The Secrets of Scorton Hall: An Historical Regency Romance Mystery

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by Kate Carteret


  “Not a single letter has been returned?”

  “Not one.” The housekeeper suddenly looked hopeful. “My Lady, if I were to send a letter to you for my Meredith, would you see to it that it be handed directly to her?”

  “Yes, of course. Would you like me to take something with me now?”

  “I have nothing written currently, My Lady, and I am not very quick with reading and writing.” She cast her eyes down for a moment. “But I can do it well enough given time. It would take too long, I’m afraid, for me to do it today though.”

  “Then I shall write down my address for you and you may send it there to me. I daresay it will be waiting for me by the time I return.”

  Mrs. MacDonald immediately provided writing materials and Felicia set down her aunt’s address at the Dower House.

  “I am currently staying with my aunt, Lady Barton, and so it would be best for you to send your letter to me there. And I promise you, Mrs. MacDonald, I shall hand it to Her Grace personally.”

  “You are very kind, My Lady.”

  “I must just ask you to look at something, Mrs. MacDonald. I found it one day when I was out on a walk and I wonder now if it perhaps belongs to the Duchess. To Meredith Mulholland.” She said and reached into the wristlet once more. “It is a little locket, but I noticed that the design is very similar to the one on a wooden shield I saw above the fireplace in Mulholland house.”

  “Bless me, that is her locket. She never went anywhere without that.”

  “Then she must be missing it terribly.” Felicia began to feel the full weight of her untruth. “I will return it to her the very moment I see her again.”

  “She’s all right, isn’t she?” Mrs. MacDonald was clearly becoming unsettled by it all. “I mean, you coming here to ask all these questions and now this.” She said, staring down at the locket. “She is safe, isn’t she?”

  “The last time I saw the Duchess of Scorton, Mrs. MacDonald, she was perfectly happy and perfectly safe.”

  “If that ever changes, you will let me know, won’t you? I know you do not owe me such a consideration, My Lady, but I could not have loved that girl more had she been my own. You would not leave me wondering, would you?”

  “If there is ever anything to tell, I promise you that I will tell you.” Felicia said truthfully.

  “We both shall.” Lord Beaumont added and reached out to cover the old lady’s bony hand with his own.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  On the last day of their journey home to Oxfordshire, the exhausted party of three began to discuss everything they had discovered in earnest. They had touched lightly on this subject or that over the preceding days, but it was as if they were all trying to get the facts, such as they were, straight in their own minds before embarking upon any discussion.

  “Let us just lay it out as we have it.” Lady Barton said, seeming to be energized by the fact that she would soon be home again. “Lord Beaumont, lay things out as we know them and let us see if we can come to any sensible conclusions.”

  “Very well, Lady Barton, your wish is, as always, my undying duty.” He smiled and Felicia felt warmed by it; she enjoyed the closeness that Lord Beaumont and her aunt shared. “Shall I start at the very beginning?”

  “I think it would be for the best.” Felicia said.

  “Well, in the summer of this year, Lady Felicia and I discovered the lifeless body of Daisy Marlow, maid of Scorton Hall. She was a shy woman, rather plain, a little awkward and clumsy. After she dropped fish in Lady Felicia’s lap, we did not see her again until we found her deceased.”

  “I daresay that dreadful butler treated her very badly.” Felicia added, realizing that she had inherited her aunt’s penchant for interruption.

  “I daresay.” Lord Beaumont agreed before continuing. “Two large candlesticks were missing from the room, and the door had been forced, giving rise to the idea that the whole thing was a burglary gone horribly wrong. But the young woman was beaten so badly about the face that Lady Felicia suggested that it was quite personal.”

  “Such a thing does seem rather personal.” Lady Barton said and, much to everybody’s surprise, she withdrew a small hip flask of brandy from her capacious velvet bag and took a sip before handing it to Lord Beaumont.

  He handed it first to Felicia, who politely declined with a shake of her head, before taking a good sip himself.

  “Thank you, Lady Barton.” He said, handing the hip flask back to her. “So, the accepted theory was one of burglary and that Daisy Marlow had been murdered in the morning room at Scorton Hall. But as Lady Felicia rightly pointed out, there was not enough blood in the room for the dreadful deed to have taken place there. Furthermore, a man and woman had been seen in the summerhouse the night before in some manner of romantic liaison.” He paused for a moment, deep in thought. “We searched the summerhouse and discovered the broken locket, a little blood, and an otherwise extraordinarily clean floor. The locket bears the coat of arms of the Mulholland family and the chain is broken, seemingly by force.”

  “Yes, something terrible happened in that summerhouse.” Felicia said sadly, still not forgiving herself for turning away that night.

  “The three of us then visited Charlton in Hertfordshire in hopes of discovering something about the life of Daisy Marlow, only to discover that no such woman has ever lived in that place. Some days later, before the theatrical at Beaumont Hall began, Kitty Foster, an actress, was discovered all but dead in the fountain. She remembered nothing of it but mentioned the name Irene.” He looked directly at Felicia. “Am I getting this in the right order?”

  “Perfectly.” She nodded and smiled.

  There had been no mention of the kiss ever since it had happened although it was true to say that they had been extremely busy and really rather confused by every new discovery they made. But she knew now that she wanted to revisit the kiss, to talk about it, perhaps even to enjoy another. In the tiring but comfortable days of their journey back down from Scotland, Felicia had thought about it more than once. She had come to wish that she had not stood as still as a statue that night, but that she had made some movement, done something to let him know that she would willingly return his passion. All she could do now was hope that he had not taken her surprise and confusion for rejection.

  “We visited the dreadful Mr. Hegarty in Lambeth to be told that Irene Davies, a Welsh actress, had returned to her homeland a year before. A few weeks before she left, another actress disappeared off the face of the earth. Violet Smith, leaving a loving family behind her with no word of what had become of her, is safely assumed to have been dispatched in some dreadful way. According to Mr. Hegarty, at any rate.” He rolled his eyes and Lady Barton chortled in amusement. “But given that Mary Morehead’s gown was wet enough to dampen Lady Barton’s seat on the night of the play, we have come to the rather informed conclusion that not only did she try to murder kitty Foster, but that she is, in fact, Irene Davies. That conclusion is made firmer by our recent discovery that no such woman as Mary Morehead was ever a companion to Meredith Mulholland.”

  “But why would the Duchess claim her to be so?” Felicia said, beginning to give voice to something which had bothered her for some time. “And why would the Duke not declare the woman an impostor?”

  “How would he know? It strikes me that, in the case of Mary Morehead, he has been as duped as anybody else.”

  “Forgive me, Lord Beaumont, that does not work,” Felicia said cautiously. “He told you, did he not, that he had met Mary Morehead on the very same night he had met Meredith Mulholland for the first time. He claimed the woman to be Meredith’s companion and something of an obstacle to their romance.”

  “Yes.” Lord Beaumont said without elaborating.

  “His wife certainly knows something about all of this. She must have some reason for having the world believe that a Welsh actress masquerading as a Scottish companion is a woman she knows well. A woman who has been with her for some years. And f
orgive me, Lord Beaumont, but surely if his wife knows of the true origins of Irene Davies, so must the Duke. He has made no mention of Mrs. MacDonald, the housekeeper, as the woman who was truly the companion to his wife all those months ago.”

  “I suppose we cannot yet know of my friend’s part in all of this until we have every single one of the facts.” He said sharply and Felicia bristled a little, almost feeling his resistance to her words.

  Above all things, she hoped that her suspicion of the Duke of Scorton would not drive a wedge between her and Jonathan Forbes.

  “How are we to find out any more?” Felicia said tentatively.

  Lady Barton remained uncharacteristically quiet and Felicia caught her eye, realizing that she was going to let her get on with it this time. This was something that Felicia and Jonathan would have to work out for themselves without any of Lady Barton’s customary interference.

  “When I have rested and thought about the whole thing for a day or two, I will go out to Scorton Hall and discuss the matter with Clarence in absolute privacy. If he is in some trouble, if he has become unwittingly embroiled in something he thinks he cannot get out of, he will tell me.”

  “Yes, I do believe that is the best course of action.” Felicia said, not truly believing it but not wanting to hurt Lord Beaumont any further.

  She decided to say nothing more about it, for there was the matter of Daisy Marlow and who had murdered her. Felicia had the gravest suspicions, even though she could not put them into words, and she would not risk her friendship with one of the finest men she had ever known by prematurely giving voice to them.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Two days after they had returned to the Barton Hall Dower House, Felicia received a letter from Mrs. MacDonald. She smiled to herself sadly, thinking of that aging, delicate old lady, sitting down by candlelight and struggling with her writing. She remembered well her promise to give all news to that kindly housekeeper and wondered, in the end, what on earth that news might be.

  The remainder of their journey back to Oxfordshire had been rather quiet, all of them in reflection, none more so than Lord Beaumont. Felicia knew that he was now contemplating the very real possibility that his childhood friend had involved himself in something less than healthy and, in the end, perhaps a little dark.

  Never having had such a close friendship as the one that the Earl and the Duke so clearly enjoyed, Felicia could only begin to imagine how such suspicions must be tearing at Lord Beaumont’s heart. It could not be any worse, she believed, to have a beloved brother whom one feared had become involved in something terrible; perhaps even done something terrible.

  Although they had made no particular arrangement to meet in the next few days, still Felicia began to miss Lord Beaumont and wonder if things would ever be the same between them again.

  She feared what they would discover in the coming weeks and, more than that, she feared what it would do to the chances of them ever growing closer.

  If only she had listened to her aunt in the beginning and made it very clear that she had a great interest in the Earl of Beaumont, even if she had not felt it at the time. It would have at least put her on firmer ground now and, had they been a little closer, even courting, they would likely weather the storm of whatever was to come far easier than they might now.

  “What are you worrying about, Felicia?”

  “Oh, just poor Mrs. MacDonald, Aunt Agatha.” She said, knowing that she did not speak the truth as she waved the old lady’s sealed letter from side to side.

  Felicia had been sitting in the morning room in front of the fire, a shawl about her shoulders with the curtains drawn back fully so that she should look out on the last of the autumn.

  “My dear child, when are you going to learn that I can see clean through you as easily as you can see clean through those glazed doors?” She said, bustling further into the room and settling herself down on an armchair opposite Felicia.

  She stared at her intently, her bead-like dark eyes boring into her as if reading the contents of her very soul.

  “All right, Aunt Agatha, I am worried about Lord Beaumont. I am worried how it is going to affect him if he discovers that the Duke has had a hand in all of this.”

  “Do you believe he has?”

  “I think there are too many questions for the Duke not to have at least some of the answers.”

  “My only fear is that he will not be honest with Lord Beaumont when they have this little conversation of theirs.” Lady Barton spoke with an uncommon gentleness. “And if the truth of it is never known, Lord Beaumont will never have any peace. He will always wonder if the man who has stood at his side as his finest friend for so many years has something in his recent history to be ashamed of.”

  “I wish I could get to the bottom of it myself, Aunt Agatha, and not take any of it to Lord Beaumont until the thing is done. But really, there is no way of knowing any more than we know now. Even though there are so many unanswered questions, I cannot help but think that we have truly come to the end of the road. There is nobody left to ask but the Duke himself and, as you rightly point out, there is a very good chance that he will not be entirely honest.” Felicia felt a little tearful in her exasperation. “After all of this, we may never know.”

  “Perhaps not all possibilities have been exhausted.” Lady Barton said in a wheedling tone, the gentleness all gone. “Perhaps we have not yet come to the end of the road. Perhaps there is somebody else left to ask.”

  “But who?”

  “Mrs. MacDonald.” Lady Barton said in a breathy and secretive way.

  “But we have already spoken to Mrs…”

  “For heaven’s sake, Felicia, the letter.” She said, nodding furiously and pointing at the letter still in Felicia’s hand.

  “You do not think we should open it, Aunt Agatha? I promised that dear woman faithfully that I would hand it directly to the Duchess.”

  “I understand your respect for Mrs. MacDonald, but there is none currently to be had for the Duchess of Scorton. Who is to say that she will respond to this letter if she has not responded to any of the others? I’m sure that we could carefully remove the seal in some way that will not disarrange it completely.”

  “Of course, it will disarrange it! Of course, it will. Once we have broken the seal of this letter, there will be no hiding what we have done.”

  “Wait a minute, it is only wax.” Lady Barton reached for the letter and Felicia handed it to her with a sinking feeling. “I will not open it, I just want to look at it more closely.” Lady Barton went on.

  She turned the letter over in her hands and drew it up close to her face until it was almost touching her nose. “Just as I thought, it is only a drop of wax which has been squashed into place by use of a shilling.” She laughed. “Now there is nothing there that we cannot replicate as long as we remove this piece of wax carefully.”

  “I suppose there would be no way of knowing, would there? Mrs. MacDonald has no seal of her own that is recognizable.” Felicia said, hardly able to believe that she was about to condone the opening of private correspondence. “Wait a minute, we are getting carried away here, Aunt Agatha.”

  “Perhaps you would feel better if we had a voice of reason?” Lady Barton said brightly. “And I think I know the very voice.”

  “Lord Beaumont?”

  “Yes, I shall send him a message and ask him to come here at his earliest convenience.” Lady Barton was already rising to her feet. “And at least it might cheer you a little to see his handsome face again, my dear.”

  “I hope so.” Felicia said somewhat forlornly.

  Lord Beaumont had responded by return of message that he would come out to the Dower House the following morning. Felicia was both looking forward to seeing him and so afraid that things had changed dramatically between them, that she could hardly eat any breakfast at all. By the time he arrived, she felt a little lightheaded.

  “I trust you are both well.” Lord Beaumont said wit
h a smile when he joined them in the drawing room for some tea.

  “We are both well, Lord Beaumont,” Felicia said, answering before her aunt had a chance to. “And are you well?”

  “Yes, I think I am. I am not so dull-witted or naive that I think my dear friend has no part in this at all. I am bound to say, however, that I live in hope that his involvement is of the minimal and unwitting variety.”

  “I hope so too.” Felicia said, having very little hope for such a thing.

  “We have brought you here today, Lord Beaumont, on something of an underhanded little mission.” Lady Barton said, taking over in a way which made Felicia feel grateful; she had no idea how she would have broached the subject of opening a private letter.

  “Before you make your way to the Duke and ask him to tell you the truth of it all, I wonder if there might be another way to find out one or two more details before you go.”

  “I cannot think of a single person left to approach, Lady Barton.”

  “Not a person exactly, Lord Beaumont.” She pulled the letter from the pocket of her gown. “Mrs. MacDonald has sent a letter down just as she had declared she would. It arrived yesterday morning.”

  “And you think we should open it?” Lord Beaumont said, speaking quite simply and catching on immediately.

  “It is devious, I know, perhaps even more so because I have already discovered that we can replicate the seal without any suspicion.” Lady Barton chuckled. “But then I suppose you have always known that I do not entirely play by the rules, young man.”

  “Lady Barton, there are so many people in all of this who are not playing by the rules that I do not blame you for a moment. I agree; I think we must open that letter and see if there is just one shred of evidence inside that we can use to finally get to the bottom of all this mystery.”

 

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