by Lynn Messina
“No!” she said more forcefully than she’d intended and then tried to soften her response with a sad smile. “I cannot accept your disrupting your plans on my behalf.”
“You must not distress yourself, darling,” Flora insisted softly. “We had nothing scheduled that cannot be put off to another day. Isn’t that right, Mama?”
Aunt Vera glowered at her daughter for several seconds before agreeing. “Yes, yes, of course, my dear. Nothing at all. Just my sister, Susan, who I see regularly so she doesn’t count as a particular plan, although we had arranged it last week when we got the invitation to the Leland ball. She requires my help in selecting the right outfit for your cousin Julia to wear to her first London party. But that is a mere bagatelle in comparison to Bea’s distressing news,” she said, her voice trailing off slightly as she looked at her daughter, as if seeking confirmation of her statement. When Flora remained stony-faced, she continued as if it had never been in doubt. “Of course that can be rescheduled for tomorrow. There’s still plenty of time to make sure Julia is appropriately attired. Obviously, I am delighted to keep Bea company all day long in the drawing room, just sitting with her silently, hour after hour, never taking any fresh air despite the amiability of the weather, if that’s what she requires. She is my niece, and I am here to support her in whatever way it’s deemed necessary. If she needs to honor him by meeting other men of his profession, then I’m happy to do that too,” she added hopefully before darting a fleeting look at the girl in question. “You have only to tell us what you require, Bea. I trust it goes without saying that it’s your well-being that matters most to me.”
But the particular emphasis she put on the word your made it clear to everyone in the room, even Dawson, that it was her own well-being that concerned her more. Bea smothered a smile at her aunt’s enduring self-interest and gently announced she would rather pass a quiet day alone in her room than impose her company on others.
Flora cried out at the use of the word impose, insisting that they were all eager to have an opportunity to provide her with comfort during this time of tragedy. Uncle Horace coughed, as it to excuse himself from his daughter’s aggressive inclusiveness, and Russell looked down and mumbled something about meeting a friend at the Serpentine at noon. Aunt Vera glanced out the window and observed wistfully that the day was indeed lovely.
Bea smothered a smile at their awkwardness and wondered how despondent she would be if Mr. Davies had indeed been the love of her life. Would she be devastated at the loss of a quietly nurtured fantasy, as Flora implied—although, hopefully, not one quite so miserable—or would she be sensible about it and feel only a fleeting sadness at the absence of his goodness from the world?
Regardless of the direction her grief would have taken, her family would have provided little comfort. Even Flora’s attempts, which were as sincere as they were kindhearted, felt designed to make an anguished griever even more despairing.
“I hope you will not adopt mourning colors, for they are quite unflattering and you are already so deathly pale,” Aunt Vera said, sounding a practical note. Immediately, she found herself the target of her daughter’s disapproving stare. “I’m thinking only of Bea’s spirits, as one’s mood can be powerfully influenced by one’s clothes, especially when one’s choices make one look as if she had died last Saturday and nobody noticed. There’s no need to glare at me, Flora. I’m speaking in scientific terms, as my dear friend Mrs. Ralston has made a study of it. If you are critical of the conclusions, you must take it up with her.”
Given that it would be highly inappropriate for Bea to don widow’s weeds for a man to whom she had no material connection, she agreed immediately to her aunt’s suggestion.
“And you must not feel compelled to socialize before you are ready. If you would prefer not to attend the Leland ball, I would of course support you,” Aunt Vera added on an optimistic note. “It had never been my intention to make you feel as if you must interact with the ton.”
Bea thoroughly appreciated her aunt’s machinations, for she had not thought the woman shrewd enough to manipulate a tragedy to further her own agenda. “I will certainly keep that in mind,” she said placatingly. In truth, however, she had no intention of missing her first opportunity to observe the Duke of Kesgrave in his natural setting.
Delighted that good sense had prevailed, Aunt Vera expressed her pleasure at both her niece’s willingness to be reasonable and the positive impact Mr. Davies death was having on their lives, stopping just short of wishing the unfortunate event had occurred sooner.
As difficult as it was not to laugh, Bea kept her expression downcast throughout the rest of the meal and waited with increasing impatience for her uncle to leave. She wanted desperately to get her hands on his copy of the London Daily Gazette to see what the paper reported about yesterday’s shocking event. Uncle Horace made no mention of the incident, but his reticence was only to be expected, as murdered dandies were not fitting conversation for the breakfast table.
Usually, her uncle left around ten to meet with his steward, Mr. Wright, to discuss estate business, which he handled earnestly and sincerely, and Bea kept one eye on the clock, counting the minutes. Today, however, he decided to linger over tea with his family, displaying, Bea feared, proper avuncular concern for her emotional frailty after the terrible news of the morning. It was, she thought, a considerate gesture, full of a sweetness she never expected from him, and it required all her strength not to huff impatiently at him and say, “Yes, yes, sir, you’ve done your duty and may go now. I’m perfectly fine.”
When he finally stood up to leave, his wife remonstrated him for deserting his niece in her time of need, and Bea, unable to restrain herself, smiled at him brightly and discreetly shook her head. Grateful, he nodded in return and all but ran out of the room.
Bea picked up the paper, but before she could read a single word, Flora enveloped her in a hug and said, “You poor dear, of course you want to see it for yourself. Here, let me show you. It’s the first notice after the wedding announcements, which is, I think, a benign placement.”
Smothering a sigh, she thanked her cousin for her consideration and followed her finger to the small box containing the text that she herself had written only the day before. She professed herself so moved by the lovely write-up, she required a moment alone with the paper to collect herself.
“Of course, darling, take all the time you need,” Flora said.
Bea took the newspaper to her bedchamber, closed the door and eagerly scanned the first page for a story on the murder: shipping news…theater advertisements…navy office report…Parliament debates…
Ah, there it was: “Slain Lord.”
Under the brief headline, it continued.
“Robert Hanson Crestwell, Earl of Fazeley and Baron Crestwell, was found dead at 132 Strand yesterday at 1:42 p.m. He had been stabbed in the back with a fourteen-inch jade dagger whilst on the sidewalk and staggered into these newspaper offices, where he fell to the floor and died. Diligent canvassing of the area revealed no witnesses to the event and provided no suspects. A woman of indiscriminate appearance and age who had visited these offices to place a death notice in the paper and at whose feet the victim fell left the premises before she could be interviewed. It is unknown if she is connected to the incident and is being sought for questioning by the authorities.
“Lord Fazeley was a prominent member of Society and an arbiter of style and wit who rejected Mr. Brummell’s preference for elegant simplicity and led the revival of ornate complexity. His highest accomplishment in that arena was the creation of the Fazeley Flow, a knot so difficult to tie it is said to require one valet, two footmen and a broomstick to achieve.
Based on several comments his lordship had made in recent months, it was generally believed that he was writing a memoir of his experiences among the ton, speculation he tried to smother by steadfastly denying the book whenever the question was put directly to him. Many members of the beau monde hoped
his denial to be true, for Lord Fazeley was thought to be in possession of many interesting stories about his friends and associates.
“Investigators are looking into his death, which they believe to be murder.”
Bea read the notice three times and could scarcely credit the information, for the Earl of Fazeley had been pointed out to her last season by Flora during a rout at Mrs. Ralston’s house and on that occasion she’d been struck by his air of invincibility. He held himself with such daunting aloofness, as if he couldn’t bear to look at his fellow humans, for they were an endless source of disappointment and distaste. She also remembered an afternoon walk in Hyde Park not many days later when her aunt suddenly found herself in his path, her feet seemingly rooted to the spot in terror of earning his disapproval. A goldfinch fluttered its wings, drawing his lordship’s attention with its loveliness, and in that brief moment of distraction, Uncle Horace pulled his wife aside, as if out of the way of a rampaging horse.
She imagined her aunt was not alone in fearing his attention, for he was famous for issuing finely worded proclamations of impatience and disgust that frequently left targets too stunned to reply, a state commonly referred to as “being fazed.” His lordship’s high expectations and low tolerance for his fellows did not bode well for the investigation. The more terror a victim inspired in the individuals around him, the more people who wished him harm, a group that would only expand if the rumor about a memoir was true. Nobody relished the exposure of private information, but did someone fear it enough to murder him?
The answer, of course, lay in the pages of the manuscript if it actually existed.
How, then, to discover if the story about the memoir was true?
She was considering the problem when Flora peeked her head into the room to ask if she may enter now.
Unused to such deference, Bea started in surprised and then promptly said yes. She was eager to go to the museum, but it was still early enough in the day to indulge her cousin’s need to provide comfort. She was, in fact, deeply touched to discover how much Flora cared, and Bea submitted to her ministrations for as long as she could manage. She even made a desperate effort to squeeze out a few tears as a show of respect, but her proficiency in producing them on demand was sadly lacking. Her exertions were so finely wrought, however, that her cousin mistook them for grief.
As affecting as Flora’s concern was, its excessive and cloying pity, as if the sad little fantasy she’d envisioned for her cousin had been her only chance at happiness, agitated Bea. Even though she’d resigned herself to her diminished prospects years ago, she felt an almost unbearable heaviness descend as Flora tried to raise her spirits.
Finally, she feigned surprise at how late it was—a little after eleven—and professed herself in desperate need of a little nap. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Flora jumped to her feet at once. “Of course I do not!” she said. “You must be exhausted. Do get some rest, and I will come back in a few hours with tea and cakes. How does that sound?”
Although she had no idea how long her mission to the British Museum would take, Bea quickly calculated the length of the drive both there and back and decided she was likely to have returned by three. “That sounds wonderful, thank you,” she said, managing a wan smile.
Flora drew her cousin’s drapes, fluffed her pillows and left the room with a concerned frown. Grateful to be alone, Bea pulled the bell tug and waited impatiently for her maid to appear.
As the news of her tragedy had reached belowstairs, Annie was taken aback to discover their excursion to the museum was still in the offing. Perceiving her surprise, Bea realized she needed to somehow win her maid’s loyalty, for there was no way to stop her from telling everyone belowstairs the details of their outing. Slowly but surely that information would find its way to the drawing room.
“I cannot bear to remain here, shut up with nothing but my thoughts,” Bea said with a miserable tremor in her voice. For a woman who had resolved only the day before to never tell a lie again, she was honing her prevarication skills with alarming efficiency. “Flora wants me to rest, but I need something to keep myself occupied so that I may avoid despair. To that end, I think it’s better that we stay the course and go to the museum. There’s a particular item I’m interested in gathering information about. Teddy would want me to, I think.”
“Of course, miss, of course,” she said, her brow clearing as she offered sincere condolences on what she described as Bea’s Great Disappointment.
’Twas hardly encouraging to discover the unflattering portrait the staff held of her, but Bea managed to nod somberly without flinching. Then she suggested they move swiftly through the house, lest Flora discover her intention and intercept them on the way to the front door. Her legs were longer than the petite maid’s, and Annie had to run to keep up with her. Outside, she announced they would get a hack, as she didn’t want to court her aunt’s disapproval by requesting the carriage.
“She wouldn’t be as understanding about my need for occupation as you have been,” Bea said, hoping to reinforce her maid’s allegiance with flattery.
Annie nodded at once. “Of course, miss.”
At the corner of their street, Bea, who considered herself an old hand now at public conveyances, efficiently hailed a hack. Annie eyed the driver warily as Bea climbed in. Although she was reasonably confident they would arrive at the British Museum without incident, her maid’s caution made her anxious and she was relieved when they pulled up to the building.
Finally, she thought, as if she had been waiting days, not hours.
Entering Montagu House a little after noon, she was delighted to see it was bustling with visitors, as she didn’t want her interest in the knife collection to stand out. Annie, who was only a year or two younger than Flora, gaped in awe at the stately entrance hall.
Observing the wonder in her eyes, Bea recalled her first visit to the museum and insisted the young maid take a couple of hours to enjoy the museum on her own. “Truly, there are so many spectacular things to see such as Egyptian mummies and Grecian statues. I’m going to look at some dreary old weapons.”
After a brief moment of uncertainty in which curiosity warred with obligation, Annie agreed to the arrangement, and Bea crossed the floor to the grand staircase. Antiquities were one flight up, and she climbed the steps with an almost irrepressible sense of excitement. Even if the knife did not prove significant in revealing who had stabbed Lord Fazeley—although she was, of course, convinced it would—she was grateful to have a purpose. It was so rare for a young woman of her status to have a mission at all, let alone one of genuine importance.
She was disappointed almost at once, for the seemingly random hodgepodge of artifacts in the antiquities rooms did not match her memory of them at all. Rather than an impressive assortment of knives and weaponry, she found Egyptian coins, Roman pottery and Greek medals. She hadn’t imagined the collection, had she?
Of course not. She was merely looking in the wrong place.
The next room contained vases and urns, and the one after that was filled with votive statues from various ancient religions. But then she stepped into a hallway with a sign that read “Sir Walter Heatherton’s collection,” and she remembered that the knives had been part of a bequest from the Scottish diplomat.
Relieved, she smiled and examined the display cases lining the wall for the precise one she remembered. No, not muskets…or crossbows…or whips. Swords was getting closer…
There it was!
Bea raced to the case with two dozen knives and pressed her nose close to get a look at the dagger. It was exactly as she remembered, which was to say, identical to the one that had struck down Lord Fazeley.
Look at those pearl flowers, she thought, bending forward to more carefully examine the delicate handiwork, which she had seen only from a distance the day before. They were beautiful.
She was so thrilled to have found her quarry exactly where she’d expected it to be—all righ
t, so maybe a few rooms to the left—that it took her a full minute to realize the disappointing truth: If the dagger was here, then it couldn’t be there.
Obviously, this wasn’t the knife that had been driven into the Earl of Fazeley’s back.
Determined not to despair, she considered the possibility that the one used to murder his lordship was a copy. Or, she thought, her excitement rising again, perhaps this implement was the copy, which the villain had left behind when he’d secreted the original out of the museum.
Alight with possibilities, however implausible, she read the placard next to the dagger, which described it as an eighteenth-century ceremonial knife from Jaipur, India, with a jeweled jade handle and identified it as one half of a pair made for the raja of Amer.
Bea gasped. One half of a pair! That meant it had a twin.
Of course, she thought. An unexpected but delightful third option.
Now all she had to do was discover who owned the second one and she would know the identity of the killer.
She spun around and looked for a librarian to whom to put the question. Finding none, she strode through the other rooms, past votives, vases and coins, until she spotted one at the top of the grand staircase under a trio of giraffes. He was explaining the process of mounting animals for preservation and display to a pair of gray-haired gentlemen who could not have been any more fascinated.
If she hadn’t been so impatient to discuss her own consuming passion, Bea felt certain she would have been just as interested in how the wire bodies were constructed. As it was, it was all she could do not to advise the men to seek out a book that would allow them to savor the arcane details at their leisure.
Finally, the librarian arrived at the end of his narrative. “And what you see before you, these tall majestic animals from a faraway continent, are the result.”
Bea wanted to cheer.
While the gentlemen turned their attention to the mounted rhinoceros that shared the pen, Bea approached the librarian, who was tall and thin like the giraffes about which he’d rhapsodized. He was a few years older than Uncle Horace’s fifty and wore brown trousers that were a little too wide in the waist. “Excuse me, sir, I was hoping you could tell me more about the ceremonial knife from Jaipur.”