by Issy Brooke
“Sit down, sit down, sit down,” Beaconberg rambled, waving a drunken arm around. “You came in my carriage so you’ll go home in it, too.”
There was no way that Lord Beaconberg was in a fit state to drive a coach. Theodore doubted his ability to sit up straight and he certainly couldn’t see beyond his own feet. He said, “Thank you most kindly but I can see you need to talk business. There are plenty of cabs who would be glad of my money. It’s a long run back to the Grey House, yes, but I’ll make it worth their while. And if you’ll allow me to suggest, Beaconberg, engaging a cab would be the better choice for you, too.”
He made more farewells, speaking over Beaconberg as he retreated. Sir Arthur was already turned away from him, and seemed very keen to talk business. He had pulled out a sheaf of papers from inside his jacket, and was spreading them on his knees.
Theodore finally managed to escape from the club. As he had predicted, he found a cab more than willing to drive out along the dark lanes once he had lit all his required lamps. Theodore waited while the man fussed around, and once he was ready to go, he asked the coachman to drive slowly. Theodore’s head was already becoming fuzzy with lack of sleep and he didn’t want the jolts to upset his pleasantly full stomach.
The carriage was a surprisingly comfortable one. Theodore folded the window down and peered out at the houses and inns as they rolled along through the peaceful suburbs of York. Little pockets of light flashed past, and he was treated to snapshot scenes of domesticity. Candles and lamps were still lit even in the more humble homes. It was certainly a prosperous area, he reflected.
Yet the peace was suddenly broken. Theodore could hear galloping hooves coming up from behind, and the cab’s driver had heard them too. He reined the horse in, tucking to one side, and shouted out into the darkness, “Halloo there, have a care! There’s a carriage up here ahead of you, sir!”
Theodore slid across the seat and flung the door open so that he could see out unencumbered by the window-frame. A light four-wheeled carriage, a square one like a Brougham, was hurtling towards them with a manic-looking man perched on the driver’s seat and only one lamp lit, swinging madly on one corner.
“Out of my way!” cried the driver and Theodore recognised him instantly by his voice. But what on earth was Lord Beaconberg doing?
Theodore did not even have time to call out. The carriage rocked past and disappeared swiftly.
The cabbie said, “Well, that’s another we’ll be fishing out of the river tomorrow.”
“He’s too drunk to notice. Men like that seem to float,” Theodore remarked. “Let’s press on.”
“Right you are, sir. Door secured? Off we go.”
THEODORE WANTED TO talk to someone about Lord Beaconberg but when he got back to the Grey House, he found everyone asleep and the whole place shut up, which was only to be expected really. One boy was on duty by the door, waiting for Theodore’s return. He rubbed at his bleary eyes and stifled a yawn as he let Theodore in. Theodore could not help checking the door was locked as the boy shuffled away. Then, thinking about how his daughter had taken to sleepwalking, he took it upon himself to make a short perambulation of the ground floor, checking all the doors and windows. No doubt the butler would be mortally offended if he knew that Theodore was checking his work. But it was a good thing that Theodore was doing it; he found a door next to the scullery standing open. He would have to have words with someone about this, though he wasn’t sure who. Perhaps Adelia could handle it if he told her in the morning. He closed the door firmly and turned the large key in the lock.
It was long past midnight when Theodore crept into their guest bedroom. Adelia greeted him with a muffled incoherence and rolled over. Theodore sat for a moment, gathering his thoughts, before crawling into bed with a sigh, and letting himself sink at last into sleep.
That peaceful slumber lasted until the small hours, when it was broken by an almighty cacophony that seemed to rattle throughout the house.
Adelia was sitting up before Theodore had managed to fight his own way out of the covers. She tilted her head to listen. “Mary? No – wait one moment – I just heard someone shout that the police are here – and someone mentioned your name. You had better go and see.” She herself made no move to get out of bed.
Theodore slid into a housecoat and slippers and padded to the door. As soon as he emerged into the chilly corridor, he was approached from the lighted end by Cecil Parker-Grey and he was flanked by two men in uniform.
One of the policemen spoke.
“Were you the last person to see Talbot Parr, Lord Beaconberg alive, sir?”
Five
Adelia had followed Theodore to the door and remained in the bedroom, peeping out into the corridor. She heard what the policeman said about Lord Beaconberg, and then she didn’t hear anything else except for a roaring sound in her ears. She clutched the door frame and leaned against it, forcing herself to take some deep breaths until she had regained control of herself.
Lord Beaconberg was dead?
There had to be some mistake.
Smith, her maid, came to her side. She was wrapped in a embroidered shawl. “My lady, perhaps I ought to take you back inside.”
“Absolutely not. Come with me. Give me your arm.” Adelia surged forwards and joined the throng of chaos and noise in the large central hall. Cecil was there, and many of the servants who were lighting lamps or holding up lanterns. Adelia looked around for Mary or Sibyl and her boys, and as she scanned the space, she caught sight of a young maid looking right past her and making an urgent hand gesture while frowning. Adelia turned to see who she was signalling to. But there were too many people milling around. A figure in white drifted past, mostly hidden by the burly policemen. Adelia turned back around and the maid was also gone.
“Did you see that?” Adelia asked Smith.
Smith was shaking her head in confusion. “See what, my lady?”
“Never mind.” She went towards Theodore who was deep in conversation with the taller policeman. Theodore glanced up and stopped talking.
“What is going on?” Adelia asked.
“This is my wife,” Theodore explained to the police. “She was here all evening; it was only I that was in town at the club.”
“Is he really dead?” she insisted.
“What do you know about it, my lady?” the policeman asked as if she had said something incriminating.
“Nothing – only what I’ve just heard now. You cannot possibly suspect my husband!”
“We simply need to ascertain what he saw and heard before the death.”
“How did he die?”
“We are yet to understand all the details, my lady. Might I suggest you retire? We shall continue speaking to your husband in a private room if one is available.”
Of course a private room was available. The house had more rooms than anyone knew what to do with. Theodore went off helplessly with the policeman, and Adelia had no choice but to go back to bed.
THE BREAKFAST ROOM was empty the next morning. Adelia arrived early and stayed late, and found that she was the only one partaking of food. When she could justify her loitering no more, she left and wandered around the various public rooms of the house. Theodore had come late to bed after speaking with the police, and was still asleep. She finally found her daughter Mary sitting up in her private day room, wearing loose robes like she was a model for the more daring sort of painter. There was something of the Lizzie Siddall about her, possibly from the way that the sun hit her blonde hair, making it shine red as it was filtered through scarlet curtains at the window. Her hair was loose to match her dissolute dress, and she was every inch the perfect pre-Raphaelite woman. She looked up listlessly as her mother entered.
Adelia burst out with, “Oh my dear, what tribulations! How are you feeling?”
“Oh, don’t fuss, mamma. I am sure I am not feeling as bad as poor Elizabeth Parr or her mother will be feeling.”
“I want to go and call on her
– but you know her best. Do you think it is wise? Will she accept a visit?”
“I think it is expected, under the circumstances,” Mary said. “She has no true friends here, or anywhere, I should imagine. She’d be grateful for your support.”
“Then I shall. She can always have me turned away at the door and I won’t be offended in the least.”
“You are always so very sensible, mamma.” Mary turned her head away and seemed to sigh.
“Is everything all right with you?” Adelia asked, rushing to her side.
Mary lifted her hand as if to ward her mother off, and she spoke almost crossly, in a tone that Adelia had never heard before. “Yes, yes! Under the circumstances, that is. Why did the police wish to speak to papa?”
“It was something about him being the last person to see Lord Beaconberg alive.”
Mary gasped. “He cannot possibly be considered a suspect!”
“Of course he isn’t,” Adelia replied. “We don’t even know how he died.” But she spoke with far more confidence than she felt.
ADELIA PLANNED TO WALK at a leisurely pace to Dovewood Park but as she headed back up to her room to change, she was accosted by Grace, the Dowager Countess who was walking slowly along the upper corridor on the arm of Sibyl Ramsgreave. Sibyl was even more pinched of face than usual. She was clearly not enjoying the duty of being polite and respectful to the older woman. Sibyl appeared to be thoroughly enjoying Sibyl’s discomfort.
“What exactly happened last night?” Grace asked with eagerness and an unseemly note of glee in her voice.
Sibyl sniffed with disapproval that she could not voice to the older lady.
Adelia said, “I have yet to speak to my husband but he was dining last night with Lord Beaconberg, and naturally the police wished to confirm that, and glean what information they can from the viscount’s last movements.”
“So no one knows how he died yet?”
“I am afraid not.”
“Go and speak to him and find out!”
Sibyl could bear it no longer. “I hardly think this is the time to gossip.”
But Grace was having none of it. “This is far from a matter of mere idle gossip, my dear Mrs Ramsgreave. It is essential, at times of such heartbreak, that the community rallies round and supports its dearest members. And we can only do that effectively if we know all the facts, don’t you think?”
Adelia didn’t think that at all; one could be kind to another without needing to know all the details of that person’s particular unhappiness. She skirted the issue and said, “Well, as to that, perhaps I shall learn a little more of relevant information when I call on Lady Beaconberg later.”
Sibyl sucked in another deep breath of disapproval. “So soon? She will surely not be at home to casual callers.”
“Oh, I think that it is a fine idea,” Grace said firmly. “Let us beg a carriage and man from dear Cecil, and drive over together. And we are hardly casual.”
“It is not done,” Sibyl said.
“If I am doing it, then it most surely is done,” Grace replied. She smiled at Adelia. “You understand, don’t you?”
Adelia understood mostly that Grace was not bound by the same conventions as Adelia and Sibyl were, in their more lowly positions. She nodded slightly, and Grace preened with triumph. Sibyl, with a barely repressed sneer, stalked away, her narrow shoulders quivering with indignation.
“I AM SORRY BUT I DO love baiting her,” Grace said as they rolled away in the carriage a little while later.
“You are not sorry,” Adelia said, free to talk frankly in private.
Grace shrugged slightly. “She needs to unstiffen. She’s positively dull. She must surely be boring herself to death.”
“She’s not boring or dull; she’s lonely and scared.”
“Scared? What has she to be scared of? Oh, surely you don’t mean this silly ghost that is supposed to be haunting the place?”
“No, not the ghost.” Adelia wasn’t sure how to explain it to the Countess in a way that the privileged lady would understand. “It’s her position here. She knows she lives here only due to the largesse and generosity of her brother. He provides for everything.”
“Yes, she’s awfully lucky.”
“She’s awfully trapped,” Adelia said.
“And aren’t you, then, in a similar position by being married to my son?”
“To some extent but we chose one another; I chose this life. I knew what I was choosing, mostly. Mrs Ramsgreave did not choose to lose her husband and end up here, like this. She has no power at all over any aspect of her life. Can you not imagine how that feels?”
“I should think that being free of all responsibilities feels utterly divine,” Grace said.
Adelia gave up. Grace simply couldn’t see how it was for anyone else. She hoped that the Countess would be tactful when they met Lady Beaconberg, and not say anything about now being free of the encumbrance of Lord Beaconberg himself. Adelia winced as she imagined it, then stopped herself. It was enough to live through unpleasant experiences once, without living through them a second time by imaging the worst before it happened. She made some small talk about the cushions in the carriage, and Grace seemed happy to go along with it. Adelia wondered if she knew, all along, that Adelia was changing the subject deliberately. How much of Grace was real, and how much was she playing the part of antagonistic and world-blind older lady? Adelia really could not tell.
When they arrived at Dovewood Park, they noticed immediately that all the curtains were drawn across the windows. The main door was decorated already with black crape tied up with a white ribbon to stop people knocking, and a coach was standing outside, bearing the name of a Mourning Warehouse in York. Of course; Lady Beaconberg would now need a complete new wardrobe of clothes, for no one of any substance would possibly reuse old mourning clothing.
Adelia alighted and told Grace to remain in the carriage in case Lady Beaconberg was not at home to guests. She hoped she could attract the attention of a servant without having to ring the bell, and she was lucky that the door swung open as she approached. The salesmen from the Mourning Warehouse were being shown out by a white-faced and tearful maidservant.
Upon enquiry, Adelia was assured that if she and the Dowager Countess would wait just a moment in a downstairs room, Lady Beaconberg would be sure to appear.
Grace settled herself in a chair by the unlit fire, and rested her hands on her knees, a pinched look on her face that Adelia had not noticed before. “My dear, are you quite all right? You said earlier that you were feeling under the weather. Did the fortified wine not do the trick?”
“Sadly not; nor did the port, nor the brandy.” She stifled a cough. “I am rather afraid that I am succumbing to a cold and that simply will not do.”
Adelia smiled. “You are indomitable and undefeatable, I grant you; but not even the Dowager Countess is immune to everyday ailments.”
“Well, I should be. My son is a doctor, at least by training; I have had an excellent life with all the very best food and comfort and therefore ought not to be plagued by the same sorts of things that affect the common folk; and at my time of life, one does worry.”
Adelia was amused by the idea that Grace thought she was simply above getting the same illnesses as a peasant might, but realised that it was her final statement that was the only true one. She could not think of anything sympathetic that Grace wouldn’t simply dismiss, so she merely nodded.
Grace was just launching into a scathing critique of the pastoral scene in oils that dominated the room – “I should give that milkmaid a thrashing if she were one of my servants, mooning about in orchards like that with the shepherd’s boy!” – when a maid came in and invited them to follow her to Lady Beaconberg.
Lady Beaconberg had taken the role of mourning and devastated widow absolutely to its peak.
She received them in her private morning room, an act which suggested she was already sunk into seclusion but was making a speci
al exception for her visitors. She was clad from head to foot in layers of black, including the thinnest silk and lace gloves, and her face was unnaturally white. She wore one necklace, a striking piece in silver with horses arranged in a line, and she fingered it often through the conversation, so Adelia guessed it had been a gift from her husband at some point. Adelia saw tell-tale flakes of powder on her high collar; her pallor was artificial. And were her eyes really rimmed with red from crying, or was that an artful smear of rouge? Lady Beaconberg smiled wanly, waved a hand in the air with a vague circular motion, and nodded to the two chairs that had been set to make a semi-circle with her own. The room was cold, the fireplace filled with pinecones. The heavy curtains had been drawn which kept the sunlight and its warmth out, and the large clock over the mantelpiece had been stopped.
Adelia let Grace speak first, as she had the status and authority. “My dearest Lady Beaconberg,” she said in her throaty voice, tinged now with the encroaching cold, “Please do forgive our intrusion but I know you have no close family members in the area and we seek only to offer you whatever assistance you and your daughter may need at this sad time. And let us also say what an unutterable tragedy this is.”
Lady Beaconberg turned her glittering eyes on them both in turn, and let the silence lengthen into awkwardness before saying, “Tragedy?”
Grace blinked in surprise. Adelia watched Lady Beaconberg carefully. It was not only tears that could make eyes glitter, though if the local doctor had visited to administer sedatives and calming draughts, that was entirely normal and to be expected. Adelia herself favoured a little drop of laudanum from time to time, purely to ease her migraines.
Lady Beaconberg sighed then, and dropped her head to hide her face, one hand still raised to lightly touch the necklace of running horses. “Forgive me. Everything is topsy-turvy. Nothing is as it should be and all my plans are ... all my life is ... this is not how it is supposed to be!”