Mystery Loves Company

by Sheri Cobb South

  Hearing a faint sound resembling something between a gasp and a whimper, Pickett glanced around and saw Julia standing right behind him, in spite of his instructions. He handed her the cumbersome sword, then dropped to one knee and carefully turned the girl over onto her back, but when he brushed back the ash-blonde hair that had escaped from her starched and ruffled cap and fallen across her face, he suffered a check. This was the same serving girl who had interrupted his conversation with Lady Washbourn to inform her of Lady Carrington’s fainting fit. More surprising than the girl’s identity, however, was her condition. In almost six years with the Bow Street force, he had seen his share of dead bodies, but most of them had been gray of countenance. This girl’s face was flushed with an unnaturally rosy hue that put Lady Washbourn’s apple-cheeked milkmaid to shame. She might have been supposed to be in the bloom of health, had it not been for the unseeing eyes staring up at the ceiling, eyes which had rolled back in her head so that only the lower edge of the pale blue iris was visible. Bending nearer, Pickett caught a whiff of almonds; clearly, the girl had been availing herself of her employers’ ratafia.

  Pickett felt a bit ill as he realized he’d put away one or two glasses of the same beverage, and that his wife was even now holding just such a drink. It was this last that spurred him to action. He stood up and snatched the glass from Julia’s hand, then tipped its contents into the base of a nearby potted plant that had somehow escaped the debacle.

  Julia observed this wasteful operation in bewilderment. “John? What—?”

  If he heard her at all, he gave no sign. “What happened?” he asked the gaping crowd. “Did anyone see?”

  There was no response. Of course no one saw, he thought bitterly. She was a servant, and the Washbourns’ guest list comprised the flower of British aristocracy. Unless they wanted something from her—another glass of champagne, perhaps, or a quick tumble in the cloakroom—they would have paid no attention to her at all.

  “I—I saw.”

  Pickett looked up to identify the timid speaker, and found another maid standing at the dead girl’s feet. To his chagrin, he realized that he had not noticed her; amongst Lord and Lady Washbourn’s gorgeously costumed guests, her plain black dress and white chintz apron rendered her all but invisible.

  “And what is your name?” It didn’t really matter at this point, but Pickett was painfully aware of having committed the same error for which he had just been mentally castigating his betters.

  “Mary.”

  “Very well, Mary, can you tell me what happened?”

  “I’ll try, sir. Mrs. Milliken—the housekeeper, you know —she sent me and Annie upstairs to collect all the dirty dishes. She was afraid we might run out of glasses before the ball was over, see, and so she wanted Bess—she’s the scullery maid, Bess is—to wash the ones that the guests was done with. And so me and Annie come upstairs and was gathering up the dirties when Annie starts shaking fit to be tied, sort of jerking back and forth like, and the stuff what’s left in the glass she’s holding spills all over the place. And just when I’m thinking as how I’ll be the one to have to clean up the mess after she’s put to bed ill, she falls down just like you see her there, and it don’t take no doctor to see that she’s dead!” With this pronouncement, she buried her face in her apron and burst into loud, gusty sobs.

  “There, there, Mary.” Lady Washbourn, followed by her husband, moved through the crush of people to join them. “I’m sure no one blames you. Perhaps you had best go to bed yourself. Go downstairs and ask Mrs. Milliken to give you a dose of sleeping draught.”

  “But, ma’am, the mess—” protested Mary, gesturing toward the broken glass and spilled liquid on the floor.

  Lady Washbourn shook her head dismissively. “We will deal with it later.”

  “I’m sorry, your ladyship,” Pickett put in, “but I’m afraid Miss, er, Mary will have to postpone her sleep until after the coroner has spoken to her.”

  “The coroner?” echoed the maid and both her em-ployers, like a Greek chorus.

  “You need have nothing to fear from him,” Pickett assured the trembling Mary. “All you have to do is answer whatever questions he may ask.”

  “Surely the coroner’s presence won’t be necessary.” Lord Washbourn protested. What could be seen of his face beneath his half-mask was frowning in disapproval.

  “I’m afraid it will, your lordship. The coroner must be called in the event of any sudden death.” Seeing the earl inclined to argue the point, Pickett added, “If it turns out that the girl died of natural causes, you need have nothing to worry about.”

  “What do you mean, ‘if’?” demanded Lord Washbourn. “Of course she died of natural causes!”

  “Nevertheless, when an apparently healthy young woman drops dead without warning, every possibility must be considered.”

  “Apparently healthy,” echoed the earl, latching onto this qualifier. “I daresay the poor girl suffered from some illness, and never told us for fear of losing her position. What else could it be? Who would have any reason to do her harm?”

  “I’m sure the coroner’s inquest will answer any such questions,” Pickett said, giving his best imitation of Mr. Colquhoun in a mood to brook no argument. “The sooner you send a message to the coroner, the sooner we can put the matter to rest.”

  Grumbling under his breath, the earl turned away to summon a footman.

  “Mr. Pickett,” said Lady Washbourn, lowering her voice. “Could it be possible that—do you think perhaps—?”

  “I think the possibility must be considered, your ladyship,” Pickett responded in like manner, “but I must ask you not to make any mention of the matter—not here, nor at the coroner’s inquest.”

  “Will I be asked to give evidence, then?”

  Pickett shook his head. “I don’t know. That will be up to the coroner.”

  The coroner, when he arrived twenty minutes later, proved to be one Mr. Bartholomew Bagley, a cadaverous man of middle age, who seemed mildly offended that a Bow Street Runner should be on the scene before him, as if Pickett were somehow poaching on his own preserves.

  “And what, pray, might you be doing here?” he asked, regarding Pickett with undisguised hostility.

  After advising Mary to answer the coroner’s questions as truthfully as she could, he could hardly balk at doing the same himself. “My wife and I are the guests of Lord and Lady Washbourn,” he said. “More than that, her ladyship charged me with seeing to her guests’ safety.”

  “I see.” Mr. Bagley’s beady eyes shifted from Pickett to the body on the floor, and back again. “A pity your protection didn’t extend to the household staff.”

  Pickett opened his mouth to protest this unjust insinuation, but the coroner had by this time turned his attention to Lord Washbourn.

  “There will have to be an inquest into the young woman’s death, your lordship. I will require the services of half a dozen men to serve on the jury.”

  Lord Washbourn nodded in resignation, and Pickett noticed that somewhere along the way the earl had shed his costume. Uncomfortably aware of his own flamboyant silks and velvets, and their stark contrast to the dead woman at his feet, Pickett wished he might have done the same. At the very least, he wished he might tie back his hair; unbound curls seemed somehow frivolous and unprofessional at such a time.

  “I understand the necessity, Mr. Bagley,” the earl said, nodding, “and I stand ready to serve.”

  The coroner shook his head. “I appreciate your willingness, your lordship, but seeing as how the deceased was in your service, and the death took place in your house, I’m afraid you’re a bit too closely involved—a conflict of interest, you might say.” He looked beyond Lord and Lady Washbourn to their guests. Some of these still hung about the scene of the tragedy, while others had lost interest in the proceedings and wandered off in search of more diverting entertainment. “Is there anyone else who might agree to serve?”

  “I’ll do it,” announ
ced the red-faced Friar Tuck eagerly. “Most exciting diversion I’ve had all Season.” He made a wobbly bow in Lady Washbourn’s direction. “Congratulations, ma’am. Everyone will be talking of your ball for weeks to come.”

  One by one, other men consented to serve on the coroner’s jury, their demeanors ranging from enthusiasm to curiosity to a bored obligation to duty. Having got the half-dozen he’d asked for, plus another beside, the coroner invited these men to step forward and examine the body more closely.

  “No blood, you’ll notice, nor any other sign of a wound,” he pointed out, after cautioning the men to step carefully around the broken glass. “But note, if you will, the flushed face of the deceased.”

  “There’s also a strong odor of bitter almonds,” put in Pickett.

  The coroner glared at him. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Pickett, when I need your assistance in conducting an examination, I’ll ask for it. I daresay you will find that particular odor on the breath of half the people here.” He turned to Lady Washbourn for confirmation. “You did offer your guests a beverage flavored with almonds, did you not, your ladyship?”

  “I did, Mr. Bagley, but at no time in the evening did I invite the servants to share it,” the countess said with some asperity.

  “Still, I daresay it’s not unheard of for a servant to indulge without an invitation.” He scanned the assemblage for the little maid Pickett had questioned earlier. “You, there, do you know if the deceased drank any of this beverage before her unfortunate collapse?”

  “Yes, sir, she did,” confessed Mary, with an apologetic glance at her mistress. “She was clearing the dirties away when she noticed one that looked like it hadn’t even been touched. She said as how it were a right shame to let it go to waste, and then she turned her back so no one could see, and drank it right down.” Another guilty glance in Lady Washbourn’s direction gave Pickett to understand that Annie was probably not the only one to help herself to the leavings of her betters.

  “And that explains your almond odor, Mr. Pickett,” concluded the coroner. “No reason to make a mystery where none exists.”

  Pickett was by no means convinced, but since he could hardly argue the point without voicing his own suspicions regarding Lord and Lady Washbourn, he was obliged to bite his tongue and trust to the coroner’s jury to be more open-minded than the man himself.

  “Are there any more questions? No? Very well, then,” pronounced the coroner at last. “The inquest will be held tomorrow morning at nine of the clock, in the public room of the Bull’s Head in Covent Garden. I shall look forward to seeing all of you there. The jurors, that is,” he amended hastily, frowning at Pickett. “Mr. Pickett, I am sure you have other responsibilities, so we will not trouble you to attend.”

  The devil you won’t, thought Pickett, resolving that wild horses would not keep him away from the Bull’s Head at nine o’clock the following morning.

  6

  In Which Is Seen the Calm before the Storm

  The next morning, Pickett awoke to find himself alone in the bed.

  “Julia?” he called, turning toward the adjoining dressing room.

  There was no answer. He stretched and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then rose and donned (albeit not without a certain self-consciousness) the gorgeous new dressing gown and tying its belt about his waist. He slid his feet into slippers of buttery soft Moroccan leather (yet another token of his wife’s affection), then headed downstairs in search of her.

  He found her in the breakfast room, clad in a pink satin wrapper and dispensing hot, fragrant coffee into a delicate Sevrès cup. “Good morning, John,” she said, reaching for a second cup and beginning to pour. “I hope I didn’t disturb you when I got up.”

  “Not at all,” he assured her, stealing an arm around her waist and dropping a kiss onto her bright hair. “You’re not troubled by all this, are you?”

  She didn’t have to ask what “all this” was. “No, darling, not really. That is, one never likes to see someone die, especially when the someone was as young as Annie. Still, dead bodies do seem to have a habit of following you, so I suppose I might as well accustom myself to it. In fact, I awoke early, and couldn’t get back to sleep.” She sighed. “But it doesn’t seem to make any difference, for by noon I can hardly hold my eyes open, no matter how late I might have slept. Do you want one sugar, or two?”

  “Two,” he said, and pulled her into his arms and kissed her twice.

  “Mmm,” she purred, leaning into his embrace. “I wish I could go with you to the inquest, but I promised to call on Emily Dunnington this morning.”

  “I thought Lord and Lady Dunnington had gone back to Sussex.” He released her so that he might load up a plate of bacon, toast, and buttered eggs from the silver chafing dishes lined up on the buffet.

  “They had, but they’ve returned to London so that Emily may consult with her dressmaker,” she told him as they seated themselves at the breakfast table. “Poor Emily! London during the Season can be a dull place when one cannot go out. She is almost five months gone, you know, and her delicate condition is getting more and more difficult to hide. When she begged me to come and alleviate her boredom, well, I could hardly refuse.” She grimaced. “Of course, when I agreed, I had no way of knowing we would stumble across a murder the night before.”

  “We don’t know that it was murder,” Pickett reminded her.

  “No, but you think it was, don’t you? That’s why you took my drink away.”

  “Yes, I think it was. There’s a particular poison that leaves an odor of bitter almonds. I’ve never come in contact with it before, but some of the older Runners have. I’m thinking if one wanted to kill someone with such a poison, what better way to administer it than through a drink flavored with the very same almonds whose scent would otherwise point to its use?”

  Julia pressed a hand to her abdomen. “That’s enough to put me off my breakfast.”

  “I’m sorry, love,” Pickett said, conscience-stricken. “I shouldn’t be talking about such things at the table.”

  “Nonsense! I’m the one who brought up the subject. And it’s not as if I’ve had much appetite lately, in any case. But what will you do now?”

  “There’s very little I can do, especially since the coroner refuses to consider any scenario beyond natural causes, and even if I’m allowed to testify at all—which I doubt—I can’t suggest the possibility of willful murder—not without betraying Lady Washbourn’s confidence and perhaps even compromising her safety.”

  “Difficult for you,” she said sympathetically, passing him the marmalade. “We must hope that the truth will come out at the inquest.”

  “Yes, but what it’s going to come down to is this: why would anyone wish to murder a maid? And I can’t offer an answer to that question without suggesting that perhaps the maid was not the intended victim. Which will raise the further question of who, then, might have been? And I can’t answer that without dragging Lady Washbourn’s suspicions into it.”

  “Oh! That reminds me—” Julia quickly choked down a mouthful of buttered toast before continuing. “In all the hubbub last night, I almost forgot to mention it. Just a little while before Annie collapsed, I was searching for you and happened to look inside one of those little alcoves lining the ballroom. You’ll never guess what I saw.”

  Pickett’s fork grated against his plate with a loud screech, and it was perhaps a good thing that Julia was so eager to impart her discovery that she failed to notice the guilt writ large on his expressive countenance.

  “Lord Washbourn himself,” she announced, “closeted there with the least angelic angel I have ever seen.”

  Pickett snapped his fingers in sudden recollection. “The lady with the, er, wings!”

  “The very same.”

  “Who was she, anyway?”

  “Lady Barbara Brennan,” she said. “The widow of Sir Roger Brennan, late of His Majesty’s diplomatic corps. And I do mean ‘late,’ for Sir Roger died less than six m
onths ago.”

  Pickett’s eyebrows rose. “She didn’t waste much time in mourning, did she?”

  “No, but I can hardly criticize her for that, not when one considers the fact that I am already remarried, and Frederick has not yet been gone a year. Still, her behavior was hardly that of a decent woman, much less a grieving widow. When I stumbled across them in the alcove, she had her arms coiled about Lord Washbourn’s neck and was cooing something into his ear, but then he became aware of my presence and shoved her away. I begged their pardon—quite collectedly, I thought, under the circumstances—and made my escape just in time to hear a scream, and see everyone rushing over to where Annie had fallen.”

  “I wonder if this Lady Barbara is the woman Lady Washbourn mentioned, but declined to name,” Pickett said. “She told me her husband had once had hopes of marrying another, but was obliged to hold out for an heiress.”

  “I am not well acquainted with either lady, but from what I saw last night of both Lady Barbara and Lady Washbourn, I should say he got the better bargain—unless, of course, he is one of those gentlemen who values females only for their, er, wings.”

  Pickett pushed back his plate and rose from the table. “Thank you for telling me. I will certainly bear it in mind, but now I had better get ready for the inquest.”

  Citing the need to change her own wrapper for a morning gown, she followed him up the stairs. He opened the clothes press and would have extracted from its depths the black tailcoat he favored for appearances at the Old Bailey, when she protested.

  “Oh, John! Will you not wear one of the new ones?”

  He hesitated. He was not at all comfortable with the idea of puffing himself off as a gentleman when he knew full well that he was no such thing. And yet, given the fact that most of the jurors had handles attached to their names, and the knowledge that the coroner was already inclined to disregard his suspicions, and the pleading look in his wife’s blue eyes as she gazed up at him . . .