An Unmourned Man (Lady C. Investigates Book 1)

by Issy Brooke

  * * *

  The kitchen was full of staff and servants. Stanley sat at the long wooden table, stuffing his face with food. At the other end of the table, two maids were working; one was kneading bread and the other was filling a pie. Another flitted in and out from the scullery with vegetables to be prepared. By the range, Mrs Kendal was stirring a pot, and Mrs Unsworth was at another table by the door to the meat stores, trimming some red carcase of meat that Cordelia could not identify.

  Everything stilled as Cordelia appeared at the door. Ruby slipped past her and pulled a chair from the fire to the table, placing it opposite Stanley so that Cordelia could sit down.

  Mrs Kendal was as rigid as a poker and she stared, but could not speak.

  Cordelia felt the antagonism rolling off the manor house’s cook. She smiled sweetly. “Good day, Mrs Kendal. What an industrious kitchen you rule. Mrs Unsworth, some tea when you have a moment.”

  Mrs Kendal glared, wide-eyed, as Cordelia took the chair and sat herself down. Stanley put his bread down, but she urged him to finish his meal before he spoke to her.

  Mrs Kendal said, “The housekeeper’s room might … perhaps my lady would be more comfortable ... I can arrange…”

  “No, thank you. I wish to speak to Stanley and he is busy here.”

  One by one, the various servants melted away in embarrassment until only Cordelia, Stanley, Ruby and Mrs Unsworth were left. Even Mrs Kendal had found important business elsewhere to attend to.

  Stanley still stammered as he spoke, and kept his eyes lowered. But he talked with more ease than he had done previously. “My lady. It is true that Clara, the doctor’s first wife, fled from him,” he said.

  “Ill-treatment?” she asked.

  “By whom? Not him, by all accounts. Everyone said that he treated her kindly. No, she was a woman who did not … I mean she … her allotted place did not suit … she ran away, in short.”

  “Oh. She was a flighty sort, was she?”

  Stanley blushed. “Indeed, my lady, she was an unsuitable match. She went away with a travelling merchant.”

  “And then?”

  “This was six years ago. There was no word of her that could be got. And the doctor himself sought for her, but to no avail. Then the doctor married his present wife, two years ago.”

  “But he was already married!”

  “Indeed. If he had waited then he could have done so without disgrace.”

  “Seven years,” Cordelia mused. After that period of time, a missing person could be assumed dead. “But he waited only … let me see. Four years. Oh dear; the foolish man. And what of this Clara now?”

  “She is dead, and I have seen her death certificate.”

  “All is well, then! Obviously not for Clara,” Cordelia added hastily. “But for the doctor…”

  “Maybe. For she died but one year ago.”

  “So, our good doctor was a bigamist,” Cordelia said. “Although now she is dead, does it still count? I am hazy on the legal details.”

  Ruby interrupted. “But did he know that he was committing a crime? That would seem to be an important point.”

  “I think he must have done. It is only recently that he has begun to ask after the whereabouts of his first wife. If he had no evidence that she was dead – for when he married again, she was not dead – then he ought not to have married. He knew he was wrong.”

  “I wonder if his current wife knows this tale?” Ruby said.

  “If she does not, then it ought to stay that way,” Cordelia advised. “Now that Clara is dead, it would profit no one for this sad truth to be revealed.”

  Stanley sat back in his chair, and swept up the crumbs into his hand to brush them onto the platter before him. “I learned a lot about the man,” he said slowly, containing his words carefully. “And though he might have been a bigamist, not one person that knew him could countenance his being a murderer. No one but God knows the secret substance of a man’s heart, but … but … it seems unlikely that Donald Arnall was the man who killed Thomas Bains.”

  “I agree,” said Cordelia, and a feeling of heavy glumness washed over her. “Now I think on it, the whole edifice of my assumptions and suspicions seem silly and vague. Now where do I look?”

  Mrs Unsworth shook her head with a suppressed laugh. “You will perhaps look back to the very beginning.”

  Everyone turned to look at her. For the sagging older woman to volunteer any information beyond complaints or bile was so unusual that everyone wanted to listen to her. She basked in her moment of glory and attention.

  “What is it?” Cordelia urged.

  “Mrs Hurrell has fled to London, the very moment that she was released.”

  Cordelia sat in stunned silence as she digested it. Ruby made to speak but she was silenced instantly by a wave of Cordelia’s hand.

  Eventually, she said, “She has fled? Does that, then, prove her guilt after all?”

  Again, Ruby opened her mouth but Cordelia went on, overriding her. “And if the murderer – the murderess! – was Mrs Hurrell all along, playing a convincing game, then it was my meddling that turned the coroner and the sheriff against the idea. It was my suggestion that had the constable look elsewhere for his clues. Me! And my meddling that has deflected all the investigation from the true solution, and now the killer, once under lock and key, walks free again! Fled, fled to London. Oh, no. The newspaper. The note must have been fake. There is something else, something I am missing…”

  “But my lady,” Ruby broke in at last. “She was held and she was subjected to scrutiny. She was originally from London, was she not? She is a poor woman and alone. Would you not flee, in her situation, the moment that you could? Does it prove her guilt, or just prove her defencelessness?”

  Cordelia toyed with the cooling cup of tea in front of her, and could not answer.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Gradually, the servants floated back into the kitchen. Cordelia ignored their sideways glances for as long as she could, but eventually she stood up and nodded at Stanley.

  “Thank you for your service,” she said. “You have done remarkably well, and I am very grateful. It has stopped raining, I believe. Will you escort me into town?”

  He lurched to his feet, his elbows jutting out as fought his gangly body to a stiff pose of attention. “My lady.”

  Ruby was on her feet then, too. “And I?”

  “No; my dresses need looking over. And I want to talk to Stanley further.”

  “But–”

  “You may fetch my gloves and bonnet, of course, Ruby. I shall meet you in the hallway. Come, Stanley.”

  “But–”

  Cordelia ignored Ruby’s sudden petulance, and sallied out of the kitchen, closely followed by Stanley. She heard Ruby say something indelicate, and Mrs Unsworth said something back but Ruby then pushed past them both at the doorway and ran the opposite way along the corridor to go up the servants’ stairs to Cordelia’s rooms.

  Mrs Unsworth appeared and started to say, “You come back here and…” but she stopped as Cordelia half-turned. Mrs Unsworth’s face was purple but she retreated back into the kitchen.

  Soon, Cordelia was striding out, pattens on her feet to keep her skirts clear of the mud. There were puddles all along the road, the rain unable to soak away quickly because the ground was so dry from long days of hot sun. It was pleasantly refreshing to be in the sparkling post-storm air, even if it did mean a deal more work for Ruby upon Cordelia’s return.

  Stanley walked a half-pace behind, and did not presume to initiate any conversation.

  She had no destination in mind. She simply wanted to walk. After a short while of mulling things over, she said, “Stanley, what do you think about the murder of Thomas Bains?”

  “I don’t know, my lady.”

  “You do. You think on these things.”

  “I think about my immortal soul, mostly,” he said morosely.

  “Please, speak freely. You do not think that the
doctor is responsible?”

  “I do not, my lady. He has sinned, it is true. But not as a killer. Still, it is not for me to judge.”

  “But judge we must, here on this earth,” she insisted. “It is a matter of justice, as I said to you before.”

  “And that justice is for better people than I to pursue,” he said.

  “Are we not all equal before God?” she said. She hoped she didn’t sound as if she were mocking his fervent beliefs.

  “We are, but we all have our allotted stations in life. Some are given to lead and others to follow, my lady. We may be equal in our souls but certainly we cannot be all the same in our duties or our positions. If all are kings, who then serves?”

  Who indeed. “But Geoffrey is encouraging you to think higher,” she said.

  “He does but he thinks only of material things.”

  “Are you never tempted?”

  He paused before he stammered out, “Always, my lady. By many things both mundane and terrifying. But I pray on the Lord and I will be saved, if He wills it so. He lends me strength in hard times.”

  “That strength had to be within you anyway,” she said.

  “No, my lady. I achieve nothing with Him.”

  “Hmm.” All her years of Bible study and regular Church attendance had made little impression on her; the long debates that appeared in the press held no interest for her. She was interested, however, in how faith made Stanley act and think. She said, on an impulse, “What do you think about Hugo Hawke?”

  “I respect him as a gentleman,” Stanley said stiffly.

  “And as a human?”

  “He is a gentleman,” he repeated, and she wondered if he thought those things were mutually exclusive.

  “Should I marry him?” she asked. “Accept my fate and be done with it all?”

  He was silent and she thought she might have pushed him too far. But when she glanced at him, she saw he was deep in contemplation.

  “It is not good for you to be on your own,” he said at last. “Though if you were to throw yourself into good and charitable works, as many widows do, then that would be the best option of them all.”

  “I ought to be a philanthropist rather than marry?” she asked.

  “You ought to be a philanthropist rather than marry Mr Hawke,” he said, correcting her and stammering dreadfully. He began to apologise but she cut him off.

  “No, I understand. Thank you.”

  “But if it comes down to temptation, and if that is becoming too strong, then you must marry,” he said in a rush.

  They walked on. Temptation, she thought. That word again. “Temptation comes in many forms.”

  “Money, most of all,” Stanley said.

  “Indeed it does.” Oh yes. Money.

  They came to the outskirts of the town. She stopped and said, “I think we will turn back here. Thank you for your company.”

  He muttered a reply and they began to wander back to the manor house. Her pace slowed. She felt heavy, as if she did not want to return.

  “Stanley, do you know anything of Mrs Hurrell?”

  “Nothing, my lady. Save that she was the landlady where Thomas Bains was killed.”

  “She holds a mystery too.”

  “But she is gone, as they did say.”

  “Back to where she came from,” Cordelia said. She gave a groan of frustration. “Oh! I should have sent you to London to ask about her, not had you running to Liverpool to dig up dirt on a man who is guilty of mistakes but not of murder. I have erred and time is short. I may have lost Clarfields on this wild goose chase.”

  “I can travel to London if you wish.”

  It was tempting but she sighed deeply. “Do you think there is any point?”

  “It is not for me to say, my lady.”

  Oh, the frustrating and pious little … she shook her head. No, Stanley was as Stanley was. What tempted him, she wondered as they completed the journey in silence.

  And what was her own temptation?

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Maybe it was time to accept it was a woman’s lot in life to be forever in the dark, on the outside, not quite part of society; society was made by men, for men. The coroner and the sheriff had made up their minds about the murder. And so life moved on.

  Too quickly.

  It irked Cordelia beyond measure. There was no time to waste now. She took a hurried luncheon, and went straight back out again. She was not going to lurk around in conservatories, spending endless hours on pretty embroideries while she waited for some man that she didn’t even love to propose marriage to her. How ridiculous was that! And as for Hugo and his stupid wager … She shook herself free of it all, armed herself with her breeding and her determination, and resolved to ignore the feeling of constriction and doom that even now seemed to follow her as she strode along the gravel path that led away from Hugo’s manor.

  She wondered how Freda was getting on, and whether Ewatt had returned home and discovered the sideboard and the pile of bills. She let her feet carry her in the direction of their house, and instead of sinking into pointless introspection, she paid a closer attention to what she saw.

  She was beginning to see that the Carter-Halls were not as rich as they might like others to believe they were. Of course, so many people presented a false view to the world. The little she understood of business led her to understand that much money did not even exist in reality. Some companies were built entirely on a promise or an idea or possible future profits. And she could readily accept that Ewatt’s business interests waxed and waned, from periods of plenty to occasional famine. The newspaper article had shown her that. She felt sure she’d missed something there, but it was the news about Ewatt that stuck in her mind. The silly man ought to let his wife into his confidence, she thought crossly; so much trouble might be saved that way. If only people would speak plainly!

  She came to the wide gates that stood open, and stopped to look around her. The gates, indeed, were rusted at the hinges; never could they close. She let her eye wander down the sweeping driveway. Now she could see weeds at the edges of the path, and the grass lawn made a ragged line against the gravel. Ralph Goody would not allow such laxity.

  She studied the house. From this distance, it looked like any other. As she approached, however, she noted now the peeling paintwork on the window frames, and the scuffs on the stone steps. She had seen this before but now she looked with fresh understanding.

  The only thing of any cleanliness was a wooden post box which was affixed to the wall to the side of the door, and half-hidden by a round stone column that supported a balcony above the front door. It was freshly painted in blue. She was looking at it when she was surprised by the door opening, and Ewatt appeared.

  He seemed as startled to see her as she was to see him. “Did you ring?” he said, and then quickly followed that with, “I am sorry! How rude of me. I mean to say, good day to you, my lady Cornbrook … and also, did you ring?”

  “I did not. I was about to,” she said hastily.

  “Ah; good. I thought for a minute that one more thing had gone awry!”

  “I am curious as to your post box,” she said. “When the penny post came in, I sent for the carpenters directly and they cut a fresh smart hole in my door. Hugo has done the same at the manor. But you have created this; is it not easier to have your letters simply appear in your hallway?”

  He harrumphed, and then laughed. “What, let some wood-butcher hack a hole in my fine oak door? Nonsense, dear woman. Allow me some standards.”

  As if I have none. And that door is not oak; you must think my head is oak if you assume I will believe that. She smiled. “Of course.”

  A shadow crossed Ewatt’s face and he stopped smiling as he looked at the box. “I am sad to say, though, that it is a poignant reminder of that poor lad who died. It was Thomas who came to fit it for me.”

  “Indeed? And have you heard; no one is to be tried for the murder.”

  “I heard
. It does not seem right, in truth, but I suppose they know the facts. Anyway!” He jerked his head up and forced a smile back onto his face. “Enough of this maudlin talk. What of you? Is this a social call? Are you staying longer with old Hugo? Has he made an honest woman of you yet?”

  She wondered if he knew of the wager that had been drawn up after his drunken departure. She decided she didn’t want to become the topic of new gossip yet so she smiled as enigmatically as she could.