A Dog in a Doublet

by Emma V. Leech

  It wasn’t until after lunch that Norah Preston finally made an appearance, looking heavy-eyed and pale. On seeing Mr Formby and being given the news, she’d gasped in shock, and then after a moment began to laugh.

  “You find it amusing, Mrs Preston?” Formby enquired, polite but intrigued as her laughter only grew. “Your brother-in-law’s murder doesn’t distress you?”

  “Good God,” she exclaimed, looking at Formby in surprise. “I doubt there is a soul in the world, saving his wretched mother, I suppose, who will be distressed by Edwin’s demise.” She glanced up at Harry, something in her eyes that he didn’t quite like. “Fetch me a drink, would you ... my lord,” she added, smirking a little.

  “And could you tell me if you noticed anything out of the ordinary last night?” Mr Formby asked, chewing the end of his pencil as he waited for her reply. Norah shrugged, meeting Harry’s eye as he handed her the drink.

  “Well,” she began, making him wonder if she would twist their meeting into something significant. “It was very windy,” she said, smiling. “The noise of it kept me awake. I remember thinking that I’d hate to be out in it, getting tossed about like a leaf in a storm,” she said with a poetic, sing-song lilt to the words, grinning at Harry in a significant way that made his stomach clench as he remembered the leaf she’d plucked from his hair. Was that enough to prove he’d been out of doors last night? “But other than that, I can’t help you,” she said with a sweet smile at Formby now. “For now, at least. I promise to tell you if I remember anything…significant,” she added. “But I’m afraid I just spent a restless night tossing and turning. All alone ... in my bed.”

  Formby shifted, clearly discomforted by her flirtatious manner, as well he might be. Harry grimaced. God damn the woman. His stomach clenched as it occurred to him just how she’d want him to pay for his silence.

  Once Norah had been dismissed, there was only Harry to go.

  Baden had been ungentlemanly enough to imply that he’d spent the night with Rebecca, whom Harry assumed had confirmed the story, as he’d not heard otherwise. Reggie and Beryl had both confirmed each other’s presence all night, though Harry well knew that Reggie slept in the valet’s room close to his and not in the larger, double room he’d been allocated to share with his wife. He’d always done so when Alistair was alive, in case he was needed if the old man was unwell, doing the combined job of valet and butler to his cantankerous master. Though Harry had assured Reggie there was no further need, he seemed set in his ways, and the practise had continued. Harry saw no need to enlighten the inspector, who didn’t know that the butler had always acted as valet too.

  Though Wilfred and Norah had separate rooms, both insisted they’d been asleep, though no one could confirm or deny that - save Harry, who knew Norah had been awake and walking the corridors. Wilfred’s valet, Mr Brewer, had also given the same story, though Harry wondered if the man had actually been sought out by Norah once Harry had disappointed her. The three Graeae - dread, horror and alarm - as Harry had come to think of the three maids, had all read the Bible together for half an hour after supper and then retired to bed. As the three of them shared a room, their alibi was pretty water-tight, assuming none of them were lying. Frankly, Harry thought Mariah’s maid, Miss Drebble - or Deino as he’d started referring to her with Beryl and Reggie - was capable of pretty much anything. But she seemed to be Mariah’s creature, and Harry doubted that she’d do anything to upset her beloved mistress.

  Harry sat behind his desk and tried to look unconcerned, and then decided that would probably make him look like a murderer more than anything and gave it up. Formby sat opposite him, chewing on the end of his pencil with a meditative air as he read through his notes. Flicking through until he reached a clean page, he folded the cover back and looked up at Harry. His expression was in no way threatening, but Harry gained the strong sense that this wasn’t a man you could easily fool.

  “You’re a friend of Squire Bow, I understand, my lord?” he said with an enquiring air.

  Harry shrugged. “I think perhaps friend is stretching matters a little,” he said with a rueful tone, deciding that he needed to be as honest as he could be. He couldn’t help but feel that if he was found out in a lie, Formby would be unforgiving in response. “The squire is a kind man and has been very good to me; I owe him a good deal.”

  Formby nodded, holding Harry’s gaze.

  “You hope to marry his daughter?”

  Harry took a breath, slightly startled by the personal nature of the question, though he shouldn’t have been surprised. “I hope that I may be so blessed one day,” he said, choosing his words with care. “However, I have made no formal declaration and will not, for all the time this affair is unsettled.”

  Formby nodded, a sympathetic cast to his expression. “Hard for you to keep a woman like that in the manner she’d be used to, if you lost all this ...” he said, allowing a sweeping gesture to illustrate the grand castle and everything else that would come with the title.

  Harry returned a grim smile. “Indeed,” he said, careful to look directly at Formby as he replied. “Which is why I have done my best not to raise hers, or the squire’s, hopes. However, I did not murder Edwin because of it. As you pointed out yourself, it changes nothing, as Wilfred is my most immediate threat.”

  Formby nodded, though gave no sign as to whether he believed Harry or not. Instead, he jotted down a couple of notes in his little book, the pencil making a slight scratching sound in the silence of the study and making Harry’s nerves stand on end.

  “Unless, perhaps Edwin had discovered some reason ... some impediment ... that would challenge your claim?” Formby asked as though he was thinking the idea through as he spoke, his tone merely curious rather than accusatory.

  Harry snorted and shook his head. “Believe me, no one would need much of a motive to dispose of Edwin, and yes, I suppose something of that nature would cause me a deal of grief. However,” he added, sitting back in his chair and meeting those shrewd eyes with as much honesty as he could. “I did not murder him, I had no reason to. As I understand it from my father’s lawyer, the case is pretty water-tight.”

  “I’m told you attacked Edwin when he informed you that they’d found your mother and that she’d testify to never having had an affair with Alistair Preston.”

  Harry leapt to his feet before he could rein in his temper. “That because he’s a bloody liar,” he shouted, leaning over the desk towards him and pounding one fist down with fury. Formby stared at him, as if cataloguing this display of temper. With a deal of effort Harry hauled in a breath and sat down, his next words hard but controlled. “My mother is dead. The idea that they would simply pay some random woman to discredit me was and is ... abhorrent.”

  Formby nodded his understanding, and Harry wondered if that was sympathy he saw in the man’s eyes. If it was he couldn’t trust it. Formby continued to stare at Harry with an air of expectation, though, so Harry continued.

  “I was angry because we all knew it was a lie, not because I had anything to hide. Killing Edwin would solve nothing for me, as Wilfred and Mariah knew what the plan was. It would change nothing,” he repeated, needing to get the point across. “Edwin was offensive, a repulsive excuse for a man, in fact, and I despised him, you’ll need no other motive for my wanting to strike the man, but murder is another thing.” Harry stared at Formby and wished he had the slightest idea whether the man believed a word he was saying. There was nothing else to do, though, so he ploughed on. “Wilfred appears to be the master behind all of this, but in truth it’s Mariah - their mother - that has them all dancing to her tune, despite appearances,” he added with a dark tone as Formby’s eyes lit with amusement. “But what I mean to say is: if Edwin had real information, he’d have gone straight to Wilfred or his mother with it before he acted. I had no reason to kill him, or, at least, not him alone.” Harry wondered belatedly if that had been a wise thing to say, but it was too late now.

  “No
t a strong man, then, Edwin Preston?” Formby asked, his head tilting to one side in that enquiring manner that made Harry’s skin prickle with unease.

  “You’ve seen his wife,” Harry said in disgust. “You think any but a weak man would gain pleasure from inflicting harm on one that can’t defend herself? He was a bully, Mr Formby, the worst kind of cruel, vindictive bully that gets pleasure from inflicting pain on the weak.” He took a breath, shaking his head as he remembered. “I’ll be frank with you, inspector, I don’t know who killed him, but I find I don’t much care, either. Whoever did it, did the world - and most certainly his wife - a great favour.”

  Formby pursed his lips, silent as he considered Harry’s words. “I certainly haven’t heard a good word about him from anyone, which naturally means every one of you is a suspect,” he said with a good-natured grin that Harry thought rather ill-placed.

  “And what of you, my lord? Where were you at the time of the murder?”

  Harry got up and walked to the sideboard, picking up a decanter of brandy and gesturing to Mr Formby.

  “Oh,” the inspector said with a smile. “Well, now, I don’t mind if I do. Thank you.”

  Harry poured them both a generous measure and sat down again.

  “I was here, going over paperwork until the early hours of the morning.”

  Formby jotted in his note book. “Anyone to confirm that, sir?”

  “I played cards with Baden until perhaps half six when he went to change for dinner.”

  “You didn’t, sir?”

  Harry shook his head and took a sip of the brandy, feeling the warmth pool in his stomach with relief. He felt cold and taut and he wanted this interview over now. “No,” he replied. “I don’t eat with the family, and Beryl usually brings me something on a tray or I eat in the kitchens with them.”

  “Unusual, isn’t that, my lord?”

  Harry nodded. “It is, yes,” he said, knowing this would all sound odd to the man if he knew how grand houses usually operated. “However, my ... my father was a rather eccentric man, Mr Formby. Anyone will tell you so. He didn’t like people as a rule, and so there is little company to be had here at Stamford. Mr and Mrs Fletcher were more like family, not just to me, but to his late lordship, too. You get to know people when you live quiet and isolated like this, and whether one or other of us has a title, or prefers to eat in the kitchen or the study ... well, who is there here to judge?”

  Formby nodded, apparently understanding the point. “Until Wilfred and his family appeared and put the cat among the pigeons?” he asked with a nonchalant tone.

  Harry was no fool, and he could tell Formby wasn’t, either, the man was astute, and the closer he could keep to the truth, the better it would be for him, so he nodded in agreement.

  “Their being here has been the cause of a great deal of stress and unhappiness, Mr Formby, I’ll not deny it.”

  “It must have been a shock for you,” the inspector said, his voice quiet and thoughtful. “Your father turning up out of the blue and claiming you, bringing you here to all this, after the life you’d led.”

  “It was,” Harry replied, refusing to volunteer anything further.

  Formby paused to note something down on his pad, and Harry felt certain he was doing it simply to unnerve him. Sadly, it was working.

  “Your circumstances before your father appeared were somewhat difficult, I believe?” the inspector pressed.

  Harry’s heart began to thump a little harder, but he decided the truth would serve him best, so he stuck to it as much as he could. “I lived much of my life in the gutter, inspector, scrabbling to stay alive. Is that what you wished to know?” he asked with a defiant tone.

  “Where would this be, exactly?” Formby pressed.

  “London,” Harry replied with a tight smile, knowing it would be too easy to find his past if he narrowed it down too much. “And as I was usually on the run for having thieved a loaf of bread or an apple, I moved around a fair bit.”

  Formby stared at him and Harry was certain the man could smell the lie, such was the nature of his gaze, but in the end, he looked away.

  “So, after supper?” the inspector prompted, returning to their previous conversation.

  Harry didn’t allow himself to release the breath he’d been holding, but tried to continue as if nothing had bothered him. “After supper, I saw no one until ...” He paused and gave Formby a hard look. “I can trust in your discretion, I take it?” he asked.

  Formby shrugged. “Depends on how it affects the case, my lord. But if it has no bearing, I’ll not go out of my way to cause mischief, I can give you my word to that, at least.”

  Harry nodded. “Baden’s fiancée, Miss Trinton, came to see me. It was after midnight, I think. She’d been drinking.”

  “Ah,” Formby said, raising his eyebrows a little. “And how long did she stay?”

  “Not more than the time it took me to remove her from my study,” Harry snapped with some heat. “Good God, man, she’s engaged to Mr Preston, and his whole blasted family are under my roof. What do you take me for?”

  Formby shrugged. “A warm-blooded man is what I take you for, sir,” he said without rancour, apparently unperturbed by Harry’s outburst. “You wouldn’t be the first, believe me. I’ve investigated things that would curl your hair, and no mistake. Human nature is a funny thing. So there’s not much that surprises me.”

  Harry made a sound of disgust. “Well, nothing happened between us, inspector, she was here barely a few minutes. Once I’d made it clear her advances were falling on stony ground, she left in a temper, and that was the last I saw of her that night.”

  Formby nodded, jotting in his little book.

  “Did you see anyone else, sir?”

  Harry hesitated. “I heard something,” he said, not looking at Formby. “It was around two in the morning, I think,” he said, frowning into his glass. “I heard ...” He sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know what I heard, maybe I imagined it,” he added with a shrug. “I’d been drinking, you see, but ... but it sounded like a muffled, dragging sound. Like someone was moving furniture.”

  Formby sat up, looking intrigued.

  “Where from?”

  “I don’t know,” Harry said, shaking his head and looking apologetic. “The trouble with a vast place like this is that it moves and creak and noises travel. It sounded like it was in the corridor, so I went to have a look, but ...” He shrugged and sat back in his chair. “I saw nothing, no one. I even went outside the front door, but it was still locked. It was blowing a gale out, though, so I thought perhaps it had been a window come unlatched or a tile slipping. They do that a lot,” he said with a gloomy sigh, wondering just how badly in need of repair the roof was after last night’s battering.

  “And then?” Formby pressed.

  Harry stared at his drink. “And then ... I went to bed. Alone.”

  Formby pursed his lips, staring at Harry in a manner that made his throat grow tight as the imaginary feel of coarse rope scraped against his neck. “Well, that’s all, then, my lord,” he said with a jovial smile.

  “Is that it, then?” Harry asked in surprise.

  “For now,” Formby said, a slightly unnerving glitter in his eyes. “But I’ll be back, have no fear. Can’t have a murderer roaming about, now, can we?”

  “No, I suppose not,” Harry replied. “Though if they keep taking the Preston family ...” he began and then halted, realising the joke was in bad taste and ill-timed. Nonetheless, he saw the inspector’s lips twitched.

  “I’d watch that tongue of yours, my lord. It’ll run you into trouble if you don’t take care.”

  Harry snorted. “You’re not the first to remark it, believe me.”

  Formby chuckled and shook Harry’s hand. “I never doubted it.”

  Chapter 28

  A carver and gilder - a matchmaker

  - The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.

  Harry could not h
elp but be pleased when Reggie opened the doors to Clarinda and her father the next morning.

  “Squire Bow,” he greeted the man with a warm handshake before kissing Clarinda’s hand and feeling his stresses ease a little under the heat of the smile she bestowed on him.

  “We came as soon as it was decent,” she said, clutching at his hand. “Though I hardly know what to say. I can’t say I’m sorry, can I?” she demanded with her usual candour.

  “Not to me, no,” Harry replied, amused and thinking of nothing past how lovely she looked.

  “Oh, but Harry, this inspector, he can’t think you had anything to do with it?” she asked, tugging at the ribbons of her pretty chip bonnet with impatience.

  Harry shrugged, longing to run his fingers through the shiny curls she’d just set free, and quite unable to reassure her. “Honestly, I have no idea what the fellow is thinking. He’s a deep one, if you ask me.”

  The squire nodded. “Aye, right enough. Plays his cards close to his chest, I hear.”

  To Harry’s amusement, the squire was uncharacteristically quiet, and was clutching a posy of marigolds in his large hand like he was holding a staff.

  “For sorrow,” Clarinda whispered in his ear, and then rolled her eyes at his blank expression. “He’s brought them for Mildred Preston, marigolds stand for sorrow.”

  “What represents unconfined joy?” Harry enquired out of the side of his mouth with a lift of one eyebrow.

  Clarinda sniggered.

  “Come through to the parlour, then,” Harry said, moving them out of the hall and nodding to Reggie as he held the parlour door open for them. “Mr Fletcher, if you would bring us some tea, please.”