Dulcie Bligh

by Maggie MacKeever

  “It is difficult,” Dulcie commented, “to find good help these days.” Gibbon subsided into indistinguishable mutterings, his tousled white hair bristled with affront. “It is quite conceivable that my nephew is still abed. Pray continue, Mr.—er?”

  “Crump.” He swept her a flourishing bow. “It is most urgent that I speak with Lord Dorset on a matter of great importance to him.”

  “You have been told that Lord Dorset is not to be found on these premises.” Lady Bligh exhibited a slight annoyance. “I think, Mr. Crump, that you had best inform us of your precise identity, and of your purpose in seeking my nephew.”

  Livvy was astonished by the Earl’s silence during this exchange. It was shocking that he should leave it to Dulcie to extricate him from his difficulties. Much as she disapproved of Dickon, Livvy had to admit that this was unlike him. The Earl was reckless, but not one to shirk the consequences of his misdeeds. She frowned.

  “You mean you don’t know?” The stranger’s eyes opened wide. “I was sure Gibbon would’ve told you.” He shook his head reprovingly at the enraged butler. “You grow shockingly lax, my lad. I’m sure I don’t know what to think.”

  “Nor do I, Mr. Crump.” The Baroness was exasperated. “Would you explain how it is you know my butler by name?”

  He did so with stunning simplicity. “I’m from Bow Street.”

  The silence that followed this announcement gave Crump ample time to observe its effect. The younger woman he passed over quickly, though she was fine as fivepence in her simple high-necked gown, and gazed upon the quiet gentleman. Dressed in the height of fashion, he wore fawn pantaloons, a pale buff kerseymere waistcoat, and an exquisite cravat, its pristine folds arranged in the intricate Waterfall. Unless Crump was mistaken, those Hessians had been made by Hoby, the famous bootmaker to the ton, whose shop was on the corner of Piccadilly and St. James’s Street. The gentleman was also wearing a close-fitting coat of brown superfine that had doubtless been fashioned by Weston. In Crump’s pocket lay a dull brass button, similar to the ones that adorned that fine garment. He was very curious about the identity of this gentleman.

  Lady Bligh reclaimed his attention. “If Gibbon has misbehaved,” she said, “I’m sorry for it, but I’m sure all can be set to rights. Understand this, my good man: I will not have my butler dragged off to Newgate, or the Fleet, or whatever hovel it is that you propose to put him in!” Gibbon moaned.

  “You misunderstand,” Crump protested. But the Baroness was not easily dissuaded from the notion that her butler was to be thrown into jail and expressed herself with such vehemence that her hair came tumbling down. In desperation, Crump threw up his hands. “It’s not Gibbon I’m after, but Lord Dorset!”

  The Baroness broke off in mid-sentence. “Dickon?” She blinked. “Well, that’s another matter, to be sure.” So vague was her tone that Crump began to wonder if Lady Bligh was right in the head.

  Livvy, who had observed these proceedings with increasing admiration, took her cue. “You remember, Dulcie,” she prompted gently, “this gentleman wishes to ask some questions of your nephew.”

  “What questions?” demanded the Baroness querulously.

  Crump began to wish he’d never undertaken this somewhat daring assignment. He was unused to pursuing criminals through the portals of the aristocracy, and Lady Bligh’s queer antics made him extremely uncomfortable. “They’re of a confidential nature,” he replied. “Not the sort of thing I’d want to mention in front of strangers.”

  “Nonsense,” said the Baroness. “I will introduce you. Gibbon, have Mary fetch us some tea.” She rose, revealing a statuesque and superbly proportioned physique, and took Crump’s arm. “This is my dear friend, Mrs. Lytton. You need not fear speaking in front of her. She and my nephew are the dearest of friends, and she is very much in his confidence.”

  Livvy accepted this blatant falsehood without an eyelid’s blink. “You are a Bow Street Runner, Mr. Crump? How fascinating!” She extended her hand. “Isn’t it terribly dangerous?”

  Crump, pleased, made a rumbling noise. Much censure was cast upon the Runners, and this appreciation was balm. Though Bow Street functioned as best it could with limited numbers and scant funds, many sought to discredit the Runners, and the creation of an adequate police force had long been delayed by jealousy between the City and Westminster.

  “King George,” commented the Baroness, “once tried to shake hands with an oak tree in Windsor Park. He believed it was one of his kinsmen.” Reluctantly, Crump released Livvy. “This is Mrs. Lytton’s fiancé, Mr. Urquehart. Perhaps I should explain that dear Lavender is widowed.”

  “Urquehart, is it?” inquired Crump. His eyes narrowed. “Odd how your Mr. Urquehart fits the description I have of Lord Dorset.” At that moment, Mary, the housemaid, appeared with the tea tray. She was a red-haired, pug-nosed, freckled miss with an infinite capacity for mischief and an eye for gentlemen. She deposited the tray on a low table and her saucy glance moved around the room.

  Livvy held her breath. She couldn’t imagine what Bow Street wanted with Lord Dorset, or why Dickon did not simply disclose his identity, but each word Crump uttered deepened her misgivings. One thing was certain: if Dickon in any way caused Dulcie a moment’s distress, Livvy was prepared to see him dearly pay.

  “You are correct,” the Baroness said calmly. “As do hundreds of men in London would also fit that description. My nephew is not an exceptional-looking man.”

  “Thank you,” murmured Mr. Urquehart. “It is so flattering to be considered quite in the ordinary way.”

  “Never mind, darling,” Livvy said, smiling seraphically. “It does not in the least alter my feeling for you.”

  The Baroness ignored them. “Mr. Urquehart is extremely discreet, so you may speak freely in front of him. If nothing else, his devotion to Mrs. Lytton will ensure his silence.” With a pert twitch of her hips, a curious glance at Crump, and a warm smile for Dickon, Mary left the room.

  “A friendly lass, that one,” remarked Crump, not unappreciatively. He had a great weakness for wholesome country girls.

  “Believe me, Mr. Crump,” retorted Dulcie, with feeling, “she is too much so.” Inexorably she led him to an elegant tapestried sofa, and presented him with tea. “Now, where were we?”

  “Dickon,” prompted Mrs. Lytton, who was carrying the beverage to her newly acquired betrothed. Mr. Urquehart took the cup, set it down on a curved-legged table, and derisively pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist.

  “Impetuous boy,” commented Lady Bligh as Mrs. Lytton blushed and snatched her hand away. “Have you observed, Mr. Crump, that this younger generation is remarkably hot-blooded? Why, I well recall—”

  Crump felt that he had been led far enough down the garden path. Either Lady Bligh was in her dotage or he was being treated to a rare Banbury tale. “That’s all well and good,” he interrupted sternly, “but it’s not getting us anywhere. It’s Lord Dorset that I must speak with, and as soon as I may.”

  “Dickon?” Petulantly, the Baroness plucked at the fabric of the sofa.

  “Suppose you tell us, Mr. Crump,” said Mrs. Lytton in her gentle voice, “just what it is you wish to discuss with Lord Dorset? It is unfortunate that you did not find him here, but we can inform him of your visit when he-next calls.” Her smile conveyed her awareness that Crump was a busy man. “I am sure the Earl will be happy to assist you in this matter, whatever it is.” Mr. Urquehart wore an impatient look, as if displeased to hear his fiancée speak so knowingly of another man.

  “You must swear you will repeat this to no one,” said Crump, deciding that Mrs. Lytton was someone he could deal with. The Chief Magistrate might not like his confiding in her, but Crump had not become one of the few Runners to earn handsome amounts of reward money by following strict protocol.

  “Of course.” Livvy’s speaking glance dismissed her companion as negligible. The Baroness was now engaged in dropping fragments of biscuit into her tea.

 
“The matter concerns the theft,” Crump lowered his voice, “of Lady Arabella Arbuthnot’s jewels.” Again, he watched for their reactions. Mr. Urquehart’s frown deepened. Mrs. Lytton looked surprised, and Crump wondered what the widow had expected him to say. On the hearth, the huge cat stretched, then padded across the room and jumped onto Mrs. Lytton’s lap.

  “Arabella?” The Baroness removed a huge topaz ring, dropped it into her teacup, and began stirring busily. “What’s Arabella done now?”

  “Never mind, darling.” Mrs. Lytton spoke confidingly. “She is deteriorating rapidly, alas. Her bursts of lucidity grow farther and farther apart. It is a grievous thing to her family and the reason, I fear, why Lord Dorset’s visits grow more and more infrequent.”

  Crump wondered how he was to report so strange an interview to Bow Street. He had the magistrates’ consent to investigate this crime, and permission to use as many men as necessary. Crump intended to employ his best efforts, for he would receive a handsome reward for recovering the stolen jewels, but thus far he had accomplished little beyond wild speculation and useless conjecture. It occurred to him that Lord Dorset might, were he cleared of all suspicion, be sufficiently grateful to offer an additional stipend.

  “You were acquainted with Lady Arabella?” Crump asked Mrs. Lytton. His unease grew as the Baroness slid down on the sofa, leaned back her head, and tugged thoughtfully on her luscious lower lip.

  “I was. I met her through Lady Bligh.”

  “Then you will be grieved to hear that Lady Arabella is dead.”

  This time the widow’s reaction was everything Crump might have wished. She gasped and dropped her teacup with a clatter that recalled the Baroness from her reverie and sent the cat, hissing, straight into the air. It landed again in Mrs. Lytton’s lap, from which refuge it glared at Crump balefully. The taciturn Mr. Urquehart strode swiftly across the room to stand behind his fiancée, one hand gripping her shoulder while he glowered at Crump.

  “My dear Lavender!” chided Lady Bligh. “You’ve spilled your tea!”

  “It’s nothing.” Livvy hid her trembling hands in Casanova’s abundant fur. The game they played had suddenly turned dangerous.

  Mr. Urquehart spoke. “Do you understand, Baroness? Lady Arbuthnot has met with a mishap.”

  “What sort of mishap?” There was nothing vague about the Baroness now; her dark eyes fairly snapped with interest.

  “It wasn’t exactly an accident.” Crump had an unpleasant notion that this investigation had gotten shockingly out of hand. “I’m afraid, ma’am, that Lady Arabella has been murdered.”

  “I’m sure I don’t see,” the Baroness commented, “why you should be afraid. What was it, robbery? I told Arabella she should be more careful of her baubles. The way she left them laying about was an invitation to every thief in London, and there are more than a few.” Her tone turned querulous. “One would think Bow Street would do something about the appalling amount of crime instead of sending their Runners to frighten innocent children out of their wits.” Mr. Urquehart moved to the sideboard and fetched a glass of amber-colored liquid, which he placed in the widow’s hand. Mrs. Lytton had turned chalk-white.

  Lady Bligh’s tone grew more strident. “We shall be murdered in our beds. I know it! What,” she demanded of Crump, “are you doing about this atrocity? Soon it will be unsafe to even venture out of doors.”

  “What a terrible thing,” said Mrs. Lytton. With the liquor, she had regained some of her color. “But what has it to do with us?”

  “The Chief Magistrate is most anxious to see the villain caught.” A list of the stolen property was already in circulation among the pawnbrokers, and would appear in major newspapers. Rewards were being offered for reliable information. Crump gazed upon Mr. Urquehart, who had resumed his brooding pose behind Livvy’s chair. “What about you, guv’nor? Were you acquainted with Lady Arabella?”

  “Not to signify.” Mr. Urquehart was irritable. “Nor do I see by what authority you have burst in here to upset Mrs. Lytton and Lady Bligh. I suspect your superiors would not approve your methods, Crump.”

  Livvy was alarmed at Dickon’s tone, for he sounded much more the haughty Earl than Mr. Urquehart, the private gentleman. “You must not give in to these nervous excitations, darling,” she said quickly, and had the satisfaction of rendering him speechless. “You know you will suffer for it if you allow yourself to become overwrought.” For the Runner’s benefit, she forced a smile. “We are happy to aid Mr. Crump in his inquiries.” It was difficult to accept Arabella’s death, and uncomfortably easy to believe that Dickon might be involved. She shivered as she felt his sardonic gaze.

  “If you please,” the Baroness said suddenly, “I would very much like to know my nephew’s position concerning this thing.”

  “As would Bow Street.” Here, Crump knew his role. “It has come to our attention that Lord Dorset was Lady Arabella’s paramour.” He glanced at Mrs. Lytton, but she exhibited neither shock nor disillusionment.

  “So?” Lady Bligh raised a mocking eyebrow. “I think you are not aware, Mr. Crump, of the habitual immorality of the aristocracy, and of Arabella in particular. She was an odd combination of perfect physical beauty and the most depraved moral laxity. My nephew’s association with the lady is hardly significant. Surely you do not think he would employ this unconventional means to end their relationship?”

  “It’s facts I’m interested in,” Crump retorted woodenly; “and it’s my duty to question anyone who might have information that would help with the solving of this case. The fact is. Lady Bligh, that your nephew was intimate with the deceased.”

  “Since you know so much about Lord Dorset,” Mrs. Lytton interposed quietly, “you must also know that his attentions were not confined to Lady Arabella. Surely you do not think he would commit a crime of passion over so lukewarm an affaire?”

  “It’s not for me to think anything, ma’am.” Crump knew full well that the association had been far from tepid, at least on the lady’s part, and had included countless quarrels and arguments. “I just want to ask the Earl a few simple questions.”

  “What you-want,” said the Baroness, so suddenly wild-eyed that Crump recoiled at her frenzy, “is to arrest my nephew. I won’t have it, do you hear? I won’t have him hauled off to rot in Newgate, or the Fleet, or wherever it is you mean to take him!”

  “Oh, dear.” Mrs. Lytton gazed at Crump reproachfully. “You’ve set her off again.” At the window, Mr. Urquehart growled.

  “Your nephew,” the Runner bellowed, at the end of his patience, “is not suspected of this crime!” Dulcie fell silent, and Crump crammed his hat on his head. “Not that he’s in the clear, by a long shot, but the Chief Magistrate was most insistent that I shouldn’t upset you.” His face was now far from jovial. “Diddled by a greenhorn!” he muttered to himself. “He’s gone to ground, or I miss my guess.”

  “Diddled?” repeated Lady Bligh. “Mr. Crump, you are nothing if not colorful.”

  “While I sat here,” Crump snapped, “listening to a bag of moonshine. Lord Dorset has given me the slip!” Good sense reasserted itself. “I beg pardon for using such expressions in your presence.” If his superiors ever received a detailed account of this interview, Crump’s career might abruptly end.

  “You need not apologize, Mr. Crump.” The Baroness plunged her fingers into the teacup and extracted the topaz ring. “What was it you wanted to ask my nephew?”

  Crump grimaced. Lady Arabella had been murdered, a fortune in jewels stolen, and Lady Bligh could find no more suitable occupation than splashing in her tea. “I hope your nephew can satisfactorily explain how a knife bearing his initials came to be plunged into Lady Arabella’s heart. Otherwise, his predicament will be extremely serious.” He did not add the chief medical officer’s opinion that this knife was not, in fact, the instrument of death. Turning on his heel, Crump strode from the room.

  “Skewered!” mused the Baroness. “Fancy that. Like a witch, Arabella
is dead with a stake through her breast.”

  Hidden in the hallway, Crump peered back into the room. He stared astonished as Lady Bligh peered intently into the depths of her lovely Limoges teacup. Mrs. Lytton, oblivious to this mad pastime, sat staring at her hands. The orange cat stretched and yawned, then rubbed itself against Mr. Urquehart’s legs.

  The Baroness dropped the cup back in its saucer and briskly clapped her hands. “My dear man,” she said to Mr. Urquehart, with every indication of sincerity, “what must you think of us? To find yourself plagued by that ridiculous thieftaker while paying a morning call!”

  Crump reflected sourly upon the thankless hazards of his chosen profession. He longed for nothing more than a comfortable chair, a bowlful of pungent tobacco, and a few hours passed in congenial company. Lady Bligh’s voice increased in volume. “Mr. Crump!” The thief-taker jumped as if he’d been stung by a bee. “You will find your missing pipe in the left corner of the drawer where you keep your hosiery. You placed it there two nights ago after imbibing a substance known, I believe, as blood-and-thunder.”

  She stood in the doorway, looking stern. “If you must indulge in such depraved habits, Mr. Crump, it would behoove you to take appropriate precautions. You might easily have gone up in flames.” Having reduced her adversary to schoolboy size, the Baroness closed the door in his face.

  As if by magic, a footman appeared to conduct Crump off the premises. Disgusted, the Runner crammed his hat on his head. It was Crump’s unpleasant duty to inform the Chief Magistrate that Lady Bligh had chosen to behave like a raving lunatic, that Mrs. Lytton was unaccountably jittery, and that the Earl was playing least-in-sight.

  Crump was a patient man, and not easily brought to a standstill. Why had Lady Bligh shown so little surprise at learning of Arabella Arbuthnot’s sad demise? How could she have learned of his fondness for the weed, or the disappearance of his pipe? Wondering just what else the Baroness knew, Crump melted into the shadows and prepared to wait.