The Devil in Beauty: A Lord Trevelin Mystery (The Lord Trevelin Mysteries Book 1)

by Ashworth, Heidi

  “Well, I…I found it here in the square.” His brow furrowed. “Oh, yes, I do recall! It was the morning that you saw me in wait of you at Gilbert House. You may recall that I bore a letter for you from my lady.”

  This was an interesting development, indeed. “Where at Gilbert House did you find it?”

  “It was in the dirt where I was standing behind a tree.” His gaze as he looked at me was unwavering.

  “Did you not suppose it belonged to someone?”

  “I didn’t consider it for a moment. I had no thought for anyone save Sally and my dream for us.”

  “You do not wish,” Rey asked, “to be a gentleman and live here until the end of your days?”

  “Not without my Sally.” He stared past me, the whites of his violet eyes reddened and his lids heavy.

  “This is all utter nonsense!” Lady Vawdrey cried. “Edmund, you are meant for the life of a gentleman. Whoever your father was, he was doubtless a gentleman as well.”

  He snapped back to life. “I was born on the wrong side of the blanket!” He favored Lady Vawdrey with a look no servant ever bestowed on a master. “Is the word ‘bastard’ not the very definition of one who is not a gentleman?”

  “But your blood, Edmund! Those eyes do not come from common stock!” Lady Vawdrey urged. “You are extraordinary!”

  “In whose opinion? When you are gone, who shall be my champion? Who shall say I am worthy of this place? No one!”

  “But…” Lady Vawdrey wailed.

  I watched this scene of growing despondency with increasing impatience. I bent to whisper into Rey’s ear. “Something is troubling me. I think we must see Sally again.”

  He looked at me in horror. “What? You wish to visit the dipòsit de cadavers?”

  “If by that you mean the mortuary, then yes: the deadhouse.”

  “But why?” he said with a shudder.

  “I fear that I missed a matter of importance.” Something about her smile niggled at my brain, but I could not think what. “First, however, we should put her key to the kitchen door of Gilbert House.”

  “No!” Rey insisted. “First, we must dine.”

  I found I had no desire to argue. My appetite had returned, and I could not account for its condition once I visited a house of the dead. We went again to my club where we dined on pig’s feet and truffles alongside Timbale Milanais. It was delicious, but I had no wish to see it again. I bespoke a bottle of brandy which I tucked into my coat pocket in the case some Dutch courage was required.

  Our journey to the mortuary was one of incorrect information, false turns, routes up the river and back, and copious frustration, but we finally arrived at the squalid edifice in which Sally’s body reposed. I was forced to part with the brandy in order to be allowed into the chamber where she lay, but it was well worth the sacrifice.

  It was with some trepidation that we stepped across the threshold of the foul-smelling room. Pausing, our breathing shallow, we blinked rapidly in the fetid darkness as we attempted to make sense of our surroundings. The light of a single candle threw eerie shadows on the walls and ceiling, but little else could be discerned. In short, it was the sort of room in which one should expect a colony of bats to come swooping down upon one’s head. Even so, I took a step forward and peered at the table that bore the candle. It kept company with a mound that looked as if it might be a body under a bedsheet.

  Gagging at the odor, we made our way to the table and pulled down the sheet far enough to identify the mound as Sally. Rey quickly turned away, but I could not take my gaze from her. No one had taken the trouble to wash off the blood and in the light of the single flame it seemed black as night against her moon-white skin. Without additional illumination, there was little more to be seen. I turned around to find that Rey had already discovered more candles, which he lit with a spill touched to the existing flame. We arranged them around her head and shoulders and I bent to study her pitifully mutilated face. Looking at her brought to mind a question I had forgotten to ask: how did Throckmorton know she was dead?

  “Señyor Rey, do you see those slices in her lips?” I ran a finger along the long horizontal wound in her bottom lip. “It’s as if someone wished to open it up.” I looked more closely and saw what it was that had troubled me. “See here? These teeth—those that aren’t blackened with blood are far too white. I met Sally the day I questioned the servants of Manwaring House. I took note of the fact that her teeth were quite poor.”

  “It is very strange,” Rey murmured as he peered into Sally’s mouth. He ran a finger along the teeth and nodded. “Just as I thought: these teeth are carved from ivory…the whitest, purest ivory.”

  “Of course,” I murmured. “I feel that I have seen these before.” I could not recall where. “Many older people wear entire sets of false teeth, some of them made of those taken from cadavers. However, those are to replace the ones that have been lost to restore the appearance and aid in chewing. Why would a young girl such as Sally need false teeth?”

  “Perhaps it was because her teeth were not beautiful? Perhaps Throckmorton wished her to have the best?”

  “The cost of such teeth would be well out of the means of a servant!”

  “True, but Lady Vawdrey perhaps pays him more than any servant. But, ah!” Rey said, lifting a finger. “There is the missing diamond necklace to consider. Could he have stolen it to pay for such a treasure?”

  “Indeed, yes, Señyor Rey! I admire your sound intellect. In point of fact, I cannot think of who else might have stolen it and not have been discovered. And yet, Throckmorton found Sally beautiful. I do not believe he would have been troubled by her teeth, even if she were minus one or two.”

  Rey somberly wagged his head. “Es un misteri.”

  “A mystery, indeed,” I agreed. I pulled away the sheet to reveal the rest of her body which I examined in a manner Rey considered ruthless.

  “You shall break the bones if you do not take care!”

  “I believe she is past caring,” I riposted. I ran my hands along all four of her limbs and removed the shoes from her feet in search of bruises. Then I rolled her over, undid the tapes of her gown, and held a candle to her back. “See here, Rey. There are bruises across her shoulders, as if she had been beaten.”

  “Could they have been made when she was thrown down the steps?”

  It was an interesting notion. “’Tis true; she could have been thrown down them rather than carried out onto the landing through the kitchen door. However, these bruises appear to be older than the day she has been dead.”

  “How are we to know when she died?” Rey asked.

  “If the screams I heard were hers, then we can assume she was alive less than twenty-four hours ago. But we know nothing of the sort.” I rolled her onto her back and pointed to the line around her neck. “This was mostly red and raw when we found her; now it is darkening like the blood that had already blackened her mouth. Surely the mark from the garroting would have been just as black if it had happened as long ago as the bruises, which must have already begun to fade when she died.”

  “You can ascertain such facts simply from looking at her body?”

  “Surely a man who learned to sword-fight from the masters ought to have suffered numerous injuries; enough to study the behaviors of blood and bruising,” I suggested.

  Rey drew himself up to his full dearth of height and lifted his chin. “I have never been wounded, my lord.”

  I was taken aback. “Never? Not once?” His fencing master must have been more than merciful.

  “I am at my best when it comes to defense, my lord,” he crowed.

  It was a notion I could willingly entertain if his arms, which I had never seen bared, were as thick-set as his fingers. “Bravo then, sir! I am proud to call you friend.”

  “As am I,” he replied with a bow. “Now, let us be away from here. I can no longer be troubled to breathe this foul air.”

  As I replaced the sheet, I was nearly overcome with
a wave of sorrow. I pulled together the tattered edges of my sensibilities whilst Rey blew out all the candles save one. Again, we paused as we adjusted to the darkness, whereupon we found our way out the door, down the passage, and into the vestibule. The man who had granted us access was not immediately visible, so we let ourselves out with a sense of supreme relief of body and mind.

  When we emerged, we found that the day had darkened into full night. Gratefully, we dragged the crystalline October air into our labored lungs and stumbled to the waiting coach. It had been my intention to test the key at Gilbert House, but I longed for the oblivion of sleep. Rey and I sat across from one another, but never looked the other in the eye for the entire journey. When we drew to a halt in front of Canning House, he quit the carriage without a word.

  I knew very well the emotions that drove him. It was my intention to go immediately to my room without speaking to a single soul, but when I walked through the front door I was ushered into chaos. Servants were scurrying to and fro’ and I could hear Joan’s voice as she issued instructions all the way from the second floor. The door to Canning’s study opened and the butler emerged, his face red and his expression one of extreme forbearance.

  “What is it, Moore?” I asked, but he rushed past me as if I were as insubstantial as a ghost. I went to the door of Canning’s study and rapped upon it.

  “Enter!” Canning barked, such that I nearly slunk away. My hesitation prompted him to open the door himself. He went about it so angrily that the pursuant rush of air sent the lace of his cravat quivering. “What do you want?” he demanded.

  “I beg your pardon. It is not important.” And yet, I wished to know what had caused such a disturbance in this household that I so cherished.

  “No, ‘tis I who must beg your pardon, Trev,” Canning said as he waved me inside. “Sit down and have a drink, and I shall tell you all about it.”

  “Yes, do,” I insisted, though I did not sit. The amount of time I had spent in the carriage throughout the course of the day was enough to dampen my desire to fold my frame for even a moment. “What has happened? It is bedlam!”

  “George Charles has a cough, and Joan is persuaded that he shall not recover in the London air,” he said somewhat mockingly. “The plan is to depart for home early tomorrow morning.”

  “All the way back to Kilkenny?” I asked in astonishment. When his face darkened, I refrained from informing him of the role I played in Joan’s desire to quit London. “I am sorry that he is ill, and hope that he shall soon recover.”

  “Hmmm,” he grumbled. “Thank you. In the meantime I am closing up the house, and shall be staying at the Clarendon.”

  “You are to remain in London?” I asked in some surprise.

  “I yet have business and duties to which I must attend. Though I believe it better for you to take up residence in your own house, you are welcome to stay on here.” He gave me an assessing look and sighed. “You shall have to take your meals out. Joan insists on having Cook with her. She claims that George Charles needs her especial concoctions.”

  I began to perceive the true source of George’s irritation. “Ah, I see. We shall all be sorry to see the back of Cook and her delicious dishes.” I felt far more distress at the loss of the Cannings, however. “I am for bed. I bid you all a fond farewell.”

  “Trev, wait,” George said as he tried to smile. “Have you learned anything new that shall exonerate William Gilbert?”

  I shook my head in dismay. “Not that is of any use. However, I am determined that I shall. I feel that I am very close to learning the truth. When I have, I shall come to you at your hotel.”

  “See that you do.” He turned away as if I had already gone, and I knew that I was dismissed.

  I made my way up the stairs, threading my way between a maid who, in her hurry, dared to use the front stairs and a footman who did the same. I knew that it would be pointless to expect the valet to attend me amongst so much chaos, so when I came upon the boot boy in the passage I instructed him to follow me to my room. After he had helped me out of my jacket, I gave him a few coins in exchange for remaining behind until I could arrange for another valet. I then told him to go to the kitchen and bring me up a plate of bread and cheese. The moment he shut the door behind him I shuffled the shoes from my feet, tossed myself onto the bed, and fell instantly asleep.

  I awoke the next morning to an eerie silence. Though I did not normally take much notice of the hum created by a household of servants as they lighted the fires, clattered up and down the back stairs, polished the railings of the front staircase, and hauled the cans of bathwater along the passage, I found that I regretted the loss of it. Neither did I hear the chatter of children, the patter of their feet as they ran along the passage outside my chamber door, or the bouncing of George Charles’ ever-present rubber ball.

  In dismay I sat up, and was instantly sorry. The air was frigid, and there were none left in the house to light the fire. The candle in its stick had not been replaced, and as I had not bothered to blow it out before I fell into slumber it was burned down to the wick. The water in the washstand had not been renewed, either. I dragged my dressing gown from the chair by my bed and wrapped myself in it before I put my feet to the floor. Happily, my slippers were where I had left them and I padded over to the hearth to see about lighting the fire.

  Once I had got the flames going, I stepped into the passage to call the boot boy, and trod upon last night’s plate of bread and cheese. I picked it up and went down three flights of stairs to the kitchen to rummage about in the pantry. I managed to find a clean plate, upon which I placed fresh slices of bread and cheese which I then carried back to my room. I ate my meager meal in front of the fire and quenched my thirst with the wash water from the day previous. It was time to find the boot boy.

  I found him in the scullery polishing my shoes. “Boy, how does one acquire fresh water in this establishment?” In my experience, water had always simply appeared.

  He left off working on my shoes, fetched a wooden pole with a can of water at each end, and slung it over his shoulders. I followed him up the back stairs as I dodged the water that splashed out of the cans at nearly every step. Once we obtained my room, I was surprised to see that the cans were not completely empty of their contents. He took up the bowl and tossed the wash water out of the window followed by what remained in the pitcher, which he refilled with water from the can. He then filled the decanter on the night table and planted himself in the middle of the room in wait of further instruction.

  “Er, uh,” I hesitated as I cast about for something to say, “be back here with my shoes in half an hour.”

  He nodded and slipped out of the room. He was certainly respectful, but I found that I longed for the sound of another human voice. I went first to the decanter, in order to banish the taste of the wash water I had drunk earlier. Then I washed, shaved, and dressed to the extent I could without the boot boy’s help. I lingered a bit over the tying of my neck cloth. I supposed that the boot boy couldn’t have done worse; perhaps better if he stood on a chair to undertake the job. As I struggled with the stiff linen, my mind continued to veer towards the scene at the mortuary. A cherished life snuffed out by someone’s utter lack of charity. ‘Twas intolerable, and I refused to allow my mind to dwell on Sally’s sad fate for a moment.

  Worse was the thought of Willy’s fate if I failed to rescue him. The red line around Sally’s throat was but a shadow of the bruised and bloodied skin that would ring Willy’s neck should he hang. With a curse, I slammed my hair brush against the wall; it was useless anyhow. It could not restore the beauty to my face. It was a small thing compared to Willy’s and Sally’s woes, but somehow it was all of a piece. Each was an injustice that scarred in a visible and permanent way.

  It was then that the boot boy appeared, and I pressed him into service as my valet. It would not surprise anyone to learn that the donning of my jacket took some time. Finally, he climbed onto the bed in order to overcome th
e disparity in our heights so that he might coax the jacket across my shoulders. We both heaved a sigh of relief when it was done. I donned the shoes he had brought with him, admirably polished, and made my way out of the room. The boot boy followed me down the front staircase and paused at the door as if in want of something.

  “Well?” I asked him. Perhaps now he would speak.

  Instead, he merely shrugged his shoulders. I drew another coin from my pocket. “You are to set up a cot here in the front hall. Thereby you may let me into the house at whatever hour I arrive home.”

  Solemnly, he took the coin and ran off in the direction, I presume, of the household cots…or his own cot, or someone else’s. I had not a clue, nor did I much care. I took myself out through the front door and headed directly for Gilbert House. I had the key from Sally’s leather cord in my pocket, and I intended to use it. I paused when I arrived at the façade of the house. Not for the first time, I marveled at how short a trip it was from Cannings, and yet it had nearly always seemed too far to visit Willy once he was no longer whole. I descended the area steps that, despite the low sky, did not have the vile appearance of those at Manwaring House, and made my way to the kitchen door on the landing at the bottom.

  As quietly as I was able, I tried the latch to see if it was locked. It was early enough still that I supposed no one had yet had occasion to lift it. But what did I know? The servants of this or any household might have reason to depart at any hour of the morning. However, I was in luck: the door was held fast. I then inserted the key to the lock and was part amazed, part smug when it fit perfectly. I turned the key as quietly as I could manage, though I could do nothing about the sounds made by the shifting of the tumblers. Once the key was fully turned I pushed at the door, and it fell away from my hand. There was no doubt; I had in my possession the key that had opened the door the night Johnny Gilbert was killed.

  I slid the key from the lock and went to the steps, my heart heavy. I felt that I ought to have been delighted at my discovery, but my success with the key only made Johnny’s murder that much more of a reality. All my grief for Sally, Willy, even myself, was partially misplaced; Johnny’s fate deserved a deeper portion of my empathy. All that was left for me to do for him was to find his actual killer. As I put my foot to the first step my legs felt like water, as if each would instantly dissolve at the slightest pressure. Somehow, as I shifted my weight back and forth, step after step, they carried me onwards and upwards.