by L. C. Sharp
That delay could have cost his wife her life. If it had, this woman would die. Why had he not stopped her from doing this?
“Juliana!”
Heedless of the heavy coffin on its trestle, Ash leaped up, grabbing the loaded weapon concealed in the folds of the shroud, finding the hammer and pulling it back.
Her voice came back to him. “I’m not hurt.” The room was filled with powder from the plaster and black smoke from the discharged weapon. As it cleared, he saw Juliana bending to retrieve it. At the same time a black-clad Lady Coddington lunged for the pistol. Even discharged, a gun was a useful weapon.
The women tussled, then Ash was there, after the most fraught few seconds of his life. His heart pounded fit to burst. “Juliana!”
He found an arm and knew it wasn’t hers, so he dragged it back, pulling the person it belonged to. Then he had her.
Shouts came from downstairs and heavy feet pounded up the stairs outside and along the hall.
By the time the others surged in, Ash had Lady Coddington pinioned, her elbows behind her, her wrists captive in his hands.
Abercorn burst into unseemly laughter. “Damn, man, you look like you’ve been raised from the dead in truth!”
Ash caught sight of himself in the mirror of the dressing table. Abercorn had a point. Bits of enamel and plaster hung from his face, and his white gown was covered in debris. The satin shroud was caught in the folds, half in, half out of the mahogany coffin. But he had his quarry firmly in his grasp, and Juliana had the missing letters in hers.
“Take her.” He thrust the woman at Abercorn, who took control, using the same hold Ash had, but the fight had gone out of her. She must have known she was done.
“Take her downstairs. We’ll join you in a minute,” Ash said.
* * *
Seeing Ash rising from the coffin had startled Juliana as much as it had Lady Coddington, even though she knew it would happen. But the white-clad, disheveled, cursing ghost almost made her laugh. Abercorn glanced at her and shared a grin.
The others retreated, leaving Ash and Juliana to clean up.
Ash pressed fervent kisses on Juliana as she tried to help him into more suitable clothing. “You’re much prettier than Corbett.”
“I should think so!” she retorted as she tried to button his waistcoat. His face finally clean, he looked far more like himself.
Seeing him white and pale in that coffin had turned her stomach. She never wanted to see him like that again, despite knowing the whiteness was rice powder and the stillness was because he’d been holding his breath. He’d seen her distress, and was trying to cheer her up with kisses and joking. She let him, but the fear would always remain.
While Ash wouldn’t pass muster in a fashionable drawing room, they went there anyway, once he was clean and tidy again.
The others waited for them. “I sent Freeman to Bow Street,” Abercorn said. “They’ll send a vehicle and men to collect her.” He glanced to where Lady Coddington sat miserably by the unlit fire, her head turned away from the group seated around a small table by the window.
Tea steamed in a pretty china pot, and as they entered, a maid poured out two dishes. Juliana accepted hers gratefully, and cupped it between her hands. “Have you read the letters?”
The duke shoved one across the table to her. “This is the best one. There weren’t many. Only the ones that proved her guilt. I wonder why he didn’t keep all the letters together?”
“Two caches,” Juliana said. She’d wondered that, too, until she’d worked out the reason. It was sound. “Find one cache, as we did, and don’t look for the other one, the one with the really incriminating information.”
“Ah yes,” Ash said quietly.
“Evidently he tried to use them against her.”
Turning, Ash faced her ladyship. “Did he? Is that why you killed him?”
Lady Coddington turned her face to them. No longer pretty, her blotchy, tear-streaked features spoke as loud as any voice. “Are you satisfied now? Couldn’t you have left well alone? You had your murderer. What was the harm in leaving him to take the blame?”
“He did not commit the murder,” Ash said. “Someone else did it. You did.”
“How can you say that? Perhaps one of my servants did it. They are all loyal, and they knew I was distressed. They knew I was trying to disentangle myself from an unfortunate situation.”
When Abercorn would have spoken, his clever face blazing anger, Ash held up a hand. “Let her speak. Let her condemn herself. How was it, then, Lady Coddington? You can’t deny your affair with Lord Stanton now.”
“You saw him!” she said bitterly. “He was handsome, affable, and I was tempted. Horribly tempted. I knew I had made a mistake, but when I told him we could not continue, he forced me to. Made me go to him. My beloved husband would have been so hurt if he knew my transgression. And my maid knew. I presume she communicated my fears to the rest of the household and one of my servants took the mistaken but understandable path of murder.”
“Interesting,” Ash said, one finger pressing into his lower lip. Anyone would imagine he had not taken part in a madcap but effective plan and disguised himself as a corpse to trap this woman. Now he was all dry, analytical lawyer. “Your imagination is remarkable, madam. We have a case against you that you cannot escape. We have a witness ready to identify you as Stanton’s murderer. We have letters linking you to the murder of your husband. You incited your lover to kill him, did you not?”
She gaped at him. “How can you say that? It is a tissue of lies! Such falsehoods! Your witness is lying. I was with my mantua-maker.”
Ash glanced at Cutty Jack. He took the signal. “No you weren’t. I bin followin’ you for days. I saw yer, comin’ out the back door of Madam’s shop, slippin’ away in gentleman’s clothes then comin’ back. I followed you there. I followed you back. I saw what you did, and I’m not the only one. You’ve bin usin’ that shop as your alibi for too long. Can’t get away with it forever. You should’ve changed your witnesses a bit.”
“You would take the word of this cur over mine?” Lady Coddington sat up straight, became all aristocrat. She could have passed muster at court. But not here.
“Yes,” Ash said simply. “I’d take anyone’s word over yours. You are a fabricator of myths, Lady Coddington. You invited Newcastle and others to your house on the night of your husband’s death to give yourself witnesses.”
“That part is in this letter.” Abercorn tapped one of the sheets of paper in front of him. “It’s not only letters; it’s signed statements by the dead man. He tried to ensure the widow would not blame him for the murder.”
“And part of that is to confess to murder?” Ash’s lips twisted.
“He did his best to ensure that he didn’t suffer alone. If he was taken, then she would be, too.”
“The idiot,” she muttered.
“Apparently he imagined himself in love with you,” the duke said. “So much that he wanted to marry you and was prepared to use the letters and his evidence to persuade you. So you killed him.”
Lady Coddington turned away.
“She likes the power,” Juliana suggested, seeing that the lady would not speak again. “She likes having people do her bidding.” The truth with no flesh over the bones to soften it.
“I suspect he confessed the extent of his debts to her,” Ash murmured. “Coddington had serious debts in some dangerous places. By killing him, she could nullify those debts, or at least some of them. I think the Raven was one of them. He might still come after her, but she’d cope with that when she had to.”
“She got her lover to murder her husband, and then she disposed of the lover,” Juliana said. “Cold.”
“Very,” said Ash dryly.
Chapter Twenty
Ash would miss Juliana by his side today, but last night he’d disc
ussed the arrangements he planned to make with her. He wanted her to rest.
Today he’d persuaded her to take her ease. Admittedly, the day had started with a bout of vigorous activity, but when he rose to dress, he’d persuaded her to stay where she was, in his bed. A maid brought breakfast to them.
Despite Corbett’s protests, Ash had taken care of himself. Having his wife watch him shave and dress was strangely arousing, in a way he had never imagined. Domesticity could be stimulating, he discovered. Together they drew up a list of items to be done that day. “So now you may rest easy,” he said. “I will ensure it is all done.”
By the time he kissed her forehead and stepped quietly out of the room, she was asleep again. Or so he thought.
But to his consternation, when, after dealing with essential business in his office, he went into the hall, there she was, hat and gloves neatly in place, sturdy leather shoes on her feet. “You were supposed to rest.”
She put up her chin. “I’ll rest when you do. What makes you think I don’t want to see the end of this along with you? I’m not so tired that I need to lounge about the house all day. You know Amelia would be put out if I tried to take over the housekeeping, and I don’t intend to shop or visit. Not today, at any rate. So may we get on with it?”
He sighed. One of the skills he had was to admit when he was beaten, and after all, they did not have much more to do. “Very well.”
She’d only follow him if he tried to go on his own.
Although he’d planned to walk, he hailed a cab. He could at least make their journey less strenuous, and although Juliana insisted she was perfectly well, she had shadows under her eyes that he vowed to eradicate as soon as possible.Married life was certainly changing everything he had taken for granted.
They headed up to Grub Street and the offices of The Daily Ransom.
Already there were signs that the Ransoms were going up in the world. A new engraved brass plaque was fastened to the wall at the side of the door, proclaiming the journal and its owner. The windows were freshly cleaned, gleaming as much as they could in the rays of sunshine beaming down on them. The door sported two new, strong locks, which were currently not being employed, as the door was open.
They went inside. A short counter divided their part of the office to the main space. Ransom sat at a desk, but got up when he saw them, and came forward, hand outstretched. “Good morning, Sir Edmund, Lady Ashendon!”
A boy hurried through from the back room, a stack of printed papers in his arms. Ransom waved him through, and he hurried past them and out the open door. The boy’s hands were as black as if he’d dipped them in soot, and his face was ink-smudged, but his clothes were respectable, and he had a cheerful smile on his face.
“My eldest,” Ransom said as he passed them. “A good lad. Gone to hawk the latest copies. I have six more boys I use to sell the journal. Six!” He beamed. “Your suggestion was most welcome, sir. I was foolish to even doubt you. The exploits of the Falcon are my best sellers.”
“You’ve kept to the truth?” Ash demanded.
“Yes.” Ransom heaved a sigh. “But I can think of a few juicy stories I want to tell. I’ve been reading the accounts from Bow Street, and I would appreciate an account of those you were involved with.” He tilted his head to one side. “Or I can make some assumptions.”
“What have I started?” Ash asked of the air around him. “Why did I do this?”
“To keep the other journalists away,” Ransom reminded him. “‘Better you than a hack I can’t trust.’ I think they were your words.”
“Ah.” Ash cleared his throat. Juliana remembered those words. Ransom must remember them, too. “Well, we have another story for you.”
He did not hide his eagerness. “The Coddington case?”
“The very same.” Ash drew a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it over. “The salient details are here. As long as you put these points in your account, feel free to embellish them. The lady is a cold-blooded murderer, with full knowledge of what she did and how it would affect others.”
Ransom unfolded the paper, and stood on his side of the counter, scanning the story Ash and Juliana had outlined that morning over breakfast. At some points he looked up, and then returned to the paper again. Finally, he folded it very carefully, but kept hold of it. “Is this true?”
“Every word.”
“You dressed as a corpse?”
Ash laughed and reddened. “It was necessary. Juliana insisted on being involved, and I had to protect her. I couldn’t do that by hiding in a closet. Besides, I knew a woman like that would not hesitate to boast of her exploits to her dead lover.”
He didn’t know why he’d left that part in. Juliana had persuaded him to, reminding him that the journalist had a living to make, and that part would sell papers. He should have crossed it out.
“Macabre.”
“Indeed. But her confession, heard as it was by Juliana, helped to condemn her. She is currently languishing at Bow Street. She will attend the next hanging day at Tyburn as one of the main attractions.”
Ransom looked down at the folded paper in his hand. “This is sensational. I could turn it into a most affecting scene. I’ll sell thousands of copies.” He raised his voice. “Byron! Get the press ready! I’ll have a story ready in twenty minutes!” He bowed to them. “I’m sure you understand.”
They took the hint. The newspapers waited for no one, even the instigators of the story.
They left.
* * *
Their next visit was to the offices of Ashendon and Redring on The Strand, to sign a few papers that demanded Ash’s attention.
They had expanded the offices recently, to cope with the business flooding in from the upper echelons of society. Redring had worked hard to make that come about. But while Ash acknowledged that property was the basis of their prosperity, he disliked the work. Redring enjoyed it.
The tang of the river was stronger here, since it was a matter of streets away. Ash climbed the broad white stone steps and opened the door himself, ushering Juliana inside with a sense of pride. His father had created this company from nothing, and he had continued it, ensuring the best work was done with the least amount of corruption. His father had helped to found the Society of Gentleman Practicers, which controlled honesty and fair dealing in the oft-abused profession.
The office gave comfort to Ash. The sharp smell of ink on paper, the murmured bustle, the purposeful activity all gave him a sense of peace. If he stayed here long enough, the peace would change to boredom. He knew that, too.
Clerks, a half dozen of them, stood behind their desks. The six men looked up when Ash and Juliana entered, and bowed, but continued with their work. Ash acknowledged them with a friendly word or two, careful to use their names, and passed through to Redring’s office.
Redring rose from his imposing partner’s desk, and came around it to greet them. “It is so good to see you both. Let me call Barnaby in and we’ll have some tea. Or would you prefer wine?”
“Tea is fine,” Juliana murmured, as she removed her gloves.
Ash watched her tug off the gloves, slowly revealing her bare hands. Lord, when he thought of what she had done with those hands little more than an hour before! He swallowed. What was he becoming? He’d never met such a distraction as Juliana could give him, and she wasn’t even trying. As if aware of his regard, she turned to him and smiled. He smiled back.
She tucked her gloves in her pocket. And Ash had watched the small demonstration with utmost interest, and as he held a chair for her, Barnaby Redring came in.
“Ah, well met, sir. I was planning to call on you with these, but now you are here...” He opened the leather folder he was carrying under his arms and spread it on the desk before Ash.
The tea arrived, brought by a maid, and Ash set to work reading through the documents a
nd signing them.
Redring cleared his throat. “Ah, we had a visit yesterday which I’m sure you’ll find of interest. The new Lord Coddington.”
Ash stopped scratching his signature and put the pen carefully back in the standish. “What was he doing here?”
“He wants us to handle the estates. Take the work of collecting the rents, settling disputes and so on.”
“Good Lord,” Ash said faintly. “Why on earth would he do that? He knows my connection to the case, doesn’t he?”
Redring nodded. “I ensured he did. He told me that he barely knew the late lord and his widow. Some argument between their fathers, but he wishes to turn a new leaf. In fact, until I told him, he wasn’t aware. But he said that he’d researched our company, and he found us most trustworthy.”
“Despite the fact that I put his predecessor’s widow in the condemned cell?”
Redring shrugged and his heavy brows lifted. “Despite that. I have no idea, except that I assured him that he could trust us to run his business fairly and give him the best advice possible. Do I ask for his signature on the papers of agreement?”
“If you consider it the right thing to do. You’re a partner, Redring.”
“That means you have an equal vote.”
So it did. Ash had to share decisions with him. Redring would take it amiss if Ash backed out of his responsibilities. “Then unless there is an urgent matter, I suggest we set up a meeting like this once a week, when we may discuss and take the important decisions together.”
“But we have to define what important decisions are,” Redring said.
Ash considered. “Whatever we feel uncomfortable making on our own. Like the decision to accept Coddington’s business. And we will keep communication channels open.” He sighed. “Choose a clerk to keep me informed, and I will send a daily report back to you. That is, excepting my other business.”
“The legal detection part.”