by Amy Corwin
“Yes.” She tugged on his arm. “Will you please walk at a reasonable pace? I refuse to run all the way to Cavendish Square.”
“Of c-course, yes,” he agreed hastily. He moderated his long stride for two steps before pulling her forward again. He was obviously in a good mood and feeling confident, since his stutter had nearly vanished as he chattered about a pair of grays he was considering acquiring for his high-perch phaeton.
She sighed, took a deep breath, and rushed forward at a rapid walk that was really more of a run while he changed topics to the weather, horse racing, and any other topic that passed through his mind.
At the corner of Mortimer Street, Peregrine jerked to a quivering halt like a Spanish pointer spotting a pheasant in the field. “Isn’t that your friend, Miss Denholm, ahead of us?”
Sure enough, the majestic form of Miss Denholm strode forward at a clipping rate, the fluffy white plumes on her green silk bonnet waving well above the hats of the other pedestrians as her long stride carried her past them.
Rude though it might be, Olivia didn’t want to spend the afternoon providing Cynthia with a tour of the academy. She needed to make sure the rooms were clean and prepared for students, and she simply didn’t want the distraction of her friend’s boisterous presence.
“Yes—”
“If w-we hurry, we can catch her.” He yanked her forward a step.
She pulled back and stood flatfooted on the walkway, resisting her brother’s efforts long enough to see Miss Denholm disappear around the next corner. “There — she is gone now. No point in galloping after her.”
“We would have c-caught up with her if you’d hurried.” He flicked her a curious glance. “I thought she was your friend — one w-would think you didn’t even want to greet her.”
“Yes, one might think that,” Olivia answered sweetly, applying a gentle pressure to her brother’s arm to encourage him to proceed. She glanced at the gray sky above. Beneath the ever-present city odors of smoke and horses, she thought she could smell the crisp scent of snow on the moist, chilly wind that whipped past them. “However, I am sure Miss Denholm is as anxious to reach her destination as we are. There is snow in the air — I am sure of it.” She glanced sideways at Peregrine and grinned. “And I thought you were anxious to see the academy for the first time.”
“Certainly — just forgot about it for a minute.” His pace increased once more until she was trotting again to keep up with him.
When they finally turned onto Mortimer Street, she was breathing heavily, although she refused to give in to her breathlessness and kept her mouth clamped shut.
“You need a sign, Ollie,” Peregrine said as he opened the creaking gate for her. “Something with lots of gold and such.”
“A discreet bronze plague next to the door is quite sufficient. Once the academy is flourishing, that is.” She went past him to climb the three steps to the doorway and pulled a large keyring out of her silk damask reticule.
“You will never get students t-that w-way!” he exclaimed. “Here. Let me.” He grabbed the clanking ring of keys from her hand, pushed her aside, and opened the creaking door. He waved his right hand with a flourish. The leather soles of his boots crunched on the marble floor, and he glanced down briefly. “Enter at w-will, Ollie. All is w-well except for a bit of d-dust.”
Olivia entered, took the keys from his grasp, and returned them to her reticule. Despite the thick soles of her walking boots, she could feel the grit on the floor. Apparently, Mrs. Adams hadn’t been there to clean yet. That would have to be corrected before tomorrow. If she had to, she’d send Mary and a few of their maids first thing in the morning to at least sweep the floors and dust the furniture in her office, the sitting room, and the ballroom where lessons would be held.
“W-what now, Ollie?” Peregrine walked over to the staircase, and with his hand on the newel post and his right boot on the bottom step, he craned his neck to peer up into the shadows of the first and second floors.
While the staircase was wide and sturdy, no one could really call it grand. The right wall supported one side, and a long, curving wooden banister swept up on the left. Although there were no draperies on any of the windows, the townhouse seemed dim and gray. The air was musty. As they stood there, Olivia heard the splatter of rain hitting the stoop and windows.
Peregrine hastily ran to the front door and slammed it shut. “No sense letting the rain in, eh, Ollie? D-damp enough as it is.” He stared at the palms of his gloved hands and then rubbed off the dust he’d collected from the newel post before removing his gloves and shoving them in his pocket. He started to take off his hat only to stop when he found no handy table to lay it upon.
“I’m going up to my office.” She pulled off her own gloves and put them in her reticule, feeling slightly overwhelmed.
Was she really ready for this new endeavor? The notion sounded so exciting when she’d first envisioned it two years ago. Then her brother, Harnet, acquired the townhouse, and one thing led to another, and she was swept up in bringing her dream to reality.
All that time and she still hadn’t managed to get the floors swept and polished. The townhouse looked abandoned and dismal. Uninviting. And ladies were so particular. This was clearly unacceptable. She would definitely send Mary and at least one other maid to clean tomorrow morning. The charwoman could hand over the key Olivia had entrusted to her, and she’d find another woman to take care of the place.
Decision made, she squared her shoulders and strode to the staircase. “Do you want to come with me or explore?”
“Lead on, my d-dear sister. I am at your c-command.” He followed her and waited at the base of the staircase for her to precede him.
After a moment's thought, Olivia went up the stairs, removing her bonnet and shaking off the rain as she ascended to the first floor. She paused at the landing, shrugged her shoulders, and strode to her office. After all, she had three students, so she needed to make sure she had sufficient supplies for them. She could not expect the ladies to bring their own foils, even though she had suggested it.
“D-do you need me? I want to look around,” Peregrine said, already heading for the third floor.
“Go on.” She waved him away. “I will call if I need you.”
She opened the wide door and stepped inside. Even though there were no drapes to block out the sun, shadows filled the corners, and the room seemed damp and dark. Unpleasant. The air smelled terrible, and she crinkled her nose as she glanced around, trying not to breathe.
Metallic — the taste of old, dirty coins. She sneezed.
Her office was originally a large drawing room with windows overlooking the busy street below. The small panes of glass let in what little watery light there was, but it was not enough to make the room cheerful or inviting. Her brother, Wraysbury, had provided her with a large mahogany desk, several chairs, a wardrobe, and a huge cabinet to furnish her office. She kept her fencing costume and several foils locked inside the wardrobe and hadn’t decided what to do with the cabinet yet. The bulky thing seemed more suitable to hold brooms or gardening implements than grace an office, but she had so few items of furniture that she was glad to obtain anything she could use for the school.
Her income, while generous, was not sufficient to allow her to fully furnish the entire townhouse with the elegant pieces most ladies would be accustomed to seeing. So she’d happily accepted any discarded or castoff items her relatives saw fit to offer, including an absolutely repulsive marble angel with a simpering expression and broken wing that Peregrine had given her to use as a paperweight on her desk. She suspected he’d found it on a rubbish heap somewhere but wisely decided not to object as it was heavy enough to be useful.
She went to her desk, vaguely uneasy. The odd smell made her sniff and look around again. Maybe there were dead rats in the walls. She dug out a handkerchief from her reticule and held it to her nose. The faint odor of lavender clung to the fabric, but it couldn’t keep the unpleasant odor
of decay from catching in her throat.
The townhouse had been vacant for far too long. No wonder she felt as if something were wrong. There were probably a great many things wrong with the structure itself, as they would most likely discover if the rain continued.
There were probably mushrooms sprouting in the cellar and wood rot eating the eaves.
After tucking the acceptance letters from her students into the top drawer of her desk, she selected the key for the gigantic wardrobe where she kept her small hoard of fencing appurtenances. She unlocked the wide double doors and threw them open.
The first thing she saw was the marble cherub staring at her, sitting atop a mound of clothing. A strange pile of clothing, complete with boots. And hands.
She choked and slammed the door shut. Rapidly blinking, she pressed her hand to her pounding chest as she worked to slow her gasping breaths. Then she turned and eased open one of the wardrobe doors again. She peered through the crack.
The cherub's blank eyes stared back. Below the statuette was a dark jacket, gaping open to reveal a red brocade waistcoat and fawn breeches ending in boots. The clothes weren't empty, either, as evidenced by the grayish hands.
There is no head!
The marble statuette sat, smiling merrily, atop the shoulders.
She stifled a scream and stepped back, glancing down when her heel slipped. A sticky puddle of blood oozed around her boots. She hopped away, and couldn't help another muffled shriek at the sight of the crimson footprints she left behind. Panic tightened her chest.
“Ollie,” her brother called. “D-did you c-call me?”
She glanced up to see him grinning at her from the doorway. Her mouth worked, but she couldn't seem to speak.
“Olivia?” He stepped into the room, frowning. “W-what is it? D-dead mouse?”
She made a few inarticulate sounds before pointing a shaking hand at the wardrobe.
Peregrine strode forward but glanced down in time to halt before stepping in the puddle of gore. “Good Lord!” he exclaimed, before flushing. “Sorry. Apologies.”
Olivia finally found her voice. “The watch — we must send for the watch.”
“But w-who is he? W-what happened? D-did he attack you?”
“I didn't murder him! He was dead when I opened the wardrobe.”
“How c-could he be? T-the blood is w-wet.”
“I don’t know.” She stared at her brother. If he didn’t believe her, who would? She wanted to scream and be sick. Her throat constricted. “I don’t understand it. I found him this way.”
Peregrine glanced around the office and poked his walking stick into the shadowy corner behind the wardrobe. “T-there is no one here. Have you seen anyone?”
“No. Whoever did this must have gone out the servants’ entrance when we came in the front. It is the only answer.”
“W-what was he doing t-there? D-did you ask him to meet you here?”
“Of course I did not! I don't know why he was here.” She walked over and shut the wardrobe, careful to avoid the poor man's blood.
“W-who is he?”
“I don’t know!” Her voice rose shrilly. “How could I possibly know?” She swallowed and took a long breath.
He shrugged.
“We must send for the watch,” she repeated.
“I'll go,” Peregrine said. His gaze flicked around the room uncomfortably.
“You cannot. I will go.” Now that she'd had time to collect herself, she realized that sending Peregrine by himself might not be the best course of action.
Her brother would try valiantly to tell the authorities what had happened, but his stutter would make that difficult task impossible. Strong emotions always made him worse, and if he couldn’t speak properly, it would only upset him further and anger the watch.
“No.” He scowled at her. “You c-cannot go alone.”
“Well, I will not stay here alone.” Let him think she was terrified of remaining here with a dead body if he wanted to. At least it would prevent him from going.
Peregrine tried to swear, but his words came out as a staccato burst of incoherence, while his face grew redder and redder with frustration.
“Never mind.” Taking pity on him, Olivia went to the window and threw it open. The street below was still busy, and within seconds a well-dressed man in a black greatcoat walked rapidly along the walkway leading in front of the building.
“Sir,” she called. “Sir! Please, we need your assistance.”
The man glanced up, frowning. “Madam? I apologize, but I am in a hurry — I cannot stop.”
She stared down at his face, stunned.
Mr. Underwood looked up at her, his face pale with tension and eyes sunken in dark pools. “What is it?”
“Mr. Underwood!” she exclaimed. “What are you—”
“Lady Olivia — I apologize — I must go. I must fetch the doctor — it is urgent.” He took a step forward before she could stop him.
“Wait! Mr. Underwood — there has been a terrible accident,” she called to him, stretching out a hand as if she could grasp one of his greatcoat’s capes and bring him to a halt. “We need assistance.”
He glanced up again. “I cannot stop!” His voice was hoarse with urgency. “My wife — I must fetch the physician.” Despite his words, he stepped back and put a hand on the black gate, obviously torn between his frantic mission and basic politeness.
“I understand, but could you please send for the watch?” She paused, desperately wanting to request a physician as well, but it seemed cruel to force him to find two.
She couldn’t quite accept the fact that the man in the wardrobe was dead. She clung to the possibility that there might be a chance to resuscitate him if they obtained help for him.
“The watch?” The area around his mouth whitened as he pressed his lips into a thin line. “I must find a physician. There is no time.”
“Please. If you would send for the watch, I would be grateful.”
“If I find the watch, I will send him here.” He gripped the top edge of the black wrought iron gate briefly before he pushed himself forward. Head down against the buffeting of the wind, he strode forward, the black tail of his coat flapping behind him.
Olivia turned back to her brother. “Well, it should not be too long.” She glanced down at the scuffed wooden floor. “I spoke to Mr. Underwood—”
“Underwood!” Her brother stared at her, mouth agape.
“He looked terrible — he was in a panic.” She swallowed and took a deep breath. “He said he was going for a physician.” She remembered the bits and pieces of conversation she’d heard in the library and Mr. Underwood’s concern for his wife. “I hope Mrs. Underwood has not become ill.”
Peregrine nodded absently, a thoughtful frown on his face. The toes of his boots were less than two inches from the pool of blood. The thin red liquid was already turning dark as it dried.
She couldn't bear to remain in the room another minute. “We should wait downstairs.” She held out her hand to her brother.
He moved with alacrity into the hallway and stared at her in surprise when she stopped to lock the door behind them.
“Surely you d-don't expect him to get up and w-walk away,” he said, watching her with a critical eye, his mouth drooping with unhappy frustration.
“I did not expect him to die in my wardrobe, either, but it appears our expectations are doomed to disappointment.”
“Speak for your own expectations, d-dear sister. T-that poor d-devil in there is not w-walking anywhere.” Despite his words, he followed her down the stairs.
They waited in the gloomy entrance hall, pacing back and forth, before a loud knock rattled the door. Olivia and Peregrine exchanged nervous glances. Peregrine yanked open the door.
Several men stood crowded together on the stoop. The burly man in the center with a thick, bullish neck and glum expression stepped forward and glanced around. His small, black eyes cut from Peregrine to Olivia. His frown
deepened.
“I received a report that assistance was needed at this residence. An accident of some sort.” His deep voice seemed harsh and unnaturally loud in the silence of the old townhouse. He swept his shabby black hat off his head and bowed. “Constable Fred Cooke, Madam.”
Olivia nodded. “I am Lady Olivia Archer. This is my brother, Mr. Peregrine Archer.”
Mr. Cooke bowed again and brushed past Peregrine before gesturing to the men accompanying him. “This here is Mr. John Idleman, the coroner. And behind him are Mr. Andrews, Mr. Frome, and Mr. Jeffers.”
The coroner was a rail-thin, solemn man with hazel eyes and sparse gray-brown hair. He nodded and stepped into the hallway. “The physician, Dr. Campbell, was unavailable. I hope we may assist you in his stead, my lady. I have brought several men to assist, if it is necessary to move a gentleman.”
Olivia and Peregrine exchanged glances. “I don't know. That is, there is a man — I fear he may be deceased.”
“And where is this individual?” Mr. Cooke eyed Peregrine as if suspecting the young man were amusing himself with a joke at the constable's expense.
“Uh-uh,” Peregrine choked, unable to break through his stutter. He flushed a deep red, and his brows jutted out in angry ridges.
Cooke's gaze hardened, and he stepped forward, his hands fisted at his sides. “Well, sir? Where is this individual? I would hate to think you have wasted our time for your own amusement.”
“Uh, up...” Peregrine struggled to get the words out as his frantic gaze caught Olivia's.
Snickers whispered through the group of men, and several raised their hands to hide their laughter.
Peregrine’s flush deepened. His choking grew worse until Olivia stepped forward, inserting herself between the chuckling men and gripping her brother's shoulders. “Peregrine!” She gave his shoulders a shake. “Look at me.”
He looked at her before his gaze drifted past her shoulder to the man behind her. His eyes flashed with anger and frustration.
“Peregrine!” she ordered. “Take a deep breath.” She desperately wanted to speak for him, to take command, but she knew that would only make matters worse for her brother and take away whatever shred of pride he had left.