The Corpse Played Dead

by The Corpse Played Dead (retail) (epub)

  ‘Mr Fielding has told the world that Sugden was responsible, and that’s how it will be reported, but there’s nothing to prevent you seeing whether you can discover anything more from the servants.’

  I looked down at my skirts.

  ‘Of course, you’re not the only one who needs to find something else to wear…’

  He pursed his lips, looking over my gown. ‘You’re right. It wasn’t pretty three days ago. Now it looks as though a dog has thrown up over it.’

  ‘That is just about the only thing that hasn’t happened to me while I’ve been wearing it.’

  He grunted and reached into his coat. ‘I suppose you’ve no means of paying for anything new?’

  I had plenty of means at Berwick Street, but I didn’t see why I should pay for it.

  He scattered a few coins into my hand, which I inspected with an exaggerated sniff.

  ‘You’re to look like a modest servant, mind,’ he said. ‘You can’t go to Hawbridge House decked out in your usual rig.’

  I still took all of the coins and then gave him a wink. ‘Thank you, sir. I can manage to look respectable.’ I slid them into my pocket, knowing exactly which of the many emporia I frequented would offer the right sort of gown, and not question where or how a filthy looking woman had come by these coins.

  ‘I didn’t care for Joe Sugden, Mr Davenport, but he does not deserve to be known as a killer. And a person who has sliced one man’s throat and burned another alive is not someone who should be walking the streets. We must find out who really killed Lord Hawbridge.’

  I turned to leave. I also wanted to know what on earth Joe Sugden had to do with it all.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  I arrived at the house to find that Hannah had just returned from an errand, and that Mrs Kemp was on her way out. They were exchanging a few words at the back door as I approached. I asked Mrs Kemp if there was any more mending that I could undertake, but she shook her head.

  ‘There’s none today. You stitched those cuffs very neatly, though, much better than the laundryman’s daughter. If you would like to call again in a few days, I may have more then.’ She nodded, as if to dismiss me, and checked the contents of her basket.

  This was disappointing. I could not contrive a reason for lingering at Hawbridge House without work.

  ‘You haven’t found a new position yet?’ Hannah looked at me anxiously, taking in the new clothes. ‘Else how do you come to have money for a gown?’

  I had purchased a simple blue and white striped affair, a dark petticoat, and a cap, apron and kerchief that were all very nearly white. I thought that I would pass for a servant in my father’s house, which meant that I looked decent, honest, and dreadfully dull. Davenport would approve.

  I shook my head. ‘Best not to speak of it, Hannah,’ I said in a whisper. ‘I am trying very hard to find honest work.’

  Her face fell, and she hugged me tightly. ‘Don’t worry, Lizzie. Something will come for you. But will you have some food with us?’ She released her hold and looked to Mrs Kemp, who was tying the ribbon of her bonnet, making ready to leave. ‘Lizzie may eat with us today, at least, Mrs Kemp?’

  The housekeeper’s mouth tightened slightly.

  ‘You may stay and eat with us for today, Lizzie. The house is not so busy at present. But only for today.’

  The household was still in deep mourning.

  ‘I can help, to earn my bread, if any help is required,’ I said. I wished to sound like a diligent worker, although the truth of it was that I wished to be back inside the house, to overhear conversations.

  Mrs Kemp cocked a head to one side, pondering this.

  Hannah cut in. ‘There’s her ladyship’s gowns to sort through, Mrs Kemp. I might make a start on them, to see whether anything needs work before we leave for Gloucestershire. I could do well with another pair of eyes.’

  Mrs Kemp nodded. ‘Very well. But mind you’re not seen, Lizzie, and no unnecessary chattering.’ She gave me a fond smile, before set off down the path. ‘Perhaps I’ll enquire about work for you, while I’m out.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Kemp. Thank you, Mrs Kemp.’

  The last thing I needed was another job. I was struggling to juggle the work I already had.

  Hannah and I made our way up the back stairs to Lady Hawbridge’s rooms. A small doorway brought us out onto a long corridor that was decorated with paintings. These were mostly pictures of objects or animals – still life with fruit, flowers in vases, studies of butterflies and dogs on cushions. I imagined that these were Lady Hawbridge’s own choices. This was the lady’s place of solitude and reverie. Here, more than anywhere in the house, she would be herself, undisturbed except by those she chose to admit. Her choices of art suggested simple and unimaginative tastes – or else she had wisely picked the sort of images she knew were appropriate to her status and condition in life.

  Lady Hawbridge was not in her rooms.

  ‘I need to take an urgent message to Lady Hawbridge,’ said Hannah, with a small sigh of frustration. ‘I thought she would be here, but she must have gone to the morning room. Wait for me. I won’t be long. Don’t touch anything.’

  She left, pulling a note from her pocket as she went.

  She was barely out of the door when I set to work. I moved as quickly and as quietly as I could, not knowing how long she would be gone. If I was seeking evidence of Mr Astley’s part in her life, then I was probably looking for letters. I ignored the dressing table, which I could see was covered only with bottles of scent and boxes of jewellery. The small writing desk held more promise.

  The drawer yielded little except a pot of ink, a few uncut quill pens, a knife for cutting them, and a good amount of paper. I spent far too long feeling about for a secret compartment, until I decided that there was none. There were no letters – which meant that either she burned all of her correspondence or that they were hidden elsewhere. I examined the mantlepiece, peering behind vases and under the clock. I took the poker and prodded the fire, just in case she had recently burned anything incriminating.

  There were a few books by her bed. None would cause a scandal. On the top was a book of sermons. I picked it up, wondering what she read to help her sleep.

  A small folded note was tucked into the cover.

  Glancing to the door, I unfolded it and scanned it. The handwriting was not easy to decipher, and it was written in French, but I saw immediately that it was a love note. The words were warm, if lacking in imagination: a memory of tender kisses, a longing to hold her for eternity, that sort of thing.

  A floorboard creaked on the corridor outside and I hastily folded it again, not before searching the end of the letter to find a name. There was none – only an initial. ‘A’.

  I shoved the note back into the book and stepped away from the table, just as Hannah walked in.

  ‘I haven’t touched anything, miss,’ I said quickly.

  She looked from me to the book of sermons, and then back to me. Her lips tightened.

  ‘Good. I should hope not.’ She looked at the book again. I swallowed, wondering whether she had seen me holding it.

  ‘The dressing room is through here,’ she said, with a small inclination of her head.

  We walked through into the dressing room in silence. Hannah opened up the enormous trunks and began to lift out Lady Hawbridge’s gowns. I pondered the note as we laid the gowns on the floor, one over another, and then laid out the petticoats, most of quilted silk, on another pile. ‘A’ might stand for Astley, but it might equally be a Christian name, a nickname or even ‘amour’. It might have been a note from her husband, but I doubted it.

  We surveyed the gowns. I am used to good clothes, but these were exquisite. We were, as Hannah said, to look over them to see what needed to be mended. Some of them, she told me, her ladyship wished to alter. She became gradually less agitated, and more talkative, as we ran our hands over the fabric and discussed the bead work and embroidery. With my careful encouragement, she be
gan to tell me of Lady Hawbridge, and how she had worked for her since before her marriage.

  She admired her mistress, that was clear. I decided to press a little more.

  ‘How did you find the master? Were they very much in love? He was older than her, I think.’

  Her face darkened. She hesitated, as if about to say something terrible. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

  ‘I didn’t like the way he treated her.’

  ‘Lady Hawbridge?’

  She nodded. ‘She would come into her chambers in such a state of distress sometimes.’

  I wondered what had particularly distressed Lady Hawbridge. After all, a noble wife would expect to put up with rages, ill-temper, and even violence – to say nothing of her husband’s inevitable infidelity. But, unlike most women, she could spend most of her time away from her husband, in her own apartments, in a different part of the country even. She could, if she were very careful, find a lover of her own. Having encountered Lord Hawbridge, I thought she would have needed to be very careful indeed. Tucking a note into a book of sermons had been rash.

  ‘You should hear what Martin says about him,’ Hannah was saying.

  ‘Martin?’

  ‘Martin Jakes, one of the footmen.’ She blushed a little as she said his name. ‘Mr Jakes has survived in his lordship’s service only because he is so good with the horses. His lordship can’t… couldn’t,’ she corrected herself with a smile, ‘couldn’t manage without Mr Jakes.’

  ‘And what does Mr Jakes say about the master?’

  Any comment that Mr Jakes might make was causing Hannah to glow pink. Poor girl, to be so afflicted in her fancy that it showed on her face. How did she manage to speak to this Mr Jakes without fainting?

  ‘Mr Jakes says that once he tore through the stables in such a temper that some of the hands left.’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘It was that bad?’

  ‘He started to thrash one of the stable lads. No one knew why. Nearly killed him. One of the older men pulled him off and got a black eye for his trouble.’

  Lord Hawbridge had done the same to my father’s stable boy for no apparent reason, so this seemed entirely in keeping with his character.

  ‘You said that some of the staff left. Why did Mr Jakes stay on?’

  ‘The horses. He lives for those horses. And Lord Hawbridge loved riding, so the horses were of the best quality.’

  I picked up a heavily-embroidered stomacher and examined it for pulled threads or other damage. It was in good condition, so I returned it to the trunk.

  ‘Lady Hawbridge is better off without him,’ I decided.

  ‘Hush,’ Hannah glanced at the door, anxious again. ‘You mustn’t say such things.’

  I knelt on the floor again, next to the petticoats. ‘Even if it’s true,’ I whispered in her ear.

  We worked in silence after that. I reflected that the more I learned of Lord Hawbridge, the less likely it seemed that his death had anything to do with Garrick and the theatre. He had been a violent man. The manner of his death, strung up like a pig and sliced open from the throat, had also told me that. I recalled the scene of it: the blood, the stench, the snuff box shining in the candle light.

  I gave a start.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Hannah asked. ‘You just jumped like you’d had a fright.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I said. ‘I think my legs have pins and needles, that’s all.’

  I stood up and stretched, bending to pick up a pink petticoat and taking it over to the trunk.

  Joe Sugden had told Davenport that the box had dropped from the earl’s pocket. It must have landed on the floor when he had been hanged. But if it had dropped then, why hadn’t it been covered in blood? If it had fallen as he was raised up, then it would have been covered with blood when his throat was cut. I remembered that it had stood, pristine in the middle of the lake, as if someone had placed it there. The earl’s murderer, knowing how much he loved it, had left it there, as if taunting the dead man. Perhaps made him look at it before slicing his neck.

  The thought of this made my own blood run cold.

  There was a sound from the room beyond. Hannah leapt to her feet and put a finger to her lips in warning. I rose, arms still full of petticoat.

  The door opened, and Lady Hawbridge stood before us.

  She was, as I had noticed in the theatre, a beautiful woman. Whatever her life with her husband had been like, he had not cowed her completely. Indeed, she was radiant. Widowhood suited her.

  I bent my head as I curtseyed. It was sad that I could not look at her for more than a moment, but, aware of my lowly status in her house, I kept my eyes down.

  ‘What are you doing in my dressing room?’ This was addressed to Hannah.

  ‘Sorting your clothes for the country, my lady. We’re seeing what needs mending, and you said that some gowns want refitting before we leave.’

  I peeped up. Lady Hawbridge was shaking her head.

  ‘I haven’t decided yet whether I shall go home with Lord Shand or not. Lord Hawbridge, of course, I meant. Dear Shand is Lord Hawbridge now…’ she corrected herself, her voice trailing off. ‘I may remain at Hawbridge House a while longer.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  The lady smiled weakly. ‘But you did well to think of it. Thank you.’

  I could see why Hannah loved her. She was generous with her praise.

  ‘Will you help me with my hair?’ she said. ‘I’ve just heard that we are to be visited by a man from the magistrate’s office. I don’t wish to appear dishevelled.’

  She wouldn’t look dishevelled wearing a sack, I thought, but she was arming herself for what she imagined would be a difficult meeting in the only way she knew how. Davenport, already smitten by her beauty in the theatre, would be happy enough to renew his acquaintance.

  Hannah followed her out of the room, not before instructing me to close the trunks and fold the remaining the gowns over the top of them.

  ‘I can sort the rest later,’ she said. ‘When you’ve done, go down to the servants’ hall and wait for me there.’

  I did as she asked.

  The door was open, and I could hear Lady Hawbridge talking to Hannah.

  ‘I don’t know why he’s coming here. All I want to do is bury my husband and have nothing more to do with it. It’s up to the magistrate to find his murderer.’

  Hannah made soothing noises but said nothing of significance in response while the countess chattered. She sounded nervous.

  ‘Callow is on his way. He’ll know how to deal with him. Astley will come too, of course, but he’s out with Shand. I think they were going riding this morning. Poor love, he’s still in such a state about it all.’

  I had finished the folding but lingered for as long as I could without attracting attention from Hannah, just so I could listen. Then I made my way slowly through the doorway, nodding to Hannah as I went and bobbing another curtesy to her mistress.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  I had no intention of going back to the servants’ hall. I was going to investigate the earl’s rooms while I had the chance. I made a guess that they would be on the opposite side of the house to his wife’s, but on the same floor and walked quietly but confidently in that direction, invisible and silent and ready to melt into a wall at any moment.

  The paintings of flower vases and dogs gave way to images of dead game birds and then Italian landscapes, signs of the earl’s interests and his travels as a younger man. The décor was darker in this side of the house. Lord Hawbridge, from what I had seen of him, would have spent little time here. He would have ridden out in the mornings – if he rose before noon – or gone to the Lords when he was required. He might have met friends in coffee houses and discussed the matters of the day, idled away his afternoons with a mistress or whichever fancy harlot was his latest distraction and then gambled and drunk his way into the night. From what I had heard of him, and from the man I had encountered, I didn’t picture him quietly
reading a book in his salon.

  I turned the handle of the door that lay at the end of the corridor.

  The room beyond was undoubtedly his. As his wife’s rooms had been furnished to be her sanctuary, pretty, light and airy, filled with vases, so this room told me of him. It was austere, neat and, as I thought, mostly unused. The fire had not been lit in days, so it was cold. The fireplace had not even been cleaned. The walls were lined in dark green paper, the pictures on them were mostly portraits. These were the second-rate paintings of his ancestors. I recognised his features in them, but the better ones would be on show downstairs. The furniture was dark and functional: a writing table, a large chest of drawers, three uncomfortable-looking chairs and a corner table set with glasses on a silver tray. The door to the bed chamber beyond was closed.

  I stood still and looked around, breathing in the chilly air, as if somehow, just by standing here, I might discover who had killed him and why. I walked around his writing table. A letter from Astley would offer an opportunity to compare the handwriting with what I had seen in his wife’s room. I picked up a bundle of letters and undid the ribbon that held them. They were from a variety of correspondents, and not in any particular order; recently-read letters waiting to be filed away. I shuffled through them, searching for familiar names.

  The door to the earl’s bed chamber opened suddenly, causing me to jump in alarm. I had not anticipated anyone being in there. The letters dropped from my hands to the floor.

  It was the girl I’d met with Hannah at church. Thank God it was only her.

  ‘Oh, Mary, isn’t it? You gave me a start. I’m Lizzie, remember me?’

  She eyed me with suspicion. This was understandable. Her nose wrinkled.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  I bent down and gathered up the letters, still shaking with relief that it was a chamber maid who had caught me and not the earl’s valet. If a senior servant had found me, I would be in serious trouble. I could easily con my way around a silly girl like this.