by Lisa Boero
Norwich jumped back. “My God, what?”
But Althea wasn’t listening. She crouched down, moving slowly from the spot where the hand lay, digging as best she could, removing dirt and leaves carefully with her gloved hands. First a handless arm emerged, clothed in stiff black fabric. She continued on, burrowing into the sandy soil, and then suddenly she stood up. “Look, Norwich.”
A distorted and discolored object that had once been a face, but was now darkened beyond recognition, stared back at Norwich. He clapped a hand over his mouth, his forehead wet and his skin ashen.
Althea looked back at him. “May I infer that your work with Bow Street has never involved the discovery of a corpse?”
He shook his head mutely.
“It appears I have the advantage of you. Come help me, please. Although animals have done some of the work in digging it up—note the way the hand has been pulled off and gnawed upon—I don’t have enough yet to be able to—oh dear.”
“What?” he croaked.
Althea pointed to the dark clothing. “It’s a maid’s uniform.” She crouched down again, pulling away at the collar at the throat of the corpse until the darkened skin of the neck could be seen. “It appears she was strangled. Look, there is still a piece of ribbon clinging to the flesh. And see how the neck has been torn and compressed here? Fortunately, the dry soil has prevented more advanced putrefaction.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” He produced a handkerchief and mopped his brow.
She pulled at the fabric once more, and insects of every description, startled midfeast, ran over her gloved hands. She stood, cradling a spiny worm in her palm.
“Our very own beetle!” She held it out to Norwich in her excitement.
Norwich looked down at her hand for a second and then away. “We must alert Bow Street,” he said quietly. “Come, Lady Trent, you have done enough.” He held out his hand imperiously and turned away. She slipped the larva into her reticule and reluctantly allowed him to guide her back to the carriage.
“Hutchins,” Norwich called to the tiger slowly walking up and down with the horses, “there has been a terrible accident, and we are off to get help. Please stay by that clump of trees over on the far side of the walking path and make sure no one enters the area. We shall be back directly.”
Hutchins nodded, seemingly unperturbed by his master’s ashen look and his companion’s disreputable appearance. “Of course, Your Grace.”
When they arrived at Bow Street, Norwich insisted on entering. He handed her the reins, saying, “Have no fear, they should be quiet enough for a minute or two. There now, maintain a firm grip. I shall be out directly.”
Althea sat in the carriage, holding the reins as firmly as she could, contemplating her stained dress and ruined gloves and turning the discovery of the body over in her mind. She had not been willing to say it aloud, but there stood a good possibility that the body in the park and the missing Mary were one and the same. And that could mean only one thing—there was a murderer living in Levanwood House.
Norwich returned to the carriage in less than two minutes and took the reins from her.
“So?” Althea said.
“Read shall see to it and bring Hutchins around.”
“And us?”
Norwich looked down at her and then smiled reluctantly. “I had not thought about it. Your reputation may not survive a return in my company looking like that.”
“I knew I should not have thrown off the black dresses,” she said. “They are so forgiving with stains.”
Norwich chuckled, the tension leaving his face. “I had never contemplated the benefits of widowhood in just such a light.”
“It is one of the few benefits, so one must take full advantage. Do you think this murder is connected to the Richmond Thief?”
“Unlikely,” Norwich replied. Althea debated whether to mention her suspicions regarding Levanwood House, but she thought better of it. What could Norwich do, after all? And if the Richmond Thief were indeed Lord George, Althea could not imagine such a man murdering two innocent servants. Nothing made any sense anymore. She would have to speak with Read herself.
Norwich maneuvered the carriage back into traffic.
“Where are we going? Lady Levanwood will expect me back to dress for supper.”
“Norwich House, where you will clean yourself up as best you can. I’ll send a note around to let Lady Levanwood know that we have been unavoidably detained.”
“By what?”
“Eating Gunter’s ices or some other equally frivolous activity.”
Althea nodded. “That sounds like a good plan.”
“I’m glad at least in that we agree. And then perhaps we can arrange another moment for a conversation of a more serious nature.”
Althea looked at him. What could that mean? Probably a lecture on the propriety of women engaging in insect studies, criminal investigation, and corpse discovery. “Of course, if you wish it.”
“I do,” he replied, but he would not say more.
Althea returned to Levanwood House with her face washed and her hair tidy. She had discarded the gloves and shaken the loose dirt from her gown. She was prepared with a story about tripping and falling outside Gunter’s, but the Levanwoods had all retired to dress for supper. Althea called for Bridgett and then proceeded to tell her the story. Bridgett eyed the dress. “’Tis such a pity, but I will see what the washerwoman can do. Or perhaps the dress may be remade with a different skirt.”
Jane was another matter. Her sharp eyes detected a plot, and she could only be placated by a sincere promise to disclose all when the ladies retired to bed. It was only after fobbing off Jane and completing her toilette with Bridgett that Althea remembered the beetle larva in her reticule.
She emptied the reticule’s contents on the counterpane, and the spiny creature fell with them, wriggling to and fro. She studied it for several moments and then dashed for the armoire, pulling out items until she unearthed the pages of her husband’s notes. She leafed through them, running her finger over the tables of calculations. Indeed. But the timing wasn’t right. Then she had a sudden flash of insight. The raven. Of course. She picked up the larva and watched it squirm delicately in her palm.
“We may understand all things if we just examine them scientifically,” she said to herself. “Nature never lies.”
Chapter Fourteen
The morning of the masquerade, several large boxes arrived bearing the name of Madame Longet’s establishment. Althea had the boxes carried to her chamber for a private inspection. What with writing and submitting her manuscript to the Royal Society, accompanying Lady Levanwood to any number of society events, and frequent costume fittings with Madame Longet, Althea had been unable to slip away to speak in person with Magistrate Read. Instead, they had corresponded by short notes sent back and forth by small errand boys employed for the purpose.
Although skeptical at first, Read had soon come around to Althea’s way of thinking on a number of points. However, Althea had not yet explained to him the mechanism by which she could with certainty determine that the victim had died of strangulation at least five weeks before. That meant that the victim couldn’t be Mary. So one problem was solved, but another remained.
Jane joined Althea in her chamber, anxious for the unveiling of Althea’s unusual costume. “I still think Madame Longet may be declared a genius if this costume retains any beauty at all. What you were thinking in picking such a thing, I will never understand.”
“The beauty of the costume is of little interest to me. One cannot expect a masquerade costume to enhance one’s beauty, after all. The point is to be hidden from view, is it not?”
“A smart woman attempts to do both.”
“But you know I couldn’t back down from a challenge.” Althea lifted the lid of a large square box. “This must be the headpiece. Do help me, please.”
The ladies tussled with the fine layers of paper wrapping until Althea could finally
pull it free. “There,” she said triumphantly. The headpiece was in the shape of a close-fitted turban with a fabric mask over the eyes that fastened by means of ribbon loops attached to concealed buttons on the turban. The mottled appearance of the beetle was created by a series of interwoven feathers—gold, brown, and black—with a layer of silver-threaded tulle stretched over it so it shimmered in the light.
“That is much better than I imagined,” Jane said, “but how shall you wear your hair? It seems too tight a fit to twist your hair up the way you have been wearing it.”
“Hmm.” Althea studied the turban a moment. “I suppose it shall have to be down my back a la your glory days. But without powder, of course—I should look a fright with powder.”
“I don’t suppose one could even find it nowadays with the strange immoral times we live in,” Jane replied wryly.
The ladies attacked the largest parcel and finally pulled a shimmering garment from its paper folds. Althea held the dress up for Jane to see. It was a simple gown of wheat-colored satin cut to skim the body. The beetle’s carapace was simulated with an overlapping appliqué of black and brown satin circles. An overskirt of the silver tulle gave the same shimmery effect as on the turban. At the back, the tulle cascaded from the shoulders, forming a pair of diaphanous wings.
“Again, much better than I had thought,” Jane said. “I foresee that you may yet be the belle of the ball, Madame Beetle.”
“Unlikely. However, I will admit that I am just a little anxious that it fits properly. Madame Longet was forever pinning it.”
Jane patted her arm. “Never fear. Do you wish to try it on?”
“I do not have time this morning, and the night will come soon enough. In any case, there is no going back now.”
But the night seemed far away as Althea sat in the blue salon with Jane, drinking tea and nibbling on a honey cake. The day of reckoning could not be postponed. Squire Pettigrew had come to call, and the ladies of Dettamoor Park must suffer the consequences.
“I hear you are gone to a masquerade tonight,” Pettigrew said, a large crumb of cake dangling inelegantly from the corner of his mouth.
“Yes,” Althea replied, her eyes unable to focus beyond the crumb.
He shifted ponderously in the chair. “Far be it from me to question anything you do, Lady Trent, but I have it on good authority that these masquerades are not quite the thing.”
“Um?” Althea replied, still distracted. How could he not feel the crumb when he spoke?
Pettigrew turned imploringly to Jane. “Surely you agree with me on this point. A lady of your years and experience must see how ineligible such a thing is.”
“Just how old do you think I am?” Jane said.
“I meant no offense, Miss Trent. You are quite a spritely lady to be sure. I simply—”
“I think we all know what you meant,” Althea cut in, finally roused from her crumb contemplation, “but the fact is that Lady Shirling is a great friend of Lady Levanwood, so we had best brave the scandal and go.”
“I think upon reflection you will come to see that I am correct. Although she seems amiable enough, I cannot say that I find in Lady Levanwood’s conversation and tastes that strict attention to morality that one would hope to see from a leader of society. As I’m sure you would agree, Lady Trent, it is the responsibility of us all to maintain the moral tone of society. My mother always said—”
“And this observation is based on what, pray tell?” Jane said.
“I took great pains to engage her ladyship in conversation at the theater. When I commented unfavorably upon some of the more colorful ladies stationed down by the stage, her ladyship did not join in my condemnation.”
“Indeed?” said Althea.
Pettigrew sat up straight in the chair and pursed his lips twice, the crumb bobbing solemnly in time. “No, she merely laughed and said that young men must have some occupation until they marry.” He looked at Althea triumphantly. “Can you believe it?”
“Oh yes,” Althea replied, enjoying herself for the first time since Pettigrew’s arrival. “It seems very sensible coming from a mother of three sons. Not that I would want young Arthur to spend his fortune maintaining a mistress, but I am sure he will have his adventures like all young men when they come of age. The only pity is that young women are not given the same license. In any case, it doesn’t follow that Lady Levanwood’s views on this issue would lead her to be a poor chaperone for Jane and me.” Althea smiled at Jane. “For as you have already pointed out, Squire Pettigrew, we are not green girls just launched upon our first seasons.”
Pettigrew puffed his cheeks in and out, letting the crumb fly free once and for all. “Well,” he said in an agitated voice. “Well.” He took a sip of tea to steady his nerves, and then he chuckled consciously and with some effort. “I had forgotten what a delightfully sportive manner you have, Lady Trent. I am sure that your wit and playfulness account for the many accolades you have received upon your arrival in London.” He leaned in as if to impart a secret. “My sources inform me that the Duke of Norwich is quite smitten.”
If he had sought to receive either a confirmation or denial, he was disappointed.
“I had not heard such a rumor,” Althea replied placidly. “You must understand that I receive a great many invitations from a great many people. As you have seen, my schedule is very full.”
“Such a whirlwind of activity, and yet I think the country pleasanter than town.” He looked to Jane for confirmation.
“Not necessarily,” Jane replied. “I’m sure you will agree that each has merit enough.”
“So true,” added Althea. “I shared your opinion at first, Squire Pettigrew, but I fear that my first impression may have done the city a disservice. There are delights enough if one takes the trouble to look for them.”
Pettigrew sipped his tea, unsure of how to proceed, but if he formed a new plan of attack it was for naught, because at that moment Lady Levanwood bustled in.
“Oh, there you are, dear cousins. I have just got the packages from Madame Longet, and what do you think? After three fittings the bodice will not button! I cannot imagine what must have happened! It is a disaster of the greatest proportions. Come, perhaps you may be clever enough to tell me what must be done.” She caught sight of Pettigrew and added, “Ah, the good squire come to call. I am afraid that I have interrupted a pleasant conversation. No doubt you wish to discuss Somerset matters, but I beg you to postpone the discussion. As you can see, the matter of the costume is most pressing!”
The squire bowed over her hand. “Lady Levanwood, I would not dream of detaining the Dettamoor Park ladies further.” He gave a speaking look to Althea. “Dear Lady Trent, Miss Trent, I shall hope to have the pleasure of your company for a ride in Hyde Park. Should Tuesday be acceptable?”
Caught, Althea and Jane were forced to assent. Then the squire took his leave, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Once the door closed behind him, Cousin Bella sighed. “It’s a wonder he ever decided to come to London, such a prosy, stiff fellow. Well, my dears, now that we are rid of him, you must come with me. It is the most vexing thing imaginable to be thus situated. And I had such hopes for the masquerade!”
The problem of the dress was solved with loops of fabric that extended the range of the buttons to the required circumference. And with that drama behind them, the delights of the evening lay before the Levanwood household with unimpaired splendor. The family dined early and quietly and then repaired to their chambers to dress. Bridgett, who had replaced Mrs. Buxton in all things, curled Althea’s long hair with irons from the fire and assisted her into her gown. Once the last button was fastened, Althea looked at the glass. “Oh dear!” she said. “I should have tried the dress on when Lady Levanwood indicated that her costume would not fit.”
“But it does fit, milady,” Bridgett said.
Althea studied her reflection in the looking glass. “It is a case of fitting rather too nicely than not at all.”
She tapped on Jane’s door, seeking her advice, but Jane called back, requesting immediate assistance. When Althea opened the door, she found Jane and Sally wrestling with the fabric-wrapped circumference of a monstrous farthingale.
“Good Lord,” Althea said with a giggle. “And I have heard Queen Bess’s England called a Golden Age. Much the male writers of history know of such things!”
Jane was not amused. “Stop your laughing and help me get this thing around my waist!” Bridgett hurried over, and between Bridgett, Sally, and Althea, the skirt of Jane’s costume was finally secured. This was followed by a stiff brocade bodice, cut low and square over her bosom.
“That is daring,” Althea said.
“Not as much as you would think. Here, Bridgett, please bring me that ruff,” Jane said.
Bridgett picked the circle of stiff linen frills up off the bed. “’Tis a wonder they could move at all with such clothes,” she said.
“Not well,” added Althea.
The ruff was affixed, and then Jane turned toward Althea. “What do you think?”
“Lovely. Stiff clothes become you, Jane.”
“And fitted ones become you.” She looked at Althea critically and then dismissed the servants for a moment. “I don’t think I’ve even seen a dress cut so precisely to the figure. Can you even walk?”
“Yes.” Althea bit her lip. “But it is so much tighter than the last fitting. I don’t know what Madame Longet was thinking. They will all say I am another Lady Lamb!”
“Nonsense. Besides, you will be masked. Although it is a good thing Arthur isn’t here to see you.”
Althea laughed reluctantly. “He would have been too preoccupied with the realism of the costume to notice much else.”
“I doubt any of your admirers will give a second thought to realism.”