It brought raised eyebrows, but the manservant yet hesitated. Suzanne needed to be better convincing. She continued, “I am here at the behest of Constable Samuel Pepper, who is investigating a murder.”
“Whose murder?”
“I cannot say. I must speak directly to his grace, if you please.” Her tone suggested she would speak to his grace even if the footman did not please. And she certainly wasn’t going to tell him that the reason she couldn’t say who had been murdered was that nobody knew his name.
The footman thought about that for a moment, then gave a slight nod of his head in lieu of a bow, said, “Wait here,” then retreated to the house and closed the door.
Suzanne looked back at Ramsay, who stood by the carriage while the driver tended to his horses in the cold. A light sprinkling of snow was in the wind, and white flakes danced like faeries around him.
Again, the wait was interminable. Cold made inroads into Suzanne’s clothing, and she shifted her weight back and forth to keep the blood moving in her feet. Her teeth began to chatter, though she struggled to make them stop.
Finally the door opened again. She might have sworn the footman appeared disappointed to find her still there, but he recovered quickly and swung the door wide for her to enter. She stepped inside and began blowing on her fingers to warm them.
The inside of the house was quite toasty. A short entry hall led to a large parlor in which a good-sized hearth held a merrily burning log. A stack of similar logs stood by, ready to feed the fire. The footman told her to wait, and he disappeared through a door at the end of the room. Suzanne immediately thrust her hands toward the fire to warm them. Slowly feeling returned to her fingers.
She looked around the room. Everything about this place spoke to her of security and established authority. People who had been wealthy, and secure in their wealth, for generations. Portraits on the walls honored family members past and present with the work of highly skilled and highly paid artists, and that work had been set in costly frames carved in rich woods or layered in gold. The furniture was perfectly kept and gently used, impeccably clean, and though old was not worn. A vase of hothouse flowers stood on a deeply polished wooden table, and the spring scent mixed oddly with the winter smell of burning wood.
The portraits covered the walls from ceiling to chair rail, seemingly random because of size, but she could see they were arranged somewhat chronologically. The south wall appeared to contain subjects dressed in Elizabethan costume, and the next had more modern, Puritan attire. She turned, looking for the most recent family members. They were behind her.
The largest of these paintings appeared to be of the duke, though she supposed it could have been an old picture of his father. The Puritan fashion of dress was so plain it was difficult to tell how old the clothing was. This face was stern, frowning. It was the portrait of someone whose main concern was the authority he held over others in the world. She’d found in the past that most of the peerage were overly concerned with controlling others. It was what gave their lives meaning, and very often was more important to them than the wealth that usually accompanied the power. She would need to tread carefully with this fellow, lest she find herself in trouble with the crown over a minor slip in protocol.
Then she noticed a small painting in the lower right corner of the wall of contemporary paintings that drew her eye. This one was very finely wrought, almost small enough to be a miniature, but not quite. It portrayed two subjects. A pair of boys, one a couple of years older than the other. Both with dark brown hair, and both with smiling eyes and ruddy cheeks that bespoke good health. The artist had quite caught the joy in them both, which shone from the picture like a light. Suzanne’s breath caught, for she recognized the younger boy as the poor child that had been found floating in the river. She had to turn away, lest tears rise and she be caught having to explain them to the duke.
The wait this time was even longer than at the door. Every so often she would look up at the duke’s portrait and wonder why these people always thought it so terribly important to put her in her place. This was so unnecessary. She knew well her place, had been taught it all her life, and hardly needed to be reminded. She thought of Little Wally, and just then she envied him his utter insouciance toward society and decorum. Ramsay, as well. Had he accompanied her into the house, he more than likely would now be encouraging her to go home, and suggesting the duke should engage in a physically impossible sex act. However, having seen the picture of the victim hanging on this wall, Suzanne had a keen interest in learning anything she could about the boy and his family.
Finally the door to the rest of the house opened, and the footman entered to announce the duke. His purpose was to give Suzanne a chance to stand and not expose the duke to the sight of her sitting in his presence, but she hadn’t sat while waiting and only turned toward the door with a mild expression, neither smiling nor frowning. The duke entered the room.
He was a large man, broad shouldered and burly enough to mitigate his mighty efforts at elegance. Like everything around him, his attire was plain, but of terribly expensive fabric and cut. His robe hung with a perfection that spoke of expert attention to his frame and the way he moved, but it was black and collarless. He wore no gold, silver, or jewels, not even any rings on his fingers, no signet that might show his rank. His slippers bore no decoration. Not even did his face have adornment of beard or moustaches. His hair was thick and virile, a dark brown, graying at the temples in the most genteel way. He was well scrubbed, smoothly groomed, and his hair had the perfection of a marble statue with nary a strand gone astray.
His eyes were equally stone-like. Flinty. Suzanne looked into them, and had to wonder whether this man had a soul. Surely there must be one in there somewhere, but she wasn’t seeing it. His visage shook her to her toes, and she had to force herself to continue looking at his face and not at the floor.
He said, “What is it you want? What of my son?” His voice was deep and gravelly, and she guessed he’d often used it for shouting down his opponents in Parliament.
It struck her that, for a father so concerned about the welfare of his son, he’d kept her waiting a remarkably long time.
She curtsied as deeply as was called for, and she replied, “I’ve come to ask you about him. I believe he is about the age of twelve or thirteen. Is that correct?”
“Paul is twelve. He’s not in London. He’s with his mother’s cousins in Kent, for nearly three months now.”
“Have you heard from him recently?” Certainly not within the past week.
“We had a message from him just yesterday.”
“May I ask when it was sent?”
“Three days before.”
Suzanne knew he was lying, and it put her on her guard to know exactly why he was avoiding the truth, and precisely what truth he was avoiding. He continued with a soothing smile on his face, which did not lend credibility to his story, coming from the man in that portrait behind him. It was almost as if the painting were the real expression of himself beneath the façade he presented to her in the flesh. “Said he’s well, and enjoying his studies. Being the younger son, he will do well to join the clergy. He’s a talent for it.”
Certainly that was another lie. The boy she’d seen in the Goat and Boar had little religious thought in his head, if any, and fit too naturally into the role he’d played with Daniel to be anything other than the sensual creature he’d professed. She turned to the portrait of the two boys, thinking, then turned back to the duke. “I’m afraid something terrible has happened to him, your grace.”
The duke now abandoned his smile, but otherwise his expression did not change.
She went on. “Your younger son, the one in that portrait there”—she gestured toward it—“has been killed.”
Now the hard line of his mouth matched the portrait. “How do you know this? Who are you?”
“As I expl
ained to your man earlier, my name is Mistress Suzanne Thornton. I’ve been asked to help in the investigation of the murder of a young boy. He is the younger of the two in that picture.”
“You’re certain?” He glanced around at the painting of his sons, then back at her. “There’s no doubt?”
“I saw the body,” she said, without mentioning she’d also seen him alive the night before.
The duke seemed to stand straighter, but his expression remained stony. He said, “Tell me what happened.”
At that moment the inner door opened and a woman entered. She was a bit younger than Suzanne, and quite a bit younger than the duke. “Jacob,” she said to him, and Suzanne guessed this was the duchess. She appeared to want to say more, but hesitated when she saw their faces and sensed the tension in the room. She looked from one to the other, puzzled. Finally she said, “Jacob, what is the matter?” Worry deepened the lines in her face so she suddenly appeared older than she was.
“Leave the room,” Jacob ordered his wife as he would have done a servant.
“I think not.” She knew something very wrong was afoot, and stood her ground, though her hands clasped each other with white knuckles and pale fingernail beds. She looked from her husband to Suzanne, then back, waiting for one of them to tell her what was the matter.
“I said, go.” He didn’t raise his voice, though his anger at being contradicted could be heard in it.
“I shall stay, Jacob.” She turned to Suzanne and said with softened voice and utter politeness, “Please continue, mistress.”
Someone else might have waited to speak until the woman had obeyed her husband and left, but Suzanne thought the duchess deserved to hear this conversation. She deserved to know exactly what had been said rather than to hear what her husband would deign to tell her later. She said to the duchess with as much sensitivity as was at her command, “I’m afraid your younger son, Paul, has been found dead, your grace. His body was pulled from the Thames three days ago.”
Blood drained from the woman’s face. “Paul?” She tossed a glance to her husband, then returned her attention to Suzanne. “Paul? No. It can’t be. He’s in Kent. He cannot possibly be in London.” She turned again to her husband, as if asking him to confirm her words. He said nothing, so the duchess continued to Suzanne, “It cannot possibly be the same boy. You’re mistaken.” She nodded to affirm her own words, as if that was all it took to change the truth and all would be right again.
Suzanne chose her words carefully, and kept her voice as gentle as she could while insisting she was not mistaken. “I’m afraid it’s true, your grace. I wish with all my heart I could be wrong, but I see that portrait there is the very boy I saw pulled from the river.”
The duchess shook her head, and her mouth tried to form words, but none came. She looked to her husband again, her eyes pleading him to say it wasn’t so.
The duke said in a tone somewhat gentler than before. “Please leave the room.”
She shook her head again, then said to Suzanne, “Tell me what happened.”
Suzanne looked at the floor to organize her thoughts and decide how much detail to include in her story. As she cleared her throat to speak, she knew she would have to tell all to get the right answers to the real questions she had. She began with the discovery of the body.
“Three days ago, a washerwoman discovered a body floating in the river. Some boatmen plucked it from the water. It was found to be a young boy, approximately twelve or thirteen years old.” She paused for a moment to assess the reaction so far, and the duchess seemed to be taking this with as much calm as could be hoped for. So Suzanne continued, “The boy had been murdered.”
The duchess gasped. The duke was as still and hard as the marble statue he’d seemed before.
“Also, I must tell you, he was wearing a dress. He’d been disguised as a girl.”
This statement brought no reaction from either of them. Plainly neither was surprised by the revelation that their son liked to wear women’s clothing. This struck Suzanne as odd, though she reflected perhaps it shouldn’t. More than likely they knew their son better than anyone other than the servants, and were aware of his predilection for dresses. But she made mental note of it and continued, exploring and noting their expressions. “And I’m terribly sorry to have to tell you this, but the body was mutilated.”
“He was eaten by fish in the river?”
“No. His . . . an appendage had been cut off.” She felt it unnecessary to mention the piece had not been lost, or where it had been found.
The duchess laid a hand over her mouth, and her eyes welled up with tears. “Oh!” The duke was looking at the floor now, and his expression was unreadable. The duchess said, “How do you know it was our Paul?”
“It isn’t. It can’t be,” said the duke. “Paul is with your cousins.” He was still looking at the floor.
Suzanne said, “I’m sorry, but I saw the body myself shortly after it was taken from the river.”
“How did you know to come here? You never saw that picture until now. How did you recognize him and know he was our son?” Her tone accused trickery, but Suzanne understood the duchess was grasping at straws.
Rather than implicate Daniel, and to avoid admitting she’d acted on the advice of an astrologer, which might have sent these people into a Puritan tizzy about heresy and the abyss, Suzanne committed the sin of bearing false witness, saying, “A bystander recognized him. I cannot recall his name. But regardless of how I came here, there is no doubt the victim was the younger boy in that painting there.” She gestured to the small one with the two boys.
The duchess looked at it, saw her youngest son, and the realization finally came home. Her mouth opened as if to cry out, but no sound came. Only a struggle to express the unexpressible. Finally a strangled noise came, a hopeless cry that spoke of killing grief. She didn’t take her eyes from the painting, and sank to her knees on the floor.
Her husband bent to steady her and to keep her from going all the way down. He supported her as she drew a breath and emitted a heartbroken sob, finally closing her eyes so that tears ran down her face.
Suzanne hadn’t anticipated having to bring this news to the boy’s mother. She’d only imagined talking to his father, and now was sorry it had been necessary to tell the duchess. She knelt beside her and took her hand. Almost insensibly, the duchess gripped Suzanne’s hand in both of hers and held on as she sobbed. Suzanne said, “I’m sorry,” and repeated it over and over.
The duke said, “You’ve accomplished your mission, mistress. I think you had better leave now.” The anger in his voice was copper clad.
Suzanne gently retrieved her hand from the duchess’s grip, and stood. “Your grace, of course there will be an inquiry to find your son’s killer.”
“I said, leave. Immediately.” As if summoned, the manservant entered the room and stood ready to escort Suzanne from it.
“Yes, your grace.” Suzanne knew she would have to attempt questioning him later, and didn’t relish it, but she also knew she would get nothing further from either of the Worthingtons until they’d calmed down. “I’m sorry to have brought you this terrible news. May God give you strength.” Then she curtsied appropriately and allowed the manservant to see her out.
When she exited the house, Ramsay was lounging in the carriage chatting with the driver who sat above. He leapt to attention and hurried from it to help her up the steps and inside. “What did you learn?” The driver came to close the carriage door behind them, then prepared the horses to leave. Suzanne and Ramsay settled into their seats. She wished for a lap robe, for the carriage was terribly cold and the emotional scene she’d just left gave her that much more of a chill.
“I’m afraid I learned very little beyond the name of our victim. He was their youngest son, Paul. They’d thought him safe with cousins in Kent until just now. They hadn’t even known h
e was missing.”
“No message from the cousins?”
“Apparently not.”
“Not very conscientious of them, I’d say.”
“Indeed.” Suzanne thought that over for a moment. “Not very conscientious at all.” Surely they should have sent a message as soon as he’d left Kent, which would have been at least a day or two before she’d seen him in the Goat and Boar even if he’d arrived in London that very morning. A message so important, sent a week ago, would certainly have arrived before now. All in all, those cousins of the duchess didn’t seem adequate guardians of their ward. As the carriage started up and rolled down the wide street, she said, “There were a number of things that bothered me about the parents.”
“Such as?”
“I cannot say. Only . . . some bits simply don’t fit right, and I don’t know for a certainty what they are or how they don’t fit.”
“Intuition?”
“People tell less with their mouths than they do with their bodies as a whole. Sometimes we women understand things men can’t, because we pay attention to things other than the obvious.”
“Then you should know how the bits don’t fit.”
“I will. I must first think on what I’ve seen.”
Chapter Nine
When Suzanne and Ramsay returned to the Globe, they found Daniel’s carriage standing at the front. The horses had been blanketed, so Suzanne knew he’d been waiting some time. He was sure to be in a testy mood. She bade Ramsay good day and thanked him for his company that morning, then readied herself to talk to Daniel about what she’d just learned.
He stood when she entered her sitting room. “There you are.” By his tone he was impatient that she’d kept him waiting so long, but he didn’t actually say so. He knew her well enough to understand that had he voiced his complaint, she would have merely pointed out that he’d not had an appointment with her and she could hardly be held responsible for his inability to find her at home. He could fuss and whine all he wanted. She would not feel the least guilt, nor would she ever arrange her day around the off chance of a visit from him. Certainly, in that way lay madness.
The Twelfth Night Murder Page 11