Sir Lionel considered Hamish’s obvious surprise. “You knew her?”
“My sister did,” said Hamish. “They went to school together.” He paused, then said, carefully, “I believe her father has taken the death of his only child very hard.”
Sir Lionel appeared agitated. He shifted in his seat, and his mouth worked as if words eluded him. Finally, he muttered, “That’s the thing. I couldn’t get it out of my mind after I saw the photograph you showed me of the woman who so greatly resembled Lady Bradden. I’d had my doubts, long before, but then dismissed them. Then, of course, you dug up the past with your questions, arousing my suspicions. So, I asked my daughter to locate a photograph of Cassandra.”
At Hamish’s raised eyebrows, he elucidated, “My daughter has a friend who was godmother to the young lady, and she supplied this.” He held up the image. “And the time frame fits. I’d wager my suspicions are right on the money.”
“What suspicions?” Despite himself, Hamish was becoming as agitated as Sir Lionel, though trying not to show it. He took a breath, and forced himself to remain seated, calmly, as Sir Lionel went on, “Fact is, I think I’ve hit upon the root of the mystery.” He gave a satisfied nod. “I don’t believe Cassandra was Lord Lambton’s only child.”
Hamish waited. There was nothing he could say when Sir Lionel was clearly going to supply him with his answer.
“The duel I mentioned between Lord Lambton and Sir John Taverner?” the old man reminded him. “The duel where I stepped up as second?”
“Sir John…Taverner?” Hamish repeated, his mind running round in circles. Tavener? Surely not…Lily’s father?
Sir Lionel worried at his lower lip. “I had given little thought to it for years. Then, seeing that photograph of the woman I took to be Lady Bradden, well…I realised two things.”
“Two things?”
The old man didn’t hesitate. In fact, Sir Lionel seemed very eager to respond.
“First, it is my belief that Lady Bradden was in fact Lord Lambton’s love child. The timing fits. I did some investigation, and learned that Sir John Taverner’s wife died in childbirth eight months after the duel between himself and Lord Lambton. Lambton, you see, had been having an affair with Sir John’s wife. Of course, when the brat was born so soon afterwards, Sir John would have nothing to do with the infant. The girl, Lily, was brought up by a spinster aunt, and then her father—or supposed father—married her off to Lord Bradden.”
Hamish stared. What response could he give to this?
Sir Lionel believed that Lily was Lord Lambton’s illegitimate daughter?
He swallowed, and then because he didn’t know what else to say, asked—though it was more of a croak, “And the second thing?”
Sir Lionel’s agitation grew. “I believe young Cassandra didn’t die of fever in her bed, or in the insane hospital, or anywhere else that people care to speculate.” He shook his head. “No, I believe she ran away. Yes, ran away! Only Lord Lambton would rather the world thought she was dead. Don’t ask me how she ran away. But that photograph that you showed me—”
“This one?” Hamish asked, sliding his hand into his breast pocket and producing the photograph of Celeste and Lily.
Sir Lionel nodded, clearly not thinking it strange that Hamish should keep the photograph so close to his heart. “That’s the one. I believe it is her.” Triumphantly, he finished, “I believe Lord Lambton’s daughter, Cassandra, is this woman, Mrs Eustace. Only no one knows it, what with her being veiled and mysterious.” He winked. “Mystery solved. Rumour had it that Miss Cassandra was a little touched in the head. I think she’s milking her father’s grief supposedly from the other side. Just you wait, though—” He chuckled—“The grand reveal will come soon enough, only I’ve already solved the mystery.”
Hamish didn’t know how to respond.
A waiter came by to offer them more drinks, but Sir Lionel declined. “I should get home before it gets dark,” he said. “Not as steady on my pins as I used to be.” He stretched. “As for Lambton’s love child…well, sad story that one. Her father never gave her the time of day. Nor that husband of hers. Can’t imagine why old Bradden didn’t appreciate his good fortune in having such a beautiful wife, though of course the fellow already had a mistress. He was well looked after. But the girl—Lady Bradden—was not just a beauty; she was a kind soul. Kind to me, who was already an old man. Kind to those in service to her, so I heard. Ah, but I’m just being sentimental. I recall the night she sat and talked with me when my only daughter was sick with the scarlet fever, and I thought I might lose her. She could have been making merry, but instead she was reassuring a querulous old father when she was no older than my Dottie.” He dabbed at his eyes with a snowy handkerchief.
“I hope your daughter —?”
“She survived the fever and is now mother to three, happily married. I have no concerns on her behalf. A fond and doting daughter with a fond and doting husband. But Lady Bradden never had anyone to see to her.” He lifted a shoulder. “Why do I think of it, now? There was always a sense of sadness clinging to her, despite her beauty. I remember the visit I paid to Norfolk and the sense I had that—Lady Bradden had no one. Well, except that personal physician who got his claws into her through her husband’s conniving. Now, he was a charlatan,” he muttered. “Lady Bradden’s personal physician, my foot. Bah!”
“A charlatan?” Hamish prompted, clutching at anything to detain Sir Lionel who looked ready to depart.
Fortunately, Sir Lionel obviously enjoyed an excuse to gossip.
“Fellow used his influence for all the advantage he could squeeze out of the situation. Saw it with my own eyes over several visits. He took a healthy, virtuous woman, and twisted her into something that was poisonous in her husband’s eye. Became her lover to do the job. Well, she’s dead now and more’s the pity. Helped greatly to her end by that bounder of a doctor. Sir Robert and I have little to say to one another these days, so I’ll tell it like it is.” He gave a short laugh. “I always thought he and old Taverner had something going on there, but what would I know. Full of conspiracies, my daughter likes to tell me.”
Hamish sensed Sir Lionel was about to leave. The urgency to detain him so he could answer more of Hamish’s burning questions precluded finesse, for he asked bluntly as Sir Lionel struggled to his feet, “So this doctor was Lady Bradden’s lover? But Sir Robert also had a mistress?”
“Yes. For years. Local squire’s wife. Married her last month. They’re coming to London in a few days, in fact. Bumped into that toad-eater, Dr Swithins, and he told me.” With a groan, he stretched each leg and shook a foot in turn, before reaching for the photograph he’d left on the table.
“Dr Swithins?”
The name echoed round Hamish’s brain. Dr Swithins? It was disturbingly familiar.
“Yes, the late Lady Bradden’s personal physician?” A look of confusion flitted across Sir Lionel’s face. “You recall him, surely? In that photograph? Blonde, smarmy-looking fellow.” He held up the photograph, tapping the face of a young man with fair hair and the distinct look of a lady’s man. Standing in the back row, partially concealed, it only took one glance for Hamish to recognise him as Sir Lionel said with a sneer, “Smarmy Swithins. That’s the feller. Thought I’d told you.”
Chapter 30
There was no time to lose. Hamish had to get to St John’s Wood as fast as he could. Dr Swithins was not the caring physician Lily believed him to be. While he might have some knowledge of how to ease Lily’s anguish and ameliorate, if not shorten, her episodes of insanity, Sir Lionel clearly thought he was an unhealthy influence on her.
Hamish was just trying to piece together the many strands of Sir Lionel’s rather disjointed series of fact, fantasy, and conspiracy, when he saw Miniver hurrying along the pavement near the offices of McTavish & Son as Hamish was about to flag down a hackney.
“Sir, there’s a constable waiting for you in your office,” the young man told him. “
Apparently, it’s important. I’ve come looking for you as I knew you were at your club.”
A policeman? Hamish’s hand went to his temple. Something had happened. But then, of course, what did anyone know of his involvement with Lady Bradden? Lily.
“Lucy?” was his next fear.
“Your sister went to visit a friend,” said Miniver, and with that reassurance, Hamish hurried up the steps to his office where the policeman, who introduced himself as Inspector Webb, was seated in the chair across from his desk.
“If you’d be so good as to answer some questions of a private matter, sir. Hopefully, I won’t take up too much of your time.”
Hamish nodded, hiding his impatience for he was burning to locate Lily. Even if she were still in the grip of her anguish, Hamish would find her proper medical care. He would dispense with Dr Swithins’s services, that was certain.
Hamish was now in charge. He would look after Lily and, perhaps, under his tender ministrations, she would find greater periods of peace and tranquility.
“Can I then ask you, sir, to what extent you are a regular at Madame Chambon’s?”
Hamish jerked his head up. Unexpectedly, blood burned his cheeks. Surreptitiously, he gripped the edge of the table. “I am not even a casual visitor, Inspector.”
“Do you deny that you have visited the establishment, sir?”
“I don’t deny it, but I had a good reason for going there. One that was not connected to,” he hesitated, “the usual reason a gentleman might visit.” Disliking the look in the other man’s eye, Hamish added defensively, “I do not consort with the women of Madame Chambon’s establishment, and I have no idea why you should accuse me of anything in relation to—”
“I am not accusing you of anything.” The inspector scratched his jaw. “I am conducting an investigation into why your name should be mentioned in a letter found in the bedchamber of one of Madame Chambon’s girls, now, unfortunately, deceased.”
“Dear God, no!” With a start, he could only imagine it was Lily, given his current fears, but then, she was at home, in St John’s Wood. No, it could not be her.
The inspector studied him with interest and, when Hamish had calmed himself, asked, with as little emotion as the man before him, “Dead? Please elaborate, Inspector. Who is dead?”
“A woman known simply as Celeste, though we are searching for her full identity. None of the girls with whom she…er…worked…knew where she came from or, indeed, what her real name was.”
“Celeste?” Hamish ran a hand across his brow.
Dead? Did she take her own life? Die of any number of medical complications?
“The young woman was murdered sometime last night.”
“Murdered?” he repeated. “Good God! And my name was in a letter in her possession? Do you have a suspect?” The questions tumbled out before he even realised that he may indeed be the suspect. “What did the letter say?” He swallowed with difficulty, asking through a painfully dry throat, “Has she accused me of something?”
“Your name was mentioned in her diary, in fact. And no, she has not accused you of anything. It appears that she had intended to seek your assistance over some matter involving another woman by the name of Lily Eustace.” The inspector cocked his head at Hamish’s reaction, and asked in a tone that indicated he already knew the answer. “You are acquainted with this woman?”
Hamish nodded. “I am.” Then, “What did Celeste say with regard to my…interest in Mrs Eustace?”
“Interest, was it?” He looked interested himself. “She doesn’t mention that, sir, but she does indicate concern regarding this Mrs Eustace. A certain disdain for her, also, but ultimately, a concern.”
So, Celeste had witnessed Lily’s wild moods, perhaps, and was afraid? Hamish knew they’d shared a room for some weeks. Had Lily exhibited the kind of wild, erratic moods that had frightened Celeste?
He was almost too afraid to ask the question. “You believe Mrs Eustace had something to do with Celeste’s murder?”
“Mrs Eustace? Where did you get that idea, sir? No, Celeste was throttled by a very powerful pair of hands. Not a woman’s hands. Celeste was afraid of one of her particular gentleman friends who had indicated a desire to harm Mrs Eustace.”
Before he could stop himself, Hamish burst out, “Not the Russian?”
“Mr Igor Novichov sounds a very Russian name, doesn’t it, then, sir? And this is the man who the late Celeste thought intended harm to her friend, Mrs Eustace. Apparently, he’d threatened Mrs Eustace in the street, and then, in company with Miss Celeste, elaborated upon a most specific form of injury, and Miss Celeste was in two minds as to whether to warn her. Sadly, she ended up losing her own life.” He hesitated, looking at Hamish as if suggesting he might know more than he was giving away.
Hamish, meanwhile, was remembering the night he’d dismissed Lily’s fears and suspicions over Mr Novichov. Yes, dismissed them. He’d thought she was overreacting. Later, he’d assumed this paranoia was part of her illness.
Now Celeste was dead? He felt ill.
“Mrs Eustace must be warned,” Hamish said.
“We are not concerned with Mrs Eustace right now. But many of Miss Celeste’s diary entries mention the Russian and a certain Mr Montpelier. We would like to direct our enquiries there.”
“I am not a suspect?” Hamish needed to leave but couldn’t show his agitation.
Celeste was dead.
Lily was in danger.
A sudden horror occurred to him. Miniver had said Lucy was visiting a friend. Lucy had declared her intention to visit Mrs Eustace. But no, she’d not know her address.
That said, Lucy was cunning. There was every chance that Lucy had found the note that included Lily’s address and had made her way to St John’s Wood. He needed to terminate the discussion.
“Not at this stage, sir. We hoped you might shed some light on the whereabouts of these other two gentlemen.”
Hamish shook his head and, finally, with the inspector taking his leave, snatched his hat from the hallstand and, hastily buttoning up his coat, hurried into the cold winter air to find a conveyance to take him to Mrs Eustace’s house.
Lily might be in danger from unknown forces, but Lucy was equally at risk.
Telling the cab driver to wait for him when he drew up outside Lily’s house, he leapt out and strode up the pathway to the front door.
The parlour light was dim, with the heavy curtains allowing just a chink of light to spill out onto the pavement outside.
Hamish knocked loudly. The drumming of his heart was loud in his ears, and his anxiety was at fever pitch.
He heard running footsteps and then the maid threw open the door, her face a mask of terror as she cried, “Sir, come quickly sir! She’s gone mad! Quite mad an’ I don’t know wot ter do.”
He closed his eyes briefly. He could hear the noise. Lily was in the grip of another episode.
“Where is the doctor?” he asked, striding up the passage, but Grace shook her head wildly, saying only, “He’s gone, sir! But suddenly she came over all queer. Jest like me mistress. I don’t know wot ter do, sir!”
Hamish could hear the cries of a woman issuing from the parlour to his left, and then the sound of breaking glass. Lily, his poor beloved, was obviously in there. He’d go to her shortly. But first he needed to locate his sister.
“Where is Lucy?” he asked, more urgently now, for Lucy was not in the scullery. “She’s not in the parlour with Mrs Eustace, surely?” No, the maid would not have locked his own sister in a room with a mad woman.
“She’s in the parlour, sir—”
“Dear god! You mean, she is with Mrs Eustace?”
“No, sir. Only ’er!”
“But who in God’s name is making all that racket? Surely not my sister?”
“Yes, sir! ’Tis Miss Lucy. I dunno know wot got inter ’er. She came visitin’, but Mrs Eustace ’ad already left.”
“What do you mean, Mrs Eustace had alre
ady left? Lucy wouldn’t simply behave like this for no reason, and—”
He didn’t finish, turning to stride up the passage once more and to throw open the door, stepping back in horror as he confronted his sister with her hair in disarray and her eyes wild, clawing at some unknown adversary.
“What has happened to her? What have you done to her?” Hamish swung round, and the maid shrank back.
“Nuffink sir. Nuffink at all. I dunno wot’s come over ’er.”
“The same thing that came over Mrs Eustace, it would appear,” Hamish said over his shoulder as he ventured cautiously towards Lucy, his tone soft and soothing. “Lucy, my love, what is it? Why are you like this?”
She tried to focus on him, but what he was to her was clearly so horrific that she crumpled into a ball on the floor and covered her head with her arms. “Don’t let them get to me!” she shrieked. “Save me, please! The flowers have knives. Little daggers.”
“Hush, Lucy.” Hamish went down on his haunches and attempted to put a hand on her back, but she lurched at the contact, shrieking as if he were one of those who would do her harm.
Hamish leaned protectively over her, twisting his head to demand of the maid, who was clearly as frightened as he, “What has come over her? She didn’t arrive like this, surely?”
“No sir, she were quite calm.” Grace held her apron to her face and wailed. “I cannot ’xplain it. She were disappointed that Mrs Eustace ’ad left, so I offered ’er some tea.”
Lucy clawed at him. Hamish was barely attending to the maid’s explanation, but he repeated, “Tea? So she took tea and then went…mad?”
“No, sir. I suggested warm milk, as it were so cold out an’ wiv Mrs Eustace out, I ’ad a little left over.”
“So, simply warm milk?”
“Yes, sir. Jest warm milk wiv some o’ the soothin’ powders the doctor give me ter calm Mrs Eustace.”
Hamish snapped his head up. “Dr Swithins?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And where is Dr Swithins now?”
Loving Lily: Fair Cyprians of London: a Steamy Victorian Romantic Mystery Page 20