The Dead Duke

by Clare Jayne

  The carriage pulled away from his house, moving at a sedate pace along the city streets that were hampered by slow-moving sedan chairs, hand-held carts and people crossing to the opposite pavement in a leisurely manner.

  “How is your mother?” MacPherson asked him.

  “Still resting but the physician says she will make a full recovery soon. She hates missing my sister’s first public engagements, though.”

  “Yes, of course,” McDonald said. “Miss Chiverton is now sixteen. Have you fixed a date for her formal coming out ball?”

  “We will do so as soon as my mother is entirely well. In the meantime, Fiona is enjoying some informal gatherings.” He glanced over at MacPherson. “Miss Campbell made an excellent impression on my sister. You had not said she would be at Lady Mooreville’s luncheon.”

  “I did not know,” MacPherson replied.

  “Or you would have attended?” Chiverton suggested.

  “Perhaps.”

  Speaking mostly in jest, he said, “Fiona requested that I pass on her earnest desire to assist in any way in your investigation.”

  “Good gad!” McDonald exclaimed in an irritated tone.

  Chiverton ignored him, adding, “She thinks the work you and Miss Campbell are doing is the most exciting thing she has ever heard about.”

  “Have neither of you the slightest good-sense?” McDonald snapped and then said to him, “You should not speak of such things to your sister, let alone put the idea into her head that it is acceptable for a lady to be in any way involved in such sordid matters.”

  “Miss Campbell is a lady,” MacPherson said, a note of warning in his voice.

  “I was not suggesting otherwise,” McDonald responded in a more moderate tone. “She is a grown woman and her decision to scrutinise criminal matters – whatever I might think about it – is her own. Miss Chiverton is barely more than a child and Chiverton has a responsibility for guiding her behaviour and thoughts.”

  His father and brother clearly saw the matter in that way but Chiverton, perhaps because his opinions and feelings mattered so little to them, was protective of his sister’s need to have some say in her own life. “Fiona is a sensible girl and, of course, I would not actually wish for her to see dead bodies or converse with criminals, but I would never dream of imposing my will upon her. She knows my secret and understands that there is more to the world than entertainments and dresses. I would be glad to see her form a friendship with Miss Campbell, whose intelligence could expand my sister’s own knowledge and help her with the decisions about her future she will likely make soon.”

  MacPherson looked touched by these words and gave a nod of gratitude to him.

  “I would think better of Miss Campbell if she had not got MacPherson involved in work that could ruin his good name and cause the worst of scandals,” McDonald said.

  “In fact it was Lady Huntly who first got us involved in that work, something I am sure she now regrets, but she seems to understand – as you do not – that Miss Campbell engages in such investigations from the purest motives. Miss Campbell wants to help people who the law will not assist to find justice, as do I.”

  “And I have to say, old fellow,” Chiverton said to McDonald, “that it is easier to find fault with others than to live a blameless life oneself. Has the fear of causing scandal ever stopped you from visiting ladies of certain establishments? Did it stop you, in your youth, gaining money to pay off gambling debts from a most disreputable source?”

  “That is not...” McDonald began and then he grimaced. “I suppose that is not an entirely unfair comparison. I do not understand MacPherson’s desire to involve himself in such work, but that is unimportant. I have no desire to quarrel with either of you, but you, Chiverton, can be discreet, just as I can. Publicly flouting the rules of society and sending its members to gaol could ruin MacPherson’s standing in society. I am just worried you might one day bitterly regret what you are doing now,” he added to MacPherson.

  “I appreciate your concern,” their friend responded. “I value your opinions and would never dismiss them lightly. However, this is something that I feel is larger than me. I can help find justice for people. Miss Campbell and I solved the death of a young working-class woman, a death that no one else was willing or able to look into it. We did something that helped her family and that I feel somehow gave her spirit peace. I will never regret involving myself in such work, whatever the consequences to my name.”

  “Very well,” McDonald said, with a shrug of surrender.

  Chiverton looked from one to the other of them and, seeing signs of both returning to their former good humour, gave a quiet sigh of relief. For the first time, it occurred to him to ask, “Where precisely is it that we are going?”

  * * *

  Ishbel had attended lectures all day, forgetting about the investigation until she was preparing for bed that evening. She was due to see Ewan early the next morning so, thinking she should have something to discuss with him about the case, she picked up the bundle of letters from Miss McNeil’s friend. She settled under the blankets of her four-poster bed and unfolded all the letters, to check the dates. More than half of them had been written before Miss McNeil arrived in Edinburgh or met Duke Raden, so she put these to one side and, out of the rest, selected the earliest.

  The writing had a childish quality, with some letters spelt backwards and numerous mistakes made, and the words grew smaller and smaller towards the end of the page, since the writer had clearly not wanted the expense of paying for the delivery of more than one sheet of paper. The letter read:

  My Dear Frend,

  Paul and the Girls send their afectionite regards and want to hear all about Edinbora. I want to hear all about your Duke! Has he given you any moor gifts? I am not serprized that Tim is upset over it. He wanted to wed you so of caws he dislikes seeing other men cort you. Tis a dificalt thing for him but he will recuver and so will Joe and Alex hoo just want to protect you.

  What are the rich gentilmen and ladys wearing...

  Ishbel skimmed the rest of the letter but there was nothing more that was pertinent to the case. She picked up the next, ignored the greeting and family comments, and read:

  Tell me evreyfing abowt the howse the Duke has bawt you. Is it very grand? I no he has sed he luves you but be carefull not to expect to much. He is a Duke and mite cawt a rich lady for wedding...

  They had not considered that, Ishbel realised, dwelling on the idea, but then she had assumed that if the duke loved Miss McNeil, he would not show an interest in another woman. However, upper class marriages seldom had anything to do with love, so what if he had intended to re-marry but not, as they had been led to believe, Miss McNeil?

  She perused the rest of the letters, reading several more comments that she wanted to talk over with Ewan the next day. She wanted to add more suspects and ideas to her notes on the case, but the pages were downstairs in the library and, while her bed was warm, the air outside it was frigid. She was still telling herself to get up when she fell asleep.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ISHBEL HATED Harriette. She had wanted to re-read Mrs Phillips’ letters this evening and make more notes on the case based on her own new ideas and those of Mr MacPherson. Instead she had somehow been talked into attending a ball. She had certainly not agreed to it last week, whatever Harriette insisted. She sat morosely as Lucy teased her curled hair into a sufficiently grand shape and thought of all the things she would rather spend the next few hours doing, which was just about anything. There was still so much to be discovered for the case...

  “Is something wrong, Miss?” Lucy asked.

  “On the contrary,” Ishbel said, smiling. “I have just realised that the ball is an excellent opportunity for Ewa – Mr MacPherson and I to find out more about the duke. There are bound to be acquaintances of his there, perhaps even Lord Moray.

  “Couldn’t you just enjoy the dancing for once?” Lucy suggested.

  Ishbel looked b
lankly at her. “Enjoy it?”

  Lucy sighed and went back to her work.

  “We must arrange to speak to the actors again as well,” Ishbel said, thinking aloud. “I suppose Mr MacPherson could talk to them at the tavern they frequent, but I would be sorry not to hear the conversation.”

  “You will be careful, won’t you, Miss?” Lucy said. “It was one thing to look into a jewel theft that helped the upper classes but mixing with actors and killers could ruin your reputation.”

  “But I want to help an innocent, working class woman,” Ishbel said, surprised at the warning from such an unexpected person. “Surely you understand that I wish to do only good?”

  “I do see that, Miss, and it makes me think better of you than ever, but good intentions mean nothing to most people. They will see only that you’re behaving in an unladylike manner, which no one of your class is allowed to do, and they’ll do their best to destroy you for it.”

  As she, Harriette and Lord Huntly left in their carriage for the ball, Ishbel found herself thinking about Lucy’s warning, for some reason taking it more seriously than she had taken similar comments from Harriette and Mr MacPherson. But she was willing to take the consequences of her actions, she told herself; she had already been prepared to find a job and give up her place in high society. What more could they take from her?

  Her mood remained uneasy as she entered the ballroom and surveyed the crowd of exquisitely dressed ladies and gentlemen, but then she saw Mr MacPherson and the concern faded away. He approached her, his two friends by his side.

  “That is a lovely gown, Miss Campbell,” Mr McDonald said in a friendly manner that was the opposite of his previous attitude.

  Confused but pleased at the thought that another of Mr MacPherson’s friends might be improving his opinion of her, she smiled at him and said, “Thank you, sir.” She then asked Mr Chiverton, “How is Miss Chiverton enjoying society so far?”

  “I believe she is starting to feel a little more confident. She would very much like to pay you a morning call soon.”

  Ishbel smiled. She had never had a female friend amongst the upper classes before, but had liked Miss Chiverton exceedingly. “I would enjoy that very much. Perhaps I might write to her and suggest a day and time as I am, otherwise, frequently not at home and I should hate for her to call when I am not there.”

  “I am sure she would welcome that.”

  “If you plan to dance at all this evening,” Mr MacPherson said to her, “it would give me great pleasure to claim one.”

  Ishbel held back her immediate denial and decided to take Lucy’s advice and try to enjoy tonight. It had begun well, after all. “Yes. I believe I will dance a little.”

  Mr Chiverton and Mr McDonald promptly added their own requests, which she accepted with a touch of nervousness, remembering belatedly that she was in fact quite a bad dancer. When the music for the minuet began, though, she found herself enjoying the feeling of Ewan – Mr MacPherson’s hand on her gloved one and the sensations provoked when they stood close together and looked into each other’s eyes. Astonishingly, she found herself sorry when the music ended.

  In this mood, she threw herself into the next two dances with Mr Chiverton and Mr McDonald, who distracted her from worrying about getting her steps and hops right with good-natured conversations. So she found that she had engaged in three entire dances and two hours had gone by without her feeling self-conscious or once wishing she was elsewhere.

  Even Harriette approached her to comment, “Your dance skills are finally improving.”

  From her cousin this was a considerable compliment and further improved Ishbel’s mood. She was then joined once more by Mr MacPherson and Mr Chiverton and they were discussing the letters from Miss McNeil’s friend, when a young lady and her mother approached.

  “Monsieur MacPherson,” the young woman said, smiling up at him, “I am so happy to renew our acq-acquaintance.” She stumbled slightly over the last word, this sounding like a phrase she had memorised. “I had hoped you would call on me by now.”

  Ishbel froze at these words, as the woman’s mother berated her for being too familiar. Mr MacPherson introduced them to Ishbel and Mr Chiverton as the Comtesse Moreau and her daughter, whom he had met at Lord and Lady Mulligan’s dinner party recently. Ishbel recalled the event, where she had been insulted and Mr Chiverton had helped her, and realised Mr MacPherson must have been seated beside Mademoiselle Moreau over dinner. The young woman had clearly enjoyed the meeting, making no effort to hide her admiration for him.

  “I hope you are both settling in your new home and that the weather does not offend you quite so much,” Mr MacPherson said to Mademoiselle Moreau with a warmth in his manner that bothered Ishbel.

  The French lady laughed. “I am liking it better every day, even more so if I might be enjoying the chance to dance tonight.”

  “If you are willing, I would be happy to share the next dance with you,” Mr MacPherson responded.

  The two of them soon left to head to the dance area while the Comtesse excused herself to speak to another new acquaintance.

  “He is simply being polite. He is not the kind of man who could hurt anyone’s feelings with a rebuff,” Mr Chiverton said to her as they watched the dance begin, the young mademoiselle moving with a grace and expertise that Ishbel could never achieve.

  “He is free to do as he wishes. He has no commitment elsewhere.” She had turned down his offer of marriage, she reminded herself. She had no right to object if he now looked at other women and she had always known that society viewed him as an eligible catch. She had not known, however, that it would make her heart clench and hurt so much.

  She looked away and saw Lord Moray watching her. Although she had no liking for him, she at once smiled in his direction, feeling that at least she could accomplish something worthwhile by trying to find out more about his falling out with Duke Raden.

  He approached her to say, “Miss Campbell, how charming you look.”

  “It is good of you to say so, My Lord.”

  They spoke of trivialities for a few minutes, Mr Chiverton remaining at her side in a protective manner, which she was glad of given the strong smell of whiskey surrounding the lord. Mr Chiverton, of course, knew of Lord Moray and why she was conversing with him.

  “It must be difficult for Duke Raden’s daughter to be unable to enjoy balls and other such entertainments during her period of mourning for him.”

  An emotion entered his eyes that was gone before she could recognise it. “I never had the pleasure of dancing with Lady Sarah. We did not often attend the same functions.”

  She interpreted this as meaning that the duke’s daughter did not like him. “May I ask, sir, if you believe that Miss McNeil killed the duke? It does not seem possible for a lady to behave in such a way.”

  “Kenina? As I am sure you are aware, she was hardly a lady and I do not doubt that she killed him. She was interested in his money, nothing more. When his interest in her waned and she realised she would lose everything, she doubtless killed him in a moment of rage. Such things happen more often than a young woman like yourself would know.”

  “It must be difficult for you, knowing that you can never resolve your differences with him.”

  “Raden was a charming, likeable fellow on the surface, but he took no responsibility for his actions. If a problem arose, even one he had brought about himself, he walked away from it. He caused his own death.” Lord Moray seemed to finally realise that, in his semi-inebriated state, he was speaking too freely and abruptly excused himself and walked away.

  “Did you hear the same thing as I did?” Ishbel asked Mr Chiverton.

  “His words did almost sound like a confession or, at least, an admission that he knew exactly what had been the reason for Duke Raden’s murder.”

  Ishbel turned, eager to find Mr MacPherson and share this with him, only to see that he was still engaged in his dance with Mademoiselle Moreau, both of them looking h
appy and animated. Her excitement melted away and she felt sick. Mr MacPherson owed nothing to her because of the decision she had made, a decision that felt utterly wrong at this moment.

  She pulled her gaze away from the sight and saw that the circle of people Harriette was currently conversing with included a woman Ishbel had spoken to after Duke Raden’s funeral. Mr Chiverton accompanied her as she joined her cousin, listening for a while to the comments being made, before saying to the lady, “This is a more pleasant way to spend time than when we last met, is it not?”

  “Do you think to trick me again into helping with your vulgar interest in this crime?” the woman – Ishbel could not even recall her name – said in a loud tone, making everyone present look in their direction. “I have heard all about what you did to poor Viscount Inderly and his family. You are a disgrace! Propriety clearly means nothing to the child of so brazen an adulteress as your mother.”

  Ishbel gasped, feeling as if she had been slapped. She had believed that her mother’s behaviour had affected only the family, that it had been concealed from the rest of the world, but she had been wrong. There was something different in the sounds around her and she realised with horror that the dance had come to an end.

  She looked round, the nightmare moment seeming to last forever, the subject of every shocked stare, and her worst fears were confirmed: Mr MacPherson had heard what had been said about her family.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “HOW ARE you this morning?” Ewan asked, although the answer to the question was obvious.