The Opium Purge (Lady Fan Mystery Book 3)

by Elizabeth Bailey

  “That is more comfortable.” Gentling her voice, Ottilia added persuasively, “Come, you will feel the better for unburdening what is in your mind.”

  A sigh escaped the woman. “Yes. I feel as if I can scarcely remember.”

  “I understand, but I have no doubt you will recollect everything once you begin.”

  Tamasine trained her eyes on her duenna’s profile as the latter drew a deep breath. Again, Ottilia was moved to wonder at the child’s ability to fix her attention.

  Miss Ingleby averted her gaze from the body. “Tamasine chose to walk with Joslin and I had gone on a little ahead. I am not at all sure what happened. I was down here, and I heard Joslin laughing. I looked to see what amused him, and then he — he lost his balance and fell.”

  “How did he fall? Was it immediate? Did he pitch forward? Did he reel where he stood? Tamasine told me that he put his hands to his head.”

  The girl’s gaze turned swiftly to Ottilia. “He fell over and over.”

  A faint frown creased Miss Ingleby’s forehead. “I don’t recall. I was so shocked to see it. He fell headlong, I think. And then he rolled.” A sobbing gasp escaped her. “He landed at my feet, all in a heap.”

  “And you knelt to him at once, I imagine?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I called him. He didn’t answer.” It came out in spasms, a staccato recital. “I felt for his pulse. But then I saw he was breathing. With difficulty. Dragging his breath as if it hurt. His eyes were closed. He looked — he looked asleep, but heavily.”

  “Did he seem to be in a stupor?”

  Miss Ingleby looked up, a trifle wild-eyed with the recital of her recollection. “Yes, I think. I tried to wake him.”

  “How?”

  “I shouted. I may have shaken his shoulder.”

  “But you did not try to move him.”

  “Onto his back? No, for I thought he might have broken a limb. I did not want to make bad worse.”

  “You did right,” Ottilia soothed. “Then what happened?”

  Miss Ingleby’s cheeks were wet, unregarded tears seeping from her eyes. “I didn’t know what to do. I sent Tamasine for help.”

  “I came for Lady Fan,” piped up the girl, her bright smile lighting her face.

  “That was well done of you,” said Ottilia, but returned her attention immediately to the companion. “What happened after Tamasine left you?”

  Miss Ingleby shook her head. “I hardly know. Joslin’s breathing quietened, and I thought he was recovering. I called him again and again, but to no avail.”

  “His breathing grew less and less?”

  A great sigh lifted the woman’s shoulders and she sagged. “I could not judge. He looked so peaceful, as if he was merely asleep. If you would ask me just when he ceased to breathe, I cannot tell you. By the time your husband arrived, he had gone.” She shuddered. “It was all so quick. It seems impossible he could be dead, and yet…”

  Her eyes strayed to the body and she began softly to weep. Ottilia laid a hand on her shoulder, but her gaze was drawn to Tamasine. The girl was looking puzzled, as if this display of grief had no meaning for her. She watched in silence for a moment, and then turned her blue orbs on Ottilia.

  “Why is she crying? She did not love Joslin. She is not his cousin.”

  Miss Ingleby’s sobs redoubled and she withdrew her hand, which all this time had still been clutching Tamasine’s wrist. Ottilia watched the girl closely, alert for any untoward motion.

  “Your companion is in shock, Tamasine. And I am sure she was fond of Sir Joslin. One does not need to love someone to be shocked and grieved at their passing.”

  Tamasine blinked. “You are not crying.”

  “But I did not know your guardian.”

  The girl rose abruptly, moving to stand over the body. Ottilia followed closely, standing beside her, with one hand ready to seize the girl, should she make any attempt at leaving the area. The last thing needed at this moment was for Tamasine to go off exploring.

  In a gesture that said more about her state of mind than any peculiarity of speech, the girl put out one foot and prodded at the inert body. “He is not pretending.” The tone was matter-of-fact.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Leaning down, Tamasine cupped her hands to her mouth. “Joslin, are you dead?”

  Ottilia grasped the girl’s arm and pulled her gently back. “My dear child, he cannot hear you.”

  Tamasine turned to look at her and the china-blue eyes went suddenly dim. Then the girl opened her mouth wide and began to scream.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The wails reached Francis’s ears as he stood in the wide hall, in rapid conversation with the housekeeper. She was a small woman, a trifle too stout for her height, giving her a dwarfish look. She had been staring up into Francis’s face as he explained the situation, and it was evident the reality of events had not yet fully penetrated her mind for she seemed dazed and unable to do more than nod from time to time. Before he had an opportunity to request her to find the two servants, the screams from outside distracted them both.

  “Miss Tam, that is.” The woman put her hands to her ears in a gesture Francis took to be automatic. “I’d best make her room ready.”

  She bustled, turning towards the stairs, but Francis reached out to seize her arm.

  “Wait, if you please!” The housekeeper looked at his hand, blinking confusedly. “I need the services of your two servants, Mrs Whiting. Cuffy and Hemp, I think it was. We cannot leave Sir Joslin lying out in the snow.”

  Her gaze widened and at last the expected shock leapt into it. She nodded several times. “Yes. Yes, I will get them. Or no, I will tell Lomax.”

  But even as she spoke, the green baize door at the back of the hall opened and a spare man of middle years came through. He stopped short at sight of Francis, a frown descending onto his brow.

  “What’s to do, Mrs Whiting? Shouldn’t you go up?”

  “It’s the master, Lomax!” The housekeeper moved towards the newcomer with pudgy hands held out. “This gentleman says he’s dead!”

  The man’s features blenched, although he accepted Mrs Whiting’s hands and held them briefly, his eyes flying to Francis.

  “I’m afraid it is true,” Francis said, his tone suitably grave, if loud against the continued lamentations from outside. “Sir Joslin had the misfortune to fall down the garden steps.”

  Lomax put aside the housekeeper and came up to Francis. Eyes of an oddly light grey looked searchingly into his. ‘He was killed by the fall, sir?”

  Francis found himself in a quandary. The notion did not march with Tillie’s analysis, but how much was it politic to reveal? He opted for caution. “We cannot be certain of anything until a doctor has seen him. For the present, I am anxious to have your master conveyed into the house. I gather a couple of fellows by the names of Hemp and Cuffy may be willing to assist.”

  For a moment the butler did not speak, but only eyed Francis in a considering way that he found decidedly disconcerting. Not to mention discourteous in a mere servant. Then the fellow seemed to make up his mind.

  “I’ll fetch them, sir.”

  Turning on his heel, he made all speed towards the green baize door and disappeared through it. Mrs Whiting had sunk into a cane chair placed by a large table to one side of the hall, upon which reposed a plethora of unrelated objects. His attention on the housekeeper, Francis vaguely took in a couple of candelabra still stuffed with last night’s stubs, a collection of scattered papers, along with a whip, an odd man’s glove, and several open containers spilling over with odds and ends.

  It struck Francis as peculiarly masculine, besides arguing a lack of that sort of order usually obtaining in the houses of the English gentry. And with the death of the principal householder, the situation looked set to deteriorate. On impulse, he put a question.

  “Who will take charge now that your master is dead?”

  Mrs Whiting’s glance flew up, dismay writ large upo
n her countenance. She drew a shaky breath. “I hardly know, sir. I suppose Miss Ingleby — or no, there is Miss Tam’s aunt, I believe, but I have no acquaintance with her.”

  “She was not in the West Indies then?”

  “No, sir.”

  “But you were?”

  “All of us,” said Mrs Whiting on another uncertain breath. She brushed a distracted hand across a plump forehead. “At least — not the maids or the cook.”

  “But yourself and Lomax?”

  She nodded, looking a trifle puzzled at this line of questioning. Francis knew it was scarcely his business, but he had not learned a trick or two from his darling wife for nothing. Tillie would wish to know every tidbit of background detail, and he might as well glean what he could. He persisted.

  “Miss Ingleby was also of the party who came from abroad, I gather?”

  The woman’s astonishment was plain, but she answered willingly enough. “Yes, sir. Miss Ingleby has been with Miss Tam since she was fourteen. None knows better than she how to do when Miss Tam…”

  She faded out, rising with a little difficulty and moving towards the closed front door. Francis became aware that the cries of the young girl were growing louder. Before the women could enter, the party from the nether regions crowded through the green baize door: the butler, followed by two burly black men dressed in the livery of footmen. One glance instilled confidence these men were eminently capable of bearing the burden of the dead man’s body.

  “Ah, Cuffy and Hemp, I presume? Good day to you. Let us go and secure your poor master.”

  Upon which, Francis turned for the front door just in time to witness Miss Ingleby entering, dragging behind her the recalcitrant source of the unceasing racket. Tempted to cover his ears, he refrained, standing aside as the cavalcade swept into the hall.

  “Oh, hush, Miss Tam, do,” the housekeeper begged, having attached herself to Tamasine in a bid to assist by pushing from behind.

  Miss Ingleby had the girl fast by one wrist. “Upstairs at once!”

  Francis was tempted to protest at this treatment. Surely a more gentle approach would better serve? The girl had suffered a severe shock. Then it was borne in upon him that the squeals were rather those of protest than sorrow. At what point the quality of the girl’s cries had changed, Francis could not say, his attention having been elsewhere. He recalled the oddity of her earlier behaviour and the discussion concerning her sanity.

  He raised his voice. “My wife is still outside with Sir Joslin?”

  Miss Ingleby checked briefly in her way to the stairs, throwing a glance over her shoulder. “Lady Francis said she would await your coming.” Then the woman proceeded on her way, admonishing her charge as she went. “That is enough, Tamasine. Cease this nonsensical noise at once, or it will be the worse for you.”

  Again conscious of a sliver of sympathy for the child, Francis signalled to the waiting coterie of male servants and headed for the front door.

  Ottilia watched the two footmen lay their burden down upon the coverlet of the four-poster in the apartment given over to Sir Joslin’s use. It was of a fair size, but a cursory glance around showed it to be sparsely furnished. Besides the bed and bedside cabinet, there was only a large press and a long mirror, no doubt hired along with the house. Making a mental note to find opportunity to search the press, Ottilia returned her attention to the matter at hand.

  Both the fellows Cuffy and Hemp, notwithstanding their great bulk, had dissolved into grief at sight of the wreck of their master. Neither one, to Ottilia’s mingled sympathy and surprise, openly sobbed or ventured any remark. Instead, they obeyed Francis’s terse instructions on the manner of lifting Sir Joslin’s corpse, their tears falling freely throughout.

  The care with which they handled him was marked, although they were panting with effort by the end. Ottilia read affection in the way the older of the two took time and trouble to dispose the limbs suitably despite the evident disarrangement of bone caused by his fall. As the men stepped back from the bed, Francis went forward.

  “That was kindly done, and I must thank you.”

  He held out a hand to the nearest of the footmen, the younger of the two, whose colour was several degrees lighter than that of his colleague. Ottilia saw the fellow hesitate, glancing first at the hand and then at his fellow. The older man gave a brief nod — of permission? The other wiped his hand quickly down his costume and then reached to take the one proffered by Francis.

  Francis shook the hand and smiled. “Are you Cuffy or Hemp?”

  “Hemp, sir,” said the fellow, his voice low and deep, in keeping with his large athletic frame.

  “You were fond of your master, I think?”

  Hemp put up a thumb and wiped at the residue of tears under his eyes. “Master Joslin was a good man.”

  The veriest trace of accent caught at Ottilia’s attention and she wondered if Hemp had been especially educated for his sojourn in England. Francis nodded at the man and turned to the older fellow, again holding out his hand.

  “You must be Cuffy then.”

  Was there a slight look of hostility in the dark eyes that raked Francis before the man ventured to take his hand? The older man was of beefier build than Hemp and not as tall. He had a bull-like head and there was a touch of grizzle in the tight black curls. His voice was even more a baritone than that of his colleague, and his accent was stronger.

  “Master is dying how, sir? He is no flatfoot. Why is he falling?”

  Francis released the man’s hand. “I’m afraid we can’t tell yet, Cuffy. We need a doctor’s opinion before any conclusion can be made.”

  Ottilia saw her spouse hesitate, flicking a glance across at her. She gave an infinitesimal nod, and was startled to note that both Hemp and Cuffy evidently saw it. Each pair of eyes must have followed the direction of Francis’s gaze.

  “It is not certain that the fall killed him.” Francis looked from one to the other. “It is possible your master was taken ill.”

  At that, Ottilia saw Hemp’s glance shoot across to Cuffy’s, and a look was exchanged. That these men knew something was evident. Before she could signal Francis to probe, however, the butler walked into the room. He had been briefly pointed out by her husband when the men had come out to collect Sir Joslin’s body, but had elected not to accompany the corpse upstairs, murmuring an excuse of needing to console the rest of the staff, who were in a state of shock and upset.

  He jerked his head towards the door, his eyes on the two footmen. “You two go down now.”

  Hemp and Cuffy made no attempt to argue, although Cuffy’s steps lagged as he approached the door and he turned his head to look once more upon the sight of his master’s body lying in the attitude of peace in which he and Hemp had laid him.

  The moment they left the room, the butler looked towards Francis, hardly sparing a glance for Ottilia. “I am indebted to you, sir, but I think we need not trespass further upon your good nature.”

  Ottilia saw her spouse’s lips tighten, and the clipped tone she knew well signalled his displeasure.

  “We are only too pleased to be of service. You are perhaps unaware that Miss Roy came across to Lady Polbrook’s abode to request our aid.”

  A frown descended onto the man’s brow. “Indeed, sir? Then you are Lord Francis Fanshawe, I take it?”

  “Perfectly correct, Lomax. And since I understand there is no one immediately in a position to take charge of matters here, I must feel it incumbent upon me to do what I may to assist the household in this unhappy affair.”

  It was all Ottilia could do not to burst out in astonishment. What in the world did Francis mean by it? He was far more apt to object to her thrusting herself into such matters than to wilfully declare an obligation.

  The butler seemed to share her emotions, forgetful of his position as he burst out, “But it has nothing whatsoever to do with you!”

  “For a start,” said Francis, ignoring the remark, “it behoves me to lock this room until
the doctor arrives.”

  “What doctor, my lord?”

  “My mother sent for her own physician, Doctor Sutherland. I imagine he will arrive presently.”

  The butler looked chagrined and Ottilia regarded him with interest. Did he object to the doctor in particular, or was there a reason to reject outside help? Or was it that he did not want the door locked against him?

  She butted in without ceremony. “Do you perhaps use a different physician in this house?”

  Lomax seemed only now to take in her presence. He gave a brief little bow. “It has not yet proved necessary to call anyone in, madam.”

  “It will be more proper for you to address my wife as ‘my lady’.” There was an edge to Francis’s voice that signalled to Ottilia his state of mind.

  “As your lordship pleases.” Ottilia thought the note of urbanity feigned as the man executed another neat little bow, and indicated the door. “After you, my lady.”

  She threw a glance at her husband and found a spark in the brown gaze. She felt it politic to comply with the butler’s intention before Francis could vent his annoyance.

  “Thank you, Lomax.”

  She nodded as she passed him, moving out into the gallery, which let onto the principal first floor rooms. There was a moment of hesitation before the butler followed her out, and she turned to watch Francis ostentatiously remove the key from the inside of the door and lock the room.

  “I will keep this for the time being.”

  Lomax fairly glared. “Upon what right, my lord?”

  Francis’s lip curled in a smile of scant warmth. “I believe I have the advantage of you, Lomax, in having been through this procedure on my own account. Should it be necessary to call in the coroner, it is essential Sir Joslin’s person remains untouched, as must also his possessions in this room.”

  The butler’s eyes widened and Ottilia saw a tithe of horror — or was it fear? — fly into them before it was swiftly veiled. “What do you imply, sir?”