by Darcie Wilde
“Hardly surprising,” Alice said.
“True. But that feeling might come from personal experience.”
“Ouch.” Alice winced. “There’s a thought. How would it relate to the death of Fletcher Cavendish, though?”
“It would mean Mrs. Seymore has a great deal to hide. We both know that a woman’s ability to make her way in the world rests heavily on her personal reputation.” Rosalind thought back to her initial meeting with Mrs. Seymore in her own little parlor and all that had been said there. “We do know—or at least Margaretta did say—that marriage to the captain moved her into a better class of society than she was used to.”
“Being cousin to a marquis will do that. But it does hint at a humble origin for Margaretta.” Alice leaned forward. Now that she had a riddle to solve, her earlier distress vanished entirely. The newswoman’s blood was up in her veins and her eyes were shining. “And one that she might well want to keep hidden. It’s one thing to be the natural daughter of Charles II or one of the royal dukes . . .”
“But quite another to be exposed as the natural daughter of a green grocer.”
“And attorneys have been known to bribe all manner of persons for information, especially during a criminal conversation trial.”
The women sat in silence for a long moment, turning these ideas over in their minds.
“The question is, Alice, what inspired Margaretta to tell that story of suicide?” said Rosalind at last. “Was she just trying to take advantage of circumstances, or did she have that story ready beforehand? If it is decided Cavendish killed himself, that’s what everyone will want to talk about. Margaretta herself becomes a figure in that drama, which will limit speculation about her personally.”
Alice nodded. “It’s notorious drama, but it would be far more acceptable than being gossiped about as being an adulteress or a bastard.”
“But was she cold enough to have thought all this through before she came to you?” Rosalind remembered the captain’s rant. About his wife laying traps. About her making sure he was seen raging around the town.
“Rosalind,” said Alice seriously. “Are you asking if Margaretta not only killed Cavendish, but planned it from the very beginning?”
“Yes, Alice. That is exactly what I’m asking.”
CHAPTER 19
Of Matters to Be Held in Confidence
Little did the plaintiff anticipate the consequences. The husband very innocently, the wife most guiltily became the wretched victims of his arts and intrigues.
—The Trial of William Henry Hall vs. Major George Barrow
for Criminal Conversation
Rosalind returned to Little Russell Street on foot to save the cost of another carriage. Before she quitted Alice, though, the pair of them had together determined their own course of action.
“Could you find Margaretta’s mother?” Rosalind had asked Alice. “If her background is important, that is where we should begin.”
“Maybe,” Alice had replied. “It would be of help to know when and where she was married, though.” The church records would list the bride’s maiden name, as well as the names and occupations of her parents. If Margaretta really was an orphan as she claimed, that would be listed, too.
“I am to visit Mrs. Seymore’s sister-in-law with her tomorrow as her witness and sympathetic supporter,” Rosalind said. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
“That’s a visit that should prove interesting.”
“Very. And perhaps I will also be able to learn some more about the captain himself.”
The fact of having a practical and simple scheme had sustained Rosalind for much of her walk, but the effects of a near-sleepless night and an agitated morning soon caught up with her. By the time she entered her narrow front hall, she was bone-weary and half-starved. She stood passively while Mrs. Kendricks removed her coat and bonnet.
“I’ve laid a tray in the parlor, miss,” Mrs. Kendricks said. “And the fire’s nice and warm. I knew you would need something after the day you’ve had.”
“You were very right, Mrs. Kendricks.” I need a stomach powder. A fresh past. A different decision.
“I’ll bring the tea in at once.”
And a pot of tea, of course. Rosalind felt an absurd urge to laugh, but all she said was, “Thank you. In the meantime, I will write to . . .” She paused. She had made the determination somewhere between Covent Garden and Great Russell Street, but she was gripped by a sudden reluctance to say it out loud. “I will write to Lord Casselmain. He’ll hear all that happened soon, and he will worry.”
“An excellent idea, miss,” said Mrs. Kendricks promptly.
“But should Mr. Harkness arrive, you may show him in at once,” Rosalind said, and she took herself into the parlor without looking back. She did not want to see Mrs. Kendricks’s expression just then.
The door closed and what strength Rosalind had found while she was helping bolster Alice’s spirits deserted her. The events of the day were almost too much to be borne, let alone comprehended. For the first time in a very long time, Rosalind felt herself on the verge of tears.
Fortunately, she was provided with the basic, practical remedy for any encroaching attack of hysteria. Rosalind sat in her comfortable chair by her comfortable hearth and helped herself to the supper tray Mrs. Kendricks had set out. The ragout, bread, and cheese quickly warmed her body and settled her mind, allowing her to think through all that she had seen and heard, as well as the very many things she had not. She brought out the note where she had written down the captain’s disjointed distress, along with the letter from Sir Bertram which she had surreptitiously acquired. She laid these side by side so she could look at them both again while she ate stewed fruit and custard and drank the tea that Mrs. Kendricks brought.
Rosalind wondered what Captain Seymore told Mr. Harkness while they were at Bow Street. He might have torn Mrs. Seymore’s story to shreds, simply because he hadn’t his wife’s quickness of thought, or her powers of persuasion.
What, wondered Rosalind, will she do then? The answer, of course, would depend entirely on whether Margaretta had committed the murder, or if she was trying to protect herself from the person who did.
Or if it was someone else who killed Fletcher Cavendish, for reasons none of them could yet see.
A cold shudder ran down Rosalind’s spine. She laid aside her napkin and picked up her teacup to take to her writing desk. She got out a sheet of paper, dipped her quill in her ink, and began her letter to Devon. It was not a polished or a carefully considered letter, and Rosalind tried not to think too much as she sanded and sealed it. If she let herself hesitate, she might be tempted to throw the letter into the fire instead of ringing for Mrs. Kendricks to come take it away. She shouldn’t even be writing to Devon directly. It wasn’t proper. She should be writing to Louisa or Mrs. Showell and decorously asking them to mention whatever she wanted him to know.
Rosalind felt her patience fray that much further.
The church bells were sounding the hour in the distance. Much more closely, the doorbell jangled. Rosalind lifted her head. She heard a man’s voice, and had just enough time to compose her expression before Mrs. Kendricks opened the door and announced Mr. Harkness.
“Miss Thorne.” Mr. Harkness’s bow was straight and correct, and rather compact. He was not an overly large man, but he still seemed to fill her small parlor. “I apologize for calling during your dinner hour.”
“I was quite finished, Mr. Harkness.” She curtsied. “How very good to see you again. Won’t you please sit down?”
“Thank you.”
“May I get you a cup of tea? Something to . . .” But as she gestured toward her tray, she saw it was entirely empty. “Oh.”
He smiled. “Don’t worry. I would have been here sooner, but I stopped off at home on my way and my mother insisted I eat before I left a
gain.”
“I did not realize you lived with your mother,” said Rosalind as Mrs. Kendricks came in to bring a fresh cup and clear away all the unnecessary items.
“My mother, my widowed sister, her two children, and my three younger brothers,” he told her while she fixed the new cup. She remembered exactly how he liked his tea, which was somehow quite disconcerting.
“It sounds like a very full house,” she said before she could dwell on that for too long.
“Sometimes you cannot move for the sheer weight of Harknesses. I’ve threatened to arrest the lot of them on a rotating basis to create a little peace.”
Rosalind smiled, and covered the silence that followed by filling her own cup.
“George Littlefield came to find me,” said Mr. Harkness when she turned to face him again.
“Alice said he’d gone to the station.” The tea had been sitting for a while and was quite strong. Rosalind found herself grateful for the bitter taste. It helped burn away some of her weariness.
“How is Miss Littlefield? Her brother was worried.”
“She was much better when I left her. Righteous indignation has always done wonders for Alice’s constitution.” Rosalind paused until she was certain she could keep her voice even. “I trust George told you I was at supper with Mr. Cavendish, and that the captain burst in on us?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Does Mr. Townsend know this?”
“He does, and he knows I am here speaking with you. Mr. Townsend is anxious that the correct story be established as soon as possible.”
“The correct one?” Rosalind was conscious of a distinct disappointment. “Then he really does believe the tale Mrs. Seymore told you?”
“I don’t know.” Mr. Harkness frowned at his teacup as well as his thoughts. “I think he wants to believe it, but that might become more difficult once he learns about the criminal conversation suit. I do know he hasn’t closed the books on this yet, and that should worry your friend.”
“She is not my friend,” said Rosalind at once.
Mr. Harkness nodded once, acknowledging this. “Leaving aside the lawsuit, how badly did Mrs. Seymore lie to Townsend?”
“It’s difficult to say,” admitted Rosalind. “She was careful to weave her story around things I could not have seen. That story, however, was very different from the one she told me when I first got to her house, or the one she told when she first came to see me.”
Harkness leaned forward until his elbows rested on his knees. His eyes glittered with intensity.
“Tell me,” he said.
Rosalind did. She told him about her first meeting with Mrs. Seymore, the dinner with Mr. Cavendish, and the captain’s appearance. She told him how she received Mrs. Seymore’s note at the first light of morning, and how Mrs. Seymore had appeared when Rosalind arrived at the house, and all she had said then.
Mr. Harkness listened, silently and intently. Rosalind found herself wanting to lean closer and pull away in equal measure. She found herself remembering the last time she’d been alone with this man, and how she had felt then. She wanted to close her eyes. She wanted not to feel half of what was inside her.
She wanted to remember she had written to Devon not above an hour ago, and how very badly she’d wished he was the one who could be with her now.
It wasn’t until Rosalind finished her story that Mr. Harkness spoke again. “I assume from what you’ve said you did not know Mrs. Seymore planned to tell the story of Mr. Cavendish’s despair and suicide?”
He spoke calmly, steadily, as was his usual manner. It was the words he chose that stirred Rosalind to a soft smile.
“Thank you, Mr. Harkness.”
“For what?”
“For not asking whether I advised Mrs. Seymore to spin that tale.”
“Miss Thorne,” he said with mock sternness. “We’ve only known each other a short time, but I know you well enough to understand you would never advise one of your ladies to spin a story straight out of the Sunday serials. If for no other reason than I hope you have a higher opinion of my intelligence.”
“Much higher, sir,” she agreed seriously.
“Tell me more about Mr. Cavendish. You saw him before he died. Did he say or do anything that made you think he was a man in despair?”
“Hardly,” replied Rosalind. “If I am sure of anything, it is that the Fletcher Cavendish I saw would never kill himself over a woman, or anything else.”
Mr. Harkness turned his head so he regarded her from the corner of one eye. “I imagine you’ve kept this anonymous letter Mrs. Seymore gave you?”
Rosalind was already moving toward her desk to hand it to him. Mr. Harkness quirked an eyebrow at her but said nothing as he unfolded the paper. He took his time reading it, as Rosalind had been sure he would.
“It’s short on details,” he remarked at last.
“Mr. Cavendish said it would do for the provinces, but not the capital.”
“I expect he was correct.” He paused, scanning the lines yet again. “You said you showed this to Cavendish, but he did not recognize it. No one had sent a similar letter to him?”
“No. And I . . . looked for other letters when I was in the Seymores’ house,” Rosalind told him. “I did not find any more of this variety, but I did acquire this.” She gave Mr. Harkness the second letter, the one she knew to be from Sir Bertram.
Mr. Harkness read this letter through as thoroughly as he had the first. “Taken together, these would be more than enough to enrage a jealous man.” He folded both papers carefully and handed them back. “Do you believe the captain could have done it?”
Rosalind considered this. “I think Captain Seymore is a bully, but I think if it came to any kind of a fight, Cavendish would have the better of it, and him. I assume you will be obliged to tell the coroner about the letters and the suit when you give evidence at the inquest?”
“Not necessarily,” he told her. “The inquest will mostly be limited to how Cavendish died, and who might have been there when it happened and whether they could have committed the act. Whys and wherefores, and evidence for and against, will all be saved for the trial, assuming there is one.”
Rosalind felt her brow furrow. “I wonder if she knew that.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I wonder if Mrs. Seymore knew that the letters would only be brought up if there was a trial, and so she felt safe keeping them secret, because the rest of her scheme involved making sure there was no trial.”
“You’ve said it, but you don’t look like you agree with yourself,” remarked her guest, and Rosalind suspected he was trying not to smile at her.
“I don’t,” she said flatly. “It’s too convoluted, Mr. Harkness. I am confused, and I am angry, and I don’t enjoy either state of being.”
He picked up his cup again and frowned into the clouded depths.
“You do not look pleased,” said Rosalind.
Mr. Harkness shook his head. “I’m confused as well, Miss Thorne. I saw the dressing room where Cavendish died. If a drunken man attacked him, there should have been signs of a struggle. But there were none. When he was killed, his coat was off and his shirt open. If he had been surprised in the act of dressing, or undressing, perhaps he would have died without struggle. But why would he be dressing or undressing at that time? It was late. If our information is accurate, he was planning to spend the night at his hotel. I spoke to the night manager of the King’s Arms before I came here. He said Mr. Cavendish had only gone back to the theater to retrieve a book.”
“That’s what he told Mrs. Seymore, too.” Rosalind considered this, and the way Mr. Harkness’s jaw tightened. “Do you suspect an assignation?”
“It fits. It might not have been with Mrs. Seymore, but with someone. We know he enjoyed . . . the society of women.”
“B
ut why would he meet one in his dressing room, when the very comfortable hotel where he had an understanding with the management was a few minutes’ walk away? Not to mention the fact that he’d specifically arranged to meet Mrs. Seymore that evening?”
“These things do happen.”
“Then, what is it you think?” asked Rosalind. “Do you think that Mrs. Seymore surprised Mr. Fletcher and this theoretical other woman and killed him for it?”
“I will ask you the same question I asked about Captain Seymore. Do you think Mrs. Seymore could have killed him?”
“I was asking myself that this morning, Mr. Harkness, and I do not know. I will say this. No story she has told so far hints at hidden jealousies. Her concern has been entirely about her relationship with her husband and his family, and her fears for the future of her child.”
For one of the few times in their eventful acquaintance, Mr. Harkness looked genuinely startled. “There’s a child?”
“The captain did not mention it? Mrs. Seymore is with child.”
“With child,” Mr. Harkness repeated. “No, he did not mention it. And of course, if there’s a question of an affair, there’s a question of parentage.”
Rosalind nodded and Harkness grimaced. “All right. We will set aside the question of jealousy on Mrs. Seymore’s part, but not the possibility of a plan.”
“But if Mrs. Seymore planned to kill Fletcher Cavendish, the simplest and safest thing to do would be to allow the captain to be blamed for it.”
“Couldn’t that be why she came to you? To try to make sure as many people as possible knew about the criminal conversation suit and the rest of the captain’s jealous behaviors?”