‘25th September 18— Charlsby. Unpleasant as this duty is, I am compelled to record some circumstances which give rise to the greatest alarm in my breast. It is no longer possible to deny that someone in this house wishes me dead. First there was the fish which was said to be bad, yet no one but I was laid low by it. Then there was the incident with Alan’s curricle, which could have been an accident, perhaps, were it not for everything else. And only two weeks ago, as I was walking beside the lower lake and stopped to admire the swans, for the cygnets are so well-grown now and beautiful to behold, I felt a hand at my back and the next moment I was in the water. I pretended I had merely slipped, but in truth I am not so careless. And now I wonder what next will happen to me? For it may be that the next attempt will succeed. I am so afraid.’
Annabelle looked at the earl in dismay. “You believe your wife wrote this?”
“It is her hand, yes.”
“So she was ill after eating some fish, there was an accident in the curricle, she fell in the lake and then she died very suddenly in the night. Is that the sum of it?” He nodded. “Tell me about the fish.”
“There was a fish dish — I cannot even remember what it was, now. Eloise was violently ill within an hour of eating it. The cook said it was probably off, for the weather had been very hot. The curricle… the axle broke, and I cannot see how anyone might have contrived that. Besides, Eloise was not injured in any way, was not even thrown from the vehicle. The lake incident I barely remember, except that she was late for dinner one day and the reason she gave was that she had fallen in the lake. But she laughed at herself about it, and called herself a widgeon, as I recall. As for her death, Dr Wilcox himself said he saw nothing alarming in the circumstances. She had not been well for some years, and was taking a number of different tonics and pills and so forth. That her heart should give out suddenly was tragic, perhaps, but not unexpected. There is nothing here that seems in the least suspicious to me, beyond the lurid fancies born of long illness. Miss Winterton, what should I do? I cannot bear the thought of reviving old memories, just when I feel I may begin to look to the future again, yet if there is anything untoward in Eloise’s death, it must be uncovered. What if some vile person has indeed murdered her, yet is now living free and comfortable and unafraid of being discovered?”
Annabelle read the letter again, more carefully, then laid it down, frowning. “It is curious that this was never discovered before.”
“Not really,” he said. “After her death, the room was closed up and no one went in there, except the servants to dust occasionally. Everything is exactly as she left it. No one slept in the room, until Marisa arrived. She found this in the escritoire when she was looking for paper. If I had had the room emptied, as I should have done, it would have been found months ago.”
“How do you spell your name?” Annabelle said.
“My name? Brackenwood?”
She laughed. “No, your Christian name. Allan has two L’s, does it not? The inscription on your portrait in the hall is spelt so. Yet here it is written with only one L.”
He shrugged, not much interested. “I daresay she wrote in haste and made a mistake.”
“Yes, it must be a mistake, for your wife would know how to spell her husband’s name. But I do not think the letter was written in haste, for the hand is very regular, each letter carefully inscribed. I wonder who the intended recipient was? You, perhaps?”
“Marisa thinks it was intended for her.”
“Yet it is not directed so, and there is no salutation at the start, or room for any. No attempt was made to send it. Perhaps it was meant to be left in the escritoire, to be found only after her death. And yet, to leave it in such a place… If the room were in regular use, then Mrs Hale would replenish the supplies of paper from time to time, and there was a good likelihood that she would find it.”
“But perhaps Eloise kept it hidden somewhere safer, and then put it in the escritoire— But no, for she could not have known she was to die that night.” He sighed. “Your questions are good ones, but I do not understand the letter, that is the long and the short of it. But that is immaterial, for the only question is what must be done with it.”
“You have three choices,” she said crisply. “You could decide that there is no truth in the fancies of a sick woman, and burn it. Or you could try to uncover the truth behind these allegations yourself. Or—” She stopped, knowing that she was stepping onto thin ice.
“Or?” he said, smiling at her. “Do not hesitate to speak your mind, Miss Winterton. That, after all, is why I took you into my confidence in this irregular way, because I value your opinion. You may speak freely, without the least fear of censure or disapprobation.”
She took a deep breath. “Very well, then. The third option is to lay the whole before the constables and leave them to investigate in whatever manner seems good to them. Or perhaps they will feel, as you do, that this is nought but the fancy of a woman who was suffering much illness, and perhaps dwelt too much upon trivial events.”
He leaned back against the marble wall of the temple, folding his arms, considering. “I cannot simply burn this and pretend it never existed. If poor Eloise believed someone was trying to kill her, then the least I can do is to take her fears seriously. Yet it goes against the grain to involve outsiders in our family trouble. Therefore it seems to me that I must investigate it myself. What do you think? You look serious, Miss Winterton. Do you disagree with my reasoning?”
Her heart was thundering in her chest. Here was the point of no return, and she could not in all conscience prevaricate. She must say what needed to be said, no matter the consequences. “There is an aspect of this that perhaps you have not yet considered, my lord.”
“Which is?”
“That if there was indeed an intention by some person to end Lady Brackenwood’s life, then that person must have had a reason to do so.”
“Yes, of course. So?”
“And the reason must have been a strong one to make that person consider murder.”
“I cannot fault your logic, Miss Winterton,” he said smiling.
“In other words, that person must have stood to gain something of great value by Lady Brackenwood’s death.”
“Again, I agree with you,” he said, the smile faltering. “Yet I do not see who stood to gain anything by Eloise’s death. Her dowry is settled on her daughters, her jewellery is theirs too, and her other bequests were small — gifts of money to the servants and such like. But this is not what you mean, I think, and since you will not look me in the eye, I must look elsewhere for—” His intake of breath was audible. “You mean that I stood to gain, of course. Because I had no son, and no likelihood of one, so, growing impatient, I murdered my own wife, is that what you believe?” His voice was harsh suddenly.
“No, no, no!” she cried. “I believe nothing of the sort! You are incapable of such evil. But do you not see, it is what will be said of you, if once the idea of murder gets about. Who gained the most by her death? Why, her husband, who is now free to marry again and provide himself with an heir of his own body. Do you see? If murder is to be talked of, then you are the most obvious, indeed the only suspect!”
12: A Musical Soirée (June)
He was silent for so long, his features so dark, that Annabelle feared she had insulted him beyond reconciliation. Here at last was the point at which their friendship foundered. She had as good as suggested that he had murdered his own wife, and although she believed no such thing, she could understand that he would eschew her company in future. There could be no confidence subsisting between them with such a suspicion in the air.
But then he smiled, indeed, he even laughed. “This is what I like about you, Annabelle,” he said, his lips still quirked upwards. “You say exactly what you think. You are no simpering sycophant. If the idea of murder gets about, then I am the obvious suspect. Who else stood to benefit from my wife’s death? No one! So if she was murdered, then I must be the guilty
man. But I understand your meaning. If this business is to be investigated, then it must not be I who does so.”
“Exactly, because if you do so, and you decide that there was no murder, there will always be those who say that you swept your own evil deeds out of sight.”
He nodded, and his lightened expression reassured her. He was not angry with her, and the relief she felt was overwhelming. She exhaled sharply, her pulse beginning to settle.
“But I must take issue with you in one particular,” he said.
“Oh?” She felt a stab of fear, but he was smiling, so surely it could not be anything bad?
“You gave me three options, but I believe there is a fourth. I could lay the whole before some disinterested third party — not the constables, who are— how shall I put this? — not always sympathetic to the peculiar requirements of the peerage. Some other party, the family lawyers, perhaps, who could investigate the matter without dragging the whole into the public arena. I should very much like this to be dealt with discreetly, and not be the subject of gossip in every tavern in Cheshire.”
“That sounds eminently prudent,” she said. “You believe, then, that it should be investigated further?”
“I can do no other,” he said. “I owe that much to poor Eloise. But Annabelle… I beg your pardon, Miss Winterton… will you stand my friend in this? May I come to you to unburden myself? For I cannot talk to my mother about it, or Marisa, and there is no one I trust more.”
“I should be honoured by your confidence,” she said, trying not to blush and failing.
He heaved a deep sigh, his eyes twinkling in the most unsettling way. “And I still want to kiss you.”
But she dared not encourage him in that line of thought. “Then I suggest you ensure that there is plenty of mistletoe about the house at Christmastide,” she said tartly.
~~~~~
JUNE
Allan explained as much as he dared to his mother. She thought it all nonsense, as he did himself.
“Eloise always had a nervous disposition. Such a silly girl, in many ways. Take no notice of this letter, Allan. Who knows what she meant by it? For all we know, Dr Wilcox had given her laudanum and she was allowing her imagination to run riot. She was prone to silly fancies. She thought her maid was stealing from her, do you remember?”
“Well, she was stealing from her. Mrs Hale caught her with the coins in her hand. She gave some explanation for it, but Eloise was about to turn her off without a reference. As it was, with Eloise dead, she was allowed to leave without a blemish on her character. Mother, I am going to London to speak to the lawyers. I daresay I shall be gone for ten days or so, but when I get back there must be a thorough investigation. Will you oblige me by clearing the house of all your guests as soon as may be? I do not want this business talked about everywhere. There will inevitably be some disturbance while this is going on, and it will be better if there is no one here apart from the family.”
“What about the governess? Shall I clear her out of the house, too?” She looked at him archly.
He clicked his tongue in irritation. “Miss Winterton is here to teach the girls, Mother. If she leaves, I shall only have to get another governess, and think of the inconvenience of finding someone suitable, and the disruption to the girls.”
“Ack, you’re a fool, Allan, but you won’t be told. Bed her if you must, I shan’t object to that, but if you have any consideration for my feelings, don’t marry a nobody like that.”
“Hardly a nobody, Mother,” he said. “She is a gentleman’s daughter. As Eloise was. As you were. And if you want me to look higher than the gentry for a wife, then find me someone a little more likely than Lady Alice Fortescue. For all your efforts to fill the house with marriage prospects for me, Miss Winterton is by far the most appealing young lady I have seen for some time, and you could hardly blame me if I were to marry her.”
So saying, trying not to smile at the look of horror on his mother’s face, he swept out of the room and went to organise his packing.
Allan rather enjoyed travelling. His coach was comfortable, the roads were tolerable and the inns, with rooms secured by the efficient Mr Cross in advance, were as comfortable as could be expected. Best of all, there was no one demanding his attention, no dutiful mornings confined to the study with Mr Cross, or riding about the estate with Mr Pratchett, the land agent, and no long, dull evenings trying not to be ensnared by ambitious young ladies and their mamas, or playing whist with his mother.
And no distracting governess. The urge to take her in his arms and kiss her for a very long time was ever-present, and he could not decide whether he was truly in love with her, as he had thought when he danced with her, or merely drawn to the only woman for miles around who was both marriageable and sensible. Nor was he certain whether he was relieved that she had turned him down or not, but a week or two out of her company would settle his mind one way or the other.
Allan had never liked the family’s London house, a monstrosity of a place that he associated with gloom, death and lawyers, having been summoned there after the deaths of his grandmother, his brother and then his father. After his marriage, he had brought Eloise to London so that he could take his seat in the House of Lords and she could be presented at court. They had quickly agreed that London did not suit them, so the family house had been rented out and Allan had taken a modest suite of rooms for his infrequent visits to town, which now also served as a pied-à-terre for George.
It was to this residence on a quiet street that his coach deposited him. He was expected, the industrious Mr Cross having notified the housekeeper of his plans, and it was no more than an hour before he had changed out of his dusty travel clothes, and settled down with tea and freshly baked buns in the tiny study to write letters notifying various people of his arrival.
This was where he was tracked down by George, who bounded in with a wide grin. “Cousin! How charming this is. Are you here for the delights of the season? It is the Bucknells’ ball tonight, which I am sure my credit is good enough to get you into, and the Marfords’ have theirs the day after tomorrow, but I am not sure I can procure you vouchers for Almack’s…”
Allan laughed. “George, you never fail to amuse me. How grand you are, talking about the Bucknells and the Marfords as if you are the best of friends. I introduced you to the Marquess of Carrbridge, after all. But I am not here to put myself about. Something has occurred which needs a lawyer’s mind.” Briefly Allan told George of the letter that Marisa had found, and what he proposed to do about it.
“Well, that is all poppycock, cousin,” George said. “Who on earth would want to murder Cousin Eloise?”
“The obvious suspect would have to be me,” Allan said wryly.
George burst out laughing. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! I would more easily believe that the dowager killed her. She was the one obsessed with you getting a proper heir, after all.”
“I have a proper heir,” Allan said in amusement. “No son could be better.”
“Oh…” George breathed. “You do pay a fellow splendid compliments, cousin. But who else could it be? A thwarted lover, perhaps, who wants to marry you and removes the only obstacle. Or a servant with a grudge. Or someone getting revenge on you… No, for you have no enemies, do you?” He sighed. “The very idea is ridiculous. I can see no reason for murder.”
“Nor I, but the suggestion cannot be left to fester. For my part, I am inclined to think her death was an accident. That quack of hers gave her so many different tonics and potions and remedies, the day was bound to come when she mixed them up and took too much of something. She was not so ill that her death was hourly expected. But enough of such tedious matters. Tell me what you have been up to.”
“Oh, the usual, you know. White’s, Tattersall’s, the Daffy Club, Hyde Park, Jackson’s Saloon. Nothing special. But what news from Charlsby? How is the delectable Miss Winterton? And is the place still stuffed with hopeful would-be countesses?”
They t
alked round and about for some time, but Allan said nothing of Annabelle and George said nothing very much of his own affairs, although Allan thought him a little subdued.
The following morning, Allan spent two hours closeted with his lawyers. Then, after visiting his tailor, shirt maker and bootmaker, and ordering supplies of clothing identical to those previously bought, he ventured off in a different direction, to Carloway House, the London home of Mr and Mrs Robin Dalton. Dalton was at home, and so Allan was admitted to a pleasant study where he was invited to look into the eyepiece of a microscope and admire some beetle or other. He made polite noises which he hoped sounded suitably admiring.
But eventually he was led to a chair beside the unlit fire, with a glass of Madeira to hand.
“And how is my sister-in-law?” Dalton asked. “My wife receives regular letters from Annabelle, but one never gets quite the same information from a letter, do you not find? She was well when you left Cheshire?”
“Perfectly well, yes, but it is about those letters that I am come, so that you do not mistake certain events. I am ashamed to admit that I got abominably drunk one evening and attempted to kiss Miss Winterton. I was not successful in my efforts, but nevertheless I felt it only proper to offer her the protection of my name subsequently.”
Dalton raised immaculately shaped eyebrows a fraction. He was one of those men who always made Allan feel inadequately attired. He had left his rooms wearing his finest town garments, and yet beside Dalton’s elegant form he felt like a country bumpkin, his boots lacking polish, his coat poorly fitted and his neckcloth deficient. It was dispiriting.
His host brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his perfectly-fitted breeches. “And how did Annabelle respond?”
“She turned me down. I think she felt I was not in earnest, but I was,” he said, aware that he sounded petulant. “I wish you to know, Dalton, that my intentions towards her have never been less than perfectly honourable. Whatever Annabelle may say of me, I am not flirting with her, nor do I mean her the least harm. It would be troubling if you were to take a wrong impression of me from any report that your wife receives from her sister. I want you to hear the truth of it directly from me, since you are her nearest male relative.”
The Governess Page 12