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

by Ashworth, Heidi

  I was soon tucking into a meat pasty and downing it with copious amounts of ale.

  “I am that pleased,” Mrs. Carrick said, “you have come back.”

  “Oh? Why is that?” I asked around a mouthful of crust soaked with mouth-watering gravy.

  “I’m thinkin’ I know who ‘ twas that killed Sally.”

  I replaced my tankard on the table with a thud. “Do you? Can you tell me?”

  “’Twas because she was breedin’.”

  “Throckmorton?” Lady Clara insisted the child was her husband’s, but I hoped against hope that she was wrong.

  She shook her head. “He was bent on marryin’ and she the same. But how could he have gotten her with child? He treated her proper-like.”

  This statement was evidence of nothing, as Throckmorton assumed the child to be his. “Could it not have been Huther?” I put another forkful of food in my mouth, but I did not take my eyes from her face. Her expression was grim. “Then who is it you believe to have been the father of Sally’s baby?” I pressed.

  “Who else?” she asked, her eyebrows raised up past her brindled hair.

  “Manwaring, then.”

  She nodded.

  “Are you certain?”

  She closed her eyes and nodded again.

  Lady Clara had said as much. However, I valued Mrs. Carrick’s opinion on the matter, as I could hardly ask Manwaring his. “But why kill her? Why not simply have her dismissed without a character as do other debauchers?”

  Mrs. Carrick shrugged. “He is not right in the head, that one. I bin thinkin’ I needs to find me a new position afore he comes after me.”

  I stared at her, horrified, and for more than one reason. And then, quite suddenly, I understood. It wasn’t her virtue for which she feared; it was her life.

  I reached into my waistcoat pocket for a card and was amazed when my fingers encountered several. I pulled one out, surveyed it to ensure it bore my name, and made a mental note to praise the boot boy for his scrupulous work. “Here,” I said, handing it over. “If you are in trouble, give this to anyone on the square. They shall know where to find me.”

  “I thank ye, m’lord.” She smiled. “If ye like, I can help ye get into the house to nose about. Y’know, to learn whatever it is he does in that basement of his.”

  I declined; I had no wish to endanger her. Rather, I thanked her for her hospitality and, with nothing left to do, returned to Canning House. I went immediately to my room to look for the missive from Throckmorton. I tore the room apart before I finally remembered the thoroughness of the boot boy. I pulled open the drawer in the night table and there it was, carefully spread as flat as he could manage.

  I took it to the chair by the fire and read it, over and over. Still, I could not decipher what it was Throckmorton wished me to know but was too afraid to say aloud. This was the biggest mystery of all: why did he not simply tell me? Was he worried about being overheard? But if he were to kill himself, what would that matter? What would be so much worse than shooting oneself in the head? Was it myself about whom he was so concerned? Was he making me a target if he revealed aloud what he knew?

  The questions multiplied as I studied the missive, line by line. The first was clear: Meet me at Canning House.

  The second seemed a sensible follow-up: Abide with me awhile. (‘Twas not I who took his leave so abruptly.)

  Number three said: No one shall forgive me. Now that I knew the identity of the author, I saw the truth in this assertion.

  Four: Why did he have to die? Did he refer to Johnny? Or himself?

  Five: An answer shall be given. Unfortunately, not the one I yet lacked.

  Six: Regret is all I know. I thought perhaps I should turn the paper over to Lady Vawdrey once I no longer had need of it. (I immediately thought better of it.)

  Seven: Inside is where we shall meet. This one had proven true, but I still could not say why he wished to meet inside. He did seem compelled to look across the street from the attic room where he died. Did he wish to see what was happening at Hampton House? In the street? Did he watch for someone? He clearly feared someone, of that I was certain.

  Eight: Never deny me. I wished that I had had the capacity to do so.

  Nine: Go now or someone shall die. I thought this statement patently unfair. I rushed to Canning House to prevent a death, but Throckmorton never intended to leave the place alive. The notion brought a wave of despair. At times, I thought myself a coward for not wresting the gun from his hand. And yet, it seemed uncharitable to save him for the noose. The only thing I could do for him now was to discover the hidden message.

  Obsessed, I read it over again. And again. There was no rhyme. There was no reason. Just nine sentences, each written one after the other. Every word was written in an even hand, every letter the same size, save the capital letters at the beginning of each sentence; they were just as they ought to be. And yet, it triggered a notion. I circled the first letter of each sentence, the result of which was a name: Manwaring.

  Exceedingly early the next morning I stood outside of Manwaring House, with a dark lantern and as many of my wits as I could muster. At one point I had decided it best to forget the secret message, but the words of my friend Señyor Rey echoed in my mind and would not be denied. I glanced down the square at Hampton House; it was lighted. No doubt Rey and Miss Woodmansey, in the company of Lady Vawdrey, were on their way home from a ball.

  As I turned my attention to the area steps that led down to the kitchen, a sudden gust of wind nearly blew me off my feet. With a hand to my hat and the other holding my lantern, I began to go down the stairs. Once I had descended below the level of the pavement, I slid back the shutter of the lantern to expose the light; I had no wish to go any further in the dark. Slowly and carefully I went until I arrived at the bottom where stood the kitchen entrance. Somehow Mrs. Carrick knew I would return; she opened the door for me almost before my knuckles scraped the wood.

  She held a candlestick in her hand and indicated that I should shutter my lantern. I did as she asked; any woman who graced me with such delicious meat pasty deserved my ultimate trust. Slowly, we traversed the passageway that led away from the kitchen. We were headed in the opposite direction of the square, towards the mews at the back of the house. However, once the door to the mews was opened, there was a choice: go out into the area where the horses whinnied at the howling of the wind, or descend a staircase that wound down into infinite darkness. The smell that wafted up from below was stronger than that of the mews, and far more disagreeable.

  Somewhat reluctantly, I followed her down the steep, narrow staircase, one hand on the rough, wooden banister and the other holding my shuttered lantern where it would not crash into the walls. By the time we reached the bottom of the stairs, my arm ached. Then she turned, putting herself between the flame of the candle and what lay beyond the landing.

  “Wait until I ha’ gone up and shut the door afore ye open the shutter.”

  “Yes, of course.” I had no wish to expose Mrs. Carrick to danger. I watched her form as it went higher and higher, slowly swallowed up in the darkness, until only the flame of her candle could be seen. I heard the door open and felt the blast of air that rushed down the stairs upon its closure. Turning towards the unseen room, I lifted my hand to reveal the light of my lantern when a light suddenly flared in my eyes.

  With a yelp, I jumped back and fell hard against the stairs, my lantern flying from my grasp. The echo as it crashed, end over end, was eventually swallowed up in the darkness. Despite the commotion, I never took my eyes from the light: it was contained in a lantern very much like mine and was held aloft by Robert Manwaring.

  “I must remember to thank Mrs. Carrick when next I see her. I have been yearning to make improvements on that unsightly scar!”

  Slowly, I stood and studied the man before me. He looked just as he always did: perfectly handsome and perfectly sane. “You persuaded Mrs. Carrick to trap me here?” I asked in disbelief, �
��for the purpose of performing a surgery?”

  “Whoever stitched you up did a very poor job of it,” he replied.

  “Regardless, there is nothing more to be done; it has healed.” I eyed him warily in the case he was under the influence of a powerful narcotic.

  He smiled urbanely and shook his head. “That is not so. There are people, some true surgeons and some merely enthusiasts such as myself, who are attempting to discover how to operate on the human body in order to make improvements. I believe we discussed this at the Truesdales’ ball. As for myself, I am purely interested in the outer shell; how to do away with the grotesque and replace it with perfection.”

  “How kind of you to consider me a worthy subject,” I blustered as I attempted to see what lay beyond the lantern’s glow. “However, I find that I prefer not to take the risk and remain as I am.”

  “You think it a gamble?” Manwaring said with a bark of laughter. “I assure you, I am quite proficient.”

  “I rather doubt it,” I said, recalling the slices to Sally’s lips. The memory suffused my entire frame with sudden rage. “What of your housemaid? She wasn’t improved upon; she was mutilated!”

  “You wound me, Trevelin! I was not yet finished. Sadly, I was over-eager to put an end to her screaming. I never meant to put an end to her life.”

  “Do you mean to say you cut into her without giving her something to deaden the pain?” I thought I had known horror. I was wrong.

  “She was offered brandy,” he said with a stretch of his hand, “but she was very frightened, poor thing. She would not listen when I told her all would be well. Nor did a beating compel her to cooperate. Once I had begun the procedure, she still thrashed about so much that my knife slipped a few times and, well,” he hesitated, “I cut the corners of her mouth. It was very unfortunate, though I have no doubt that I could have made the repair stitches virtually invisible.”

  “But why?” My hands curled into balls seemingly of their own accord. “What was your purpose?”

  “To complete the operation, of course!” He seemed astonished. “She had too-thin lips; it was disgusting to me. I could hardly look at her!” He tsked. “Once I had managed to slit open each lip, I planned to insert pads of gauze contained in sausage casing and stitch them up again. Mark my words, once it all healed she would have been beautiful!”

  I stared at him as I rejected every rebuke that came to mind for the sin of being wholly deficient.

  He quickly tired of my silence. “As I’ve said, she died.” He shrugged in a manner that demonstrated his perceived lack of culpability in the matter. “I left her out in the cold to preserve the body. As you know, someone stumbled upon her before I could claim her.”

  “You are despicable!” I cried over the thundering of my heart, and yet, I was still in such disbelief that I did not entirely perceive that I was in danger.

  “You should not say such things, my lord. I had hoped that we might enjoy a civil, even collaborative, relationship. If you insist on being uncooperative, I shall be forced to take steps.” He extended his arm to the side and the light of the lantern fell on a row of bone-chilling metal rods that spanned the room from wall to wall. They were fitted into the floor and ceiling much as did the bars in the window of Willy’s gaol. The area had been divided up into eight small cells, some of which contained a terrified human individual.

  “This here is Butterworth.” Manwaring walked to the bars and held the lantern up to a man I recognized as the doorkeeper at the workhouse. He sat on a wooden chair in his cell, seething with rage. I marveled at his restraint and wondered at the reason for it.

  “Well!” Manwaring said in so sanctimonious a manner that I nearly retched. “As you can see, his nose is simply repulsive. I believe I can correct it once I have determined how to control the bleeding. I must be well-practiced at it before I perform the surgery on my wife. She is a lovely woman, as I am certain you agree, but her nose is too blunt.”

  I turned away and heaved my most recent meal onto the floor. Throckmorton’s terror had become my own. “You monster!” I said as I spit the contents of my stomach from my mouth which I wiped with the sleeve of my coat. “Your wife is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen, yet you shall not be best pleased until you destroy her; just as you have destroyed Sally!”

  “It was unfortunate, but it could not be helped,” he said with a wan smile. “I am delighted that the bits of ivory I had carved for Clara were an excellent match for her teeth. Indeed, she shall thank me when I have completed all the work I have in store for her. However, she must wait until I am no longer angry with her. I was very displeased in regard to the stolen necklace and the Gilbert boy. I insisted that she put an end to that.”

  My stomach roiled again, but I could be glad of one thing: I had not added to Lady Clara’s undeserved misery by turning her over to the constable. My thoughts went elsewhere when Manwaring shone the lantern on the next captive. It was a girl, not more than eighteen years of age. She was possessed of lovely hair and teeth but her face was covered in moles. Like Butterworth, she was too terrified to make a sound. Instead, she appealed to me for help with her eyes.

  “This is Janie, one of Butterworth’s friends from the workhouse. She is my next subject. I have needed to time her surgery carefully, as it shall require a great deal of fresh skin to repair the holes left behind by the moles. There are far too many of them to do otherwise,” he said with another tsk.

  The girl whimpered, and quick as lightning, Manwaring had his hand through the bars and had gripped her chin between his fingers. “Not a sound! Save your screaming for when the lady of the house has company. They are so very boisterous,” he said, turning to me, “those guests of hers, are they not?”

  The butler’s mad revelations now made perfect sense, but I dared not put him in danger by mentioning them to his master.

  He moved to the next cell. “This had been Sally’s room. Such a pity! She had such lovely eyes. She would have been quite beautiful once I had finished with her.”

  “And what of Kat, Betty, and Lizzie, also from the workhouse? Are they here, as well?” I demanded. My tones were at odds with the manner in which my limbs weakened with terror.

  “Mrs. Carrick has been a wonderful provider of subjects on which to experiment, hasn’t she?” he said with a smile that would have been perfectly at home at Almack’s.

  Instantly, I despised her for what she had done until I realized she was most likely too frightened to do otherwise. “Did you get the others with child, as well?”

  He looked taken aback. “Of course not! Sally was the only one pretty enough for me to approach. The others were disappointed not to receive my attentions, but it might have proved different had they survived their surgeries.”

  I was aghast. “They died? All of them?” I prayed that I had heard amiss.

  “Yes, all of them,” he said, with what seemed genuine regret. “Bleeding problems. You have no idea how much a person bleeds once you pierce them with a sharp instrument.”

  I rather thought I did.

  The sight of my blood as it flowed from the corner of my mouth filled me with dread. I took no thought for how giddy I had become, nor was I cognizant of the fact that I was losing consciousness. The stage of my mind was obscured by ribbons of red against a white curtain. They shimmered and flowed in undulating fashion as the white grew brighter and brighter until, finally, I passed out and knew no more.

  I dragged the cool air into my lungs to combat the light-headedness. How was I to know the worst was yet to come? My tormentor passed over a cell, one that contained the shadowy form of a man, and held the lantern to shine upon the next. Inside was a child, her hair long and golden, her limbs bound, and her mouth gagged. She sat on a stool in the center of the cell, her eyes downcast.

  “This one has not yet learned to be still,” he said. “Hence the binding. But she shall be here for quite some time, and I am confident that she shall learn.”

  D
espite her limited ability to move, I could see that she was terrified. Something was not quite right, however. She wore a gown too ornate to have been made for a child. Slowly she lifted her head, her eyes wide with fear. It was then that I realized it was Miss Woodmansey.

  “No!” I cried as I grabbed a bar in each hand and shook them frenziedly. “You must let her go! You must let all of them go!”

  “Ah ha!” he said in triumph. “I thought you might take exception to my latest guest.”

  “But why? Why Miss Woodmansey?” I cried in desperation. “There is nothing to complain of, nothing that requires repair!” I looked at her; filled my vision with only her. “She is lovely! How can you not see it?” I cried as I turned to him.

  He looked back, his brow raised and his smile snide; unrelenting.

  “Let her go,” I demanded, “and I shall tell no one what I have seen here this night!”

  “Oh, my dear Trevelin! Clearly you are as addled as you are maimed. Naturally, I cannot allow you leave. I intend to keep you here indefinitely! I am glad, however, to have learned that you do not have designs on my wife, for it is clear that you are head over heels in love with Miss Woodmansey.” He laughed. “If you were not, you would see for yourself that she is nothing to look at. She is a plain squab of a girl, too wide and too short.”

  I turned again to Miss Woodmansey and watched as the tears filled her eyes. “I fail to see how a knife could alter either,” I said, genuinely perplexed. “And yet, why should you? Her size has nothing to say to it; she is charming just as she is.”

  “Our opinions on the matter do not agree. My hope is to successfully lengthen her legs with bone and muscle from a cadaver.”

  I could not take my eyes from Miss Woodmansey as she reacted to the words of her captor. Her fear was like a knife in my heart. “Manwaring,” I shouted, “you are insane!”

  “Not insane, Trevelin: brilliant! Every such idea was thought insane at one time or another. No, I am simply a man born before his time,” he said, his voice gaining in volume and excitement, “rather like Da Vinci or Franklin of the American colonies!”