by Joan Smith
“The girls here, of course. Polly and Anna are both well aware of it. Bagot knew, and his lordship. You and your aunt, I daresay, have heard me mention Mrs. Sutton. Perhaps Sir Nevil. Oh, and that Pankhurst woman. She knew. She’s in town, you know.”
“Yes, Sir Nevil told me. It seems Lord Dudley especially asked to see her. He didn’t give you any idea what it was about?”
“Devil a bit of it. He never mentioned her from head to toe of the week. Mind you, he was pleased to receive that little birthday gift she sent him—she always sent some token. This year it was a tin of snuff and a very pretty snuff-box that he began using the day it arrived. He loved to get a present,” she added. Her expression was harried, but whether it was sorrow at Lord Dudley’s death or her own loss of a position was difficult to gauge. He couldn’t have been an easy man to work for.
“I’m surprised Miss Pankhurst hasn’t been out to the wake. We really ought to call her Lady Dudley, I suppose,” Deirdre added, frowning.
“Aye, there’s nothing to stop her from using the title now. That’ll please her, the saucy baggage. Whatever possessed the old gentleman to take up with the likes of her? But we shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. I expect he was lonesome, the way he lived.”
“She’s at the Green Man in Banting. I believe I’ll write her a note inviting her to come and visit the—the remains,” Deirdre decided, stumbling over the unhappy word.
“You’d best speak to the duchess before you do any such a thing,” Mrs. Haskell advised with a wise nod of her head.
But Deirdre no longer felt that was necessary. She had become at least an equal partner since Dudley’s death. She went to the study and dashed off a brief note, then went in search of someone to deliver it. She found Polly laying cups and saucers in the dining room and gave it to her.
“Ask Bagot to take this note to Banting for me, please.”
Polly looked at the letter and in her bold way asked, ‘‘Who is it to?”
“To Lady Dudley, as the envelope says,” Deirdre replied, surprised.
“Oh, her!” Polly said, her voice laden with disdain.
“Yes, it is appropriate that my uncle’s widow be here,” Deirdre said coolly. It seemed she was the only person alive who felt any kindness for Adelaide. She was looking forward to seeing her again.
“You must be happy that Mrs. Haskell has returned,” Deirdre continued. “Now you can quit worrying about ghosts.’’
“Ghosts are one thing she can’t order around. Did you hear about her funny letter? Her aunt never wrote to her at all, miss. It was some kind of a trick.” Polly looked up from her work and directed a hard stare at Deirdre, who hardly knew what to make of it. Was the foolish girl suggesting some supernatural intervention?
“Yes, she spoke to me about it. It’s very odd.”
“It’s downright eerie is what it is.”
“Don’t be absurd, Polly. Take that note to Bagot now, if you please.”
Polly stuck the note in her pocket and left the room. Deirdre remained alone to finish setting out the crockery and silver. It was really a pity the servants were so ignorantly superstitions. As though death weren’t horrible enough without inventing ghosts. But what could one expect? Polly was so untutored she couldn’t even read. She hadn’t been able to read Adelaide’s name on that envelope. And she wasn’t a stupid girl by any means. She gave an impression of alertness and performed her duties well enough—when she felt like it.
It might be a kindness, and a way to fill time, to teach her to read after the funeral. She thought a little about Polly and couldn’t remember anything that indicated stupidity. Spouting the old superstitions just made her sound stupid. She had jumped a foot the night before when Deirdre had surprised her in the kitchen. She probably thought she was a ghost, though she hadn’t actually said so, had she? What had she said? Something about she knew it couldn’t be Bagot, as he had taken Mrs. Haskell to visit her aunt
No, she couldn’t have said “aunt.” She must have said “mother.” They all thought at that time that Mrs. Haskell had been called home. Neither Anna nor Polly had known where she went. Dudley presumably knew—but Dudley had already been dead, and he hadn’t told them. It niggled at the back of her mind, but soon the knocker sounded, and she went to the saloon. The duchess had sent over her butler to lend an air of respectability to the occasion.
“Where is Sir Nevil?” she asked the butler when she saw he wasn’t in the saloon.
“He just stepped out to get a full decanter of wine, Miss Gower.”
“Fine, you get the door, and I’ll let my cousin know company has arrived,” Deirdre said.
She went back toward the dining room and saw Nevil talking to Polly. She had the message to Adelaide in her hand.
“Polly, haven’t you taken that to Bagot yet?” Deirdre asked, becoming cross with the girl.
Nevil looked around and smiled at her. “Polly suggested I take the letter for her, but I was just explaining I shan’t be returning to the inn till late tonight. Send it on with Bagot, Polly. There’s a good girl.”
“Yes, sir.” Polly ducked a curtsey and left.
Nevil shook his head at her departing back. “Stupid girl,” he said. “But what can you expect? No one with any wits would be satisfied to work in such an isolated, shabby house."
“Someone has arrived at the door, Nevil. Come with me for emotional support. I dread these visits worse than a trip to the tooth-drawer,” Deirdre said.
He placed her hand on his arm, and together they went to face the company. It was only a tradesman, and he didn’t stay long. After he left, Deirdre and Nevil discussed the funeral arrangements. They spoke in low tones, always aware of the menacing coffin in the corner.
“I’ve arranged for the more prosperous tenant farmers to be pallbearers,” Nevil said. “It is often done that way in the country. It would be difficult to assemble a quorum of Lord Dudley’s peers, as most of them have preceded him to their graves. The weather is so cold that I’ve arranged for a cart to take the coffin to the church and on to the mausoleum afterward. It would be inhuman to ask men to carry it so far. I expect you and the duchess will attend the funeral, but don’t encourage her to go to the graveyard, my dear. And don’t you go either. I’ll handle everything.”
“I don’t know what we’d have done without you, Nevil. All these ghastly arrangements to be made, and Auntie has practically collapsed from worry.”
“I’ve heard the outrageous stories Straus is spreading about the countryside. Can’t Belami do something to stop them?” he asked.
Deirdre pokered up. “Lord Belami is no longer staying with us” was all she said.
“You mean it’s—The betrothal is off?” he asked, his eyes growing large in astonishment.
“Yes, we agreed we do not suit.”
Nevil grabbed her hands in a crushing grip. “I’m so happy to hear it, my dear Deirdre. You’re much too good for him. I could hardly believe her grace countenanced the match—though he is very rich, of course.”
“It wasn’t the money,” she said. All she wanted was to quit the subject. Even speaking of Dick brought on the dull ache in her chest.
“I expect it is the fear of talk, scandal, that’s put him off.”
She pulled her hands free and arose from the sofa to pace the room nervously, but always leaving a wide berth around the coffin. “We’ll speak of other things, if you please. Have you heard anything about the inquest, Nevil?”
“Straus is delaying it as long as he can. His only hope, as things stand, is a verdict of death by person or persons unknown. He’s hoping to get something concrete against our aunt, of course, and get her bound over for trial.”
She drew a deep sigh and said, “Can it possibly come to that?”
“It certainly never would have done without Belami’s interference. Why does he hang about? Why doesn’t he go on back to London or home? I expect he’s got his eye on Adelaide, if the truth were known. Now that you’ve had the
good sense to turn him off, I don’t hesitate to tell you, my dear, he is not at all the thing.”
Strangely, at this slur on her ex-fiancé's honor, she felt an overwhelming urge to defend him. She also felt extremely curious to learn more about him and Adelaide. “Has he met Adelaide?” she asked.
“Met her? He was at considerable pains to invite her into a private parlor last night for wine. And she, having no morals and little sense, agreed to it! Really, there is no accounting for Uncle Dudley’s having married the wench. As common as dirt—but, of course, a lot prettier.”
Her first fit of pique at hearing about the meeting soon subsided. “He was probably just quizzing her to see if he could learn anything. Belami takes a great interest in solving crimes, you must know."
“The whole world knows it,” Nevil said grimly. “But he shan’t discover much from Adelaide Pankhurst.”
She shook her head, and a wistful smile lifted her lips. “Don’t underestimate him, Nevil. Dick—Belami is very good at his work. I’ve watched him at it a few times. He latches on to the most trivial-seeming things and deduces and figures and gnaws at them till he has solved his case.” The smile faded, and a worried frown took its place. “I hope he doesn’t solve this one,” she said, her voice low, hardly more than a whisper.
“You’re worried about that stew he sent off for analysis? Straus mentioned it to me,” Nevil said. His voice was kindly, and in his eyes sympathy beamed.
“Yes, I confess it has me bothered considerably. She didn’t do it, Nevil. If there is poison in the stew, it is an accident. Oh, I wish there was something we could do.”
Nevil rubbed his brow and appeared to be thinking deeply. When he looked at her again, a little smile had peeped out. “Perhaps there is, my dear,” he suggested.
“What do you mean? What can be done? Straus has arranged to have Belami’s mail confiscated. He’ll read what that Mr. Marsh has found, and . . ."
“Has he, by God? He didn’t tell me that! You see what he’s up to? He wants that analysis before the inquest is held. That will pretty well set the blame on the duchess. Of course, I know it was an accident!” he added hastily.
“But what could we do? You said there might be something.”
“If we could prevent that piece of mail from reaching Straus’s hands, it would delay things at least. I wonder when it might arrive.”
“Nevil, you aren’t suggesting we should hold up a mail coach!” she gasped, much impressed with his daring.
“Why, no, I only thought to break into the post office and steal it,” he replied, then laughed. “Let me look into this interesting possibility.”
For a strange moment, she had the feeling that she was talking to Dick. It was like something he would suggest and do.
“Tell me if you decide to do it. I’ll go with you, Nevil. Did I tell you Auntie thinks it might have been suicide?”
“That’s a distinct possibility!” Nevil said, taking it up at once and embroidering it.
Deirdre found herself coming to feel more fondness for Nevil than she had ever been able to feel before. He was someone to talk to at this trying time. And their aims were not inimical either. They both wanted to save the duchess’s skin, if possible.
“Or even, you know,” she continued, “Anna might have added the arsenic in error when she served Uncle. If she’s like Polly, she can’t read and might have thought it was something else, even if it was labeled. Though arsenic doesn’t look like salt, does it? At least ours didn’t.”
“Actually, I’ve never seen it,” Nevil replied. He stopped and stared at Deirdre with suspicious interest. “Did Auntie have arsenic at Fernvale?” he asked.
“Oh, ages ago,” she said quickly, but a flush rose up her neck.
“Does Straus know?”
“I suppose he suspects. He can’t know unless Belami told him.”
“That looks bad. About Polly’s not reading, Deirdre, where did you get that notion? I never suspected she was illiterate.’’
She told him about the letter to Adelaide, and soon more callers arrived. The afternoon dragged on. Deirdre and Nevil had some cold dinner, and at six-thirty he suggested she have a rest before the evening onslaught of visitors began.
“I’ll handle things here. You look worn to the socket, poor girl.” He touched his hand to her cheek.
Her control wavered, and she felt a hot tear scald her eyes. She turned and fled before the tears spurted. Just one word of kindness, and she was ready to break down. She really must get a firmer grip on herself.
Nevil stood, watching her depart. His brows raised in a mute question, and in his close-set gray eyes a new hope beamed. Deirdre Gower would be quite an heiress when old Charney stuck her fork in the wall. Not at all bad-looking, if you cared for those quiet, mousy girls . . . Nothing like the sheen of gold to make them look attractive. He rubbed his hands together and poured himself a glass of Dudley’s best port, the kind the old fool didn’t drink himself because he was such a skint. But that was all right. It left the good stuff for him.
Chapter 9
Once Belami decided to attend the funeral, he realized the necessity of buying a black cravat and arm band. “You come with me to the shop, Pronto,” he invited as they finished their breakfast. “You must wear a black arm band at least.’’
“I will, then, but don’t expect me to go sticking no great wide ribbons on my hat, trailing down my back, for I won’t wear no weepers. Dashed if I will. Didn’t even know Lord Dudley, and wouldn’t have cared for him if I had.”
It chanced that the first person they met on the street was the parish beadle, who was performing in his role as bidder to the funeral. “Hear ye, hear ye, all brethren and sisters, I let ye to wit there is a brother departed at the pleasure of the Almighty, called Lord Dudley.” He raised his hat and turned toward Belami and Pronto, his only listeners. “All those that come to the burial come at eleven of the clock tomorrow. The corpse is at the Grange.” He bowed, waited to see if a pourboire was offered, then replaced his hat and proceeded along the street, ringing his bell and wearing an unfunereal smile.
“That was timely,” Belami said, and looked up and down the street for a draper’s shop. Banting was a small village, but there was such a store not half a block along. They approached the clerk and explained their mission.
“You’re fortunate, sir. You’ll be taking my last set of gents mourning gear. I’d have ordered up more if I’d known old Lord Dudley was so far gone. I only had five in stock, and three of them I sold—one to the doctor, one to Mr. Straus, and one to Skidley, the local lawyer. Relatives of Lord Dudley, are you?” he asked with the friendly curiosity of the villager.
“Just friends,” Belami answered, fingering the black silk.
“Ain’t even an acquaintance myself,” Pronto added. “How much for the set?”
“This one’s on me, Pronto,” Belami told him, and paid the clerk.
They added these funereal embellishments to their toilettes while they were in the shop, then went out on the strut.
“Should have left my set for Ryder,” Pronto mentioned. “Mean to say, he’s a close relative.”
Belami’s head jerked to his friend, his face wearing its deducing expression. “That’s odd, now that you mention it. I should have thought Ryder would be the first one there, snapping up his crepe."
“Odd—that’s French for a clue,” Pronto said. “I’ve noticed that anything odd or out of the usual way falls under heavy suspicion. Daresay the duchess is outfitting Ryder,” he added, placing his own interpretation on this particular clue.
“Very likely she is,” Belami said, accepting it. “She hoards everything. She had her late husband’s hatchment sent over for the door. Of course, the arms will be wrong, but at least the field will be correct as Dudley leaves a widow behind like the late duke.”
“She’ll be wearing some old black cloak that’s been embalmed in lavender for decades herself, I fancy. And Deirdre, too,” Pronto said
.
The word “Deirdre” sent Belami off into a trance. “Dash it, Dick, if I’d known you was going to be such poor company, I’d have stayed home,” Pronto scolded. “You ought to be getting a hold on this case, my lad, and never mind mooning over Deirdre Gower. If you’re dead set on getting her back again, the best way to do it is to cover the old lady’s traces. What have they got against her? There’s no hiding the motive or the opportunity. She was there right enough, and she’d kill him for spite if not for his money. What you’ve got to do is get tampering with the other evidence—that arsenic in the stew.”
“Not much I can do about that, Pronto. Straus has got permission to seize my mail.”
“He won’t seize it before it reaches the post office, will he?” Pronto demanded in a purely rhetorical spirit.
A black eye was leveled at Mr. Pilgrim. “What a shocking notion, Pronto!” Belami exclaimed, and laughed aloud. “Now let me see. When would the post arrive from Woolwich? I sent it yesterday—a day there, a day for the analysis, and a day back. Marsh would be performing his analysis now. He might even get it into the mail tonight. Tomorrow at the earliest, then, probably the next day. I want to attend the funeral . . . I'll speak to Réal,” he decided. “He’ll have to find some reason to skulk about the route of the mail coach and try, if he can, to rifle the bags before they get here.”
“Have you been making your inquiries of all the people involved?” Pronto prompted.
“I haven’t had a go at Ryder since yesterday morning. He’d be at the Grange, which puts him out of my reach. I had a little conversation with the servants, but really this row with Deirdre is a demmed spoke in my wheel. I wonder if the duchess put her up to it.”
“Wouldn’t doubt it for a second.”
“I’ve half a mind to go to that wake myself,” Belami said, but he felt that a cooling period would be beneficial in his quest for Deirdre. His eyes turned to his old cohort, who stopped dead in his tracks.