“I don’t understand.” It was plain that Dickon’s presence was not inspired by an intolerable longing to view his affianced ladylove.
“I returned to London on the chance that Austin might have found his way there. The boy is extremely precocious, despite his lack of speech. Gibbon intercepted me before I reached my home—fortunately, as it turns out.” Lord Dorset regarded Livvy somberly. “Gwyneth has finally driven someone to murder her.”
Livvy was stricken dumb. “Coo!” said Mary, briefly distracted from visions of being fried alive by a lightning bolt. “Now we’re really in the suds.”
“Are we?” Livvy pulled her mantle tighter against sudden cold. “I mean, are you suspected of this also?”
“I didn’t think it prudent to call at Bow Street to inquire.” The Earl was caustic. “Austin’s safety is my first concern, and I can do nothing about that while answering Crump’s incessant questions or sauntering about London with you in an effort to keep up appearances.”
Outside, the storm raged. Mary, all else forgotten, began to pray. “Stop that mawkish driveling!” snarled Dickon. “We will shelter at my cousin’s home, and should arrive there momentarily.”
“Hubert?” Livvy blinked. “Is he here, too?”
“I devoutly trust not!” The Earl, at this mention of his cousin, looked even more saturnine. ‘‘Mary has the right of it, however; we cannot travel all the way to London in this downpour.” Thunder punctuated his remarks and Mary whimpered. Livvy took her hand.
“How,” she asked, wishing she didn’t have to know, “did Gwyneth die? Could it have been an accident?”
“It is a trifle difficult to strangle oneself.” Dickon’s features were strained. “We can console ourselves that Gwyneth would have been delighted with the drama attendant upon her end. The people in the streets talk of nothing else, and I am afraid everyone sees my own conduct in the most unfavorable light.” He did not sound particularly regretful. “Take heed, sweet Livvy. I am looked upon as one not fit to associate with respectable persons.”
“I fear,” said Livvy glumly, “that I will soon be in like case. At least I have thus far avoided publicizing my true name while running afoul of the law! Although I should not be surprised to find myself heralded in the newspapers as the ‘Wicked Widow of Sapping.’“
As she had hoped, the Earl was intrigued. “You fascinate me. What were you up to in that dull place? And, now that I think of it, why?” He raised a hand. “I know: Dulcie! Never was there a female so determined as my aunt.”
Livvy could not quarrel with this. As she explained her mission, Lord Dorset’s eyebrows rose. “This does not sound at all nefarious. Why did we depart with such haste?”
Livvy felt as though she were in a confessional. “I stole a parish register,” she admitted gloomily. “To make the matter worse, I was caught in the very act! Only by the skin of my teeth did I make my getaway.”
“Livvy, you delight me!” Dickon’s laughter was muted, but sincere, and Livvy congratulated herself. “Do you think you might explain why you committed this heinous crime?”
“I thought Dulcie might find the register pleasant reading!” Livvy retorted. “Of all the absurd questions! You might as well ask me why I’ve done anything this past week.”
“You will have to do better than that.” Lord Dorset looked out the carriage window. “Explanations must wait until later, though; we have arrived.”
Hubert’s country manor seemed very grand for a gentleman who lived with the constant specter of the debtor’s prison at the Fleet. It was a massive medieval structure, covering a vast area of land, with a great central tower that soared high into the air.
“Gracious!” said Livvy as they were admitted into a marble entrance hall as lofty as a Roman basilica. “It quite takes one’s breath away.”
The Earl gazed about him without enthusiasm. “In its glory, this place required a minimum of eighty-seven servants to run. Humbug has closed off most of the rooms, though I believe he still burns perfumed coal in the fireplaces.”
“Ah, I am all extravagance.” Hubert strolled into the hallway and smiled benignly upon his startled guests. “How delightful that I should be here to greet you.”
Lord Dorset had taken one menacing step toward his cousin when a small and energetic whirlwind launched itself into his arms. Hubert watched the reunion complacently, taking snuff while Dickon and his son embraced, but fell back a step when Dorset, after the initial joy of reunion, raised a face of murderous wrath. “You must not leap to conclusions!” Hubert said quickly. “Things are not what they seem.”
“For your sake, cousin, I hope they are not.” The Earl spoke with quite fury, and Livvy wondered how far, in this mood, he might go. Hubert, who shared her morbid curiosity, turned pale.
One member of the audience was not in awe of the Earl’s temper. Austin reached up and tugged his father’s sleeve. There was a great resemblance between them, Livvy thought. It was odd to find in the face of a nine-year-old child those fathomless eyes.
“You must not curse at Hubert,” Austin informed his thunderstruck parent. “I was having a tremendous adventure and Cousin Humbug rescued me!”
Chapter 14
The sensational murder of the Countess Andrassy had instantly become the talk of the town. Newspapers were crammed with fact and rumor, and the recent assassination of Lady Arabella Arbuthnot was vividly recalled. Even the celebrated scandal of Lady Caroline Lamb, who had burst into Lord Byron’s rooms disguised as a carman while he was intimately entertaining another lady, took second place in the popular press.
“Damn your eyes!” said Madame Arbuthnot, as she raised her glass. “We must have this business settled straightaway.” Her golden eyes were uncomfortably similar to those of Lady Bligh’s cat when it was preparing to pounce. Crump wondered if that accursed feline had yet met its comeuppance, and what Lady Bligh thought of the huge parrot that had been the boon companion of a privateer who had met a well-deserved fate at the hands of his mutinous crew.
“We are progressing with all possible speed,” he replied stiffly. “One cannot rush these things. It is a matter of tracking down and apprehending your criminal by means of observation and logic and the consideration of evidence.”
“Pshaw!” Luisa brandished her bottle. “While you ruminate upon your so-called evidence, your criminal is free to misbehave as he will. Not that it’s anything to me! I hope Dulcie has greased your palm well, not that it will avail her anything in the end. Young Dickon will be a great deal the handsomer for his neck being stretched by an inch or two.”
In a time when even the most respectable people drank themselves under the table without shocking anyone, Luisa managed to become scandalously drunk. Crump had no desire to see the old lady fly into a temper. “If you don’t mind,” he ventured, “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Ask away.” Luisa drained her glass. “Not that I promise to answer you! It’s a ridiculous waste of time to badger a helpless old woman while Dorset makes a clean getaway, but no one cares what I think!”
Crump, too, doubted that this visit would serve any purpose, but the Chief Magistrate’s orders had to be obeyed. “Bow Street has received information that Countess Andrassy called on you the day of her death. Would you mind telling me what you talked about?”
“Of course I mind!” Luisa snapped. “Is a body to have no privacy? But it shan’t be said that I didn’t cooperate with the authorities. Gwyneth came to talk about Arabella, or so she said. She was set on stirring up scandal, of course, and I very soon sent the silly twit on her way with a flea in her ear.”
This was more than likely, in the literal sense. Madame Arbuthnot’s chamber was as dark as the pit, and slovenly enough to house countless species of unwholesome occupants. “Did she say anything that might shed light on her subsequent death?”
“Gwyneth?” Luisa was derisive. “That one had more hair than wit, and an extremely disobliging nature beside. Why do you p
lague me, man? Go and apprehend Dorset, for he’s your culprit.”
“You feel very strongly on the matter. Could I ask your reasons?”
Luisa gave vent to an exaggerated sigh. “Must I do your thinking for you? Very well!” She ticked off her salient observations on swollen fingers. “One, everyone knows Dorset was with Arabella on the night of her death; two, there is the matter of his button and his knife. Additionally, he could easily gain access to this house and Arabella’s boudoir. Then we come to Gwyneth, with whom Dorset was on the most unamiable terms. They quarrelled in public frequently; I suspect you will discover that Gwyneth sought to extort money from him. I further suspect that you will find she was strangled with the sash of his dressing gown.”
Crump chose not to quibble with this deduction, though he doubted greatly that the impeccable Earl would be caught dead in that gaudy article. On the sideboard he found more brandy, and refilled her glass.
Luisa didn’t bother to thank him. “Now, Mr. Bow Street Runner, you may answer a question for me. Have you yet turned up that revolting girl who attacked my William?”
“We are still making inquiries, ma’am.”
“Don’t play the innocent with me!” Luisa snarled. “I cut my eyeteeth before you were born. Dulcie Bligh might think she bamboozled me, but I knew all along who Primrose was. It’s a pity the chit turned tail so soon, for she had many a treat in store! I’ll say this for Dulcie Bligh: she knows just how close she can sail to the wind without disaster.” The hooded eyes closed. Luisa’s head drooped. From her mouth issued lusty snores.
Crump didn’t know whether to go or stay. There were far more important matters that demanded his attention, such as ascertaining Lord Dorset’s whereabouts, but the Runner’s trusted intuition told him that Madame Arbuthnot could, if she chose, say a great deal more.
Longing for his pipe, Crump settled back in his uncomfortable chair and consoled himself with Sir William’s promise of a handsome reward. The Runner wondered if Madame Arbuthnot knew that Arabella’s stolen jewels were only paste. Happily, those tidings were not his to disclose, and Sir John was keeping unaccountably mum.
The residences of both Lord Dorset and Lady Bligh were under constant surveillance, though the watchers had thus far turned up little enough of interest. Mrs. Lytton and Hubert Humboldt had returned to the City, bringing with them Lord Dorset’s son, a lad that Crump would have greatly liked to interview, had not he been denied all opportunity. He had also been disappointed in Lady Bligh’s servants, for only the plump cook would give Bow Street more than the time of day, and that merry individual, though a rare gossip, had little enough of interest to impart, save for fulsome reminiscences of the Baron. Crump knew enough about that erratic peer to fill a book, and shocking reading it would be.
The Runner scowled. The cook had also told him the identity of Lady Bligh’s sole caller in recent days, an indigent relative who interested him not at all, being an elderly female of shabby appearance, overly tall and broad of waist, who had thrown herself upon the Baroness’s mercy.
Luisa opened one eye, and spoke so abruptly that Crump jumped. “This time even Dulcie’s machinations will not serve. Beware of her: she is an artful woman who will take you in, as far as it lies within her power.”
Crump couldn’t argue that. “About the Countess’s visit,” he prompted.
“Gwyneth did say one thing that was queer, hinting that she had learned something that would prove Dorset murdered Arabella. Mayhap she gave him the opportunity to buy her silence. Instead the hussy was silenced permanently. I dislike your methods, Crump! You waste time with me while Dorset flees the country, no doubt. What stake have you in this that you would wish him to go free?”
It grew obvious that, whatever Madame Arbuthnot might know, she would reveal no more. “You are convinced of his guilt. Bow Street, however, requires more concrete evidence. I assure you, madam, that justice will be served.” Crump rose and bowed as he spoke, prepared to exit.
“Certainly, when pigs will fly!” It was seldom that Luisa was denied the last word. “The wheels of justice turn exceedingly slow, it seems. Take care that they don’t grind your bones.”
In the hallway, with Madame safely behind a closed door, Crump pondered his next move. Someone had to track down the elusive Lord Dorset, and though Crump had no great love of horses, he would have to avail himself of one of the pair kept in constant readiness for Runners who were called out of town. He set out for his lodgings to pack and prepare his brace of holster pistols. In his present frame of mind, Crump looked forward with pleasure to discharging those instruments into the first man to offer him further affront. He hoped that first offender might be the pestilent Lord Dorset. Since the Earl’s entrance into Crump’s orderly existence absolutely nothing had gone right.
* * * *
The exhausted travelers returned safely to London unmolested by Bow Street, vicars, or irate villagers. Only Austin remained sufficiently nonchalant to appreciate the horse fairs and tramping peddlers, sleepy country towns and prize rings that the procession passed by, and even he lapsed into sulks when his fond, if irritable, companions denied him a closer look at the Flaming Tin Man. In all, it was a somber party that made its various ways into the Bligh mansion, and though they were now reunited after supper in their rooms, the mood had not noticeably improved.
They were gathered in the Music Room, a large chamber embellished with windows of Mexican onyx, rose-garlanded friezes, Pompeiian ceilings, Persian tiles and a spectacular Roman fountain. Livvy, gowned in cambric muslin with waggoner’s sleeves and a cottage vest of green sarcenet laced across the bosom, sat at a magnificent grand piano inlaid with ivory, mother-of-pearl, and tortoise shell. Casanova was curled meekly beside her on the bench, his exemplary behavior inspired by Bluebeard. The bird, when provoked, had a habit of swooping down upon the hapless feline as a hawk might its prey.
“Uncle Max,” commented Hubert, surveying his environment through a quizzing-glass, “must do all in the grand style. He ships home entire Grecian temples as others might china sets.” Since the room was graced with bronze Floras, muses, hermaphrodites, bulls and harpies; a crystal lustre from which darted aerie creatures in attitudes of flight; and a bright blue carpet ornamented with birds, flowers and insects, there was, perhaps, some justification for his dismay.
“We are not here to discuss Bat’s foibles,” reproved the Baroness. Austin, leaning against her knee, looked up inquiringly. “No, child, I don’t know when he will be home. At last count his caravan included seven Greek servants, a maitre d’hôtel, four manservants, a cook, a scullery boy and a stray dog. Add tents, camels and horses, and Bat must appear to have a perambulating circus in tow.” She ruffled the boy’s hair. “I’ll wager that he’ll return to us soon.”
“Famous!” Austin’s young face was bright with anticipation. “Uncle Bat brings back such nacky things.” Lord Dorset looked as if he would disagree. The Earl was clad in a frowsy gray wig, a dress that threatened to burst its seams at any moment, and a dowdy all-encompassing shawl.
Consequently, Hubert was in splendid spirits. “ ‘Tis a great pity you are already spoken for, cousin! Seldom have I set eyes on a wench more artistically draped.”
“If you don’t curb your tongue, Humbug, I shall give myself the privilege of breaking your blasted neck!” growled the Earl.
“Like Mama?” piped Austin, with interest. Livvy’s hands fell from the piano keys.
“Yes,” said the Baroness. “It is time we got down to the business at hand.” She wore a fetching robe of satin and lace, and held in one bejewelled hand a sheaf of parchment. On her lap was the pilfered parish register. “Tell us once more, Austin, exactly how your mother contrived to steal you away.”
“I don’t remember much,” Austin replied, with all the ghoulish gusto of an adventurous young soul who has been most satisfactorily kidnapped and drugged. “Mama came in the middle of the night, and then there was that nasty woman, and then Cousin
Humbug came and we ran away.” Austin eyed the Baroness hopefully. “I didn’t have near half enough to eat.”
“In a moment.” Dulcie frowned. Her hair, whether by accident or design, achieved a remarkable brindled effect. “Do you know what your mother meant to do with you?”
Austin screwed up his features. “Not exactly. She either meant to take me away or to do away with me, but I can’t remember precisely what she said.” He was apologetic. “It’s all fuzzy, you see.”
This calm announcement struck its various auditors dumb with horror. Livvy dropped one hand to Casanova’s furry back, seeking warmth. The cat rumbled with almost as much violence as one of Mr. Trevithick’s mechanical contrivances that ran on rails.
Lady Bligh recovered first. “To whom was she speaking?”
“I don’t know. It was a man, I think, but I never saw him.” In atonement, Austin offered a further fact. “I guess Mama didn’t expect me to speak, because when I told her she was an evil, nasty witch, and I disliked her above all things, she shrieked like a banshee. Then she gave me that rotten medicine that made me sleep.”
“Laudanum,” murmured Livvy. “How could she?”
“Easily. Gwyneth was unhampered by ethics of any sort.” Dickon tugged impatiently at the bodice of his gown. “That will do, Austin. I daresay if you go to the kitchen, Pudding might find you some syllabubs and cream.”
In a flat second, Austin was across the room and on his way out the door. Livvy felt a queer little wrench in the area of her heart; so must Dickon have looked at a similar age. “I also told Mama,” Austin added, from the doorway, “that if she hurt me, you’d do for her. It didn’t scare her like I thought it would. She said you’d likely hang instead. That’s not going to happen, is it?” Suddenly, he was a very frightened little boy.
“Most assuredly,” the Baroness said firmly, “it is not! Now be off with you.” The others remained silent as his footsteps echoed down the marble hall.
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