by M C Beaton
“Nothing will happen to me,” he said. “I shall see to that. You are not going out this evening?”
“No,” said Emma bitterly. “I am in mourning and in disgrace, so I do not receive invitations.” Then her face cleared and she told him of her visit to Mrs. Trumpington and of her reunion with her two friends who had promised to help.
“Then tell them to find out all they can about a certain Madame Beauregard. She was present in the Yellow Saloon at midnight with, I assume, a certain gentleman. I gather from Lady Harvey’s attitude that they were an amorous couple, but we must be sure. Can you remember if your husband ever met this Frenchwoman?”
Emma shook her head and he sighed. “Every road seems to lead nowhere at all. Still, I shall try the secretary.”
Tamworthy said that Mr. Tocknell, the secretary, lived in 10 Paster Street, Bloomsbury. The comte wondered whether to return home and change, trying to persuade himself that he would need warmer clothing for a night’s watch in Emma’s garden and ignoring the mocking little voice in his head that was whispering that he wanted to look his best in front of Emma. He firmly decided that a change of clothes was definitely needed, and that took some time, and then he was delayed by a visit from Jolly, who listened with interest to the latest developments.
Jolly took himself off to the club, leaving the comte to finish his toilet. He was asked on all sides about the Comte Saint-Juste’s investigation of the death of Sir Benjamin, for the gossip had spread rapidly, and seeing no need for secrecy, Jolly cheerfully told them of the investigations to date.
It was dark when the comte set out for Bloomsbury, cursing his own vanity and yet hoping illogically that Emma would admire his new waistcoat which was embroidered with pink carnations.
Mr. Tocknell’s lodgings proved to be in a tall building divided up into small apartments. A bewildering line of white china bellpulls like organ stops ornamented the side of the front door. But which bellpull would jangle on its wire and call Mr. Tocknell? He chose one and pulled hard. A window shot up above his head and a woman in an enormous linen cap looked down at him as he backed onto the street to get a better view.
“Mr. Tocknell!” called the comte.
“Six,” shouted the woman, and slammed down the window.
The comte pulled the bell that had a neat 6 penciled beside it on the whitewash. No reply. He pulled again. Obviously Mr. Tocknell was out for the night.
He half turned away but was assailed by a strange feeling of foreboding.
He jerked the bell he had pulled first, and again the woman in the linen cap appeared at the window.
“Can you let me in?” called the comte. “I fear my friend, Mr. Tocknell, has been taken ill. He was poorly earlier today.” The woman did not reply, but she did not slam down the window although her head disappeared inside. He mounted the steps and stood next to the door. Then slowly it swung open, the woman having obviously operated a lever from the landing above.
There was a dim oil lamp on the first landing. He made his way up the stairs until he came to a door with a number six painted on it. He knocked loudly, listening to the quality of the silence. He had a strange feeling that the whole building was holding its breath.
He slowly put out his hand and turned the doorknob, and to his surprise, the door swung open.
He edged his way cautiously inside. The little hall was pitch-black. Feeling his way, he came to another door and pushed it open. The flickering light of the parish lamp outside the window illuminated a corner of the room where there was a table with a candle in a flat stick. He lit the candle and held it aloft—and nearly dropped it.
From a ham hook in the ceiling swung the lifeless body of what could only be Mr. Tocknell, a pathetic figure in neat brown clothes and buckled shoes, his feet turned in pathetically like the feet of a hung game bird.
And then there came an eldritch screech from the doorway—the woman in the white cap and a burly man behind her with a cudgel. “Foreigner, murderer,” howled the woman when she had stopped screaming. People were beginning to crowd in behind her. Voices were calling for the watch, for the constable, for the militia.
In vain did the comte try to explain. No one was going to let him leave until the authorities arrived. He began to worry about Emma. He glanced around the room, ignoring a volley of insults about frog eaters and murderers. The room had been ransacked. Books had been torn from the bookcases and ripped apart. The fire was not alight but the grate was full of charred paper, and a few sparks still glowed among the blackened mass.
I wonder if it is suicide, thought the comte, or if someone knew I was coming here. Jolly! He was going to the club. Perhaps he talked.
He held the candle high and his eyes narrowed. There were chairs overturned around the room, but no chair was lying where Mr. Tocknell might have kicked it away had he killed himself. He studied the face of the dead man. There was a knot in the noose placed cunningly under his right ear which had caused his neck to break. His face looked remarkably peaceful.
The crowd at the door suddenly fell silent.
With relief the comte turned back to face the doorway—the forces of law and order had arrived.
Emma waited by the window of the drawing room, wondering what had happened to the comte. The maid, Austin, who had elected herself chaperone as Emma could not be left alone with a French comte all night, sat sleeping in an armchair in the corner of the room.
Down in the street below, carriages came and went from the other houses. Laughter came up to Emma’s listening ears. It was another world to her, a world she had never known, a world of gaiety and freedom. The comte belonged in that world, not sitting in a weedy garden. He was probably now getting merry in some club or ballroom and had forgotten all about her. Two young ladies entered a carriage on the other side of the street. They were dressed in shockingly thin muslin, and they were very pretty.
Emma had bathed in rosewater and had pomaded her black hair until it shone with purple lights. She had put on her best black silk gown. She began to feel silly. The comte could have no interest in such as she.
The little French clock on the mantel chimed midnight, and Emma turned away from the window with a sigh. He would not come now. She would wake Austin and tell the poor woman to go to bed. How faithful the servants are, thought Emma, her eyes filling with tears. I must find out from Tamworthy how much they are paid and give them more. Such loyalty should not go unrewarded.
The scent from the comte’s flowers filled the room, and Emma’s heart filled with a strange yearning.
And then she heard a brisk tattoo on the street knocker and stood still.
She heard the door opening, Tamworthy’s voice, and then a light step on the stairs.
Austin struggled awake and got to her feet.
“A million apologies, my lady,” said the comte. “But what an evening I have had! Brandy, I pray you, and then you shall hear all.”
Emma rang the bell and ordered brandy. She noticed his face was pale and drawn and he had lost his usual air of insouciance.
“That is better,” said the comte when he had drained a full glass which Tamworthy had poured for him. “Now, I shall tell you all…”
He leaned forward in his chair and told the horrified Emma of the death of the secretary. “I would have been here earlier,” he finished, “had I not thought it my duty to point out that Tocknell had all the appearance of a man who had been drugged and then slung up on that hook. I am a Frenchman and immediately became prime suspect despite my help. Whoever murdered Tocknell was desperately searching and destroying his papers.”
Emma then asked the question the comte had been hoping she would not. “It is almost as if someone knew you were going to call on the secretary,” she said. “But how can that be?”
He sighed. “While I was changing my clothes I talked to a friend of mine about my proposed visit. He then left for his club. I am afraid he must have talked. I did not counsel him to remain silent, did not even think of it. But we are wasting time
. I should be at my post in the garden.”
“No,” said Emma sharply. “Not tonight. You have suffered a great shock.”
A wicked twinkle lit up his eyes. “Ah, you care a little for my welfare, I see. That will sustain me through the night.” And despite Emma’s protests, he insisted on going ahead with his watch.
Emma found she could not sleep, and so she arose quietly and dressed again without summoning her maid. She went down to the drawing room and stood at the back window which overlooked the garden and peered down into the darkness.
A small moon was racing through the clouds. The comte lay sprawled in an easy chair which the servants had placed for his comfort in a corner of the garden; she could just see the shine of the buckles on his shoes in the pale, fitful light. He was very still, and she wondered whether he had fallen asleep.
The clock on the mantel tinkled out two strokes. Emma half turned away from the window and then turned back again. Perhaps she should go down to the garden and make sure he was not asleep. It was dangerous to fall asleep when at any moment…
Her eyes sharpened. Surely there was a slight movement at the top of the wall. She backed behind the shelter of the curtain and looked around it. A hand and a leg appeared over the wall. She glanced down at the comte. He was motionless, or appeared to be.
Her heart began to hammer. If she shouted for the servants, the man would escape. Sir Benjamin’s sword stood in the corner. He had worn it when he had been a major in a volunteer regiment that used to drill in Hyde Park in the days when an invasion from France seemed imminent. Emma seized it and hauled the sword from its scabbard and ran down the stairs, down and down to the back door. She opened it gently and moved silently into the garden.
A small snore reached her ears. Amid all her distress and acute fear, Emma could still feel a stab of impatience at the sleeping comte. She peered into the blackness. The moon was behind the clouds and the garden seemed very still. And then a black figure detached itself from the blackness at the end of the garden.
Throughout her short life, Emma had been as quiet and biddable and submissive as any lady of her age was supposed to be. But suddenly she was consumed with a hot rage. All her treatment at Sir Benjamin’s hands, all her frustration at the unfairness of the suspicions about her, all her fear for the safety of the comte, hit her with force.
“Awake!” she shouted. “The murderer is here!”
And waving the clumsy sword, she ran toward the intruder. He was masked but his eyes glittered strangely. He turned and darted to the wall. Emma raised the sword above her head and then swung it in a great arc. The heavy sword flew from her hand and impaled itself in the garden wall between the bricks, and the intruder scaled the wall like a cat and disappeared over the other side.
“You silly widgeon,” said a cross French accent in her ear. “We could have had him.”
Emma swung around and faced the comte.
“You!” she said passionately. “We could have had him? You, sir, were asleep.”
“I was only feigning sleep.”
“I heard you snore.”
“I was feigning snores. I saw him arrive and decided to wait until he reached the kitchen door and then spring on him, and then you came out, waving that sword. Now we shall never know who he was and it’s all your fault.”
“It is not my fault!” panted Emma, and then burst into tears.
“Now then,” said the comte, gathering her in his arms. “I did not mean to be so harsh. Shhh! All is well.”
He freed one hand, took out a handkerchief, and mopped her face. “This will never do. I had better go home and get my traps and stay here.”
“Y-you c-cannot,” sobbed Emma. “It is not respectable.”
“I shall find you a chaperone. Do not cry, Lady Wright, or I shall kiss you.”
Emma broke free from him and blew her nose on his handkerchief as Tamworthy erupted into the garden, brandishing a blunderbuss and followed by the other half-dressed and frightened servants.
Jolly was awakened by his valet and told that the Comte Saint-Juste had arrived and demanded to see him.
He squinted blearily at the clock. “Four in the morning,” he howled. “The fellow must be foxed. Oh, send him up.”
Jolly eyed his elegant friend with disfavor. “I say, I hope you’ve got a good reason for waking a chap up.”
“A very good reason,” said the comte, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He told the amazed Jolly about the murder of the secretary and about the scene in the garden. “And what I want to know, Jolly, is did you tell anyone at the club that I was going to call on that secretary?”
Jolly groaned. “I told just about everybody. Damme, you didn’t tell me it was a state secret.”
“Framley, Fletcher, and Henderson… were they among those you told?”
Jolly scratched his head. “I think so. Lots of chaps there.”
“Well, in future, mon ami, take everything I say as a state secret. Now… Lady Wright cannot be left unprotected, and so I am going to stay with her.”
“That’ll set the tabbies talking!”
“Not if she has a respectable chaperone. Come, Jolly, like all good English gentlemen, you’ve probably got a spinster aunt, a poor relation tucked away somewhere.”
Jolly groaned. “Only you Frenchies would expect a fellow to think at this ungodly hour.” His fat face creased up like a baby’s as he thought hard. Then his face cleared. “O’course, there’s Cousin Agatha. Miss Tippet. She’s staying with m’mother and mother would be deuced…”
His voice trailed away. He had been about to say his mother would be deuced glad to get rid of her. He himself though Miss Tippet a poor sort of female, but Jolly shared all the contempt and dislike of men of his age for unmarried ladies without dowries.
“Excellent. How soon can you fetch her?”
“Tomorrow. Anytime. Only go away and leave me alone.”
“Is she in the country?”
“No, right here in town. Now, go away…”
“Take her to Lady Wright’s by tomorrow evening. Good night, Jolly. You look awful, and I have seen enough horrors for one night!”
Chapter Five
Emma awoke early the next morning with a rare feeling of anticipation. The terrible weight of depression that had plagued her days since her marriage to Sir Benjamin seemed to have lifted. For the first time in her life she could do what she wanted—within reason. There was no longer a fight for privacy with her brothers and sisters in the crowded home in which she had been brought up, nor was there now the dread of Sir Benjamin’s choleric temper.
She summoned Tamworthy and asked to see a list of the servants’ wages. She found they were all being paid provincial rather than London wages, and low ones at that, and told the gratified butler that she was raising all their salaries to the level of West End London servants. Then she cut short his effusive thanks by asking him to summon a locksmith to change the lock on the back door and an ironmonger to put bars on the glass panels.
Emma then called for her carriage and asked the coachman to take her to St. James’s Park. She had arranged a meeting with Matilda and Annabelle, who had both said they could contrive to escape their homes in the morning before their husbands woke up, the London fashionables not waking until two in the afternoon.
It was a warm, gray morning with a damp mist curling around the lime trees that bordered the narrow strip of water in the park. The cannons that had been placed there to make a last stand against an invasion by Napoleon gleamed wetly in the pale light. Matilda arrived first and then Annabelle. The ladies all climbed into Matilda’s coach.
Emma told them of the latest developments and of the murder of the secretary.
“It will soon be in the newspapers,” said Matilda. “Then surely society cannot go on blaming you for the murder of your husband.”
“So someone has a key to your back door!” interrupted Annabelle, who had been thinking of the earlier part of Emma’s narrative w
hich dealt with the happenings in the garden. “Have you changed the lock?”
“My butler is getting it changed this morning,” said Emma. “But did the murderer get the key from Sir Benjamin, or did he come to the house when we were in the country and examine the lock to find out which type of key would fit it?”
Annabelle shook her head. “No, don’t you see, he must have a key to the study as well. It must have been someone with whom Sir Benjamin had private dealings. He gave him the keys so that he could slip into the house unnoticed in the middle of the night when you and the servants had gone to bed.”
“He was always most insistent that neither I nor the servants went anywhere near the hall in the middle of the night,” said Emma slowly. “I remember once I decided to go to the kitchen and make myself some tea when I could not sleep. I got only as far as the hall—it was about three in the morning—and Sir Benjamin suddenly came out of his study and ranted and raved at me for disobeying orders.” She sighed. “But as he ranted and raved about so many things, I did not find it odd at the time. Oh, there is something else. The Comte Saint-Juste has said he will come and stay with me after he finds me a chaperone.”
“Oho!” teased Annabelle. “Sits the wind in that quarter?”
But Matilda had gone very still. “You look shocked, Matilda,” teased Annabelle.
“No, not shocked, only worried,” said Matilda. “What, for example, if the comte should prove to be the murderer? What better way of finding any incriminating papers than to gain your confidence, Emma, and then go through the house at his leisure.”
Emma gave a shaky laugh. “Tish, you will have me suspecting the whole of London. I am grateful to the comte for his help.”
“Has he formed a tendre for you?” asked Matilda curiously. “He seems to be going to an unconscionable amount of trouble on your behalf.”
Emma turned her face away and looked out at the dripping trees in the park. “Of course not,” she said. “He is like all fribbles—he takes his pleasures seriously. But he is my sole support at the moment. I miss you, my friends. Oh, I wish we did not have to meet in this underhand way.”