Daughters of Disguise (Lady C. Investigates Book 4)

by Issy Brookw

  On their way back through the persistent drizzle, Cordelia said, “I notice that you look about continually. Are we being followed?”

  “No, not at all,” Ruby said, forcing a light laugh. “I am merely curious about the town.”

  “No, it seems as if you are looking for someone,” Cordelia said. “You have met a man, have you not?”

  “Oh, I am always meeting men.”

  “You are harbouring a secret.”

  “My lady, I am in your employ and dedicated to you in every way, but…”

  “But I do not own your mind and heart. Of course not. I only seek to know, so that I might advise you and keep you safe.”

  Ruby flared her nostrils and tipped up her chin. She appeared to chew over a selection of tart remarks. She surprised Cordelia by eventually simply saying, “I know, my lady, and thank you.”

  Now Cordelia was feeling very, very suspicious indeed.

  ***

  Cordelia took a concoction of all the remedies she had bought, and lay on her bed, awaiting sleep. For some reason, in spite of the vast amount of citrate of caffeine, sleep eluded her for some time, and when she did slip into it, she didn’t just dream of horses, but also women, who were masked and laughing, and men serving in a shop but when she opened the boxes there was nothing within but water, which welled up alarmingly from nowhere and began to rise up her body. She felt caught between sleep and consciousness, suspended in a dark place, fighting against her own nightmares.

  And then all was turmoil and once again, she was woken by alarm calls and shouts and footsteps and panics.

  “More floods?” she muttered, sitting up and rubbing at her face. The early morning light was just bringing warmth to the room. It was, she noticed, no longer raining.

  More shouts were heard, and a distant sobbing. That got Cordelia to her feet, and she barrelled into Ruby who was running into Cordelia’s bedroom.

  “What is it?” they both cried to one another at the same time. Then, wide-eyed, Ruby rushed to the window and threw it open. She thrust her head out and called down to the people on the street below. “What is happening?”

  The call came back and it chilled and thrilled Cordelia in equal, sickening measure.

  “Murder! The ladies have been murdered!”

  Chapter Five

  The inn, the street and the whole town was in turmoil. When such disasters hit, the normal bounds of social propriety went out of the window completely as people focussed on the more important things: life and limb, not wearing the right hat. Cordelia crowded into the saloon bar with Geoffrey, Stanley and Ruby. Mistress and servant jostled with townsfolk of all stripes as people went from inn to inn, public place to public place, spreading the news.

  “How were they murdered? And where? And why? And by whom?” Cordelia demanded.

  Mrs Jones was looking immaculate, as ever, but her face was very pale and not through the artificiality of powder. “In their home, but no one can say who did it.”

  “When? Last night, as they slept, in their beds?”

  A general gasp swept through the inn. To be murdered as one slept was the very stuff of nightmares.

  “I do not know any more than this,” she said unhappily.

  “I must go there.”

  “Where?”

  “To their house,” Cordelia said.

  Even her own staff protested at this statement. Ruby said, firmly, as if she were in charge, “My lady, you cannot rush out and force yourself so bodily into someone else’s private matter.”

  “Murder is not a private matter!” Cordelia exclaimed.

  “This is not our town.”

  “Nor our country,” said Geoffrey darkly.

  “But we are here, and this is what I do,” Cordelia said. She could feel a rising note in her voice, almost like a petulant wail. She steadied herself with a deep breath, and repeated. “This is what I do. I must go, and you all know that.”

  Geoffrey narrowed his eyes, and Ruby rolled hers. Stanley hung his head, but he said, “I will escort you, my lady.”

  “Do you know where we are going?”

  “I would imagine we follow the crowds.”

  “Of other busybodies,” someone muttered but when Cordelia turned, everyone was looking away.

  It didn’t matter. She was bound to go and investigate.

  ***

  The ladies’ house was not in the lower parts of the town, where cottages and terraces nestled together. Instead, Stanley and Cordelia walked up the hill to the east of the town. There were hills to the north and south as well, meaning that Aberystwyth felt like it was cut off from the rest of the country, and the world, huddling at the base of a green bowl and fenced in by the sea to the west.

  The road was North Parade, which became Northgate Street and eventually Penglais Road. Cordelia had to stop to catch her breath more than once. She had been laced in rather too tightly for comfort. The fashion for squeezing ones’ self to death seemed to be growing and even Ruby was falling prey to it. She could hardly ask Stanley to loosen her corset, so she adjusted her breathing and tried not to faint.

  The houses were now sparse, and large, and hidden behind hedges and trees. “There are some exotic plants here,” she remarked, “that I did not expect to find.”

  “I understand the air is milder here than inland,” Stanley said.

  “You are a natural scientist now?”

  “I am curious about all of God’s creation,” Stanley said. “I amass knowledge in the hope that one day I will be wise.”

  “I don’t know about wisdom, but you are clever. You will make someone a fine husband one day.”

  She said it to see how red he could possible go, and she was not disappointed. He would have been invisible against a guardsman’s uniform.

  It would not do to continue to tease him. She didn’t speak again until they came to a house which had a small crowd of people amassed outside it. There was the usual mix of well-dressed folk and commoner sorts, all jockeying for a glimpse through the windows. It is just as it would be in London, Cordelia thought, although here it did not seem as if the constable at the door was selling entry.

  Not yet, at any rate.

  Cordelia did not rely on her status to clear a path to the door. She didn’t think her English courtesy title would get her very far in an unknown place. Instead she relied on her above-average height, muscular shoulders and sharp elbows to simply force her way to the constable on guard.

  He seemed to be a year or two older than Stanley, but equally beardless and slightly quivering. He rocked on his boots and she noticed that his uniform was basic and had no numbers on the collar nor marks or insignia. He might have been new police, but he had all the air of the old country watch about him still.

  “Good day, sir,” she said.

  “Good day, madam,” he said, and licked his lips nervously. He did not move from his post squarely in front of the door, however.

  “I am a detective, here to investigate the crime. No, don’t worry — you do not need to alert those within. I would rather you did not leave your post. I can introduce myself once I am inside.” She stepped closer to him and he shrank away. He couldn’t go backwards so he had to sidle to the side, and she grabbed the door handle.

  She smiled winningly at him while he sought for a challenge. All he managed to say was, “A detective?”

  “Indeed, from London,” she said, and pushed past him into a long, cool hallway.

  The door closed behind her and she paused. Stanley had remained outside. She listened. She could hear the chatter from the crowd in the front garden, but the house itself was silent.

  Where were the police, the detectives, the officials, the coroner? The place should now be heaving with the authorities all swarming over it like ants.

  The house was furnished with a great deal of dark wood. The staircase to her left had intricate carvings all around the newel and the spindles, and there were niches in the wall to the side of the stairs. Each
seemed to contain a small figurine. She walked down the hallway, keeping to the rich runner that damped her steps, and admired the tasteful paintings as she went. There was no particular theme to the arts that filled the house; there were some modern works, which were all brooding romantic Germanic themes, and then there were traditional portraits in oils, dark and heavy; there was a small collection of watercolour landscapes, and by the door at the far end there was a case of butterfly specimens.

  The door stood ajar, but still she could hear no conversation. Assuming the room to be empty, she walked straight in.

  There was one man in the room, and he leaped a foot in the air at the sight of her.

  “Goodness,” she said. “Steady on, sir. I’ve not had that effect on a man for a while. Good day; I’m Cordelia, Lady Cornbrook, and I am a lady detective.”

  The barrage of information temporarily flummoxed the man into silence.

  She weighed him up quickly. He was in his forties, with bushy greying sideburns that reached to the corners of his mouth. He was dressed in a sober dark blue, with smart white trousers, the same uniform as the man on the front door, but he had a tall top hat and a thick leather belt from which dangled some handcuffs that seemed too large to contain any thief.

  A superior constable, then, she decided. “You seem to be in charge here,” she said, hoping that he was not immune to flattery.

  Of course he wasn’t.

  He straightened up, almost imperceptibly, and did not allow her a smile. But he did say, “Ah, well, yes, hello, madam, my lady, indeed.”

  “And you are…?”

  “Oh! I am Frank Evans, and I am the head constable here.”

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” She did not offer her hand. Instead, keeping her fingers wound together so she was not tempted to touch anything and alter the scene as it presented itself to her, she began to look around.

  They were in a comfortable sitting room which had, in places, the air of a gentleman’s smoking room about it. The colours were dark to go with the wood; reds, burgundies, and even some vibrant and shocking purples. There was a dead fire in the grate, and many bookshelves, which spoke to the ladies’ varied tastes and interests.

  Like a tiny island of femininity in the centre of the room, there was a small circular table with a pretty white tablecloth on it, all embroidered around with roses. It was set out with the general accoutrements of a high tea. The teapot was tall and narrow and finely made, and there were delicate cups and saucers to either side of it.

  One chair was upright, and the other had fallen on its back. “Did you do that?”

  “No,” said Constable Evans. “This is where the ladies were taken ill, and I believe that is how they were found.”

  “They died here?”

  “One did,” Constable Evans said. “Miss Walker, may God rest her soul.”

  “And the other?”

  “Miss Scott survives, yet, though she is very ill and in some distress. She has been taken to a local sanatorium.”

  “How dreadful.” Cordelia thought for a moment. “But out on the street, sir, they were crying murder. Why would anyone think so?”

  “This happened yesterday, late in the afternoon,” he said, “and that was a Friday, so there is that.”

  “I do not follow.”

  “Friday!” he said, urgently, and shook his head, his gaze focussed far away on something she could not see. “No good comes of it, you know. Fridays. And I saw a squinting woman, I did, on my way here today.”

  “That proves nothing. Murder, indeed. The women have likely been poisoned by a bad sandwich.” She peered more closely at the remains of the tea things, and saw the error of her assumption. The cakes and scones — indeed, none of the food — had been touched. The cups were almost empty, however. So they had drunk them first, and were working up to the food.

  They didn’t get the chance. One fell dead and the other ill.

  “There is enough bad feeling here about them that murder must be suspected,” he said. “The Miss Scott herself was raving so as she was taken away.”

  “Why is there so much bad feeling about them?”

  “They put their noses where they are not wanted,” he said, and there was a meaningful edge to his words. “I liked them, myself. But some others, they did not.”

  “I cannot see that I am even needed, never mind wanted,” Cordelia said, feeling somewhat disappointed. “There is no murder here, I am sure of it. A murderer would have ensured both ladies were killed. This is just a sad turn of events. Though, of course, you must look to where the illness came from. If someone is selling bad produce in the town, then that needs to be addressed. Perhaps something was in the tea. You’ll examine the caddy, I imagine. This is, of course, hardly my speciality.”

  “Indeed not,” Constable Evans said.

  He should have thrown her out of the room by now, she thought, but he seemed reluctant, as if he did like the company in some small way.

  “And yet,” he went on, his eyes wider than before, “a man was seen here, late yesterday evening, though no one can say who it was, and the ladies have been targeted before, and Miss Scott’s words must mean something. The rains we have had are unusual, and the floods inconceivable. I am not a superstitious man, madam; a policeman is a man of science! But there were magpies on my left this morning, and even you will admit that must mean something.”

  She stared at him. Murder or no murder, she was not sure she trusted him to investigate the loss of a handkerchief.

  “Well, then. If it is murder? Let us see to this food and drink,” she said.

  He did not stop her.

  Chapter Six

  “Did you see them in situ?” she asked the constable as she continued to look around. “The ladies, I mean.”

  Her questions seemed to reassure him that she was there for a real purpose, and he answered readily enough. No doubt the questioning also helped his own thought processes. “I did. I was called immediately, when the neighbours raised the alarm that they had not seen the ladies that morning. It seems that they would always, without fail, walk in their garden very early and exchange pleasantries with the couple in the house to the side. Mrs Jenkins felt quite ill that she had not discussed the weather. The change in routine unsettled her. So she sent her husband around to see, and he found them here, one dead and other almost insensible, and called for me that very moment. I was here within the hour.”

  “And how did they look?”

  “Well, one was dead and other ill. I am not a medical man but it was obvious.”

  “No. You must be specific. What colour was their skin? How was Miss Scott’s breathing, her eyes? Did she make sense when she spoke? Was there — and forgive my indelicacy, but — was there any smell of sickness or indeed, any evidence of sickness, in any form, in this room?” She sniffed the air herself, and could detect some taint of carbolic soap. But perhaps the women were fastidiously clean.

  The constable nodded and half closed his eyes. “Well, then. Miss Walker, the poor deceased, was white, almost blue. She lay upon the floor, curled around herself, clutching her stomach. That is another reason we must suspect poisoning, you know. It was so sudden, far quicker than any contaminated food would usually be. She was stiff but not totally so, so we know that she had died within twelve hours or so of us finding her. Even as we began to move her, she was attaining full rigor mortis.”

  Cordelia was fascinated, despite herself, and made a mental note to find out more about the processes of death. She was not sure, however, quite how a lady might ask those questions. She nodded, encouraging him to continue.

  “There was no evidence of sickness,” he went on quickly. “Miss Scott, however, was in some state. She was sitting in her chair, with her head in her arms on the table, and she was groaning and could not be understood. We called the doctor who administered something, I know not what, and directed her to be taken away for further treatment. She said, as she was carried away, ‘they cannot
!’ and there is another reason for suspecting murder, madam.”

  “They?” Cordelia mused. “Have you any suspects?”

  “Although I spoke of those who disliked the ladies, there are none I can readily put a name to, in all honesty,” he said. “None that I truly believe would do them more harm than snubbing them in the street. Maybe you are correct and this was a terrible accident. And yet …” He walked to the table and studied it as closely as Cordelia was doing. Unlike her, however, he had no compunctions about touching anything. She felt, keenly, that all ought to be left as it was, and observed with intelligence, from a distance.

  But she was aware she was already trespassing in his domain, and didn’t want to push her luck by correcting him even further.

  Still, she sucked in a breath when he reached out and picked up a scone. He brought it to his face and for a dreadful moment she thought he was going to take a bite.

  He sniffed it, and then caught her eye. “Oh, do not fear, madam. This could hardly be the culprit; why, they have not touched any of the food at all.”

  “Then the source of the illness must be in the drink,” Cordelia said. “Whether accidental or deliberate.”

  “Indeed it must,” Constable Evans said. And before she could stop him, he had dipped his finger in the remains in one cup, and licked it.

  “Sir!” she exclaimed.

  “Oh, I doubt that there would be enough poison to kill me. Why, I am as strong as an ox. I was born on a Thursday.”

  “Congratulations. But still—”

  He smacked his lips and rolled his tongue around in his mouth. “Well, I can detect nothing, I am afraid, except that it is exceedingly sweet.”

  “Nevertheless, all these things must be examined by a person skilled in such matters,” she urged.

  “I am skilled in the drinking of tea,” he said, and smiled. Then he seemed to remember the situation and hastily made his face blank and severe once more. “Have no fear, madam. All these things will be seen to directly.”