Death of a Debutante (Riley Rochester Investigates Book 1)

by Wendy Soliman

  ‘Not in my hearing. I went upstairs with Mary and helped her into bed. Then I stayed with her until the doctor came to give her a sedative.’

  ‘Which meant you were away from the others for some time.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I was.’ Amelia turned gleaming eyes upon Riley. ‘Do you imagine they are all in league somehow? One of them committed the murder in a fit of pique and the rest of them are covering up for him?’

  ‘You have an overactive imagination. I would say it was unlikely. Even so, Ashton will have told everyone what to say in order that the least possible culpability attaches to his name.’

  Amelia pursed her lips in disapproval. ‘Almost certainly, but we shall not allow Ashton’s pride to stand in the way of justice.’

  Riley flexed a brow. ‘We?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, of course. I assume you require my help, Riley. After all, I was actually there and I am the only person who appears as keen as you are to establish the truth. The others just want to pretend the murder didn’t happen and distance themselves from it as quickly as they can. Good, I’m glad we are agreed,’ she added, even though she hadn’t paused for long enough to permit Riley to accept her offer of assistance. But for Riley, the excuse to spend time in Amelia’s beguiling company, regardless of her ability to help with his investigation, was more enticing than it ought to have been, making the decision for him. ‘I shall apply my mind to the events of the evening, simply to be of service to you.’

  Riley smiled, sorely tempted to kiss the smile from her lips. ‘As always, I am obliged to you.’

  The carriage came to a halt outside Amelia’s house. Riley waited for Jute to jump down and lower the steps before alighting and helping Amelia down.

  ‘Will you come in?’ Amelia invited. ‘I know it’s late but—’

  ‘Best not. I have an early start tomorrow. If you intend to be home in the morning—’

  ‘I thought I would return to the Ashtons. As you reminded me earlier, Mary will need a familiar face.’

  ‘That’s thoughtful of you. Lloyd,’ he said, turning to the jarvey. ‘Have the goodness to collect Mrs Cosgrove at eleven in the morning and return her to Ashton House. Remain there until I arrive. I shall wish to speak with you both,’ he said, encompassing Jute with his eyes.

  ‘Right you are, sir.’

  The carriage drove off, leaving Riley and Amelia on her doorstep. He lifted her gloved hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. ‘I shall see you tomorrow and have someone take your official statement. Since we are friends it had best not be me.’

  ‘Am I a suspect?’ she asked. ‘How exciting.’

  Riley’s lips twitched. ‘You are top of my list,’ he told her.

  He waited until her door had been opened by her servant to admit her safely and then turned to saunter home. He covered the short distance to Sloane Street deep in thought about the impossible murder Danforth expected him to solve.

  Or very possibly hoped that he would fail to solve, giving him the opportunity Riley knew he was waiting for to scupper his career.

  Chapter Four

  Riley was at Scotland Yard early the following morning, comparing notes with Salter.

  ‘Did you learn anything useful from Ashton’s servants?’ he asked.

  ‘On the face of it, no. But I saw a few things that surprised me.’

  ‘Go on.’ Riley leaned back in his chair and pushed a persistent lock of hair away from his eyes. He blinked, his eyes gritty with lack of sleep. The humidity had increased, trying tempers and fraying nerves. Despite the stagnant air the smell of the river seemed to pervade the whole building, mixing with the odours of sweat and over-brewed coffee. The break in the weather Riley thought he sensed approaching in the night-time air hadn’t materialised. Nor had a helpful break in his case.

  Salter turned from the window where he had been watching the torpid city. ‘I don’t think your friend Ashton is as well situated as he would like the world to think,’ he said

  Riley sat forward, alert to the possibilities such information might reveal. ‘Explain,’ he said succinctly.

  ‘The house is big, but there are barely enough servants to keep it running. Two have left recently under a cloud and they haven’t been replaced.’

  ‘Disgruntled servants seeking revenge for unfair dismissal. Danforth will love that theory,’ Riley said wearily, aware that it would have to be investigated. ‘Do we know why they left?’

  ‘I didn’t enquire. That butler, Farlow, doesn’t miss a trick. He’d likely report straight back to Ashton if I started asking questions like that. Didn’t think you’d want me setting the cat among the pigeons quite yet.’

  Riley nodded, aware of just how deeply rooted the loyalty of long-standing servants could be. ‘It might be better to speak to one of the maids about that, on her own.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ Salter tugged absently at his whiskers. ‘The thing is, sir, apart from Farlow, who has been with the family for years, there are just two footmen, a coachman and a boot boy employed in that massive house. That’s it for the male staff. And the coachman ain’t too happy about having to do a lot of the outside work as well as all his other duties.’

  ‘Ashton doesn’t have a valet?’

  ‘Farlow does for him and Terrance. The valet was one of the servants who was dismissed.’

  ‘That does smack of financial necessity.’ Riley himself only employed Stout, who acted as valet, butler and general factotum. Stout engaged a maid and a cook but they only came in during the day and Riley seldom saw them. Riley’s establishment was considerably smaller than Ashton’s, and as a single man his needs were fewer. He valued his privacy, and the arrangement suited him very well. Ashton, on the other hand, was a study in ostentation. Parting with his valet must have been a bitter blow, and as Salter had so astutely remarked, it told them a great deal about the reality of Ashton’s situation. ‘What about female staff?’ he asked.

  ‘No housekeeper. Just two maids and a cook. No scullery maid. She was the other one as went and wasn’t replaced. There is a lady’s maid who looks after the wife and daughter but she was with Lady Ashton before she married, and presumably her ladyship refuses to part with her.’

  ‘That’s barely enough staff to keep a place that size running smoothly. We’ll go back there this morning. I’ll speak with Farlow myself and see what’s what.’ He told Salter about his theory with the unlocked gate. ‘I’d like to know which of the footmen went out to call the coachmen into the kitchen for supper. I doubt he’ll admit to leaving the gate unlocked, but still. I also want it confirmed that he unlocked it when we allowed half of the guests to leave, since they left through that gate. I imagine he left it unlocked at that point because he knew others had to be leaving soon after.’

  ‘And had too many duties to attend to for him to keep running up and down with the key.’

  ‘Most likely.’

  ‘Ashton must have married late in life, sir,’ Salter said. ‘I mean, he must be in his sixties but his son has only just turned twenty-one.’

  ‘This is his second marriage. The first didn’t produce any children. The current Lady Ashton is a good twenty years younger. Her father is an earl, so marrying Ashton would have been a step down for her. He hadn’t received his courtesy title by that point, so it would have been like marrying a commoner.’

  ‘Shocking!’ Salter cried in mock horror, grinning as he fanned his face with the back of his hand.

  ‘You have no idea.’

  Salter sniffed. ‘Seems to me Ashton’s all show.’

  ‘You’ve hit the nail on the head, as always.’ Riley stood. ‘Come on, Salter, let’s go and see Doctor Maynard.’

  Salter pulled a mournful face. ‘Have a heart, guv. You ain’t gonna make me watch him carve the poor girl up, are you? You know I don’t have the stomach for that stuff. Turns it something rotten, so it does. Weather like this and all.’

  Riley laughed
as he slapped his sergeant’s shoulder. ‘I wouldn’t do that to you, Jack. I just want to pick Maynard’s brains on the subject of opiates that might dull a girl’s responses without rendering her unconscious.’

  ‘There’s a mercy, sir,’ Salter replied in a droll tone.

  They ran Doctor Maynard to ground in the bowels of King’s College hospital, south of the river in a rundown district away from the sights and bustle of the main city. It was an area where mortality rates were high and the cadavers of the poor were routinely sold to the medical school for research. The heat made the buildings shimmer and blasted back at Riley from the pavements. The pervading smells of sickness and carbolic were especially pungent in the hot weather as they entered the hospital’s main atrium, causing Salter’s face to turn green. Even Riley’s cast iron constitution wobbled a little, but as they descended below ground level to the pathology section they were blessed by cool draughts of air. Riley felt the sweat on his brow drying, and shivered as a last dribble ran down between his shoulder blades.

  ‘Ah, Lord Riley, always a pleasure.’ Maynard was the only person connected with the police force who used Riley’s title in preference to his rank. But then Maynard never missed an opportunity to ingratiate himself with members of the society to which he aspired to be admitted. ‘You’re here to ask me about the dead girl, I expect. Haven’t done the PM yet. It’s scheduled for later this morning. But I can tell you that she was strangled. No doubt about that.’

  ‘Indeed, but I would like you to test her stomach contents for signs of opiates.’

  ‘My dear Lord Riley,’ Maynard said, a touch condescendingly. ‘I am a great admirer of your skills but, if you will excuse me for saying so, I hardly think such a dear, sweet girl was addicted to anything…well, addictive. And even if she was, it doesn’t alter the fact that she was strangled.’

  Riley fought back a wave of irritation. ‘What opiates would dull her reactions, in your professional opinion, and how could they be administered?’

  ‘Ah, I see what you mean. You imagine she was unable to defend herself.’

  ‘Quite so, Dr Maynard. There were no defensive wounds on her hands or arms—as I’m sure you must have noticed yourself.’

  Riley was pleased to see a flush creep across the doctor’s face. Maynard didn’t give a direct response. He was fiercely ambitious, handsome and charming, and would normally find excuses to linger in an establishment such as Ashton House, especially when there were single, well-connected ladies present. Undoubtedly he had been in a tearing hurry to get back to an even more important social engagement Emily’s untimely death had called him away from. Riley would wager ten guineas that it would have involved a young woman who could improve his prospects—rather as young Ashton had seen a similar opportunity back in ’25. Everything came back to status, Riley thought wearily.

  ‘There could be other reasons why she didn’t defend herself,’ Riley said. He explained about the two lone glasses he had removed from the music room and the suspicious sediment he had seen in the bottom of one of them.

  ‘More likely a lover’s tryst,’ Maynard said. ‘The servants cleared the room after the recital and closed the doors connecting to the drawing room. I’d imagine some enterprising young buck swiped a bottle of champagne from the dining room along with the glasses and…well, you know. He arranged things in the midst of a soiree so that he could dull Miss Ferguson’s responses. That’s your theory. Hmm, interesting. What makes you think he would take such an almighty risk?’

  Put like that, Riley had to agree that it seemed implausible. It wasn’t as though Emily’s admirer could hope to do anything more than steal a kiss. But still, Riley had known jealousy drive men to greater acts of desperation…or folly. Maynard knew the workings of the human body, but the mind and its capabilities would always be a stranger to him.

  ‘Even so, Maynard. I’d like to discount the possibility of an opiate.’ Under normal circumstances Riley would have cut the meeting short and gone about his business, but the cool of the doctor’s underground realm had him finding excuses to linger.

  ‘Very well, let me see,’ Maynard leaned his chin on his clenched fist, giving the appearance of a man indulging the whim of a persistent child, his tone laced with syrupy condensation. ‘Opium is out of the question. It is most effective when smoked. It can be eaten or drunk, but the taste is bitter. She wouldn’t have willingly ingested it.’ Maynard stood up and paced, switching to lecture mode. ‘Laudanum is your most likely suspect.’

  ‘Does it not have a distinctive taste?’ Riley asked.

  ‘It can be mixed with sugar and eugenol.’

  ‘Eugenol?’ Salter asked before Riley could.

  ‘It’s an extract from a combination of clove oil, nutmeg and cinnamon, used in perfumes and flavourings. Mix a few drops with laudanum in, say, a glass of the sweet wine that the ladies favour and whoever drank it likely wouldn’t notice. But it would be a while before it took effect, even supposing that the perpetrator came armed with an appropriately doctored drug.’

  If her killer had planned this as the ultimate act of revenge, Emily would have been given her first dose during the recital. He made a mental note to ask whether she seemed lethargic or confused during her time in the grounds. It did seem an unlikely and elaborate means of salving wounded pride, but the fact that the crime was committed in a crowded house reduced the possibility of detection. Even Maynard and Salter, who were paid to be suspicious, seemed to think that Riley was behaving fancifully. Riley preferred to think that he was being thorough. In plain sight, he thought, the words looping through his brain like a repetitive refrain.

  ‘I will endeavour to establish whether or not our victim ingested any such substance,’ Maynard said, presumably in response to Riley’s sombre expression.

  ‘Thank you. And while you are running tests, be so good as to see if you can detect any traces of opiates in either of these glasses,’ he said, handing a bag containing the glasses in question to the doctor.

  Having received Maynard’s assurance that he would do just that, Riley could no longer delay the inevitable. Before continuing with his investigation, he must first return to Scotland Yard and update Danforth on his progress, or lack thereof. Back into the heat in more ways than one.

  Riley was irritated to find the chief inspector prowling around his office, picking up items from Riley’s desk and examining them.

  ‘Are there you are, Rochester. Where the devil have you been? I have members of the press baying for information and I have damn-all to tell them.’

  Riley seated himself behind his desk, straightened the papers that Danforth had dislodged and allowed a short silence to lengthen between them before speaking.

  ‘Miss Ferguson was strangled,’ he said succinctly.

  ‘By an intruder?’

  Riley refrained from rolling his eyes, unsurprised that Ashton had already managed to place that notion into the limited imagination of his superior.

  ‘That has yet to be established.’

  ‘Come, man. You don’t mean to tell me that the gal was strangled by someone at that damned soiree and no one heard a thing.’

  ‘She was strangled, and no one did hear a thing,’ Riley replied calmly. ‘We have yet to establish who did the strangling.’

  With no other option available to him, Riley reluctantly outlined his theory about opiates. Danforth was having none of it.

  ‘Rubbish! You’re chasing conspiracy theories where none exist. This is a simple burglary, with tragic consequences.’

  ‘And yet nothing was stolen.’

  ‘I want this matter resolved. Now. Today.’

  Danforth leaned over the desk and pushed his flushed face close to Riley’s, his breath smelling of alcohol, despite the fact that it was only ten in the morning. This wasn’t the first time Riley had cause to suspect his superior of being a drinker. How he managed to support his large family and his habit had been a mystery to Riley on
the rare occasions when it had troubled his mind, but things were starting to seem clearer now. His haste to support Ashton’s theory implied financial incentive. Ashton had amassed a fortune and his title by buying people’s loyalty. He had likely decided that it would be useful to have a senior policeman beholden to him some time ago, even if he couldn’t have anticipated having need of his services when a murder was committed in his own house.

  Riley cursed Danforth’s morals, feeling justification for the lack of respect he had always felt for his superior’s poor intellect and questionable dedication to duty. The many critics of the department would, he knew, dance gleefully at such a clear case of corruption if it ever came to light, threatening the Detective Department’s entire future.

  ‘Are we clear, Rochester?’ a red-faced Danforth demanded. ‘I want this cleared up today.’

  ‘Then give the case to someone else, sir. I will make no rash conclusions until I have established all the facts.’

  Danforth hissed angrily. Riley had boxed him into a corner, and both men knew it. The commissioner wouldn’t stand for Riley being removed from the case without good reason. Nor would he be satisfied with a slapdash investigation.

  ‘Just do your job, man!’ Danforth yelled, marching from the room and slamming the door behind him hard enough to rattle the glass panel.

  Riley sighed, fetched his hat and was about to round Salter up so that they could return to Ashton House when a breathless Constable Peterson burst into the room, barely pausing to knock. Riley had sent Carter and Soames to interview some of the elderly people who had attended the soiree and whom Riley didn’t suspect of involvement in the crime. Be that as it may, they might have overheard something significant or seen something that no one else did, and their statements had to be taken.

  Sergeant Barton, the veteran desk sergeant in command of the uniformed constables, had reluctantly acceded to Riley’s request for the loan of Peterson and Harper. Barton was one of the Detective Department’s worst detractors. He didn’t see the need for what he referred to as the elitist band that lorded it over everyone else and went swanning around in their gentlemen’s finery. Nothing, in his vociferous opinion, beat good old fashioned uniformed policing. He made a habit of not being helpful—but he was also a wily old front-desk man who’d seen it all and more besides. He knew this was a high-profile case and that he shouldn’t appear to be wilfully obstructive. Peterson and Harper, meanwhile, were happy to escape their thick uniforms and wear something more appropriate to the heat, if only for a day or two.