“Are you serious? You can get us in?” He took a seat in a faded red velvet armchair. His friend took the opposite chair, this one more of a dusty gray color, next to the coal scuttle.
“I can. You may recall Lord and Lady Holland are great admirers of Napoleon, and my modest little tract about Alexandre Walewski, his illegitimate son, and his time as diplomatic envoy to the Court of St. James on behalf of the Polish, brought me to their attention.”
“One never knows what will bring us to the attention of our betters,” Charles mused.
“True. What further thoughts have you had about our discussion on Thursday night?”
“I have written Lady Lugoson about her servants.” Charles rubbed at the stained nap on the chair’s arm. William needed to do some scrubbing or have someone in. “Then I went to see Dr. Keville. You didn’t meet him that night, but he was the first doctor called and has known the family for years.”
“Did he have any conclusion?”
“He certainly doesn’t suspect murder, even suggested a very fast-moving influenza or cholera or such, but he did have one interesting thought.”
“What was that?”
“The cause of death could be some kind of preparation a young girl would take in order to stay slender.”
“Like a quack preparation?”
“Certainly could be,” Charles agreed, noticing that the stain went down the inside of the chair’s arm. He poked at it. Smelled like cheese sauce but at least it was dry. “The doctor suggested foxglove tea before retracting the notion. The other option would be a food adulterant, as I suspected from the first, whether something had gone bad, or a poison accidentally got into something.”
“It does happen.” William rubbed his chin. “I’ve given up on the archives for now, and I’m trying to find my notes on that other dead girl for you, but I may have burned them.”
Charles leaned away from the fire and pulled off his gloves. “A pity, but I have the name now.”
William bent forward. “Yes?”
“Marie Rueff,” Charles said in portentous tones.
“Ah,” said William thoughtfully. “That should help the archivist at the newspaper. I asked him for assistance. Surely the blasted man has some kind of filing system.”
“I would hope so. Now, on to the more recent business. My understanding is no one else in the Lugoson family took ill.”
“But plenty of others were present.”
Charles nodded. “That leaves the three members of the Carley family, Mrs. Decker, and Lady Holland. I do not know any of them, unlike you, apparently.”
William took on a superior air. “Any points of inquiry?”
“The cream sauce on a potato dish was off, according to Lady Lugoson. She said she’d write her guests and check on their health. Not everyone would have eaten the potatoes. If they had been poisoned, how? The servants?”
“An excellent question. Assuming no one else became ill that night, Miss Carley is likely to be the font of knowledge about anything else regarding Miss Lugoson.”
Charles shifted again. He’d managed to sit in the one overly warm part of the room. No wonder William preferred the other chair. “I agree, but I have no reason to speak to her. For now, let us raise the question of the food with the guests who were there. It might create questions in their minds, as it has done in my own.”
“Excellent. I shall dress for the evening.” William stuck his tongue in his cheek. “I take it you’d like to walk to Holland House for the salon?”
“It is too fine of a night not to,” Charles joked, though William’s windows were already coated with ice.
“As much as I appreciate your lack of regard for the elements, we shall never make it in time. We will have to pool our shillings and visit that hackney-coach stand below your window. Go dress in your rooms. I’ll send a boy down to fetch a coach and join you shortly.”
* * *
When they arrived at the venerable red brick mansion in Kensington, Charles mentally calculated the distance between it and Lugoson House, and figured it must be less than two miles, depending on the route. Once known as Cope Castle, the scale of Holland House was majestic indeed, as was the influence of the baron and his lady on the nation. Lord Holland had offered his services in various capacities for decades though he was out of office at the moment.
Charles could not help but feel shock at the luxury of the great estate as they followed a footman to the gathering. The height of the rooms, ceiling decorations, pillars, and columns were of a scale of grandeur no ordinary man could ever hope to attain in his lifetime, no matter his success. In his twenty-two years Charles had never seen anything like it in a private home. Did all the wealthy live like this? If so, he’d never met anyone more than merely comfortable before.
This family had built an impressive collection of friends and supporters over the decades, and one could always come to their home in order to speak to the great men of the day, whether it be Byron or Sir Walter Scott in their era, or politicians like former prime minister Earl Grey or Lord Lansdowne now. These were the powerful people who could effect social change more assuredly than any piece of sentimental journalism.
Tonight, however, Charles was less interested in politics and more in the guests. He did spot Mr. Carley in a corner, speaking to another Member of Parliament, but, not wanting to interrupt such important men, he decided to look for Lady Holland’s attention first.
A footman, more expensively dressed in his livery than Charles in his evening clothes, answered his inquiry. “Lady Holland is in her private rooms, sirs,” he said.
“Is Lord Holland still ailing?” William asked, with a knowing air.
“She does intend to come down this evening,” the footman said, then pretended to be called away from them.
“I’m going to take a look around,” Charles said.
“I will ask if Mrs. Decker is present,” William said. “And keep an eye on Mr. Carley so we can speak to him after he finishes his political conversation.”
Charles wandered through a couple of rooms filled with guests. He overheard someone say, “Have you seen the Gilt Chamber yet?”
The other man shook his head and his companion pointed to the far end of the room. Charles followed them, craning his neck around the side of the one at the door. He saw a room covered in shimmering gold, with a carpeted floor, fancifully decorated walls, and ornate ceilings. While the fireplace had been constructed from stone of black and sienna, and some figures were painted the color of flesh, the rest of the room was gilt, even the columns. His dazzled eyes eventually understood that some work at the base of the walls was dressed in white, but the overall effect was luxurious, mesmerizing. Sinful.
“Difficult to describe, even if you’re trying,” said a man at his elbow.
Charles recognized the curly haired, fleshy-faced young man as the one who’d been told about the room a few moments before.
“Description is my business,” Charles said. “I work for the Morning Chronicle.”
“I am an illustrator,” the other man returned. “Daniel Maclise.”
Charles took in the dark, intent eyes, strong nose, and Irish accent. “We should know each other, then, we men of words and pictures. Who do you illustrate for?”
They talked about their different journal experiences. While Maclise worked primarily for a Tory journal he seemed a liberal sort. By no means a hack, he showed his intelligence in a discussion of the merits of the marble busts in the room.
When he saw Mr. Carley walking by the open double doors of the room, Charles said, “If you’ll excuse me, I must catch that politician.”
He moved with purpose, reaching the Member of Parliament before he reached his destination. “Mr. Carley. A moment of your time?”
“Mr. Dickens,” Carley said, exposing a mouthful of irregular, oversize teeth. “How very good to see you, sir.”
The words sounded right, but Carley was looking over his shoulder, as if looking for
bigger prey than a mere journalist.
“It is fine to see you looking hearty, sir,” Charles said. “And how are your wife and daughter?”
“Very well.” The politician drained his glass.
“No ill effects from the dinner last week?”
Carley frowned. “No, other than sorrow, of course. My daughter, Beatrice, and Miss Lugoson were close friends from childhood.”
“I am not surprised, they seemed very close. Is Miss Carley your only child?”
“No, I have a son as well, older than Beatrice. Younger than yourself, however.”
“Have you spoken to anyone else who was at Lugoson House that night? I have wondered if anyone else became ill.”
“I don’t believe Lady Holland had any cause for concern, and I do not really know Mrs. Decker, though my wife might. If you’ll excuse me, my good man, I see Charles Greville. I wanted to ask him about a horse.” Mr. Carley tightened his fingers around his glass and strode off.
The man had more interest in horseflesh than the guests at Lady Lugoson’s party. Just when Charles thought the evening had been unhelpful in the matter of the mysterious death of Christiana Lugoson, though of great interest in terms of how the wealthy and titled lived, Lady Holland appeared, walking in his direction, so glittering in her gems that one almost missed her own fading beauty.
“My lady,” Charles begged, as soon as he could get her attention. “May I have a minute of your time?”
“You may have more than one, my dear Mr. Dickens,” she declared, taking his arm and guiding him to a sofa at the far end of one drawing room. “I have heard how kind you were to poor Christiana Lugoson.”
“I believe you hear everything, madam, and I wondered what you might know about Lady Lugoson’s dinner?”
“I believe I saw Mr. Carley here,” the lady said, employing her fan to sweep away a flying creature that hovered around her nose.
“I did speak to him. He said that none of his family had taken ill. Lady Lugoson thought the potato sauce had gone off. I wonder if anyone else ate the potatoes?”
“I don’t imagine anyone except the footman who served would have any hope of remembering that,” Lady Holland said. “But I know I ate potatoes myself, in a white sauce?”
“Yes,” Charles agreed.
She patted her décolletage. “Not a moment’s indigestion, my dear Mr. Dickens. So I do not think they played any role in poor Miss Lugoson’s demise.”
“Thank you for clearing my suspicions on that account. Have you heard any news of the others? Your German acquaintance? Mrs. Decker?”
“I had a note from my dear Professor Klemme and he didn’t mention anything but sorrow for the Lugoson family. I do not know Mrs. Decker well. Mr. Decker is in shipping and they often travel.” She patted her jewelry, then gave him a speculative glance. “I don’t understand your concern, Mr. Dickens. Did the medical men not understand why the girl perished?”
“Not in any decisive manner.” Charles moved a scant inch closer to the lady. “You may recall, strangely enough, that another young girl died on Epiphany night in the same neighborhood, one year before Miss Lugoson. I cannot remove the coincidence from my thoughts.”
“The same illness?” she inquired. “The random, unexceptional death of one girl would not come to my notice ordinarily.”
“That is my understanding,” Charles said. “Not the way you expect a young girl to die.”
“Is there any point of commonality?” the lady asked shrewdly.
“They were both seventeen at the time of death. Both worshippers at St. Luke’s. I am trying to learn more.”
“It is odd,” Lady Holland agreed. “But of course, there are so many rumors about the Lugoson family. Now, I can’t say anything against the Lugoson girl herself.”
“But?” Charles prodded, his senses pricking up. Was this about the actress sister, or something else?
Lady Holland leaned her head closer, her expression avid in her timeworn face. Charles was reminded that Lady Holland was not a character without controversy herself, between her divorce, her rumored affairs, and the illegitimate son she shared with her husband, born during her divorce.
“Do you know about Lady Lugoson’s sister?” Lady Holland asked.
“Angela Acton,” Charles confirmed. “Yes, my friend William Aga told me. Is that important?”
“She is Lady Lugoson’s younger sister,” Lady Holland confirmed, “and the rumor is that she is really Christiana’s mother.”
The room seemed to dim as he focused entirely on Lady Holland. “Who was the rumored father?”
“I cannot speak to that, but you understand that Lady Lugoson had no children then, so it was quite a scandal. Christiana might have been a great heiress undeservedly, if Lady Lugoson had not given birth to the present Lord Lugoson.”
Charles rubbed his lower lip with his thumb. “Any question about his parentage?”
“No. I remember the baroness during that time. I have no doubt that she had expectations and that her husband was pleased with her.”
“I don’t see what any of this would have to do with Miss Lugoson’s death,” he mused. Fascinating though it was.
Lady Holland chuckled. “There was still quite a bit of money settled on her, and not just from the Actons. The late Lord Lugoson had property that wasn’t entailed and left it all to Christiana’s dowry. She was much wealthier than her supposed brother.”
“That is unusual,” Charles agreed. Very unusual. “He must have thought he was her father.”
“I didn’t know them well until shortly before the present Lord Lugoson’s birth. The mother and children lived mostly at their country estate before they all moved to France for a time. I had understood it to be a matter of Lady Lugoson’s lungs, but she shows no sign of delicacy these days.”
Charles considered that night. Could Christiana have been struck down by an inherited lung ailment? But no, any wheezing had come late in the process, when her entire body was shutting down. Meanwhile, any inquiry he might make now must take Lady Lugoson’s possible capacity for falsehood into account.
“Will you be attending the funeral?” asked Lady Holland, changing the subject. “It is on Wednesday.”
“Of course,” Charles said.
“I shall give you some advice, young man,” Lady Holland said. “While this is a house without a father, no family wants their secrets uncovered. As a reporter you are used to uncovering the truth, but remember that the truth has its cost. Given that you have no connection to this matter, it might be best to leave the gossip alone.”
“Her death is an injustice, my lady,” Charles said. “If there is a cause, something in the neighborhood, something that could affect the Hogarth girls, I must know the answer.”
“Ah, the Hogarths,” Lady Holland said shrewdly. “Now I understand your interest. But if a young man like yourself can uncover the secrets of a girl’s life, I should be very surprised.”
Charles smiled. “Better that I put myself at risk than Miss Hogarth.”
Lady Holland looked over Charles’s shoulder. “If it isn’t Mr. Aga.”
William inclined his head as a footman brought him a chair. Charles settled back, happy to listen as the two discussed Napoleonic minutiae.
Chapter 8
The previous Sunday, Charles had had the happy experience of traversing the St. Luke’s burial ground with the Hogarth sisters under weak sunlight. Now, on Wednesday afternoon, a brisk wind blew tiny, stinging snowflakes in his eyes as he stood with Mr. Hogarth, Mr. Carley, young Lord Lugoson, and a dozen other men around the short iron gate squared around the stone vault of the Lugoson family.
The rector read the burial service, his damp shoes sunk into the soaking grass, taking frequent pauses for a phlegmy cough. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted,” he intoned.
Charles’s gaze passed over the pine coffin inside the open gate and looked across. Lord Lugoson represented his family, since women rarely a
ttended funerals. He recognized Lord Holland and his wife’s friend Professor Klemme. Next to the German stood another familiar face, the man who had played Richard III, Percy Chalke. Charles supposed he represented Angela Acton, Miss Lugoson’s aunt. Or her mother, if the rumors were true.
He glanced away, but something niggled at the back of his mind. Casually, his gaze roved over Chalke’s narrow-shouldered frame again, and then he realized what had caught his eye. Under his top hat, shaggy fringe surrounded the actor’s face. He had blond hair. To play Richard III, he had either darkened his hair or worn a wig. The thought struck Charles. Could Percy Chalke be Miss Lugoson’s real father?
The actor had light eyes, probably blue. While both the hair and eyes of Miss Christiana Lugoson had been mimicked in Lady Lugoson, it did not hurt the evidence to find Mr. Chalke had the same physical characteristics. His hands, too, were long-fingered and delicate, like Miss Lugoson’s. Charles had spent too many hours watching over the girl to forget. He wondered if she would be buried with the ruby ring she had worn on her right hand, or if someone had taken it as a keepsake.
The wind groaned loudly, and a gust of mold-scented air blew directly into Charles’s nose. He sneezed, and turned away, fumbling for a handkerchief. Half hidden by a large cross, he saw a large young man with bright pink circles of cold on his cheeks. Perhaps older than Charles, his overall appearance was a handsome one, with curling hair and fashionable attire.
When Charles put his handkerchief away and turned back, Mr. Carley was glaring, but he realized that the man wasn’t looking at him, but over his shoulder at the youth. Was the timid figure young Mr. Carley, his son?
“We have entrusted our sister Lugoson to God’s mercy, and we now commit her body to the ground: earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust: in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life,” the rector continued.
Punctuated by coughs, the rector completed the main part of the service, commending Miss Lugoson to God. The verger and a church warden, who’d been standing behind the rector, stepped forward. The rector opened the door of the vault and then gestured to Lord Lugoson and Lord Holland, who took places at the foot of the small coffin. The quartet lifted the coffin and carried it through the door into the final resting place of the Lugoson family.
A Tale of Two Murders Page 6