Jeremy nodded, pursing his lips. “Now, that sounds lunatic… as love is always lunatic.” He smiled fondly. “I am moved by your stolen days, but you must not believe that they are stolen. Those days belong to you. We only ever have today, and every happy day is a gift.” He looked toward the door. “Come in, Mr. Smelling. We are waxing philosophical.”
Sam Smelling stood in the doorway, holding Elly’s coat. His eyes were full of concern. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but that was great.” He pulled up a chair, and pushed the hair from his eyes. “Waxing philosophical is one of my favourite things. I thought the young lady might want her coat.” He handed it to her.
Jeremy pointed. “Sam! I didn’t thank you for that brilliant bit in your article. I absolutely adore being compared to a quill pen. What was it you wrote, ‘consummate physical grace, elegant articulation, with a dangerously scratchy edge’?”
Sam laughed. “Something like that.” He looked at Elly. “Who’s Elisa Roundtree?”
She turned away, putting her hand over her mouth.
“Whoever she is, and whatever trouble she’s in, I can probably help. I’d like to, if I can.”
Elly looked startled, but Jeremy was pleased. “Yes, Sam. You probably can help us. Are you free for tea with Lady Richfield tomorrow?”
“Absolutely.”
Chapter 17
Monday, December 28, 1903
At 3:00 the next afternoon, attacked by stinging needles of frozen rain, Elly, Rory, and Jeremy stepped from a hansom cab and scurried inside Isabelle’s mansion. Isabelle, Katherine, and Sam were already in the drawing room, talking with two gentlemen in somber suits. Isabelle introduced her solicitor, Roger Foxhall, and Foxhall’s junior, James MacCain. A steaming bowl of mulled wine sat near the roaring fireplace. A footman poured dark-red liquid into heavy cut-glass goblets.
They sipped sweet wine and Isabelle spoke to the sofa. “Evan, darling, Lucy is so looking forward to seeing you. Why don’t you go up to the nursery and surprise her?”
Reluctantly, Even left his hiding place and scurried upstairs.
Isabelle invited everyone to sit down. The room was warm, but Elly shivered. Isabelle took her hand and they both sat on a sofa. Solicitor Foxhall and his junior sat in straight-back chairs and spread papers over a low table in front of them. Jeremy, Katherine, Rory, and Sam made themselves comfortable in chairs and sofas.
After sipping his mulled wine, Foxhall curled his handlebar mustache and began. “Upon the request of Lady Richfield, I sent my junior, Mr. MacCain, to discover what he could about the parentage and possible assets of Miss Elisa Roundtree. Mr. MacCain first checked the General Register Office, Somerset House in London. Finding the documents to be confused, he went to Settle, Miss Fielding’s home village in Yorkshire, to check other copies of the same documents. I gave Mr. MacCain instructions not to disturb the town residents.”
After a moment’s silence, Sam asked, “So, Mr. MacCain got nothing?”
Foxhall looked down his nose. “No, sir, certainly not nothing. Just, not quite as much as we hoped. I will let Mr. MacCain explain.”
The young solicitor looked very nervous. He straightened his starched collar, adjusted his silver-rimmed spectacles, and looked around the room as if presenting an academic address. “Lady Richfield, Mr. Foxhall, Miss Roundtree, ladies and gentlemen.” He smiled, pausing for effect. Everyone waited. “Unfortunately, the local town records in Miss Roundtree’s home village of Settle are in exactly the same disarray as the ones in the London Registry Office. I was unable to discover any information that I can call credible.”
Sam leaned into MacCain. “In what way were they in ‘disarray’?”
“Well sir, they are all copies, of course, the original documents being in the possession of the persons involved, and village clerks may not always be careful in their work.” MacCain picked up a paper. “For instance, the birth certificate of Elisa Roundtree is dated December 23, 1885, and the time stated as 2:15 p.m.”
Sam looked at Elly and she shrugged her shoulders.
MacCain checked his paper. “The mother was Bertha Roundtree, formally VonLeichter.”
Trying to hide her excitement, Isabelle clutched Elly’s hand. “VonLeichter was my aunt’s married name. Bertha could have been her daughter.”
Elly flushed as MacCain continued. “And the father was Charles Roundtree.”
“Charles Roundtree?” Elly stared in surprise.
Sam narrowed his eyes. “Who’s Charles Roundtree?”
“My uncle, he died before I was born.”
“How long before you were born?”
“I have no idea. No, wait.” She concentrated. “I don’t know exactly, but he was working on the Suez Canal. He was an engineer. There was an accident and he was killed. My Aunt Lillian talks about him when father isn’t around. Father hates stories about his brother Charles.”
Sam was on the edge of his seat. “What’s your father’s first name?”
“Anthony. Charles was the elder brother, there’s a family portrait…”
Sam leaned into her, listening hard.
Her brows drew together as she concentrated. “There’s a painting in Aunt Lillian’s room.”
Jeremy prompted, “Lillian is your father’s unmarried sister?”
“Yes, they were the three oldest children: Charles, Lillian, and Anthony. There were two younger children who died when they were still little. After their mother died, Aunt Lillian took over running the household.”
Sam turned to Jeremy. “Jerry, you’re the historian. What do you know about the Suez Canal?”
Jeremy concentrated, his elbows on his knees. “Well, Elly was born at the end of 1885,” he put a finger over his lips. “As far as I remember, by 1885 the British owned shares of the canal, but had given up all other claims. The work was mainly done by French engineers,” he pointed a finger, “…and German. If Charles Roundtree’s wife was German, it is possible he was employed by her family’s firm. I remember the papers were full of stories about fortunes being instantly made and lost, engineering firms pouring into the area, competing for contracts, practically killing each other for profit. And reports of terrible casualties from fever and building accidents.”
Sam turned back to the solicitor. “Mr. MacCain, who signed Miss Roundtree’s birth certificate?”
MacCain read from his paper. “Dr. Frederick Vickers.”
“Was there anything else on that document?”
“No sir.”
“Was there a death certificate for Charles Roundtree?”
“In London, sir. None in Settle.”
“What was the date?”
“Well sir, here is where the records get muddled.” After adjusting his spectacles, he sat up with a self-important air. “The recorded death of Charles Roundtree is December 26, 1885.”
“Where?”
“In Suez, Egypt.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Well sir, there was no marriage license for Charles Roundtree and Bertha VonLeichter at either office.”
Isabelle shrugged, “Her mother was German. They could have been married anywhere.”
MacCain continued, “Much to my surprise, I did find a marriage license for Anthony Roundtree and Bertha Roundtree.”
Sam lurched forward. “Bertha Roundtree? Are you sure? Not Bertha VonLeichter?”
Jeremy was intrigued. “If Charles Roundtree had married Bertha VonLeichter before his brother married her, her name would have appeared as Bertha Roundtree on that marriage certificate.”
MacCain nodded, “Well sir, it is most curious. The names were certainly Anthony Roundtree and Bertha Roundtree.”
Sam asked, “Who performed the ceremony?”
“Reverend Laurence Folen.”
“Who witnessed it?”
“Elizabeth Graves.”
“What was the date?”
“Well sir… December 23, 1885 at 2:10 p.m.”
Isabelle sat up. “A w
edding, three days before the woman’s first husband died?”
“Yes, Lady Richfield. That is the disarray I am talking about. I checked the death certificate of Bertha Roundtree and it is also dated December 23, 1885, the day of Miss Roundtree’s birth.”
Jeremy threw up his hands. “We all know that Elly’s -- that is -- Elisa’s mother died in childbirth.”
“Yes sir, but it is the time of death, sir.”
“What about it?”
“The time of death is 2:13 p.m., and the time of Miss Roundtree’s birth is 2:14 p.m., so you see, these times must be incorrect.”
Katherine let out a gasp. “Oh, that poor woman!” Her hand went over her mouth,
Sam turned to her. “Is it possible for a child to be born after the mother’s dead?”
“Yes,” Katherine was practically in tears, “if they can cut it out fast enough.” Standing up and crossing her arms, she turned her back and stared out a window.
A shocked silence fell over the room. MacCain blushed. His voice shook. “Well then, it is possible that the certificate is correct.”
Sam narrowed his eyes. “Who signed the death certificate?”
MacCain checked his notes. “Dr. Frederick Vickers and Reverend Laurence Folen.”
Foxhall pursed his lips. “Perhaps they called a priest to administer the last rites.”
“I remember Father Folen.” Elly sat up, putting a hand on her forehead. “When I was little. He was always nice to me. He gave me sweets… and ices in the summer.” She smiled, enjoying the memory. “I remember one very strict governess… Father Folen held me back after services, and took me to the rectory to tell me funny stories. The governess hated it, but she couldn’t say, ‘no,’ to the vicar.” Deflated after her happy recollection, she sat back.
Sam asked, “What happened to him?”
She shook her head. “I just remember one Sunday he wasn’t there anymore, and the new priest treated me like all the other children.”
“Father Folen treated you better than the other children?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know why?”
She shook her head. “I just thought he liked me.”
Jeremy peered at the papers on the table. “Is the wedding recorded in the local church registry?”
MacCain checked his notes. “Yes sir, but the signatures of Anthony Roundtree and Bertha Roundtree are both written in the same hand. The date is December 23rd, but the time is blank.
Katherine hugged herself. “This is intolerable.” Everyone stared at her. Isabelle lowered her face, covering her eyes. The tension in the room was electric. Katherine glared. “You men have no idea, have you?” They guiltily glanced at one another.
Only Rory, the youngest among them, dared to speak the horror they all imagined. His voice was a monotone. “It appears that Anthony Roundtree assumed his brother was dead, and married his brother’s widow to gain custody of his niece. The Von in front of the name tells us that Elly’s mother was well-born. If the VonLeichter family was involved in building the Suez Canal, they might have made a great deal of money, which belongs to the heiress.”
He looked at Elly and she stared back with huge eyes. “It is possible that Anthony Roundtree married Bertha so he could protect her unborn child, but noting the kind of father he has been, it seems more likely that he simply wanted to claim her inheritance.”
Isabelle looked up in dismay. “Then why is he so eager to marry her off? He’ll lose the estate to her husband. Why not just keep her locked up at home and keep her money?”
Appalled by the idea, Elly caught her breath.
Jeremy spoke softly. “Elly, you were betrothed as a child.”
“Yes sir.”
“You told me the man’s name, I have forgotten it.”
“Sir John Garingham.”
“Have you any idea what hold Sir John has over your father?”
“No sir.”
Sam sat back, sighed loudly, and crossed his legs. “It must be a good one for Roundtree to give up the golden goose.”
The silly reference broke the tension and they were all grateful for a laugh.
Rory drummed his fingers. “We need to verify the date of Charles Roundtree’s death. If men working on the canal were dying at the rate Mr. O’Connell remembers, it may not be easy. If the date is correct, considering the change in time zones, and if the marriage was illegal, the court would have free rein to assign an alternate guardianship for Elly until she reaches the age of twenty-one. Then she can take control of her estate; the amount, and location of which we also need to discover. Even if there is no estate, an alternate guardianship would protect her from this questionable marriage. If the date is incorrect, and Charles Roundtree died before two o’clock in the afternoon on December the 23rd, Greenwich Mean Time, the marriage could be legal… Even so…” He looked at Katherine. “Miss Stewart, am I correct in assuming that you believe no woman in the latter stages of childbirth is lucid enough to enter into a bond of holy matrimony with her whole heart?”
“You’re assumption is correct.”
“Lady Richfield?”
Isabelle looked up. “I agree.”
“Do you also agree that any legal contract signed by a woman in the latter stages of childbirth could be considered to be made under duress?”
“Absolutely!”
He looked at the solicitor. “Mr. Foxhall.”
Foxhall turned to Rory. “Yes, Mr…”
“Cook.”
“Mr. Cook.”
“I believe Parliament is still debating the Wife’s Sister’s Bill, and a man is still prevented by law from marrying his deceased wife’s sister.”
“That is correct, Mr. Cook. Unfortunately for our case, it is legal for a woman to marry her deceased husband’s brother.” Foxhall brightly twirled his mustache. “Young man, you speak like a solicitor.”
Rory smiled weakly. Had he stayed at Oxford, he might be working long hours in a cramped office, with dreary men like these two.
MacCain adjusted his silver-rimmed spectacles. “Ladies and gentlemen, there is just one more curiosity. I could not find Mrs. Roundtree’s gravestone.” He turned to Elly. “Miss Roundtree, do you know where your mother is buried?”
“No sir.”
Sam raised his hand. “Mr. MacCain, who did you say witnessed the marriage license?”
He checked the paper again. “Elizabeth Graves.”
Sam turned to Elly. “Do you know her?”
“No, but there’s a large Graves family in town. Some of them work on the grounds.”
Sam nodded. “This Elizabeth Graves is an old woman by now, if she’s still alive. Do you know an old woman, maybe a Betty, or Beth, Lizzy, Eliza…?”
Elly thought, then shook her head. “No, I’m sorry.”
“How about Dr. Vickers?”
She shook her head.
Isabelle turned to the young solicitor. “Have you anything more, Mr. MacCain?”
“No, ma’am.”
She stood up and pulled the bell-cord. “I congratulate you, young man. You have done very well indeed. Ladies and gentlemen, it is time for some refreshment. I’m sure there will be further discussion, but that can be continued later.” The butler Smythe appeared and she asked that tea be served immediately. As everyone stood and stretched, she extended her hand to the young solicitor. Blushing, MacCain adjusted his spectacles, took her hand, and made an awkward bow.
Rory, Sam, and Jeremy shared troubled looks. Sam asked Elly, “Tell me about Sir John Garingham.”
She looked up in horror. “What do you want to know?”
“You like him that much?”
She giggled, but her laughter was dangerously close to tears.
Sam’s brow creased as he brushed hair away from his forehead. “I’ll find out what he’s all about. I’ll also find Father Laurence Folen, Dr. Frederick Vickers, and Elizabeth Graves, or at least something about them.”
Elly pleaded, “Will yo
u really? Can you?” Fear radiated from her beautiful green eyes.
Sam spoke with absolute assurance. “I’m an investigator, Elly, ‘The Man With The Nose For News.’ This is what I do best. I can - and I will.”
Chapter 18
Tuesday, December 29, 1903
Elly and Rory sat together at the back of the noisy rehearsal hall, full of actors. Rory begged, “Please Elly, do everything he says, even if it sounds lunatic. Just - do - it.”
At exactly 1:00, Jeremy O’Connell entered. He spoke briefly about rehearsals for The Tempest, and took the scene list from Donald Moran. Elly had gone last in his previous class, so he called her first. Forcing her legs to move, she walked in front of the audience of actors, chose a spot on the back wall, and began.
“Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,
Towards Phoebus’ lodging: Such a wagoner
As Phaethon would whip you the west,
And bring in cloudy night immediately….”
Slowly relaxing, the words became fluid. A few more lines and, Jeremy’s voice rang out.
“Stop!” His expression was hard, but calm. “You are speaking the lines simply and their sense is clear. That is good.” He pointed a finger. “Now, let us see if we can find just the tiniest bit of Juliet to put with them, shall we?”
She whispered, “I want to. I don’t know how.”
“That is why I am here. Sit - down!”
Without taking her eyes off him, she pulled up a chair. The entire room was focused on Elly, but she was only aware of Jeremy O’Connell. He sat comfortably, leaning forward, legs apart, elbows resting on his knees, hands together. His piercing brown eyes seemed to bore through her. “What does Juliet want?
“She wants the night to come and bring Romeo.”
“Why?”
“She’s in love with Romeo.”
“What do you mean, ‘she’s in love’?”
She stared dumbly, praying for inspiration.
“What is it like to be in love?”
She bit her lip.
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