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?”
“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 room? 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 we
ll 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?”
The Lady Fan Series: Books 1-3 (Sapere Books Boxset Editions) Page 74