Summerton (Lady Eleanor Mysteries Book 1)

by Becca St. John

  “Where?” Eleanor demanded, hurrying over to Caroline. “Ah! I see.” She turned to one of the guards. “Bring that torch over here, will you?”

  And then Caroline saw the obvious. Someone—or someones—had trampled a route from further down the wall to the pea-graveled path.

  “They went back and forth this way,” Eleanor explained. “The gate must have been locked.”

  “We keep it locked,” Summerton confirmed, “though Lord knows why.”

  “Animals,” Sir Michael ventured. “Keeps them out.”

  “Did you walk this way?” Eleanor asked the newspaper women.

  “No, ma’am.” Liz pointed beyond the orb of light, in the opposite direction. “We came from there.”

  Eleanor led the way. The path ended in front of a large stone edifice, covered in carvings and statuary of cherubim and angels. It seemed to sprout from a mound of earth. The aboveground part was tall and ornate. A path led straight to the door.

  “Scary, isn’t it?” Liz whispered from beside Caroline. “Can you imagine, someone lived in there?”

  “What?” Eleanor turned. “Did you say someone lived in there?”

  Liz bounced up on her toes, as she looked from Bevieann to Eleanor, a sure sign she was nervous. Bevieann didn’t say a word, just watched her cousin with a resigned sigh. Liz must have taken that as a nod of acceptance, for she elaborated.

  “Seemed so. There were clothes and a palette, though the blankets were thin. Candles burnt to nubs, and a tinder box. Must have been really cold in there because it’s a chilly place and…”

  “This is our family crypt.” Summerton confirmed.

  “Yes,” Eleanor agreed. “Where the body was found.” She turned back to Liz. “Any sign the person had been there recently?”

  Bevieann chimed in this time. “He had a plate and a beer jar. I thought the girl might have brought it from the inn.”

  “So you knew the girl?” Summerton asked.

  “Well, yes,” Liz answered. “We stayed at the inn. And she worked there and the plate looked like it was from there and…”

  “Yes,” Eleanor quieted her, already moving on. “Is this normally locked, Summerton?”

  “It was unlocked for Father’s internment. I couldn’t tell you if it was locked afterward. Too many other issues to worry about disturbing the resting place of those past disturbing.”

  “I dare say.” An eerie creak shuddered through the night as Eleanor opened the door. “Sir Michael, will you take one of the lanterns and join me? The rest of you wait where you are. We do not want to disturb the evidence.”

  The two stepped through the ornate doorway and down into the dark of the crypt. Eleanor broke their stillness, returning to the entrance moments later.

  “Summerton, bring a torch, will you?” She asked. “There’s a bracket to hold it. The lantern isn’t strong enough.”

  The duke touched Caroline’s shoulder as he passed her, leaning close to whisper in her ear. “You’ll be fine. Just stay close to the guards. We won’t be long.”

  She watched as he gathered the torch and stepped down into his family’s vault, leaving her behind, feeling rather useless. She was not used to being useless.

  “May I have that lantern?” she asked one of the guards. They still had two torches, so they wouldn’t be without light.

  “Where are you going?” Bevieann asked.

  “I want to follow the path Lady Eleanor noticed, to see if I can find anything.”

  Liz frowned. “Do you want us to go with you?”

  “No, I’ll be fine.”

  One of the guards joined her. “No,” she told him, “really, I’ll be fine. We don’t want to disturb anything more than we have to.” She would stay within the stone walls. Everyone would hear her if she called.

  Eleanor learned from the bent grass and broken flower stems. Caroline decided she would try to do the same thing, look further afield, for anything out of the ordinary, or for something dropped. If only the fog weren’t so thick. Worse, dark had settled in. Between the two, the lantern did little to illuminate the area around her.

  She reached the end of the building. Two wings spread out from the entrance, she noticed. A massive tomb, for a long line of dukes. She shook her head at the folly of imagining she could fit into such a lineage, as she rounded the corner to the far side of the tomb.

  A hand reached around, covered her mouth, and pulled her hard against a body much larger than hers. She fought, as he pulled her further from the building, deeper into the dark.

  ***

  Summerton settled the torch into the cast iron bracket. He hadn’t been here since his father’s burial and hadn’t liked it then and that had been a bright and sunny day. This evening was anything but. He didn’t care to leave Caroline out there.

  “Do you see anything, Aunt?”

  “Nothing here, your grace,” Sir Michael grumbled. “A lot of fuss for nothing.”

  Eleanor looked up at him. “Really, Sir Michael,” she snapped. “That there is nothing here anymore speaks volumes.”

  “Does it? How so?” Sir Michael asked.

  Eleanor stood in the center of the main aisle, having looked into, but not entered, the four large wings. The center area was the oldest section of the tomb, built by the first St. Martin back when they were mere barons. Since then, four chambers, each with multiple burial nooks, had been added, off the sides of the central chamber.

  She pointed to the first crypt, to their left.

  “Is that where your father is?” she asked Summerton, waiting while he checked that all the gates were unlocked. “With your mother?”

  “Yes.” He opened the iron doorway leading into the chamber. “And my brothers.”

  “Come, Sir Michael,” Eleanor demanded, “bring that lantern, I’ll pay my respects.”

  “Now?” Both men asked.

  “Yes, now. I don’t know when I will be back and I want to settle myself that he is with her.”

  “Where else would I have put him?” Summerton asked in disbelief, as she stepped past him. She stopped, patted his cheek.

  “Of course you would have put him there, but you wouldn’t know the importance.”

  “She was his wife.”

  “Oh, but she was more than just a wife. She was the love of his life. They were inseparable from the time they were children.” She stood before the tombs of her sister and brother-in-law. “We all worried that he would die after losing her. Oh, he mourned so.” She sniffed.

  “As he’d been with the loss of my brothers.” Summerton leaned against the gate, touched by Eleanor’s sorrow, the hitch in her breath.

  “That’s why he preferred to be alone here, Summerton,” she told him, not looking away from the tombs. “I dare say it broke his heart all over again, every time he came back here.”

  “It was a long time ago,” he reminded her.

  “Yes.” She nodded. “A long time to mourn.”

  “Lady Eleanor?” Bevieann peeked into the crypt. “Did you find my notebook?”

  “Or my sketches?” Liz asked from behind her. “They should be here, that’s where they found us,” Liz continued with barely a breath. “We lit the candles so I could draw and Bevieann could write and…”

  “No,” Eleanor scooted Summerton out of the wing chamber. “No, there wasn’t anything here. Perhaps you could show me how the body was found.”

  Liz marched up to the tomb of the first baron of St. Martins, a small rectangular box with the effigy of a knight carved on top. “She was there.” Liz pointed.

  “How?” Eleanor frowned, looking at the intricate design of the tomb, which was carved like a realistic armored figure. “How could she have been on there without falling off?”

  “Like this,” Liz splayed herself face down on the tomb, laying lengthwise.

  “That would explain quite a bit.” Eleanor tilted her head, studying the position.

  Bevieann tugged at her cousin, who was looking between th
e sarcophagus and the wall. “Get off, Liz. You’re laying on top of a dead body.”

  “Oh, I…oh, I!” Liz scrambled down. “There’s a cloth…”

  “Just a moment,” Summerton said to Liz. “I want to know what that explains. Aunt?”

  “Well—” Eleanor hesitated, “—if you really want to know, fluid, in a body, gathers at the lowest point, causing patterns of discoloration. Lucy’s coloring was most unusual…but Liz, what did you find? A piece of cloth, you say?”

  Summerton looked over for Caroline’s reaction to the morbid conversation, expecting her to have come in with Bevieann and Liz. She wasn’t there. He glanced in the chamber they’d just left, and then another. “Where’s Caroline?” he shouted, as he went to look into the other two vaults. The stunned reactions were answer enough.

  They all rushed to the main door, as Caroline filled it.

  “Here,” she answered. “I’m here.”

  She was disheveled, her voice shallow, breathy.

  “What happened?” He would kill anyone who threatened her. “You’ve been hurt.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I tripped and dropped the lantern, but I’m fine.” She pulled away from him.

  “What have you got?” Eleanor reached for two books.

  Caroline looked down, as if she’d forgotten she was carrying anything. “I found them, and thought you might…”

  “My sketches!” Liz cried.

  “My notebook!” Bevieann snatched the books from Caroline in one swipe.

  “Where’d you get those?” Summerton asked, knowing she hadn’t found them just laying about. She’d been thrown to the ground, or dragged, or…

  He headed out of the crypt, set on finding whoever had hurt her.

  “Stop! Jeremy! Please stop!” she shouted.

  He did stop, stunned.

  “Did you just call the Duke of Summerton ‘Jeremy’?” Aunt Eleanor asked.

  He turned, slowly, watching the lie skitter over her face, as she shook her head. “No, of course not, I…”

  “But you did, which means Jeremy gave you those books, just now.”

  Her mouth opened, but whatever she had meant to say was interrupted by Liz’s wail. “He’s taken the picture of the beau out!” The girl looked up. “He’s taken out the picture of him and the girl who was killed.”

  “He didn’t kill her,” Caroline denied.

  “Then why would he remove the picture, my dear?” Eleanor asked.

  “He didn’t,” she tried to explain. “He’d found those, tossed aside. He saved them to give to me. He didn’t kill anyone... He’s heartbroken and frightened for himself, for me—” she looked at Summerton, “—for you. You must believe me, he didn’t kill anyone, couldn’t kill anyone.”

  Summerton knew too many men who had fooled too many women to trust ‘her’ Jeremy. “Your father’s man, Mr. Little, thinks that’s precisely what he did.”

  “Mr. Little is no great resource for such information,” Caroline denied. “Just ask him about his son’s treatment of poor, defenseless animals.” She turned on her heel and headed out of the crypt.

  “Your Mr. Little and dinner will be waiting,” Eleanor offered. “Perhaps we should head back. We have the information we need.”

  Summerton held back as the others filed out, Eleanor remaining with him. “He hurt her,” Summerton gritted out.

  “There did not seem to be any bruises, but I’ll see what her maid says before I take a stance.”

  “She called me Jeremy,” he reminded her.

  Eleanor patted his arm. “Yes, I daresay she did. I wouldn’t put too much stock in that. She was worried about you, and she’s been worried about him. The two worries just slid together.”

  “Do you really believe it could be that simple?” he asked, as he led her out of the crypt as smoothly as he would have led her in to dinner.

  “I do.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  Caroline waited by the gate with the footmen. As soon as they were all above ground, she led the way back to St. Martins. They were a quiet group.

  ***

  Caroline stepped into the great hall, buoyed on a wave of fury. He thought her foolish for believing in Jeremy when he knew nothing about the man, except what Mr. Little had told him.

  Mr. Little, who raised a beast of a son, then blamed the boy’s bullying on his victims. Or so it seemed. The man continually disdained her and she’d been everything polite to him. Really! A small-minded little man. He should be begging her forgiveness after the tricks his son, Roger, had played. If she’d had her druthers, her father would have released him years ago. She never understood the loyalty.

  She untied the ribbons of her bonnet as the others came in behind her.

  “Beg pardon, your grace, but Mr. Little has come down for dinner,” Hitches said. “He’s in the rose room.”

  Caroline shuddered, earning a scowl from Summerton as he told Hitches, “Tell him we’ve been delayed.”

  Caroline gave the duke her brightest smile. “Why don’t I do that, your grace?” she offered. “It’s past time I greeted our guest.”

  Before he could object, she crossed to the receiving room, to find Mr. Little peering through a crack in the curtains. “Mr. Little!” she trilled, thrilled when he jumped, spinning around at the same time.

  “Mr. Little,” she said, as stepped into the room. “You must forgive us. We’ve been down at the crypt, where the body was found last night. No doubt you’ve heard of the excitement here?”

  Mr. Little scowled, as he crossed the room to her. “Caroline, behave yourself. You are just going for effect.”

  She stopped in her tracks, stunned by his accuracy and a bit ashamed.

  “You are a duchess now,” he admonished, “not some hoyden.” He shook his head. “I didn’t go along with this wedding. Doubt either the duke or you knows what you’re in for.”

  “I never realized you had such a low opinion of me,” Caroline whispered.

  “No.” Little shook his head. “I’ve always admired you, in your place. But you are not in your place anymore. Everything you do reflects on your husband, and even more so, on the people who work for him. They take great pride in their positions. You will do well to remember that. Do not bring your side down, Caroline. Any class can be respected.” Looking over her shoulder, he cut his lecture short.

  She followed his gaze to see the duke, elegant as ever, his overcoat exactly where it should be, in some closet under Hitches’ direction, while she stood, muddy shoes on the Aubusson carpet, her hair, no doubt, trailing down around her shoulders.

  Hoyden indeed.

  In your place.

  She was a proud daughter of the working class. This place, these people, Summerton, St. Martins, a long line of dukes with distinguished tombs to prove it. These were not her places, her people. Her grave would be lost in time. Forgotten.

  “Your grace.” Little bowed to Summerton.

  “No doubt her grace informed you that dinner will be delayed,” Summerton told him. “I trust Hitches has offered you refreshments.”

  “Yes,” Little said. “I’m fine, perfectly fine.”

  Except she wouldn’t be acting as ‘her grace’ once she left. Caroline fought for steady ground. Right now, she was Summerton’s duchess. She would not let him down. She would do him proud.

  To prove she was an intelligent young lady, capable of conversing on affairs at hand, she asked, “And the mills, Mr. Little? Have you brought word on the mills?” It was their common ground, something they both understood and appreciated.

  Little’s gaze shifted from her to Summerton and back again. Obviously, she’d crossed another taboo line.

  “My dear, surely you needn’t worry about such things. Business—” he raised his eyebrows at Summerton, “—leads to over-excitement in a female. Not good.” He shook his head. “Best to be avoided.”

  Summerton failed to defend her, but in all fairness, he appeared to be as angry as s
he felt, perhaps more so. She recognized the signs, the hard set of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils, his fingers restlessly rubbing the edge of his shirt sleeve.

  Only a few short days had revealed so much about him, the differences between the two of them. Summerton could control his anger, keep a lid on it, as she went flying off, like that chafing dish lid the other morning.

  She’d never liked Mr. Little, but she’d grant him his due. He had her pegged.

  The duke took her arm. “If you will excuse us, we will change for dinner.” He dropped his hold the minute they left the room, though he remained beside her as they walked up the stairs.

  “Eleanor saw to the two newswomen. They’ll sleep in the nursery.”

  Caroline should have seen to that. A duchess would have.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t think.”

  “You were distracted,” he offered, generous to a fault.

  “They’ll need a guard,” she realized. “They can identify people.”

  “They can identify Jeremy,” he reminded her.

  “Yes.” She wouldn’t argue her cause again. Not now.

  They reached the first landing and rounded the corner of the staircase.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  She missed a step; he helped her.

  “No.” She shook her head.

  “You looked…disheveled, like you might have been…injured.”

  He frowned, intent on his own thoughts. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t really look at anything until they reached the floor of their respective chambers. From there, he studied the hallway, as though facing a long and difficult journey.

  He even took a fortifying breath, before heading down the hall.

  Not able to bear this silence with him, she said. “He didn’t hurt me. He covered my mouth in case I screamed.” She took his arm, hoping movement would help her find a way to describe what happened without putting Jeremy in a bad light. “I didn’t know it was him, so I fought. That was all. It was my fault.” It had made so much sense at the time, but now the explanation didn’t even convince her.