The Dark Enquiry

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “And their retainers?” he asked swiftly. “The Queen of England’s guards and servants wear her badge. What of the kaiser’s? If he gives that wretched eagle only to men of his family, the list is manageable. But if he extends the courtesy to his closest aides, to men who have served at the court in Berlin, it is an entirely different matter. We might be looking for a very elusive needle in a Teutonic haystack.”

  His expression was grim, and I set a bright smile on my lips. “Never mind that now. What are your plans for the day?”

  “Plum and I are off to Richmond. Lady Riverton has been robbed of some rather valuable silver. She suspects the butler, but hers is the fourth such complaint I’ve had in the last three months. I suspect a ring of thieves is abroad in Richmond. I shall endeavour to apprehend them myself or try to persuade her to turn the matter over to the police.”

  “You must be careful,” I admonished. “You and Plum both.” He reached for the latest copy of the Journal of Psychology then, and I slipped the button into my pocket and said nothing more.

  * * *

  With Brisbane safely out of the way in Richmond, I was free to pursue my own investigations, and if they were not conducted with his knowledge, at least I consoled myself that they ought to have been. Really, what woman of character and spirit would lie down in the face of a wager of that size and not do her utmost to win?

  I retrieved my list of the guests at the séance and locked myself in the study for an hour to prepare my plan of attack. There had been three names inscribed legibly in the guest-book besides mine. The veiled lady, alas, had come too late to sign, but Agathe had vouched for her as a legitimate client and therefore she was of no use to us. General Fortescue signed in a bold hand, while Sir Henry Eddington had a crabbed signature with a pinched look to it very like his mouth. Sir Morgan Fielding, I recalled, had an elegant hand, penning his name with economical good taste.

  I used the newspapers and Debrett’s to supply much of the details I required, and a bit of discreet gossip with Morag took care of the rest. I coached her carefully on my expectations, taking her into my confidence only so far as was absolutely necessary for her cooperation. Of course, it cost me another five-pound note to secure her participation, but once she had the note in hand, she was more than agreeable. I dressed carefully in a flattering costume of emeraldgreen, the gown and reticule trimmed in peacock feathers. I forced Morag to harness herself into her best black, a stiff bombazine affair that very nearly stood on its own accord. Swan was waiting in the hall as we took our leave, and he sprang to attend us. With his extremely tall and thin frame, his striped livery made him resemble nothing so much as an insect, albeit an elegant and exotic one. But he ushered us into the town coach and leapt nimbly to his seat just as the driver pulled away.

  It was a short journey to the Bloomsbury house of General Fortescue, our first call of the day. Swan took my card and rang the bell, and a very few minutes later I was ensconced in the general’s stuffy morning room. In spite of its name, it offered no comforts. The morning sun did not illluminate this gloomy room, nor had a fire been lit. The tables had not been recently dusted, either, I observed, and the blinds still shuttered the windows. There was an unpleasant odour in the room, a warm mustiness that told me neither the gentleman nor his possessions was particularly well cared for.

  In all, it was the home of a man sunk in gloom, and when the general appeared, nothing about him altered my opinion. This man who had once been accustomed to commanding thousands of men, had been reduced to something rather pitiable. He had made an attempt at shaving, but rough patches of white whiskers still dotted his chin, and his uniform—once pristine and festooned with bright medals—now hung shapelessly, the medals dark with tarnish.

  He greeted me civilly enough, and I applied myself to acting my part, but all the while I thought of Morag, and wondered if she was up to the task I had set her.

  “General, how very kind of you to receive me,” I said sweetly. He peered at me from beetling white brows.

  “Do I know you?” he demanded, but his gruff demeanour was nothing like the bellicose man he was once reputed to have been.

  “I think we have not been formally introduced. I am the daughter of the Earl March.”

  His expression darkened. “That Radical?”

  “And the sister to Lord Bellmont,” I hastened to add.

  Those were the magic words, for his expression lightened at once. “Ah, yes, Lord Bellmont, capital fellow. I very nearly had his vote for bringing corporal punishment back into the ranks. In the end, he voted against it, but he considered it very carefully.”

  I coughed slightly. “Yes, well, I am sure it grieved him very much not to have been able to vote for such a fine piece of legislation. After all, one cannot have too much discipline in the ranks, I always say.”

  “Do you, by God? That is good to hear. Not many ladies understand that,” he added, giving me a look of thoughtful appreciation. “Would you like a drink, my dear?”

  “Oh, yes. Tea would be lovely—” I began, but when I saw where he was bound, I amended the remark instantly. “But a bit of something stronger would be much appreciated.”

  He poured a hefty measure of gin into two smeary glasses and presented me with one of them. “A stiffener,” he said, giving me a broad wink.

  I sipped at the vile fluid, trying manfully not to choke. “Very refreshing,” I said finally. It was cheap stuff and tasted rather like my Uncle Leonato’s shaving lotion smelled.

  But the general did not seem to notice. He had quaffed half the glass before we settled to a cosy chat.

  “I have come because I have taken up the study of photography and I am particularly interested in the subject of spirit photography. Your name was mentioned to me as a person of some great knowledge upon the subject.”

  He preened a little, the liquor clearly blunting his defences. “Well, I do have some experience. It’s very easy for a woman to get taken in by some of the charlatans, you understand. Yours is the gullible gender. No fault of your own,” he hastened to assure me. “It is how God made you, and glad we are of it. But you haven’t the brains to think rationally.”

  “Haven’t we?” I asked weakly.

  “Not a bit of it. You must rely upon us to discover the frauds and the mountebanks.”

  “And those who are not frauds,” I prompted. “Could you discover those, as well?”

  His eyes grew rheumy and thoughtful then, glazed with memories. “Only once have I ever known a true medium. You might have photographed her, but she is dead and gone, my girl.”

  “What a pity! She was the genuine article then? A person who could commune with the dead?”

  “That she could. She spoke with their voices, voices I have not heard in decades. She found them, though, God rest her soul!” He broke off then and took a healthy swallow of the nasty stuff.

  “She sounds a remarkable woman. I am sorry not to have known her,” I urged. “Did she bring you messages from the beyond?”

  He gave a great sniff, and to my horror, I saw a fat tear rolling down his reddened nose. “She did. She spoke in their voices, the voices of those brave lads who fell. She found them, and they used her as their instrument to speak to me, their commander, one last time. Good boys, they were, and they loved me like a father.”

  He seemed more intent upon convincing himself than me, and I thought with some pity of how heavily the burden of those dead men must weigh upon his aging shoulders.

  “Did you call upon her often?”

  His eyelids were drooping beneath the extraordinary brows, and he recalled himself with a jerk. “What? Erm, yes, rather. I saw her from time to time. It helped to keep the dreams at bay.”

  His head bobbed a little, and I knew I had only a short time left. “What dreams, General?”

  “Dreams of the boys, they come to me, dripping gore and pointing fingers. But that’s not real. Madame said they understood. They forgive…”

  His head fell
heavily onto his chest and the empty glass rolled from his hand. He gave a deep, snoring exhalation, and I rose to see myself out. Swan collected Morag from the kitchens, and in a very few minutes we were on our way. I took several deep breaths of bracing London air to clear my head.

  “So?” I prodded Morag. “What did you learn?”

  She shook her head. “No kitchen boy in service there, nor has there been. Only an old army cook and a sad little scullery maid. Bored to sobs, they are. The old fellow drinks his dinner most days now.”

  “Keep a respectful tongue, Morag. The old fellow is a highly decorated general,” I reminded her tartly. My disappointment made me waspish. I was so certain of success, and I had rather liked the general for a villain in spite of my defence of him to Morag. He was precisely the sort of military man I abhorred—arrogant, unyielding and entirely too sure of himself.

  Or was he? The dreams he mentioned seemed to indicate his conscience did not rest easily. He was tormented by the ghosts of dead men, good young men he had ordered to their graves. His desperate visits to Madame had won him some measure of peace from their accusations, and in that light, it seemed entirely unlikely that he would have had anything to do with her death. He had had an actual need of her dark consolations, I reflected, and would no more have done her harm than he would have worn her petticoats. He had apparently gone steadily downhill since her death, and I wondered if he had thought to avail himself of Agathe’s services as a substitute.

  I took the little notebook from my reticule and pencilled a line through his name.

  “Next is Sir Henry Eddington,” I noted with some distaste. I had not cared for Sir Henry’s attitude towards his dead daughter, and I suspected I should not like him any better on closer acquaintance. He owned a sizeable mansion in Kensington, very near the park, and shortly after I presented myself I was shown into his study by a maid who looked faintly terrorised. I had the notion that Sir Henry acted the martinet with his family and staff, and prepared myself accordingly.

  Unlike General Fortescue, Sir Henry clearly had a mania for order. Every angle in his study was a square one, with books and papers rigidly positioned, and even the chairs placed at precise distances from one another. Not a speck of dust or smear of furniture polish marred the icy perfection of the room. Even the curtains at his windows hung at attention.

  When the maid ushered me in, Sir Henry rose from behind his desk, clearly annoyed at the interruption but enough of a man of business to hold his irritation in abeyance until he knew the nature of my errand. Debrett’s and the society columns had revealed that he was the second son of a minor baronet from Derbyshire who had made his own fortune after an indifferent education. Reading between the lines, it was easy to surmise that he had been embittered by his experiences, frustrated that his family fortunes had been too reduced to permit him to live as he believed he ought. He had quarrelled with every member of his family, save his rather downtrodden wife and daughters. They had long since given up any pretence at defiance.

  Except perhaps for the curious Honoria, I marked. I set a gracious smile upon my lips and advanced. Doubtless he anticipated I was collecting for some improving organisation and about to make a call upon his purse. I could already see the refusal rising to his lips and hurried to disarm him.

  “Sir Henry, it is so good of you to see me,” I said, giving him my hand. He looked as if he did not quite know what to do with it. He dropped my hand and gestured for me to sit, more out of propriety than any real desire for my company, I fancied. I perched on the edge of my chair, not entirely surprised to find it excessively uncomfortable. I had a notion that Sir Henry was not inclined to desire his callers to linger.

  He glanced at the card the maid had carried in upon my arrival. “Lady Julia Brisbane. Your brother is Lord Bellmont, is he not? He put me in the way of a rather good investment last spring. Foundries,” he commented. I suppressed a sour smile. Bellmont must have been very certain of the Naval Defence Act passing if he was recommending investments on the strength of it.

  “How nice. It is always best if these things stay between people who really understand them,” I said, pitching my voice low, as if I did not wish to be overheard. “Sir Henry, I come to throw myself upon your mercy. I should like some advice.”

  He blinked, and a pale pink stain stole over his complexion. I realised he was flushed with satisfaction, and it occurred to me that this particular enquiry might be far easier than expected.

  “You see, I find myself in need of guidance, from the other side, as it were.”

  The colour ebbed instantly, and his face was white as old paper. “The other side?”

  “Yes, we do not like to speak of it outside the family, but as you are a gentleman of such discretion and good judgement, I felt it was worth the trouble of consulting you.” I took on the air of one confiding a great secret. “My first husband, Sir Edward Grey, died rather suddenly a few years ago. He did not have sufficient time before his passing to divulge the secret of where he had cached the Grey Pearls, a rather extraordinary set of jewels passed down in his family for several generations.” It was a lie, of course; the pearls had been resting comfortably in a bank vault when Edward died. “I find myself in rather extreme need at present,” I confessed. I paused a moment and lifted a handkerchief to my eye. Sir Henry was unmoved by the gesture, and I dropped the handkerchief at once to proceed with my narrative. “I have tried everything, but I am growing desperate. I thought perhaps a medium might be able to make contact with Edward and persuade him to give up his hiding place.”

  Sir Henry’s gaze narrowed tightly. “And why do you come to me?”

  “I have heard that you have experience in such matters.”

  He leaned forward over the desk, and when he spoke, flecks of spittle decorated his papers. “Mediums are nothing but charlatans and frauds, every last one of them.”

  I started at the venom in his voice. “You really think so?”

  “I know it,” he told me, warming himself upon his righteousness. “I have investigated half a dozen and none of them has given me a proper answer to the questions I put to them.”

  “Honoria, of course,” I murmured.

  The colour began to rise again. “What do you know of my daughter?”

  “Only that it was a tragedy, such a terrible burden for a loving and stalwart father to bear.”

  The flattery may have been thick as treacle, but he lapped it up. “Well, yes. I was always a good father to my children, even if they were girls. But Honoria had no proper pride. There were questions left behind when she died, and no medium has ever been able to answer them to my satisfaction.”

  “How very awful for you to have suffered such a loss,” I said, larding my voice with sympathy. But I had erred.

  Sir Henry rose, his colour ebbing once more, leaving an aspect so flat, so devoid of emotion, I wondered if he was entirely human.

  “Honoria’s death was not a loss, my lady. The only loss was to my good name, and she cast that aside with both hands.” A bitter note leached into his tone, and his lips twisted a little. “She was difficult, even as a child. Nothing I did seemed to make a difference. No correction amended her course, no punishment, however stern diverted her from her wildness.”

  “Stern?” I asked, not entirely certain I wanted him to elaborate.

  He shrugged. “You know the old saying. ‘A dog, a woman, a walnut tree, the better ye beat them the better they be.’ Not Honoria,” he added with real resentment. “If she had been a boy, such spirit would have been more understandable. No more acceptable, of course, but one could have at least comprehended it. But a girl is only useful so long as she is tractable. If she cannot be bent and broken to the proper role, how is she to bring honour to herself and her family?”

  I suspected the question was rhetorical, and I was glad of it. I did not trust myself to answer him.

  If he thought my lack of reponse curious, he dismissed it, doubtless because I was merely a useless
female, I thought with some irritation. He rose and inclined his head with the barest attempt at politeness. “Now, if there is nothing more…”

  It was dismissal, and I took it with good grace. I gathered up Morag and waited for her report in the carriage. She shook her head. “A French chef with his nose very high in the air, I must say,” she related. “And a pair of kitchen maids and a scullery maid. No boys at all, save the hall boy.”

  “Aha!” I cried. “Now we are on the scent. Perhaps we have our boy at last.”

  “Mayhap if you are looking for a black fellow,” Morag replied sourly, “because this one is the colour of night. I couldn’t even see him in the shadows until he smiled. Fair scared me half to death, he did.”

  “Morag, your provincialism is showing. Do shut up,” I ordered.

  I sat back on the seat, muttering a curse under my breath. The first promising lead and it was dashed already. “What a poisonous man. I hate to say it, but I suppose that is another fellow we must cross off our list. Sir Henry shows no love for the profession, but neither has he any reason to kill Madame. I forgot to ask if he had seen her more than the one time, but I doubt it. And strange that such a pragmatic fellow should have consulted mediums at all,” I mused aloud.

  “That’s the face he shows to the world,” Morag commented. “It may not be the face he sees in the shaving glass each morning.”

  I considered that Brisbane had made a similar remark and regarded her thoughtfully. “Morag, for all your daftness, you are occasionally terribly wise.”

  “I have my moments, my lady. I have my moments.”

  The Twelfth Chapter

  Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow,

  thou shalt not escape calumny.

  —Hamlet

  The third house was a stylish town house in St. John’s Wood, rather near to Hortense de Bellefleur’s pretty home. This town house was the abode of Sir Morgan Fielding, youngest son of the Earl of Dundrennan. He had been knighted for his services to the Crown—something about translating Chinese poetry into English, which I had to read twice to believe. It seemed an absurd thing for which to receive the accolade, but there it was. He received me in his writing room, a stunning little room that seemed designed to cater to every comfort in very modern ways. It borrowed heavily from William Morris, but with a dash of something quite new. There was a handsome tiled Swedish stove in the corner for warmth, and a set of excellent Japanese woodcuts on the walls. A screen covered in a lush Bohemian silk stood in front of the windows, diffusing the light from the garden and giving the air an otherworldly feeling. An elegant antique fruitwood tea caddy stood in solitary splendour before it, as much an object of art as utility.