The Scottish Play Murder (A Restoration Mystery)

by Rutherford, Anne

  Finally he set the last letter aside and said, “Well, this certainly explains much.”

  “It rather suggests Larchford murdered Santiago. He also killed Angus, by the footprints in Angus’s room and the blood on Larchford’s shoes. Not to mention the several knife wounds on the victims.”

  “Unfortunately, this doesn’t go very far toward revealing who killed Larchford, which is by far the more important question. Nobody cares a whit about the Spaniard or the Scot. I’m hard-pressed by the crown to learn who had the temerity to do away with English nobility.”

  “Of course.” It was how the world worked. Some people were more important than others, and those who weren’t had to look after each other. She’d found Angus’s killer, and now wanted to know why Larchford had done it. She would also find the man who had bludgeoned the earl, because murder was murder and killing even a man who had killed two others in cold blood was wrong. But for the moment she had to pretend to agree that Larchford was more important than Angus. She said to Pepper, “It would be helpful to find out why Larchford killed Angus.”

  Pepper shook his head, and had to straighten his wig after. “We need to find out why Larchford himself was murdered. Then, of course, we’ll find his killer.”

  “If we knew why Angus was killed, we might have a better theory as to why Larchford was also done in, and who did it.”

  Pepper thought about that, then said, “We need to have another chat with Lady Larchford.”

  “What for?”

  “To learn what we might about this ship of his. Tomorrow I’ll go with a contingent of soldiers once more, and sit down with—”

  “Let me go. By myself.”

  He gave her a sideways look of strained patience. “Let us remember how well you did the last time you spoke to the Lady Larchford by yourself.”

  “I think she’s changed her attitude since then, Constable. You have demonstrated your power to get what you want in this case. She must realize now that resistance will only result in worse treatment. I think she’ll be far more cooperative than she was when I first spoke to her.” Suzanne skated around her real point, but never came out and said that Lady Larchford now saw Suzanne as an ally against him.

  Pepper never caught on. He said, “You think so? Are you certain you can get the information you want without armed men present?”

  “Absolutely, Constable. There’s no need to bother the king’s men again for this. The palace must weary of loaning you men for every little thing.”

  Pepper took another sip of brandy, then nodded. “Very well. Do come see me if she ejects you from her house again.”

  Suzanne nodded, but knew she would rather burn at the stake than ask Pepper for soldiers to harass Larchford’s widow.

  It happened that when Suzanne arrived at the enormous house of Larchford, the lady was in and receiving visitors. At least, she was receiving Suzanne, and that seemed promising. If Suzanne was careful in her questioning, she might get the information she was after without upsetting the widow. She’d seen how quickly Lady Larchford would shut down a conversation if she became upset.

  The footman escorted her into a small sitting room this time, rather more intimate than the one she’d first seen in this house. These chairs had arms and upholstery, and were situated near the hearth. There were fewer candles about the room, and though a bit of sunshine came through the tall windows, the corners were in shadow, making everything seem softer and a little more comfortable.

  The countess entered without the wide, theatrical sweep of presence she’d employed before. Suzanne turned and curtsied, as graceful and respectful as any noblewoman would have her. The countess gestured to a chair for Suzanne to sit, and then took the one opposite. She said, “I suppose you’ve come to tell me what was in those letters.” More direct than customary for a woman of her culture. Suzanne had the feeling she was seeing the real Lady Larchford today, and not the public persona of before.

  “In a way, my lady, I have. Though I can’t reveal at this time exactly what was in them, I can ease your mind that they are not letters from a mistress.” She left it at that, for Suzanne was certain she didn’t wish to let the woman know her husband was a murderer. Not only would that not accomplish anything, it might cause her to stop talking to Suzanne altogether. At their last meeting it was apparent the countess didn’t even know there had been other deaths in this business and it would probably be best to keep it that way.

  “Treason, then?” Terror sharpened her voice.

  Suzanne was at a loss for a reply, for surely at least one of the attacks Larchford’s ship had made would be called treason. Santiago and Larchford didn’t seem fussy about what they deemed prey, and the ship had attacked English, French, Spanish, and Dutch with equal enthusiasm. Her first foray had been against the king’s ship Merryman. Such a revelation, if made public, would be the end of the family’s reputation and the scandal would follow the current earl throughout his life. A charge of treason might result in the loss of his title and property as well. Suzanne said, “We don’t have all the necessary information to determine what happened, my lady. That’s why I’m here today, to learn what I can about it, and possibly head off any ugliness. Your son wouldn’t deserve to bear any stain that was not his doing.”

  Lady Larchford digested that for a moment, and seemed to accept that there was an irregularity afoot and it would be best if she didn’t know details. She then said, “Why would you protect me? Why have you done it already?”

  “As I said, I understand your predicament.” A pang of guilt chilled her that she must lie about her motives. But she was truthful when she said, “I wish to find out who killed your husband. Constable Pepper rather depends on me in some of these cases, and I sometimes find I can ferret out the truth more easily than he can.” She left out the fact that the reason she succeeded where Pepper often failed was that she bothered to ask questions and didn’t spend her days sucking on a brandy bottle.

  Lady Larchford nodded in understanding. Suzanne wondered why she didn’t ask more pointed questions, but at the same time was glad of it. Perhaps there was a possibility of keeping her promise of suppressing the scandal once all became known. Larchford was, after all, dead, in the hands of God and beyond the reach of earthly justice. The countess said, “There has always been a small pocket inside Henry he never let me see.”

  Suzanne suspected that small pocket was a great deal larger than Lady Larchford even knew, let alone would admit. She didn’t reply, and the countess continued. “When we were first married I knew nothing about him beyond that he had recently inherited his father’s title. His properties were not impressive, but when we married I could see he had great ambition. As a member of Parliament he intended to be a great maker of law. He saw the role of that great body of men as the natural heir to the power once held by kings. He could see himself becoming so influential in Parliament that he might eventually become Lord Protector himself.”

  “Which, of course, that dream died when the king returned.”

  “It did. But the ambition did not. When the style of the court changed so much as it did, and suddenly everyone was wearing rich fabrics and vibrant colors, and lace, satin, brocade, and fine leathers everywhere, even I knew we needed more money than we had in order to maintain our position among our peers. Piety and good works were no longer enough.”

  “Your husband abandoned his Parliamentary leanings and threw in his lot with the king.”

  “It was only politic. His path was clear. And by all evidence, he was successful. His business interests have clearly been graced by God.”

  Suzanne pressed onward. “Speaking of your husband’s business interests, I have come to ask about his ship.”

  The bald look of surprise on the countess’s face told Suzanne she wasn’t going to obtain a great deal of helpful information about the pirate ship. Her heart sank. The countess knew nothing. “What ship?”

  “Your husband owned a merchant ship. The letters you gave me
referred to it.”

  “He owned no such thing. He much preferred horses. A boat of any kind would have been out of the question. Henry never even liked to ride a barge on the river. It made him sick, you know. He could never keep his breakfast down, were he to ever step onto a floating craft no matter how large or how small.”

  “I assure you there was one.”

  “What was it called?”

  Suzanne stuttered a little, for the letters had never mentioned the name of it. “I was hoping you would be able to tell me.”

  The countess shook her head and her shoulders drew back once more in her defensive posture. “Well, I’ve never heard of Henry owning one.”

  “You know he engaged in merchant activity.”

  “He bought and sold goods.” She said it as if she were admitting he’d dug ditches for the money it had taken to build his house.

  “What better way to transfer those goods, than by boat?”

  The countess tilted her head in a quasi-nod of reluctant agreement. “In any case, Mistress Thornton, I have no information of such a ship and couldn’t possibly tell you its name. That is God’s honest truth, even would I care to lie, which I certainly do not.”

  “Are there papers that you know of, which might point to the ship?”

  “Until a moment ago I had no thought there could be one, so no, I’ve not found anything of that nature. And you’ll remember the constable’s thugs have searched this house high and low; they also found nothing.” She brightened as she had an idea. “Perhaps if you spoke to one of his associates. That Scottish fellow he was always going to see. Perhaps that one would have some answers for you.”

  Suzanne sat up straight as a rod. Ramsay? Could she be talking about him? “What Scottish fellow do you mean?”

  “The bagpipe player. I vow I cannot recall the name Henry mentioned. I only remember that recently he spoke of a man he knew who played bagpipes. Henry detested bagpipes. He called it heathen music, good only for Scots to frighten each other on a battlefield. In any case, not long before he died he had a visit from someone that sent him into a rage over the Scot with the bagpipes. He went terribly red in the face, flailing his arms and muttering curses.”

  “Curses?”

  “I blush to repeat them, but he said ‘The bloody Scot should turn on a spit for eternity.’ Things of that nature. Then he stormed out of here and rode off in the carriage with a murderous look on his face. I was quite frightened.” Tears rose to the woman’s eyes, and her nose turned red. “I hate to think it, but I realize I can’t be certain whether that was the last time I saw my husband alive.”

  Suzanne’s heart clenched for the woman’s grief. She thought she could imagine how it must be to lose a family member. She knew how she would feel if anything happened to Piers. She coughed to clear her throat.

  But as she did so, her thoughts segued to Angus. What had upset Larchford so much, and so near the day he and Angus were killed? “Tell me, my lady, the messenger who brought the news that so upset your husband . . . what did he look like?”

  The countess frowned in concentration for a moment, then said slowly, “Quite thin. Small. Not well dressed at all.”

  That last could mean anything, coming from a wealthy woman whose life revolved around what was fashionable in dress, coif, and furnishings. Suzanne asked, “How poorly dressed was he?”

  The countess waved a hand in dismissal. “Oh, terribly! He wore nothing but a belted shirt and leggings! No wig, no doublet, and not even shoes!”

  “Was his clothing badly worn? Holes? Rents?”

  “No. Not that I recall. That surely would have been a disgrace. To come here in clothing filled with holes.”

  Of course. Such an affront to his lordship the earl. Suzanne said, “What did his face look like? The color of his hair? Size of his nose?”

  The countess sighed. “I really couldn’t say I took so much notice of him as to remember those things. His clothing was so lacking, I’m afraid that was all I saw.

  Suzanne nodded as if she understood. The man had been faceless. Invisible. She herself had once struggled to not be seen, the better to stay out of trouble, for being noticed too much by those with privilege and power was never a good thing for those with neither. “Very well,” she said. “Perhaps there are other means to finding him.”

  “Why ever would you want to find that nasty little man?”

  “The fellow who delivered the message that day is the only one who might know why your husband was so upset with Ang . . . that Scottish fellow.”

  “Do you think the Scot killed my husband?”

  “No, but I think that messenger might lead us to whoever did.” And that was as much as Suzanne wanted to tell Lady Larchford about her suspicions.

  Chapter Fourteen

  From Larchford’s luxurious mansion in the west end of London, Suzanne took her hired carriage to the river docks, where seagoing merchant ships sat for loading and unloading of goods, passengers, and cash. There was a light flurry of tiny snowflakes in the air as she left her carriage in the street and walked out onto the pier, the better not to announce her presence and chase off anyone with information. It was a busy, noisy, and smelly place, aswarm with men and horses moving up and down the piers, the whap-whap of ropes and canvas and clank of chains as the ships gently rocked. Shouting filled the air here and there. Great cranes lifted nets filled with boxes and bags. Wagons, empty and laden, moved to and from the ships.

  Suzanne wended her way in and out of the throng, searching and not certain what she hoped to find. She noted the names of the various ships standing at the docks, though she had not the first notion what name she might be looking for. Some of the ships were long and sleek, others squat and heavy-looking. Some tall, their masts seeming to scrape the clouds, some not so tall. Some were new and brightly painted, while others had seen years of service and a bare minimum of maintenance. In spite of the cold, she smelled rotting wood and the stagnant stench of bilge water as well as the less offensive odors of holds filled with musty grain or sheep-smelling raw fleeces. There was a whiff of a broken rum barrel somewhere, and a waft from a ship’s galley carried the tang of salt pork and garlic.

  Men working on the dock stared at her as she walked past, more than likely wondering where her escort had gone. But nobody said anything to her, not even to harass her. She saw nobody exactly approachable, but she had to start asking questions somewhere because nobody here was likely to volunteer the information she sought. She put a hand out to one fellow in a striped shirt and woolen coat, and a bandana around his wigless head. “Kind fellow . . .”

  He turned to her, wide-eyed with surprise. “Me, mistress?” As if she were a snake ready to strike.

  “You, good man. I wonder whether you might be able to answer some questions for me.”

  He shook his head, nearly in fear, and it was plain he didn’t wish to speak to her or be seen with her at all. “Not me, mistress. I ain’t got naught to say to no lady. It’s him over there as can tell you things, I reckon.” He pointed with his chin to a fellow slightly better dressed though plain enough, with wig, doublet, and proper breeches and leggings, as well as a stout coat with brass buttons, the entire costume of linen and wool.

  Suzanne left the man in the striped shirt and approached the one indicated, who was at that moment occupied in conversation with another sailor in striped shirt. “Kind sir,” she said. Snowflakes landed here and there on her face, and she brushed at them as she awaited a reply.

  The man ignored her until he was finished talking to the sailor, then turned his attention to her with an air of impatience. “Have you lost your ship?”

  Suzanne bit back a sharp reply. Yes, she’d lost her ship. What a brilliant excuse for her to be here! She mustered her best sheepish, embarrassed smile. “Why, yes, good sir. I’m supposed to board a ship, and I’ve forgotten its name. Silly me, I’m always at a loss with names, particularly of things that cannot speak to me, such as horses and boats.”
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  “Ships.” The ship’s officer’s impatience did not wane.

  “Right. Ships. In any case, I’m afraid I cannot find mine, and know only the name of the man who owns it.”

  “And that would be . . . ?”

  “Henry, Earl of Larchford.”

  The fellow nodded immediately, and Suzanne’s heart lifted for she knew he must know the ship. “Aye, Maiden. That there fat tub down that-a-way.” Suzanne peered off in the direction indicated, and he continued, “That Dutch monstrosity he bought after it was near sunk in a battle and brought in as a prize.”

  “You sound as if you don’t like the boat. Or is it only Dutch boats in general you dislike?”

  He shrugged, but his eyes lit up with interest in the subject. His voice lost its impatience and took on a hint of excitement, warming to the talk of pros and cons of Dutch ships. “They’re solid as they come, and not easily sunk, but they’re slow and wallow about in the water like a toad.” He straightened and set his fists on his hips as he gazed off down the pier at the ship in question. “That there one’s got more and bigger guns than most, but she pays for ’em with a draft that hurts her capacity. I pity the passenger on a voyage in Maiden. You’re in for a long, rough trip, wherever you’re going. A safe trip with them guns, sure enough, but longer than necessary.”

  Suzanne took another look at the ship, then said, “It can win a sea battle with those guns?”

  “’Tis well gunned, for a certainty. I wouldn’t go up against her myself; I’d run away if I could, and there’s few as couldn’t outrun that whor—toad.”

  “And if you couldn’t?”

  “Then it would be the white flag for me, and hoping to be left afloat in a longboat when all was said and done. In any case, I must be on my way. There’s your ship, and a good voyage to you, mistress.” He gave a slight nod by way of bow, and hurried off toward one of the other boats, leaving Suzanne to regard Maiden in deep thought while the traffic on the pier parted around her as if she were a rock in a creek bed.