Dulcie Bligh

by Maggie MacKeever

  “I’ll own I’m glad to see this thing cleared up. Even though Bow Street’s efforts hardly produced praiseworthy results.” The Chief Magistrate found himself oddly reluctant to hear the news that Crump was obviously anxious to impart. “Sir William was more clever than commonly acknowledged. I doubt if anyone seriously suspected him of being the murderer.”

  “As to that,” the Runner interrupted, “it seems that we may have all jumped to conclusions, and the wrong ones at that.” Crump’s audience watched with unanimous amazement as he ruffled the pages of his worn Occurrence Book. Sir John’s expression indicated that he might happily see this too zealous subordinate immersed in boiling oil. “I’ve found the gentleman who investigated Arabella in Sapping, and a curious tale he has to tell. It wasn’t Sir William who hired him, but Madame Arbuthnot.” Crump threw open the door and a humble, shabby little man, features twitching like a rabbit’s, stepped shyly into the room.

  ***

  Madame Arbuthnot surveyed her visitor, who was looking like a tart smothered in all the jewels she could borrow, hire or steal, and whose heavy rouge gave her the appearance of some hybrid fruit, half flesh-toned and half red. “You’re in fine looks!” cackled Luisa. “Fetch me another bottle so I may celebrate your cleverness. You’re slipping, Dulcie: it should not have taken you so long!”

  Lady Bligh, despite her queer garb, moved through the cluttered room with undiminished majesty. “It is a compliment to you that it did take me so much time. You displayed great virtuosity in kicking dust in my eyes.” She set a battered tray on the stained chair-side table.

  Luisa’s magnificent eyes rested on the tray. “Two glasses?” she inquired. “Sweet Lord, am I expected to drink to your triumph?”

  “Come, Luisa!” The Baroness strolled across the room to idly inspect her startling reflection in a flaking mirror. “Do you mean to be a poor loser? You disappoint me. I had expected you to accept defeat philosophically.”

  Those golden eyes had once intrigued the adventurous Baron Bligh, and had wept to see him make a younger woman his wife. They looked inward now, as Luisa’s bands moved automatically toward the bottle. “Still, it is a shame about William,” Dulcie remarked, moving to stand at a window, her back to Madame Arbuthnot. “I am not pleased with the way that turned out.”

  Luisa snorted. “Don’t fret over William!” Glasses clinked. “That boy was a constant disappointment to me. He had no more wit than a peahen! I have often wondered how I came to have such a nodcock for a son.”

  “So you know.” Lady Bligh moved to stand beside her hostess. “It was better this way than that he should have stood his trial.”

  Luisa closed her eyes, the only sign of grief that she would ever display for her unfortunate offspring. The Baroness busied herself with the glasses. The golden eyes snapped open, brimming with malice and some other undefinable thing. “I never thought I’d have reason to be grateful to you, flibbertigibbet! Here, take your victory cup.” Dulcie obliged and perched on the love seat. “At last I’m forced to concede to you, Dulcie Bligh.”

  “It seemed the tidiest thing,” agreed the Baroness, and her hostess joined in this bizarre toast. They were relics of a generation that valued the truth with no gloss on it. Faced with a crisis, they did what they had to without recourse to either vapors or vinaigrette.

  Madame grinned. “You had a few bad moments yourself, when it seemed like your precious Dickon would hang! It was a rare pleasure to contemplate your distress, one of the few I’ve had from this wretched affair.”

  “Why Dickon?” Lady Bligh savored her brandy. “I thought at the time that it seemed a trifle extreme to implicate him so seriously merely because Arabella nourished a tendresse for him. He was not her only lover, after all.”

  “William didn’t know about the others.” Luisa grimaced. “I said he was a nodcock! But Arabella was so pleased with her conquest that she flaunted Dorset before the whole world.”

  “And that you could not forgive, since it made William look a fool. So you made sure William was aware of Dickon’s involvement with Arabella.” Lady Bligh might have discussed the weather, such was her sang-froid. “What did you hope to accomplish?”

  “My motives were purely altruistic.” Madame was a grotesque parody of innocence. “Dorset possesses the most vicious nature and falsest heart that man ever had, as witnessed by the débâcle of his first marriage. Could I sit back and see my daughter-in-law ensnared by such a rogue?”

  “Pooh! You would have happily watched Arabella entangled with Satan himself without lifting a finger in her aid.” Lady Bligh raised her glass. “Nor were you always so condemning of rakish gentlemen.”

  “I detest you, Dulcie! And yet you have been more faithful to me, in a way, than those upon whom I had claim.”

  “It is because we speak the same language.” The Baroness accepted the backward compliment gracefully. “You misjudge Dickon, you know: people claim he is hard and mocking, unappreciative of delicacy and romance; but he has a splendid talent for living and enters with zest into every pleasure.”

  “Every debauchery, you mean,” Luisa retorted. “Dorset is damnably self-assured and careless of convention. He has the further disadvantage of being your nephew.”

  “I rather thought that might be it.” Dulcie studied her glass. “It was not Dickon that you wished to see suffer, but me.”

  “Contemptible, ain’t I?” inquired Luisa. “It comes from being tied to this damned chair. I led your silly Primrose a merry dance! The silly twit was terrified lest William take her unawares. Nor did she enjoy playing the slavey to me.”

  “Lavender is a dear girl, and will be well rewarded for her services.” Lady Bligh suffered no apparent pangs of conscience for her companion’s grievous misuse. “If ever she overcomes her principles, she will make Dickon an admirable wife.”

  “Is that the way of it? I wish the chit joy of her task.” Luisa sighed. “I knew it would only be a matter of time when that damned Bertha got the wind up and fled.”

  “Oh?” Dulcie raised heavily penciled brows. “You were wrong, Luisa; I arrived at the truth without aid of your maid’s confidences. What inspired her flight?”

  “I’m sure I couldn’t say. Who can understand how these commoners think?” Luisa hunched her shoulders, vulture-like. “The stupid wench knew the truth of that button, and that William returned secretly to the house on the night Arabella died.”

  “Sir William was kept busy. The other two deaths were an outgrowth of the first.”

  “Greed is a dangerous vice,” Luisa retorted, “one that all three of the unfortunates shared. Gwyneth was sure she knew the truth of Arabella’s death and had to be silenced for it; while Worthington was a coward whose panic made him dispensable.”

  “Such men make dangerous tools.” Lady Bligh might have been discussing the merits of a good servant. “How did you learn who he was? I assume you knew.”

  “I have my sources. Don’t make the mistake of thinking my brain has atrophied along with my legs!”

  “You wished me to think that very thing.” The Baroness set down her empty glass. “I own I do not see why you chose to use Worthington. A risky gamble, was it not?”

  “Needs must when the devil drives,” Luisa snapped, refilling her own glass. “It wasn’t as if there was a wide assortment of accomplices from which to choose! Worthington would at least keep silent or find his own neck in a noose. Had he followed his instructions, instead of succumbing to avarice and fear, this affair might have seen a different outcome.”

  “You left those papers in Arabella’s room for me to find.”

  “You or another!” Luisa cackled. “I tell you I was mighty disappointed in Bow Street. ‘Tis downright amazing how they overlooked so many things that were right under their noses.”

  “That has puzzled me,” the Baroness admitted. “It seems a trifle odd that William should commit murder and then promptly call in the authorities, engaging them, in fact, to apprehend himsel
f!”

  “A neat stroke, that.” Luisa grinned. “Need I add that it was my idea?”

  “No.” Dulcie rose to walk the floor. “I have never underestimated your abilities, Luisa. It is a pity you did not put your talents to some better use.”

  Luisa’s hooded eyes followed her guest’s every move. “I think you may have underestimated me, but let that pass for now. I haven’t had it all my way, you know, and have been forced to prodigious compromise. For example, I didn’t know William had sold off Arabella’s jewels; and I didn’t know she was married to Worthington, despite the extensive inquiries that I had made, until the night she died. She meant to run off with the rogue and threatened to reveal the whole story if William attempted to stop her. Think of the scandal!”

  “She would never have done it.” Dulcie leaned against the back of the loveseat. “Arabella would never have cut off her nose to spite her face, no matter how angry she may have been.”

  “Perhaps not. It was a chance I dared not take.”

  The Baroness let this startling remark pass by. “Is the scandal that you now face so much less? William is dead, and by his own hand.”

  “You think your dratted nephews are in the clear.” Luisa exhibited little distress at this reminder of her son’s lamentable end. “William’s death is easily explained; his mind was unhinged by his wife’s terrible murder. That leaves Dorset and Humboldt as prime suspects.”

  “Ah, yes, Hubert’s sash. How did you manage that, Luisa? It was a brilliant ploy.”

  “You know servants ain’t impervious to bribes.” Luisa shifted awkwardly in her chair. “Hubert isn’t one to inspire loyalty in his staff.”

  “Not in his servants, perhaps,” Lady Bligh mused, “but Humbug is not without friends. Do you realize that you have admitted Gwyneth’s murder was a well-thought-out thing? William called upon her with Hubert’s sash in his pocket and with murder firmly in mind. It suggests a purposefulness that he seldom displayed.”

  “He had no choice.” Luisa laughed at Dulcie’s widened eyes. “I know what you’re thinking, but it don’t signify! He told you Arabella’s death was a crime of passion, didn’t he? The fool! All three of those murders were well and coldly planned, as will be the fourth.”

  “How do you plan to cover it up?” the Baroness asked. “I fear, dear Luisa, that you are at the end of your resourcefulness.”

  “Not I! I would’ve preferred Dorset to swing for my cleverness, but he threatened to escape my net. That was when I thought of Humboldt; you ain’t fond of him but his hanging would have made you squirm.” Madame gazed upon her visitor with malevolent interest. “I wonder whom I shall contrive to blame for your death. Tell me, Dulcie, if you aren’t feeling a little faint?”

  “I find,” retorted the Baroness, adjusting the ill-fitting wig, “that I have little heart for this sort of thing. You planned it all, Luisa. You poisoned Arabella, then called William home to disarrange her quarters and plant the false evidence.”

  Luisa was complacent. “Arabella threatened to raise the devil of a dust when she learned William had sold her jewels.”

  Lady Bligh dropped, as if weak-kneed, onto the loveseat. “You forced him to commit the other murders, for William was always firmly under your thumb. Poor man! What agonies he must have suffered for your sake. It is a pity there was no other course but that he had to die.”

  “As must we all,” remarked Luisa. “It don’t matter now what you know, since you’ll have no time to pass your knowledge along.”

  “You are mightily obliging, Luisa.” Dulcie’s voice was faint. “I wonder, how do you mean to dispose of me, now that your henchmen are gone? A corpse in your drawing room may prove a trifle difficult to explain.”

  “I’ll own you forced my hand; I did not expect you quite so soon.” Luisa’s frown turned into a grimace of pain. She pressed a trembling hand to her abdomen. “You wretch! What have you done?”

  “I believe,” said the Baroness, with a resumption of her brisk manner, “that our murderer will never be found. Your heart failed you, Luisa, upon receipt of the information of William’s tragic death. It will create a furor, but the gossip will soon die down. I don’t see that it would serve any purpose to reveal you as the author of three assassinations.”

  Luisa’s hands clenched the arms of her chair. “You switched the glasses.”

  “It has ever been your greatest error to underestimate me.” Lady Bligh was sympathetic, but firm.

  “You will show me no quarter.” Luisa’s voice was harsh, as if she spoke around strangling fingers clenched at her throat.

  “No more mercy than you showed three fools.” Dulcie’s hands were clasped in her lap; her fine features were strained. “I would not have wished this upon you, Luisa, but you determined your own fate. Since it has meant so much to you, I vow that I shall do my best to not besmirch your name.”

  Luisa’s laughter was a ghostlike mockery of her old malevolent mirth. “A fitting end you’ve granted me!” Her hands clawed at her belly as she was wracked by another spasm of pain. “Sweet Lord! More than any friend, I loved you, Dulcie Bligh.”

  The golden eyes would gaze viciously no more upon a world to whom they possessor had long been only a half-forgotten memory. Dulcie slipped silently from the room.

  Chapter 20

  Carriages thronged the street outside Bligh House. Some of the more daring coachmen, trying to force their vehicles through the congestion, unhappily locked wheels. Terrible venomous oaths split the air.

  This confusion did not extend to the gardens, which were transformed for the occasion into a vista of Arcadian delight. Hothouses were tapestried with moss of every possible shade; the ground was thickly strewn with new-mown grass, out of which flowers seemed to grow. Walks were illuminated by colored lamps that glittered like gaudy jewels. In the background stood a beautiful transparent landscape complete with moonlight and water, and a band concealed in the shrubbery played sentimental tunes.

  “Soon,” murmured Dulcie to her great-nephew. The Baroness was a delightful vision in an evening dress of shockingly transparent muslin, strategically placed pearls and ostrich plumes. Golden ribbons were woven through her copper curls, and she wore a fortune in intricate and ancient jewels. “He will come bearing splendid gifts, as I promised you.”

  Austin smiled blissfully, his contentment unsurpassed. Not only was he permitted to attend this very grown-up function, he had earlier been granted the opportunity of witnessing, in Culpepper’s austere company, a balloon ascent from Green Park. A gallant lady accompanied the balloon and released a dove from the heavens as a symbol of peace. No event in Austin’s young life, save his kidnapping and subsequent rescue, could compare with that splendid moment when the ropes were cut and the balloon sprang into the air.

  “I still don’t understand one thing,” he said, taking advantage of the prevailing mellow mood. “Where are Lady Arabella’s jewels? The real ones?”

  The Baroness studied the boy, decided that he’d earned a reply. “They were sold by Sir William, piece by piece: I doubt they’ll ever come to light now.” She pinched his rosy cheek. “Run along and find some mischief to get into. I must speak with Sir John.”

  Austin obligingly scampered off toward a large tent, decorated on the outside with half-moons and covered inside with chintz.

  “The lad seems to have survived his adventures tolerably well,” remarked Sir John.

  “Of course!” The Baroness was serene. “You must know, John, that all of Bat’s blood thrive on calamity and intrigue.”

  “Yes,” agreed Sir John. “And so do some who share his name, if not his blood.” He knew well that Dulcie had enjoyed every moment of this ridiculous caper; nor did he deceive himself that she would, as reward for his long-suffering efforts on her nephew’s behalf, fall into his arms. In perfect understanding, they strolled for a while along the flower-strewn path.

  Those fortunate enough to regularly attend Lady Bligh’s spectacular galas knew t
o expect the unusual, although her efforts were less flamboyant than those of her spouse, who had on one memorable occasion provided fighting gamecocks with silver spurs for the edification of his guests. Dulcie’s brilliance was more civilized; it lay in the intermingling of unlikely people, such as Arabella’s aunt, Rebecca Baskerville, and Lord Rumfoord, who were happily engaged in verbally vivisecting the characters of their fellow guests; and Crump, engaged in jolly conversation with Pudding, who had emerged from her domain to speculate upon the visitors’ capacities for appreciation of her culinary extravaganzas, which included a fantastically iced sugar cake exactly three feet high. Sir John’s amused glance moved on to Lady Caro Lamb. He wondered if it was true that she had offered herself in payment to any youth sufficiently bold as to challenge Byron to a duel. Thus far, according to rumor, she’d had no takers.

  “Poor Luisa,” murmured Dulcie, in a tone that put Sir John immediately on guard. “Think how unhappy she must have been! One might almost say that Arabella drove her to murder, as did Gwyneth and that idiotic Dragoon. It is good of you to agree that her exposure would serve no purpose.”

  “I have not agreed,” retorted Sir John, “though you have contrived to spread the story that her heart failed when she learned of her son’s death.” His terrible scowl was inspired by the thought that Dulcie herself had barely escaped the grim reaper’s scythe. “It amazes me that you will go to such lengths to shield a woman who tried to murder you.”

  “Had the situations been reversed, I daresay I would have acted much as Luisa did, though with a great deal more finesse.” The Baroness frowned. “We must contrive to see that the Arbuthnot name remains blemished by nothing more odious than suicide.”

  “So you say.” Sir John hoped that Lady Bligh would never turn her clever mind to the successful enactment of a crime.

  They approached a group of people. Sir John’s temperature rose appreciably as Dulcie pressed closer against his arm. “None know of William’s villainy, save ourselves; already the furor has begun to die down. Let Arabella’s previous marriage and its distasteful consequences remain our secret. Bertha will not talk, for I have secured her a position with one of my innumerable relatives on the understanding that she holds her tongue. Nor will any of my people gossip about the affair.” She smiled roguishly. “All that remains is for you to warn Crump and the detective Luisa employed to keep silent. We will allow Slippery Jim to pass as the murderer; that can cause no harm since only we know of his connection with Hilary Rumfoord.”