“I imply,” said Francis with obvious deliberation, “that it is better for members of the household not to be in a position to be held accountable for anything that may go missing. Or indeed, for anything that might arrive.”
“Arrive! What can your lordship mean by this?”
“Evidence, Lomax. I am speaking of potential evidence.”
The butler’s thin chest rose and fell sharply and a flush showed through the slight tan of his skin. There was positive venom in the look he cast upon Francis, but he did not hesitate to voice a protest, and with acrimony.
“You are suggesting foul play.”
Francis slipped the key into his pocket. “I am suggesting nothing, Lomax. I am merely setting in train the usual precautions to be taken in the circumstance of an unexpected death. Your master was in the prime of life. The authorities may take the view that such a fall as he took ought not to have proved fatal.”
For several seconds, the butler stared his defiance at Francis, who met his regard with one of his bland looks. Then, without a word, Lomax turned on his heel and marched away down the gallery.
Ottilia watched him run swiftly down the stairs. As soon as he became lost to sight, she turned to her spouse, unable to keep the mischief from her voice. “Dear me, Fan, have I to deem myself usurped in the role of investigator?”
An eyebrow quirked. “I am merely paving the way for you, my love. I could see the wretched fellow would balk if we did not take a high hand at the outset.”
“We?”
He laughed. “A taste of your own medicine, Tillie. Let it be a lesson to you for the future.”
She gave a gurgle. “Consider me thoroughly chastened.”
“Yes, and pigs have wings,” said her fond spouse. But he reached to take her hand and bring it to his lips. “And now what, if I may make so bold?”
Ottilia looked back to the bedroom door. “I should dearly love to make a preliminary search.”
“I suggest you wait for the advent of the doctor. We will be hard put to it to explain ourselves should Lomax return to find us hunting through his master’s things.”
“After your refusal to allow anyone to tamper with the place? Yes, I imagine so.”
“We had better go down.” He eyed her narrowly as they started for the stairs. “Are you fatigued? You have been on your feet too long, I dare say.”
Impatience riffled through Ottilia, but she bit back a retort. “I am perfectly well, Fan.”
“Yes, but you ought to sit down after all this excitement.”
“For heaven’s sake, Fan, I am not made of china!”
“You are pregnant, and you know perfectly well you tire easily.”
The tone was flat, all emotion withheld, and he insisted on supporting her as she began to descend the stairs. Ottilia reined in irritation with difficulty, perforce accepting his aid. To her chagrin, she did find herself a trifle fagged as they reached the hall again, and was not averse to sitting down when Francis led her inexorably to a cane chair to one side of the long table.
“If everyone would cease reminding me that I am over-exerting myself, I am sure I should not even notice any fatigue,” she said aggrievedly, as she sank down.
“By everyone, I presume you refer to me,” returned Francis, releasing her as she settled.
Ottilia read in his tone the elaborate affirmation of patience he had recently adopted, as if she were a recalcitrant child who must be humoured. She snapped.
“If you will persist in addressing me in that detestable fashion, Francis, I swear I shall scream!”
He did not speak, only regarding her in an enigmatic way that served to increase her ill temper, as if to outline the reason for it. For a moment her frustration intensified, but she managed to refrain from bursting out. And then the increasingly familiar sensation of guilt attacked her and her spirits dropped. She sighed aloud.
“Fan, I wish sometimes I didn’t love you so deeply. It would make this a deal easier.”
A rueful look crept into his eyes and his lips quirked in the way that never failed to soften her heart. The gentleness he was wont to use with her returned. “It will pass, my dearest one. It is not forever.”
“Six more months,” she groaned, putting out a hand and curling it into his fingers, which held hers tightly.
“Mama says you will come out of your megrims sooner than that.”
“Megrims?” Ottilia threw up her eyes. “I might have guessed you would go to Sybilla for comfort.”
“Advice, rather.”
Ottilia grimaced. “Have I been hateful?”
“Horribly. But I am schooling myself to endure it.”
She was obliged to laugh, but a sound from above recalled her attention to the matter at hand. She gestured. “Who is coming down?”
Francis shifted to the bottom of the stair and looked up. Instead of answering, he raised his voice to be heard from above. “Ah, Miss Ingleby. How does your charge?”
The companion did not answer this directly, Ottilia noted. Feeling at once energised with the freshness of interest, she rose from her chair and moved close enough to be able to see the woman.
“Mrs Whiting has her in hand.” Arriving at the bottom of the stairs, she addressed herself to Francis. “Did you see Sir Joslin safely bestowed, sir?”
“Indeed. Hemp and Cuffy were assiduous in their care of him.”
Miss Ingleby nodded, although there was a troubled look in her eyes, Ottilia thought. She sounded vague. “They were both devoted to Joslin. I cannot think what they will do without him.”
Ottilia came up to her and took hold of one her hands, which was wafting ineffectually. “My dear Miss Ingleby, should you not see to your own needs? A nip of brandy perhaps? You have sustained a shock quite as severe as your charge.”
The companion tugged her hand away, and her lip trembled. “I will survive it. Tamasine is another matter. I cannot think how we are to do.”
“Mrs Whiting spoke of an aunt,” Francis interjected, making Ottilia prick up her ears.
“Mrs Delabole, yes. She is the late Mr Roy’s sister.”
Ottilia made her presence felt again. “Is there no male relative who might take charge of Tamasine? She spoke of Simeon, I think.”
Miss Ingleby jerked, as if the notion disturbed her. “Upon no account!”
“The aunt then?” suggested Francis.
“I must write,” uttered the companion on a sharply indrawn breath.
Ottilia eyed her in no little growth of suspicion. There appeared to be much here to ponder. She tried again. “If Sir Joslin was her guardian, surely some provision was made in the event of his demise?”
Miss Ingleby’s eyes flashed fire. “He was not expecting to die! Why should he make provision?”
Because, Ottilia might have said, he was dealing with a creature fit for an asylum. Such a remark could only have a negative effect. She attempted a soothing note. “My poor Miss Ingleby, I fear you are like to be much incommoded by this unfortunate affair. I beg you will allow us to assist you.”
The companion stared, blankness in her gaze. “You? Why should you, pray? It has naught to do with you!”
Ottilia felt Francis bristle, and he spoke before she could intervene, his tone edged with anger. “My wife is merely trying to help, Miss Ingleby. I make every allowance for your present sorrow, but I suggest you mend your attitude.”
The companion’s gaze turned to encounter his and Ottilia readily noted her resentment. The creature’s voice dropped, but she abated not one jot of ire. “I am glad of such assistance as you have both given, sir, but I can manage now. This matter need not trouble you further.”
“Yes, so Lomax said also. But I tell you, as I told him, that I have no intention of removing from here, nor of unlocking Sir Joslin’s door, until the doctor has seen him.”
Miss Ingleby appeared stupefied, fixing Francis with an unblinking stare. When she spoke at last, her tone was vibrant with passion. “You locked his r
oom? Upon what authority?”
“None,” said Francis frankly. “I did so upon my own determination, and from a knowledge of what is necessary on occasions of this kind. I dare say the authorities will thank me.”
“As I will not! It is not your place!”
“No, it is not. But I stand by it. If Sir Joslin’s death proves to have been premeditated, you may well have cause to be glad of my actions.”
Miss Ingleby went white. “No! No, do not say so. She did not mean to push him!”
“Tamasine?” cut in Ottilia quickly. “But we are not talking of that.”
The woman’s wild eyes came around to her. “What can you mean? What can you possibly mean?”
“As yet, nothing very much, Miss Ingleby. But it is evident Sir Joslin was taken ill before Tamasine pushed him.”
“Ill? One of his turns?”
“What turns?” asked Francis swiftly, forestalling Ottilia.
Miss Ingleby caught a hand to her mouth, clenching the fingers. “An old condition. He suffered recurring bouts now and then.”
Ottilia became brisk. “What was this condition?”
“His chest.” The woman’s hand came down and she joined it to the other, jerking her fingers. “I believe it was brought on by fever originally. Pleurisy, they thought. He was never strong afterwards.”
Ottilia felt Francis’s regard and glanced at him.
“That might explain everything,” he said shortly.
“Possibly.” She turned again to the companion. “What form did these bouts take?”
Miss Ingleby shrugged, shifting away a little across the hall to the table. “Joslin would not say much.” She fiddled absently with one of the stubs of candle, pinching the blackened wick between unquiet fingers. “I observed that he became short of breath, and he would take to his bed for a few days. None but Cuffy was permitted to attend him.”
Ottilia thought of the sweating and the hands put to the man’s head before he fell. “Did he experience a recurrence of fever? Or headaches?”
The companion did not turn, her attention apparently centred upon the candle stub, which she had removed from its holder and now began playing it between her hands. “I don’t know. He would not let me near him at such times.” She threw a look over her shoulder. “You had better address these questions to Cuffy.” A faintly acidic laugh came, and she added a rider. “Not that he will tell you.”
This seemed only too likely, from what she had seen of the fellow Cuffy’s evident regard for the dead man. In Ottilia’s experience, devotion such as his inspired a stubborn sort of loyalty. Nevertheless, she resolved to secure an interview with him as soon as convenience allowed. She was just about to enquire further into the origins of Sir Joslin’s illness when the green baize door opened at the back and a gentleman she knew well entered the hall, took a swift glance round and stopped short.
Giles, Lord Bennifield, heir to the Marquisate of Polbrook, was young, with light hair falling loosely to his shoulders above a striking countenance. His nose was straight, his lip prettily curved and a pair of green eyes held a startled expression as they travelled from Ottilia to her husband. The boy broke into speech.
“Good God! Uncle Francis, you here?”
Francis’s brows had snapped together. “I might ask the same question, Giles. You must be very sure of your welcome to be entering the house through the back premises.”
The young man flushed with evident discomfort as he moved further into the hall. “I was in the stables when I heard the news,” he said by way of excuse. “I took the quickest route to find —”
He broke off, his colour deepening still more.
“Miss Roy?” came on a faintly ironic note from Francis. “You thought to administer comfort, I dare say.”
“Well, yes,” Giles admitted, his glance flicking to the other two occupants of the hall. He executed a small bow in Ottilia’s direction. “I beg your pardon, Aunt. How do you do?”
Risking her spouse’s wrath, Ottilia smiled at him. “Pray don’t trouble with the formalities in such an extremity as this, Giles.”
He turned to Miss Ingleby, but she forestalled him, speaking quick and low, her continuing upset obvious to Ottilia. “You should not be here, my lord. You need not suppose Sir Joslin’s prohibition to have lapsed. His wishes are still paramount in this house.”
To his credit, Giles did not flinch, and there was neither resentment nor hostility in his tone. “I came at Miss Roy’s behest, ma’am. I had no notion Sir Joslin had met with an accident.”
“Miss Roy’s behest?” Francis’s tone was sharp, and he threw a glance at Ottilia which she met with raised brows. “She sent to you? When?”
Giles had evidently not missed the exchange of looks for his glance went from his uncle to Ottilia and back again. “Early this morning.”
“At what time precisely?” Ottilia’s mind was running with conjecture.
Before Giles could answer, Miss Ingleby intervened, a vibrancy of wrath in her voice. “Who came to you, sir? Who in this house had the temerity to take such a message?”
Giles was frowning now. “One of the footmen. Hemp, is it? The younger of the two.”
“That fellow!” The disparaging note was pronounced. “Oh, it was ever thus! The dratted girl can twist him any way she wills.”
Ottilia caught Francis eyeing her again and dropped her voice to a mutter. “The time, Fan.”
He nodded and turned instantly to his nephew. “It is imperative that you remember the precise time this fellow Hemp came to you, Giles.”
The boy shrugged. “I don’t know it precisely. I had not yet breakfasted.”
“That’s no use, for neither have we.” Francis bent a direful frown upon his relative. “Do you tell me you waited upon breakfast after receiving an urgent request to come here?”
“For God’s sake, Uncle Francis, she didn’t say it was urgent!”
Giles threw up his hands as he spoke in a gesture abruptly similar to one Francis was apt to make and Ottilia stared at him. It had not before occurred to her that Lord Bennifield in any way resembled the menfolk on his father’s side, for to her eyes he bore an uncanny likeness to the portrait of his mother Emily. Since the poor woman had been murdered upon the very day Ottilia made acquaintance with the Polbrook family, she had no live image with which to make a comparison.
Giles turned to Miss Ingleby. “Where is Tamasine? How has she taken it?”
“How do you think?” the woman flashed. “Her guardian is dead, sir. Did you expect her to dance on his grave?”
“Miss Ingleby, hush.” Ottilia moved to the woman and grasped her hands. “You are overwrought.”
The companion burst into sobs, dragging her hands away and throwing them over her face. Ottilia put an arm about her, murmuring soothingly, and glanced quickly about the hall, seeking for doors. “Is there somewhere we may escape to?”
She threw the question at Giles, who was looking both outraged and upset. As who could blame him? She heard Francis murmur to the boy.
“Do you know the house? Where can they go?”
Starting a little, Giles nodded and moved swiftly towards a door near the front of the house, throwing it open. “There’s a parlour in here, Aunt Ottilia.”
She thanked him and made to hustle the weeping companion towards the entrance. She encountered no opposition, but just as they reached the door, a peal of silvery laughter floated towards them from above and Tamasine Roy came running down the stairs. Her voice expressed unequivocal delight with no vestige of grief.
“Giles! You came! I knew you would.” She pirouetted across the hall towards young Lord Bennifield, her bright blue gaze shining. “Isn’t it wonderful? Joslin is dead and now we may be married!”
CHAPTER FOUR
For a moment no one moved or spoke. Francis was inordinately relieved to see his nephew looking as shocked as he felt. Despite forewarning of the girl’s dubious mental state, the callous nature of her remarks could
not but strike the normal mind. Tillie, he noted, looking across, was wearing that faint frown he knew betokened furious thought.
Before Francis could hazard a guess at the import of her cogitations, a roaring emanated from Miss Ingleby, shattering the silence. Breaking free of Tillie’s hold, the woman advanced like an avenging fury.
“Ingrate! Is this how you repay his care of you? Foolish, idiot girl!”
A ringing slap landed on the child’s cheek, and she instantly set up a screech.
“Miss Ingleby!” Horror was in Giles’s voice.
But the woman had no ears for any word of protest or sense, and the resulting cacophony gave Francis the impression that it was the companion rather than Miss Tamasine Roy, who was deficient in wits.
“Upstairs! Upstairs with you this instant!”
“I hate you! I hate you!”
Tamasine flailed wildly as her duenna made to thrust her to the stairs. “Hate me if you will, but you will do as I say.”
“I won’t, I won’t! Only wait until Simeon comes! He will avenge me!”
At this, Miss Ingleby’s fury mounted. “As he did before? Simeon Roy will enter this house over my dead body!”
“Yes, and you will join Joslin in his coffin,” shrieked Tamasine, clearly beside herself.
“What a commotion!”
Francis glanced round. His wife had not moved from the door to the parlour, where she stood watching the quick give and take of words. It was unlike her not to intervene and Francis wondered at it. The row was becoming incoherent and when he looked back, he found the companion appeared to be getting the better of it, having succeeded in manhandling the girl to the bottom of the stairs.
“Up with you! Move. Now!” Of a sudden, Miss Ingleby raised her voice and yelled. “Mrs Whiting! Mrs Whiting!”
“No, I won’t, I won’t!” screeched Tamasine, fighting desperately to prevent herself from being pushed up the stairs.
Giles had stood like a stock, his mouth agape. But when Francis saw him recover himself sufficiently to make a motion towards the two women, he marched swiftly across to seize his nephew by the arm.
The Opium Purge (Lady Fan Mystery Book 3) Page 6