Ivory and Steel

by Janice Bennett

  Mr. Frake shook his head. “Oh no, m’lord. You may not want to believe it but there’s not a doubt of it. She was murdered.”

  Phyllida closed her eyes. “Why?”

  “Well, miss, that’s what we have to find out now. Lord Ingram here tells me you found her?”

  “Yes.” A shudder ran through her. “I was looking for her and the butler told me she had wanted to lie down.”

  The Runner took a rapid note then bit the end of the pencil, frowning in thought. “The butler says as she went up there of her own free will. Most like she was drugged and became tired. Then our murderer only had to wait for her to fall asleep—which probably took no more than five minutes or so—then crept in there.”

  “Why didn’t she just return home?” Ingram asked.

  “She wouldn’t risk being left out of the final preparations for the ball,” Phyllida said softly. “She would have planned to come down again in a few minutes.”

  “So if whoever did it knew her well, he could be certain of a splendid opportunity to kill her.” Mr. Frake paced across the hall then turned back to them.

  Whoever did it knew her well. The words ran through Phyllida’s mind. Whoever knew her well…like her son, who had all the same reasons for wishing Louisa dead, with perhaps the more savage factor added of personal vengeance for playing him false with his firstborn. But why would he kill his own mother? Why not choose someone else to be his scapegoat?

  “So we must once again guess at motives,” Ingram said as if he read her mind. “Does this bring new relevance to what we saw earlier of Lady Woking and Mr. Enderby?”

  “And what might that be, m’lord?” Mr. Frake asked.

  He told the Runner of the couple even now in the card room at the end of the hall. Mr. Frake rocked back on his heels, head tilted back, as if rolling the thought over in his mind like a fine wine on his palate.

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “Mr. Enderby might well have been anxious to be free of your sister, miss. Would she have permitted him to escape before she tired of him though?” He cocked a questioning eyebrow at Phyllida.

  “No,” she admitted. “If he had tried—” She shivered. “She would have caused him the most dreadful amount of trouble. Maria’s father would most certainly have cut off his allowance—” She hesitated, feeling the blood draining from her cheeks. “Do you think that is what happened?”

  “It still doesn’t explain the dowager’s murder.” Mr. Frake closed his book and returned it to his pocket. “It’s about time we broke the news to Lord and Lady Woking.”

  Lord Woking, though, had taken the only course open to a sensible man the moment the self-appointed decorators had descended upon his house. He had departed for his club, the butler said, informing him as he made good his escape that he would be home in time to dress for the event.

  In the absence of the master of the house, Mr. Frake took possession of the bookroom. He directed Phyllida to take a seat in the corner then gestured for Lord Ingram to join her. The captain stood at her side, legs slightly spread, arms folded, his firm chin jutting out. In defiance of the Runner’s decision to treat the dowager’s death as murder, Phyllida reflected. Now the scandal would be intensified and Allbury would suffer more…

  Her thoughts broke off as the butler returned with Lady Woking. She swept into her husband’s bookroom, her shawl looped loosely from her elbows, and glared at the occupants.

  “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “I have much still to do this day. Can your questions not wait until tomorrow?”

  “This does not concern the death of the young marchioness,” Mr. Frake informed her smoothly.

  Lady Woking stopped before the desk, beside which the Runner stood. “What then? My good man, I expect upward of three hundred people in my house this night. What can be more pressing than that?”

  “The death of the dowager Lady Allbury.”

  “The—” The color drained from the woman’s face. “The death? Of the dowager?” She sank onto the chair Lord Ingram obligingly drew up for her. In a moment though, she rallied. “You must be mistaken. Lady Allbury is here—somewhere—harrying my servants.”

  “She is in an upstairs bedchamber, where she went to lie down after being drugged, with the steel blade of one of those fans protruding from her breast.”

  Phyllida winced at the Runner’s direct tactics. It brought the picture all too vividly to mind.

  Lady Woking closed her eyes. “That-that’s impossible,” she breathed.

  “I very much fear it isn’t.” Lord Ingram located a decanter on a table, poured her a glass of brandy and pressed it into her hand.

  She swallowed a large mouthful and shuddered. “It-it’s true, then?” She looked to Ingram for corroboration.

  He nodded and thoughtfully refilled her glass.

  “Poor Rosalinde.” She turned back to the Runner. “You said she was drugged?”

  “That seems the most reasonable explanation. It was meant to look as if she killed herself.”

  Lady Woking took another gulp of the amber liquid. “I see. You think the person who killed her—who killed poor Louisa—hoped we would think Rosalinde murdered her daughter-in-law then killed herself in remorse?”

  “Something like that, m’lady.”

  She shuddered. “Here. In my home. How dreadful.”

  “Now, no one is a-blaming you, m’lady.”

  “Blaming me!” Lady Woking flared. “I should think not. I only hope you catch the-the scoundrel who had the infernal impertinence to commit his crime in my home! And on the night of the ball!” Her eyes widened. “Someone is out to ruin me! Arrest them at once.”

  Mr. Frake’s lips twitched. “I should be delighted to oblige. Who?”

  She blinked. “Why, the person who killed Rosalinde, of course. I can’t have this ruining the ball. Not after all the work we’ve done to prepare for it. I won’t—” She broke off and her expression brightened. “I have it. You must not discover her body until tomorrow morning.”

  Mr. Frake coughed. “Begging your pardon, m’lady but I fear we already have.”

  “But can you not pretend? For such an important cause?” She stared beseechingly at his immobile countenance then spun about to face Phyllida. “It is your charity I’m aiding. You make him help us.”

  Phyllida giggled, recognized it as rising hysteria, but was unable to control it. She turned to the Runner. “You could always ask the maids to run along upstairs and tidy the body, just in case one of the guests happens to enter that chamber. Why, with the coverlet more neatly arranged, I doubt anyone would notice her at all.”

  “Steady.” Ingram’s hand closed over her shoulder.

  “What, may I not indulge in the vapors this time? I should think I have every right. I have shown such remarkable restraint upon other occasions.”

  He shook his head but his smile sounded in his voice. “I do not believe this is quite the moment for levity, Miss Dearne.”

  “I wasn’t joking,” she protested, but felt considerably better for their brief exchange.

  Mr. Frake turned his reproving regard on them. “There can be no question of trying to pretend a dreadful crime has not been committed on these premises—”

  “You wouldn’t dare ruin the ball!” Lady Woking drew herself up to her full, commanding height. “It must and shall go on. I cannot possibly cancel it at this last moment.”

  Mr. Frake glanced at Phyllida. “The wounded soldiers,” he muttered. He drew a deep breath, puffed out his cheeks then nodded. “All right, m’lady. I won’t hide nothing but you can go ahead with your party. Have your butler assemble the staff in the kitchens. Then, if you’ll answer a few questions, I’ll see if I can’t have everything under control here so’s you can hold your ball with your guests none the wiser. I guess I don’t have to tell anyone else about our murder until morning.”

  Lady Woking beamed on him. “I knew you were a reasonable man, Mr. Frake.” She summoned her butler, gave him his instr
uctions when he arrived only minutes later then turned back to the Runner. “Now, what would you like me to tell you? Where I was all afternoon? That will be very hard, I fear. I have been in every room, overseeing the last-minute decorations.”

  “No, m’lady. I have only two questions for you at the moment. First, what was it you and Mr. Enderby was discussing in the card room a little while ago?”

  She stiffened. “Of all the impertinent, ill-bred questions.” She met his gaze directly. “Surely it is not a crime to indulge in a little flirtation?”

  “No, it is not, m’lady.”

  A satisfied smile just touched her lips. “And your second question?”

  Mr. Frake leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowed, watching. “Have you ever had access to the charity project’s funds?”

  She stared at him, her expression perplexed, then her eyes widened and dark color suffused her cheeks. “What are you suggesting?” she demanded in frigid accents.

  Ingram swung his quizzing glass idly by its riband. “It has come to his attention, you see, that five hundred pounds are missing.”

  A long, tense moment passed before she responded. “I see,” she said at last and turned her fulminating eye on the Runner. “Of all the insufferable, impertinent, odious things to imply. I will have you know, my good man, my husband is handsomely established. I have no need to steal such a paltry sum.”

  “Yes, m’lady.” He jotted a quick note in his book. “I’ll just confirm that, all routine-like, and that’s the last we’ll have to worry about that little matter.” He rose. “Now I think I’ll break the news to Lord Allbury. You may get back to your preparations.”

  Phyllida stood also but didn’t follow Lady Woking from the room. “There is one more thing,” she said to Mr. Frake, then hesitated.

  “Yes, miss? Something that might help?”

  “It might. But it feels more like gossip.”

  He shook his head and the mildly amused expression he’d maintained throughout the preceding interview vanished. “I’ll be the judge of that, miss. There are two people dead and it would be a mighty peculiar circumstance, it would, if the murders weren’t connected. We’d best clear this little matter up before there’s a third.” He waggled an admonishing finger beneath her nose. “And I hardly need point out, miss, that a person who knows something and doesn’t tell anyone is the most likely one to be found dead next.”

  “There is no need to try to frighten her,” Ingram declared.

  “No, no need at all,” Phyllida agreed weakly.

  Mr. Frake tapped his Occurrence Book with his pencil. “There’s two possible reasons as her ladyship might have been murdered. It might be for the same reason as the young lady was killed. Or it might be because she knew something—which if she’d told me, she might be alive right now.” He turned back to Phyllida. “Well, miss?”

  “It-it’s probably nothing.” Yet Phyllida’s throat felt dry and an unpleasant sensation crawled along her skin. “Maria Enderby came down the stairs shortly before I went to search for the dowager. She looked startled—as if I’d caught her doing something she shouldn’t. She had probably only been escaping the work.”

  Mr. Frake nodded. “Well now, miss, you did the right thing in telling me. You just leave it to me and I’ll find out what she was about. Under the circumstances, her being upstairs like that is interesting, as you might say, very interesting, indeed. It would be mighty helpful to know who all knew the dowager Lady Allbury was a-lying down.”

  Phyllida swallowed. “Almost anyone might have seen her go upstairs and followed. Maria Enderby might have seen someone,” she added quickly. “I never meant to imply that she—”

  “There, now, miss, don’t be in such a taking. If she did see something then I’d best find out as quickly as possible, or we might be finding her next.”

  Phyllida nodded. “Only telling you makes me feel the most dreadful sneak.”

  Ingram sobered. “You may very well have just saved someone’s life.”

  “Maria Enderby’s,” Phyllida agreed, feeling a little better.

  “Or your own.”

  Phyllida nodded and turned away. She wanted to leave, to go home. That Allbury House could no longer offer her sanctuary she thrust from her mind. She could remain another day. Then she and Miss Yarborough, lacking a respectable female to act as hostess, would have to leave, for it was now a gentleman’s establishment. Tears welled in her eyes and she dashed them away in anger.

  “Are you all right?” Ingram took her arm and led her out the door.

  “Yes. I despise females who behave like watering pots!”

  A wry smile quirked his lips. “Under the circumstances I believe you have earned the right. Just this once, of course. I promise I won’t tell a soul.”

  A watery laugh escaped her. “No, I won’t embarrass you. Oh Lord, what a dreadful day.”

  “As you say.” He glanced back at the bookroom. “He will send for Allbury now, to tell him.”

  She looked up quickly. “It might be easier for him if you were there.”

  “Will you be all right?”

  After assuring him she could manage perfectly well, she watched him rejoin the Runner, then made her way once more to the secluded alcove. Poor Allbury. At least he would have Ingram’s support. Unless he had no need of it…

  The suspicions that flooded her mind proved too strong, too persistent, to ignore. Could Allbury have killed his own mother? If he had first murdered Louisa then he would have needed someone to take the blame. If his mother had known, or guessed, his crime, he might have thought her a danger—especially if she had used that knowledge as a threat, to order the choice of his next bride, to run his household to her liking, to redecorate it according to her taste… Had her death been accepted as the suicide it appeared, he would have been in the clear.

  Suicide. Ingram had sworn the dowager had taken her own life, even when he must have realized from the first it was no such thing. Had he suspected Allbury of her murder and done his best to protect him? Strong loyalty existed between those two. Ingram would do everything in his power for the sake of his old friend.

  Was that why he had arrived so quickly at the dowager’s deathbed? Had he come at Allbury’s request, to arrange everything so the murder would be mistaken for suicide? Ingram was a soldier, no stranger to violent death. He would know what to do. Only she had arrived first…

  Or had she?

  The marquis had never been in combat, never seen death at close range, never killed. Unlike Ingram.

  She huddled into her chair, chilled, ill with a growing dread. Had Ingram done more than merely assist his friend?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Phyllida closed her eyes. Suddenly Ingram’s presence in their box at the opera took on a new and deadly significance. Had the marquis, bitter toward his faithless wife, sent for Ingram to rid him of the heir who would not be his own? Ingram would not be seriously suspected, for no reason appeared to exist for him to want Louisa dead. Then when the investigation seemed to single out Allbury, had they chosen the dowager to be the sacrificial scapegoat?

  No, she couldn’t believe that. More likely the dowager had murdered Louisa and Allbury had killed her to avoid the scandal of trial and execution. That had to be the solution. And Lord Ingram had done no more than insist the dowager’s death had been suicide. Ingram could not be guilty. Not the man she knew—and had come to love.

  For several long minutes all other thoughts vanished from her mind. She loved him, with an aching longing that tore her apart. If he’d had any involvement in either murder she would not be able to bear it.

  Silently, she cursed herself. She had come to depend on him, which she should never have allowed. His calm air of authority disarmed her—made her vulnerable, made her willing to listen to any tale he might weave for her entrancement. And now she was paying the price.

  “Miss?” The Runner’s voice broke through her unhappy reflections.

  She looked u
p from her clasped hands. “Have-have you told them?”

  “That I have, miss. And right shocked they all seemed.” He shook his head. “Except one of them killed her.” He fell silent then nodded to himself, as if coming to a decision. “I’d best have a look at her suite of rooms, I suppose. I don’t want to give no one a chance to go through her things before me. Will you help me, miss?”

  “Me?” Phyllida stared at him, surprised. “But I thought—”

  “As I had you under suspicion? No, miss. You’re just about the only one I don’t suspect. I’d like someone with me who can give me a few opinions.”

  “But I’ve only been in her rooms a few times. I wouldn’t know if anything was out of place. Perhaps her maid would suit you better.”

  He took her elbow and drew her to her feet. “No, miss. You’ll do a mite better for what I has in mind.”

  “And what is that?” she asked, suspicious.

  “Talk out a few ideas.” He led her down the steps to the entry hall, talking as they went. “You know everyone involved better than I do. You might come up with a few answers as have eluded me.”

  She digested this. “What do you think you’ll find in her rooms?”

  Mr. Frake sent a footman running for a hackney, then stared thoughtfully at the tiled floor beneath their feet. “The reason as her ladyship was murdered, miss. She must have discovered something and mentioned it to the wrong person.”

  “Louisa’s diary,” Phyllida breathed. Maybe it hadn’t been Ingram or Allbury. Hope surged through her. Maybe one of the others, mentioned in that volume Louisa kept so mysterious, had killed her to keep his or her secrets. And the dowager— “You think it was Lady Allbury in Louisa’s dressing room that night, don’t you?” she said suddenly.

  “Well, miss, it does seem likely. That person went at you with a vase. Our murderer always seemed to have a fan tucked away somewheres. Partial to knives, he must be. Like in your room.”