?” he contemplated in bewilderment, and then shook his head. “Oh, no, no, no. That will never do.” He glanced up at us, his gaze suddenly hopeful. “But you could look into this matter for me, couldn’t you? You could figure out who killed my son?”
Gage paused in buttoning his coat. It had been evident, at least to me, from the first that this had been the outcome my husband wished. The earl could not have fallen in with his plans more neatly. However, before accepting, he turned to me, allowing me the chance to object.
After all, we already had an inquiry we were assisting his father with, though as of yet I’d been able to contribute very little. The reactions to our questions would undoubtedly prove awkward once the location of the murder and the inevitable specter of the burking bodysnatchers was raised. But the sticking plaster stashed at the bottom of my reticule also made it impossible for me to say no.
So I nodded my assent.
“We’ll call on you tomorrow,” Gage told the earl.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Hotchkins, being the exemplary butler he appeared to be, had ordered that the Redditch carriage wait for us after it returned from the theater with the earl and countess. So rather than having to walk the remaining three blocks home, we were able to ride inside the warm town coach. A fact I was grateful for, as the cold night air that had felt so good on my cheeks such a short time ago now sent shivers through my frame.
Seeing this, Gage tucked the lap rug about me before wrapping a strong arm around my shoulders to secure me to his side. “Better?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
He gathered my bare hands in his other hand, chafing them lightly while I stared out the window at the passing buildings. “Are you reconciled to us conducting this inquiry? Because if you’re not, I can always tell the earl we’ve changed our minds.”
I looked up into his concerned face.
“I’m sure murder, particularly the way this one was presented, was the last thing you wished to see.” He sighed. “Especially after such a pleasant evening.”
My gaze dropped to where our hands were joined, his tanner in hue and larger than mine. “Actually, I was thinking how glad I was that you and I found him and not someone else,” I replied somewhat in chagrin.
“Because someone else would have leaped to the conclusion the killer hoped,” he supplied.
“Yes. Even the earl did so, and we never mentioned the sticking plaster.”
Gage nodded grimly. “Well, I suppose that tells us one thing about the murder. It was a crime of opportunity. Not so much in the execution, but in the fact that the recent inquest into the burking of that Italian Boy gave the killer a scapegoat. A ready bogeyman to conceal their crime.”
“The resurrectionists.”
“A friend of mine with the New Police informed me they’ve already received several reports of attempted burkings, and the number is certain to increase.”
Just as it had in the months following the arrest of Burke and Hare in Edinburgh. How many of these complaints would be legitimate and not imagined from a street robbery or other assault, no one could say. But the fear of the populace was real, even here in Mayfair.
Contemplation of Burke and Hare also led me to another thought. “We also know that the killer must be getting his information about burkings from the newspapers and broadsheets. They all depict bodysnatchers holding sticking plasters over people’s faces. But during Burke’s trial, Hare revealed that they’d plied their victims with drink until they lost consciousness, and then held shut their nose and mouth to make it look like a natural death.”
“Yes, but for most people those images in the broadsheets are what stick most in their minds, not the facts of a three-year-old trial,” he pointed out.
“True. But doesn’t that also mark him an amateur? He plainly never contemplated the technique involved with smothering someone.”
“As does his failed attempt to stab Feckenham. Anyone with experience would know to thrust below the rib cage, especially in a heated scuffle. The weapon is much more likely to strike true.”
I’d had the same thought when examining the wound. “Did you catch a better glimpse of the killer than I did while you were pursuing him?”
He shook his head. “Much of him was in shadow, and the fog didn’t help. All I could tell was that his clothing was dark and well made. Whether it was the cut of a gentleman or something below that, I can’t say, but it wasn’t the type of garments you’d find at the Rag Fair,” he said, referring to the area near the Tower of London where secondhand clothing was sold.
“Yet another indication he wasn’t a resurrectionist.”
Bod
ysnatching was a trade for the lowliest figures of society, not those who could afford tailored clothing.
“Whoever he was, either he knew the area or he got dashed lucky and found a good hiding place.” Gage flicked aside the curtain drawn over the window as the carriage turned. “I would have kept searching for him, but I didn’t want to leave you alone for long on the street with an injured—or dead—man.”
“Yes, what if someone else had come along? I can only imagine how that would have improved my reputation,” I muttered wryly.
He glanced down at me, his gaze troubled. “I was thinking more of your safety and sensibility, but . . . yes.”
I turned into his shoulder, both relieved and touched that he still saw me as someone who needed shelter when so many others thought I hadn’t a heart or normal human feelings to be considered.
The carriage slowed to a stop, and while the servants scrambled to let down the step, I asked one more question. “What will your father say about us taking on another inquiry?”
He stiffened. “I suppose we shall find out when I write to him in the morning. But in truth, it’s none of his concern.”
Before I could respond, he was climbing from the conveyance, and I was forced to bite back my words. For Lord Gage made everything his concern, whether it was or not. And I’d yet to encounter an instance where his interference had been beneficial.
* * *
• • •
When we returned to Upper Brook Street late the following morning, the earl’s door already sported a mourning wreath. Its ribbons dripped with rain, splattering the black and white tiles of the entry hall as the door was opened.
Hotchkins ushered us inside wearing a black armband. “His lordship is just finishing his breakfast, but he asked that you be shown into his study when you arrived.”
Considering her agitated state the night before, I expected to find Lady Redditch prostrate with grief, confined to her bedchamber. But the sound of her well-modulated voice carried through the door of what I assumed to be the breakfast parlor across the hall from the study. Most curiously, it did not sound the least bit distressed. Maybe a trifle flat, but nothing approaching the despair we’d witnessed ten hours earlier.
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