The Spider's Touch

by Patricia Wynn

  Hester could not bring herself to join the crowd. Her conscience hurt. She would have preferred to have been left alone, so she could think without worrying that her thoughts might be written on her face. But Mr. Blackwell took no notice of her, and she might have forgotten his presence altogether, if half-way through the interval, he had not stood up to peer into the pit.

  After only a moment of staring, he gave a backwards start, and moved into the shadow cast by the curtain that separated their box from the next. It was as he had glimpsed someone he did not wish to see. He abruptly turned, when, taking note of Hester, he tried to disguise his haste.

  Making her the briefest of bows, he said, “Pray, madam, will you convey my apologies to our host? I have recalled a prior engagement and fear I shall not be able to stay for the rest of the entertainment.”

  Then he left with no further word, and Hester gained the privacy she had wanted.

  The performance, with its revelations, had affected her more than she was willing to accept without an examination of her feelings by day. Unused to reveling in guilt, she was still familiar with the effects of night upon the emotions, and knew how the hours of dusk could magnify morbid thoughts. The power of the music had taken her unawares. She had not expected the composer to be able to express the mortification of unrequited affection, or certainly never so eloquently. What had shaken her more, though, was the suspicion of a selfish core she might possess, whose existence she would have denied. Nothing short of a complete examination of her actions from first meeting St. Mars to last night’s rendezvous would resolve whether she had one or not.

  She was so taken up with this soulful search that she hardly heard the others returning to the box. Smiling, in absentminded greeting, she was vaguely aware of the sorting and shuffling that often takes place during an interval. Harrowby, by some rare miracle, returned with his own wife upon his arm. Lord Lovett followed shortly with Colonel Potter on his heels. And Mrs. Mayfield arrived on the arm of an old admirer who wished to be presented to her children, the earl and countess.

  This gentleman, if the title could be applied to one who gazed so lecherously on a former lover’s daughter, seemed disinclined to leave. He kissed Isabella with the freedom of an old friend, queried Harrowby on the number of livings in his possession and offered to provide him with the names to fill them, flirted loudly with Hester’s aunt, and kissed Isabella again, this last time risking injury to his back in attempting to squeeze her waist as she was seated. Isabella accepted his attentions good-humouredly and only laughed at his more outrageous attempts to kiss her.

  An acquaintance like this was not one Hester wished to make, and she

  gladly kept her distance. Lord Lovett and Colonel did the same. As sullen as ever, and with no reason left to hide his opinions from Lord Hawkhurst, the Colonel made no effort to hide his disgust at the visitor’s vulgarity. Lord Lovett chose to be amused instead, and even bestowed on Hester a winking glance.

  It was only a few minutes more before the musicians resumed their places, and only after the music started that Mrs. Mayfield’s swain was persuaded to depart. At the door of the box, he bumped into Dudley, who was just returning. Hester felt a moment’s uneasiness when she saw the droop of his eyelids, a certain sign that he had been drinking. As he stumbled into his chair, the odor of wine wafted through the box. Mrs. Mayfield whispered to him sharply to behave himself, drawing a sneer from the Colonel, and a frown from Lord Lovett, who glanced at Hester again, this time with concern.

  Then Hester noticed that their host had not reappeared. She felt a stirring of alarm, but the feeling was quickly tempered by the fact that they had heard no commotion outside their box. If Dudley had lost his temper, surely someone in their party would have heard him, or at least another member of the audience would have thought to complain. No one could do anything about it now without calling attention to Dudley. So, by tacit assent, she and Lord Lovett turned their attention to the stage.

  In the second act, Melissa’s aria was accompanied by a solo trumpet. As the sorceress threw off all tender emotions and gave herself entirely to revenge, her mood was defiant—even cheerful. And rather inappropriately so, Hester thought, still smarting from the wounds to her conscience. But she no longer felt a kinship with the villainess, so her burden began to lift.

  A sound of scuffling behind her intruded on the music. Frowning, Hester tried to ignore it, but her companions, who were not engaged as deeply by the music as she, all turned around in their chairs.

  Something was wrong. To Hester’s right, Isabella and her mother froze, staring at the entrance to the box. As Hester turned to see what had startled them, she saw that everyone else had frozen, too.

  Sir Humphrey stood in the doorway with wide, staring eyes and a strange, unfocussed look upon his face. A sheet of perspiration gleamed on his forehead. An ashen pallor had erased his normally rosy cheeks. The hands that habitually fluttered at his belly were still, pressed against the framing to support him.

  “Humphrey? Dear fellow, what it is?” Lord Lovett was the first to break the silence. His colour had gone white.

  A man of action, Colonel Potter jumped to his feet, just as Sir Humphrey fell forward. As he caught him, everyone gasped, except Mrs. Mayfield, who made a huffing sound and spoke indignantly of people who would blame other gentlemen for their over-indulgence. Sir Humphrey’s round, wild eyes stared up at them with a plea.

  “‘Pon my word!” Harrowby exclaimed. He was hushed by people in the neighbouring boxes, as Nicolino started to sing.

  With a start Colonel held up the hand he had used to lower Sir Humphrey’s back to the floor. They could see what it held.

  “My God!” Lord Lovett said. “Is he...?”

  “Yes,” Colonel answered, staring in amazement at the bloody knife in his hand. “I’m afraid that Sir Humphrey is dead.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Virtuous and vicious every Man must be,

  Few in the extreme, but all in the degree;

  The rogue and fool by fits is fair and wise;

  And even the best, by fits, what they despise.

  ‘Tis but by parts we follow good or ill;

  For, Vice or Virtue, Self directs it still;

  Each individual seeks a several goal;

  But HEAVEN’S great view is One, and that the Whole.

  That counterworks each folly and caprice;

  That disappoints th’ effect of every vice;

  That, happy frailties to all ranks applied;

  Shame to the virgin, to the matron pride,

  Fear to the statesman, rashness to the chief,

  To kings presumption, and to crowds belief.

  II. vi.

  Sir Humphrey Cove had been murdered with a knife from Hawkhurst House.

  This became obvious in the chaos that followed his collapse. Isabella was the first to spy the Hawkhurst arms on the hilt of the knife, which shocked her so forcibly as to prevent the screams she might have produced. She had no sooner pointed to the knife and blurted out its ownership than her mother fell into hysterical shrieks.

  The audience booed and hushed, ignorant of the crime that had taken place in their midst. The trumpets, hautboys and harpsichord continued to produce their beautiful notes, while Nicolino’s tragic voice soared eerily above them. Visibly distressed, Lord Lovett took charge and, with no concession to rank, instructed Harrowby to remove his mother-in-law at once. He turned to Hester and, placing a hand upon her shoulder, quietly requested her to escort Isabella and her mother home, both his manner and choice of words carrying implicit confidence that she, at least, would not lose her head.

  She complied, agreeing with his plan, but Hester was far from tranquil herself. To see Sir Humphrey, with his harmless cheer and innocent goodwill, so brutally cut down was more upsetting than anything she had ever witnessed. Her hands and knees trembled as she put her arms about Isabella and urged her past the corpse, whose blood lay pooling on the floor.

  A
t first, Isabella refused to go. She clung to Lord Lovett, who in addition to making order out of confusion had to soothe her by promising to call as soon as he had finished here. He helped Hester get her cousin out of the box, suggesting she lift Isabella’s skirts so they would not be stained. With both of her hands engaged in supporting Isabella, Hester’s own gown was not so fortunate. She cringed as her hem dragged through the blood.

  Busy as she was, and nearly overset, she did not realize the full importance of the knife until she, her aunt, and her cousin were seated in their coach, Isabella was huddled within her arms, and the clop of the horses’ hooves had broken the tense silence. Then, when she realized the truth, that someone who had been in Hawkhurst House must have committed the murder, she chastised herself for not observing everyone’s reactions. Without them, she could not even venture a guess as to which person might be a killer.

  Universal fear and shock were all she could recollect, but whether those emotions had been shared by everyone was something she would never know. For now, she was too shaken to do more than regret the disturbance of her mind.

  Mrs. Mayfield said suddenly, “Hester, you must say that you strolled about with Mayfield during the intermezzo.”

  For a moment Hester was too stunned to reply, but as soon as she found her voice, she protested firmly, “That would be perjury, Aunt, and I cannot believe you wish me to commit a crime.”

  “This is not an occasion for foolish scruples! Your family needs you, and that should be enough. After all I have done for you....”

  Seething, for there was nothing she could say to stem her aunt’s angry flow, Hester remained silent while Mrs. Mayfield talked herself hoarse. There was no mistaking the hysteria beneath her words. She believed either that her son had murdered Sir Humphrey, or at the very least that he would be accused of it. The prospect was frightening even to Hester, who had no particular affection for her oafish cousin. If word of Dudley’s assault got out, who would not suspect him of attacking Sir Humphrey again? Hester was in no condition at the moment to conjecture whether Dudley had been drunk enough to turn violent. Certainly, he had returned to the box reeking of spirits.

  But Mrs. Mayfield had finished her speech and was demanding an answer.

  Hester repeated her refusal to perjure herself, following quickly with this advice, “Even if I were willing to lie, nothing good could possibly come of it. Everyone must have noticed that I stayed behind in the box. And everyone was present when Dudley returned alone.” She did not say, returned drunk, but ended, “It would look suspicious, indeed, were I to say otherwise. In all such cases, surely, telling the truth is best.”

  “But what if they won’t believe the truth? Then, what?”

  A cold, stony hardness formed in Hester’s breast. Her aunt was asking the question now, when she had refused even to consider St. Mars’s innocence. Faced with the truth, she had denied it in order to keep his wealth for her daughter and herself. Were Dudley guilty of murder, she would just as willingly deny the truth again.

  Their arrival at Hawkhurst House spared Hester the need to respond. She handed Isabella to her maid and sought her own chamber in order to remove her gown. She asked one of the maids to put the hem on to soak, hoping that the stain could be removed, though she wondered how soon, if ever, she would be willing to wear the gown again.

  Harrowby and Dudley returned more than two hours later. Harrowby was weary and upset, his brother-in-law red-faced and sullen. As Dudley stormed into the room, it did not take long for the ladies to discover the reason for his anger.

  “He thinks I killed him!” he announced, as soon as the door to the withdrawing room was closed behind them. “As if I would stab a fellow in the back like a damned coward!”

  As one, his female relatives turned their gazes upon Harrowby, still standing just inside the door, while he spluttered, “For the Lord’s sake, keep your voice down, Mayfield, unless you want the servants to carry the tale to every news-sheet in town!

  “And I did not say I thought you had murdered poor Humphrey,” he added. “I only said you had caused enough trouble as it was.”

  “Well, I am sure there is nothing in that,” Mrs. Mayfield said. “Not when we’ve all been so upset. Lud! but I’ve never suffered such palpitations in my life! To think that anyone would harm our dear Sir Humphrey! What kind of monster would do that?”

  Even Harrowby, who was not often aware of Mrs. Mayfield’s ploys, seemed to feel that her speech savoured of something false. He threw her an offended look, and Hester found it in her heart to pity him, for in his own way, he had been very fond of his friend. The two had shared a childlike pleasure in simple distractions, as well as their gullibility.

  Who could replace Sir Humphrey at Harrowby’s levees?

  “You will have to excuse me,” he said coldly. “I am going to bed. The coroner will want to question us all soon enough.” Harrowby opened the door and called to a waiting footman to have Philippe attend him in his chambers. Then, with a frosty bow, he retired.

  Mrs. Mayfield lost no time in rounding on Dudley. “Now, see what you have landed us in—you, with your temper? If Lord Hawkhurst doesn’t throw the lot of us out, it will not be because of you.

  “Isabella—” she threw over her shoulder— “I want you to go to your husband’s chamber and make him comfortable. We cannot have him angry with us now.”

  “But Lord Lovett promised ...”

  “Forget Lord Lovett! This is no time to act the harlot! You can see him all you want another day. But you’ll never see him again if your husband sends us in disgrace to Rotherham Abbey and decides to keep you there.”

  “I don’t think Harrowby is mad at me,” Isabella said, pouting. At the look on her mother’s face, however, she said, “Very well, I’ll go see if there’s anything Harrowby wants. But I doubt he’ll want me right now. Not when Philippe is there to fuss over him.”

  As soon as she was gone, Mrs. Mayfield pressed Dudley to tell her what had happened after they had left. His feelings were so wounded that several minutes passed before she was able to pull the story out of him.

  * * * *

  After taking charge, Lord Lovett had insisted that all the gentlemen remain, and only then did they notice that Mr. Blackwell had not returned to the box. His absense suggested the possibility of a second murder, but neither he nor his body was found. Lord Lovett sent a footman to alert the Watch—who came, but not until the opera was letting out, so they had to fight their way in against the crowd leaving the theatre.

  On regarding the body, the knife, and the illustrious personages involved, the Watch, which consisted of two decrepit old men, insisted on calling the Coroner. When the Coroner finally appeared, he proved to be scarcely fitter than the Watch, being not of that estate from which a subordinate magistrate should legally have been appointed. He principally wanted to know how a knife, bearing the Hawkhurst arms, had come to be at the opera house.

  That was a question which no one could answer. No one except the murderer, of course, who naturally chose to remain silent. But the knife pointed a finger at someone in Sir Humphrey’s own box, where Lord and Lady Hawkhurst, members of their family, friends who had dined at their table, and gentlemen who had attended Harrowby’s levees had been the victim’s guests. The Coroner had been distressingly unconcerned about Mr. Blackwell’s departure, especially once it was established that the gentleman had never set foot inside Hawkhurst House, but he did agree that Blackwell’s testimony should be sought. But so should everyone’s, he had emphasized. And to that end, he told them they would all be notified when the date of the inquest had been set and required to appear.

  * * * *

  By the time Mrs. Mayfield had extracted this much from her son, even Dudley had sobered. No quicker than his sister, still he had managed to surmise that his recent attack on Sir Humphrey would make him a suspect in his death. Unfortunately—or so he insisted—he had absolutely no memory of the first incident, which unsettled him in t
he extreme.

  “Well, I’m sure that nobody would accuse you of anything so horrible,” his fond mother averred. “Not when your sister is a countess and her husband an earl! I hope this will teach you to be properly grateful to our dear Lord Hawkhurst, and to Isabella for catching him, too.”

  This was not precisely the expression of confidence Dudley had looked for. That his mother based her conviction of his not being accused, not on his certain innocence, but on the reluctance of the legal authorities to prosecute an earl’s brother-in-law, seemed to speak to her own doubts. The nervous manner with which she picked at her necklace failed to inspire him with any belief in her faith.

  “You don’t think I had anything to do with it, do you?” he inquired, on a rising note.

  Mrs. Mayfield snapped, “What your mother thinks will mean nothing to a Grand Jury, I assure you! The justices will want to know why you came back so late to the box!”

  Dudley’s heavy face flushed. “I had to piss! There’s no crime in pissing, is there?”

  “Don’t ask me to believe it took you that long to relieve yourself! You had no business drinking, or this never would have happened!”

  He went pale. “You think I did it, don’t you? You think your son’s a fucking murderer.”

  Her slap rang against his face so fast that neither Dudley nor Hester had a moment’s warning. “How dare you speak to your mama that way! I should have left you at home to run to waste! But it’s too late now.”

  While Dudley cradled his scarlet cheek, her outrage changed into determined spite. “I will do what I can to get you out of this mess, but if I can’t, do not think that your sister and I will suffer with you. I have already given you much more care than you deserve.”

  She turned on her heel and left the room, slamming the door behind her. Hester felt as if her body had been filled with a painful poison. She would have given anything not to have been present at that scene, but she doubted her aunt would care either way.