by Darcie Wilde
“I was tempted to put on black.” She adjusted her plain skirts. “I wasn’t sure it would be appropriate, though. But what on earth is appropriate when one’s supposed lover has been murdered, and one’s husband is in jail for it? I don’t suppose you’ve come with any news?” she added hopefully. “I’ve written the lawyers. As a wife, I cannot . . . I cannot engage an attorney to save my husband,” she added in a whisper. “Ridiculous, is it not? But I do not have the authority. I must hope my brother-in-law will make some effort. Until then, I’m dependent on you.”
Rosalind took a deep breath. “And I am dependent on you, Mrs. Seymore,” she said. “Have you searched for the accusing letters yet?”
Margaretta blinked at her, confused for a moment. Was it possible she’d been drinking?
“And people call me hard-hearted,” Mrs. Seymore murmured. “My husband has gone to jail, Miss Thorne, after doing all he could to keep me and . . . our family safe. I have not had the strength nor the heart to go riffling through his things.”
Her exhaustion was genuine. Rosalind could read it in every line of her face and her form. But Rosalind could not let her rest. “Mrs. Seymore, regardless of your husband’s guilt or innocence in this matter, your friendship with Fletcher Cavendish and your husband’s intent to file for criminal conversation are now public knowledge.”
“William was going to withdraw the suit! He said so!” she cried. “He stood up and said so!”
“That doesn’t matter and you well know it,” replied Rosalind firmly. “He is going to his trial. The attorneys for the crown will be at their work. You must have those letters in your hands. Once they leave this house, they leave your control and we cannot in any way predict what use will be made of them, especially as we do not know what’s in them.”
And I do not know if these letters are real, or another lie made up to get me on your side.
“How could they leave this house?” asked Mrs. Seymore. “The doors are locked, Mrs. Nott is on the watch . . .”
“Attorneys, Mrs. Seymore, bribe servants. They do it to get evidence or speculation that they can make use of at the trial. Your servants will be offered money and drink and whatever else men can think of, and these men will be after souvenirs at best, evidence at worst.”
The silence of the room seemed to press more closely against them. The servants were not there. They were in their own homes, or at the funeral procession, or in the public houses, where the loyal and watchful Mrs. Nott would never see them.
They might have already taken what they could with them. The temptations would be extraordinary.
“You must also consider that the author of those letters may know something about Mr. Cavendish’s death.”
Clearly, Margaretta had not thought of it. Her view had been narrowed by the press of the circumstances around her in the past few days. “Of course, of course,” she murmured. “You are right.”
Moving with more energy than she had since Rosalind had entered the house, Mrs. Seymore pulled a ring of keys from the desk drawer. “We’ll begin with his study.”
And so they did. The study and the desk, and the bookroom and its other desk, as well as the captain’s separate dressing room. Rosalind had not had a chance to see so much of the house before. It was all as elegant as those few rooms she had already been admitted to. The bookroom was especially well furnished. Spanish wood carvings and vases of Italian glass stood on the shelves alongside the books. There was a map case surmounted by a globe, and an elaborate framed chart of the Mediterranean on the wall.
On the desk lay two slender letter openers with silver and enamel handles.
Mrs. Seymore saw Rosalind looking at them.
“They are copies,” she said. “I bought them myself in Jermyn Street, a year ago. No, two, I think. William likes pretty things. I can probably show you the receipt, if you give me time to find it.”
“There is no need,” said Rosalind. But as she turned away, she could not help but wonder who else had seen those copies.
Mrs. Seymore searched the drawers and the boxes. She unlocked the closets to pull open those drawers and move the shirts and coats to search for possible hiding places. Rosalind watched her. Margaretta’s face was drawn tight and her movements were sharp, nearing frantic at some points. Her mouth moved silently as she whispered angrily to herself.
If the letter she had given Rosalind was a fake, she would be acting now, and if she was acting, it was an extremely skilled performance. But then, Rosalind knew the woman was very good at this sort of show.
When nothing was found, they agreed they should return to the study and search again. Like the bookroom, the study was decorated with maps and charts and globes. But there were no ledgers such as Rosalind was used to seeing in the private room of a man with a household to keep. The only letters they found were from Sir Bertram, or from bill collectors.
Mrs. Seymore unearthed a final stack of these from the bottom drawer of the mahogany desk. She flipped quickly through them, only to throw them down on the desk in disgust.
“Nothing,” she declared. She was looking around as she spoke, for the letters or for some inspiration, Rosalind could not say.
“Could he have kept them with his brother?” Rosalind asked. “Or at his club?”
“Possibly, but there’s no way to find out, is there?” Margaretta threw out her hands. “Oh, leave it to William to help hang himself!”
The frustration was genuine. Mrs. Seymore stood with her hands on her hips and her mouth compressed as she glowered at the room around them. The pose was unguarded. Rosalind wanted to believe that Mrs. Seymore truly did not know where the letters were. But she did not know if she dared.
“Mrs. Seymore, tell me, have you seen Lord Adolphus since the trial?”
“Lord Adolphus? No. He’s written, of course, but he’s needed at home today. Why do you ask?”
“The night before the inquest, Lord Adolphus gave me a hundred pounds,” Rosalind told her. It was a risk, because Mrs. Seymore was an accomplished liar and because of that resemblance to Lady Weyland that Rosalind still did not understand. “At the time, he said it was for a charity I was collecting for, but he made the draft out to me personally. I gave the money back to him at the trial, because I was uncertain as to his real reasons for offering it. It was after that he gave his testimony.”
“Well, surely it was no surprise Lord Adolphus was called as a witness,” said Mrs. Seymore slowly.
“Yes, it was. A great surprise. Mr. Harkness had not mentioned him once. If Ada . . . If he had known Lord Adolphus had been at the theater that night, he would have said something, even if only during his testimony.”
“You think Lord Adolphus gave his testimony because you gave him back his money? That is a significant assumption, Miss Thorne.”
“I know it. That’s why I’m telling you about it. I’m wondering if you can offer any other explanation.”
“None whatsoever. But you have your suspicions, I can tell.”
“I believe Lord Adolphus was bribing me to prevent me from looking too closely at his mother and his brother in regards to Mr. Cavendish’s murder.”
Mrs. Seymore’s cheeks grew pale. “What has that to do with the letters?”
“I wonder if Lord Adolphus might have convinced Captain Seymore to give them over for safekeeping.”
“Why would he do that?” whispered Mrs. Seymore. “No. Never mind. I know why.”
Rosalind pictured Miss Vaughn. She pictured Lady Weyland and the marquis, and she remembered Lord Adolphus’s face as he spoke of working so long and so quietly to keep the family name above reproach.
From the grim lines on Mrs. Seymore’s face, Rosalind could tell she was thinking of something similar. Margaretta crossed the room and rang the bell.
“Mrs. Nott,” said Margaretta as soon as the housekeeper entered and mad
e her curtsy. “Has Lord Adolphus been to the house in the past three days?”
Mrs. Nott’s eyes shifted left to Rosalind and then back to her mistress. “Yes, madam. He was here just before the—the inquest. You were napping and he did not like to disturb you. He said he wished to make sure the captain was all right, and that he was ready to face the court. He had, I think, some notion the captain might try to run away.”
“Did you see Captain Seymore give him anything?” asked Rosalind. “Or notice him carrying anything away?”
This was a mistake. She’d been too hasty. Mrs. Nott drew herself up. “What happens between his lordship and my master is not my concern.”
“But it is mine,” snapped Mrs. Seymore. “Please, Mrs. Nott. Did you see anything?”
Mrs. Nott’s thin mouth twitched. She wanted to speak, but in the end, she shook her head. “I’m truly sorry, madam,” she said. “I saw nothing.”
Mrs. Seymore’s eyes glistened with anger and tears. For a moment Rosalind thought she would shout at her servant, but she just turned away, pressing her hands against her belly.
“Thank you, Mrs. Nott,” said Rosalind.
Mrs. Nott’s jaw worked itself back and forth for a moment, but she kept her silence, curtsied once, and took her leave.
As soon as the door closed, Mrs. Seymore started for the desk. “I will write to Adolphus,” she said. “I’ll ask him about the letters.”
Rosalind put a hand on Margaretta’s arm. “I think perhaps you should not.”
“Why?”
“The letters have become the loose thread in this entire knotted problem,” Rosalind told her. “At the beginning, they appeared to be driving the events. But the longer we have gone on, the more they have appeared out of place.” She stopped and marshaled her nerves.
“Mrs. Seymore, is there anything you want to tell me about these letters? Or about your relationship with Lord Adolphus or Lady Weyland?”
Rosalind waited. Mrs. Seymore searched her face, looking for hints or cracks or flaws that she might work upon. Rosalind made very certain she would see none.
But she did see the moment Margaretta made her decision.
“I think we should leave it,” Mrs. Seymore said. “What good will bringing these letters to the attention of Bow Street or the attorneys do for the captain? I did not recognize the handwriting in the one I found. Without knowing the author, their contents will just become fodder for the case against William.”
“But we might still discover who wrote them,” said Rosalind. “You said yourself that you are not in regular correspondence with most of Captain Seymore’s relatives, and they are the ones with the greatest interest in disrupting your marriage. It is also possible that the handwriting has been disguised. There are, however, persons who can detect such disguises and accurately discern one hand from another. I am going to meet such an expert shortly.”
Rosalind watched Mrs. Seymore’s face as she turned away. She watched how Margaretta pressed her palm against her forehead and against her mouth.
“Forgive me,” Margaretta said. “I keep hoping this will get simpler, but it does not.”
“Lies never do, Mrs. Seymore.”
“You still believe I am the one lying to you?”
Rosalind didn’t answer that. She couldn’t. Because Mrs. Seymore was right. Because Rosalind could not turn away from the possibility that Mrs. Seymore herself had written the defamatory letter Rosalind carried.
CHAPTER 33
The Guilty Man
And how many soever be found culpable by inquisition, in any manners aforesaid, they shall be taken and delivered to the sheriff and shall be committed to the gaol.
—John Impey of the Inner Temple,
The Practice of the Office of Coroner
The smell was the first thing anyone noticed about a prison. It coiled out of the doorway as soon as the keeper unlocked the portal. Next was the damp that slid over the skin as if it were a property of the darkness itself.
Harkness followed the jailer, a squat little man with dirty pores and one tooth left to him, down into the cell where they’d taken Captain Seymore after the verdict had been pronounced.
He did not do this thing. Harkness had stood in front of Townsend in his private office. The inquest had finished and the station was all but empty of men, most of whom were out trying to clear the crowds from the street and from in front of the theater.
That’s a matter for the courts now, Mr. Harkness, said Mr. Townsend. Don’t you worry. If he’s innocent, he’s only to explain himself. Not a man on that jury doesn’t know what it’s like to be blind drunk.
Despite this, when Harkness left the house this morning, he pointed his steps not to Bow Street, but to Newgate Prison. Now he stepped past the jailer into the foul little basement cell where Captain Seymore had spent the night.
No one had paid for the captain’s comforts. The barred room was empty of blankets, bedding, or baskets of food, such as were often found among prisoners who had family to care for them or the means to buy extra privileges.
Captain Seymore lay on the bare mattress, his burly arms wrapped around himself, blinking up at the ceiling. He did not get up as Harkness walked into the cell.
If it was not suicide, it was either the captain or Mrs. Seymore, Townsend had told Harkness. They were the only ones there at the time. And even your Miss Thorne does not truly believe it was Mrs. Seymore.
They were the only ones seen, Harkness had shot back. Have you been inside that place? You could hide Napoleon and his whole army in there!
Then find me the little corporal, replied Townsend. And I will cheerfully arrest him. But I will not see a lady dragged into the mire when it is not necessary.
“I’ve been in worse, you know,” Captain Seymore said finally, more to the ceiling than to Harkness. “The Leopard, now that was a foul, stinking ship. At least I know this berth will not drown me.”
“I’ve come to talk to you about what happened at the inquest,” said Harkness. He should not be here. He had no reason to come talk with this man. His part in this business was at an end. And if Townsend found out . . . he’d have to sit through a reprimand at best. At the worst he’d be posted to Bath or somewhere like it for the winter.
But Harkness could not let the thing go. Not yet.
There was nowhere to sit except for the bed, so Harkness kept his feet. “What you said to your wife in parting—‘Well done, Margaretta’—what did you mean by it?”
“Just what I said.” There was a grated slit of a window in the far wall. Seymore stared out at the falling rain, watching the pools collect on the sill and trickle down the wall.
“Do you believe Mrs. Seymore wanted to throw the blame on you?”
Seymore made no answer. He showed no effect of the cold, reminding Harkness yet again that this was a sailor in front of him.
“Mrs. Seymore has said you’d been receiving anonymous letters, supposedly detailing her affair.”
“Yes.”
“Did you keep them? Where are they?”
A tight smile formed on the captain’s face. “Those letters were burnt.”
“Why? If you were planning on filing for criminal conversation, they would have been evidence.”
“Because I changed my mind about the suit, as I told you, and so they became meaningless. I burnt them,” he repeated firmly. “The night before the inquest.”
Harkness stared at the man, who in his turn stared at the rain with dull eyes. “You are telling me you believe your wife might be a murderess, but not an adulteress?”
“I don’t know what I believe anymore,” the captain replied, and in his voice Harkness heard that flat despair that was worse than any rage. “Perhaps that’s what makes it so easy to simply choose to hang.”
“I cannot believe, sir, that such a man as you would want t
o see his enemy escape.”
Seymore swung his legs off the bed. Grime smeared his white breeches. His queue had come loose and his fringe of hair hung loose about his ears. No man looked good in the jail’s gloom, but the captain looked flushed. Harkness wondered if he had a fever.
Seymore’s hard eyes raked Harkness up and down. “You never loved beyond your station, did you, Harkness? You never looked up and saw the moon and wanted it for yourself.”
Harkness made no answer to this.
“Well, let me tell you, sir, it’s all well and good, until the moon comes and offers herself to you. Then you’ve got to keep her, and give her all she wants, and you’ve got to keep giving it. You know that if you falter, if you fail, she’ll just launch herself right back into the sky. And there you’ll be, with your arms empty and no way to call her back. You may take it from me, sir, that is when you simply . . . give up.”
“So you want to hang?” demanded Harkness.
The captain shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, does it? Career’s done. Wife’s what she is. My brother’s actually rubbing his hands at the thought of having me out of the way, and if there ever was a person who did . . . who could . . . it’s too late. Why not hang and be done?”
“Only one reason. So they all know in the end you wouldn’t be beaten by their tricks.”
Swinging at a man’s pride was low, but it tended to work. Not this time, though. Captain Seymore just raised his eyes back to the grating, and the falling rain.
“There is one other thing you should know, sir,” said Adam. “Mrs. Seymore is still trying to find out who killed Fletcher Cavendish.”
That turned the captain around. “Is she?”
“She’s written to Mr. Townsend about posting a reward and she is . . . employing certain agents to assist in the matter.”
Seymore stared at him blankly. “Well, good luck to her then,” he said harshly. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m tired.” With that, the captain lay back down on his bed, wrapped his arms around himself, and closed his eyes.
Harkness wanted to shake the man, to beat him about his fool head until he woke up and made some effort to save his own life. But in the end all Adam could do was pound on the door for the jailer. The man arrived, clanking his keys to let Harkness out and lock the iron-banded door after him.