by Lynn Messina
Emily did not find this statement quite as affecting as her mother had hoped and looked at Bea as if challenging her to come up with a reasonable response.
When Bea met the family in the Lake District in the fall, the dynamic between mother and daughter had been quite different. On that occasion it had been apparent to anyone who observed them that Emily ruled the roost and her parents devoted themselves to fulfilling her desires. She demanded and they delivered—not, it turned out, out of a desire to see her every wish granted but from the hope that she would make a quick, advantageous marriage before the beau monde discovered the true state of their finances. Mr. Otley’s business, which was, as far as the ton knew, a very successful spice-trading concern in India that he had overseen ever since he’d returned to England a rich man decades before, had suffered an irreversible setback. The East India Company, the joint-stock firm that all but owned the region, discovered that he was running a small but highly lucrative opium operation. Considering the cultivation and smuggling of illegal opium to China to be its exclusive province, John Company, as the massive organization was informally known, seized his fields and drove him out of business.
With his family’s fortune in desperate need of repair, Otley had ostensibly set up a new enterprise growing hibiscus and found eager investors to sink funds into his next success. In actuality, however, he planted not a single plant, for the venture was a fraud from the very beginning. He waited a few months, then claimed a devastating fire wiped out the entire crop. Alas, his investors were not as easily gulled as he’d hoped and, suspecting a trick, sought out the truth. The only reason the Duke of Kesgrave had been in Cumbria was to investigate Otley and the hibiscus scheme on behalf of an old family friend whose financial situation had been devastated by the swindle.
Andrew Skeffington, as well as his friend Lord Amersham, was also among the swindled.
Since the startling revelations at Lakeview Hall, the relationship between the two women had undergone a radical revolution. Mrs. Otley was no longer in awe of her daughter’s beauty, even though it had achieved the very thing she’d wanted it to achieve, and Emily could not muster any respect for the mother who had lied to her about almost everything.
Bea imagined the situation must make for some rather awkward family meals.
Grateful to no longer be at a house party with the pair, Bea looked at Mrs. Otley and said, “He was a troublesome interloper?”
The older woman’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Excuse me?”
“A moment ago you said that anyone who has ever plotted the end of a troublesome interloper knows not to sully their own home,” Bea reminded her. “And I was just wondering if Mr. Wilson was a troublesome interloper.”
“Goodness me, no!” she cried, amused by the accusation. “That you can think such a thing demonstrates precisely why this exercise is an utterly ridiculous waste of time. Only an interfering busybody with no interests would imagine something nefarious in a routine digestive issue gone tragically awry. And now you are here accusing me of harming a man who had been nothing but kind to me during a very trying time in my life. How could I wish to harm a hair on his head? I’m far too grateful for the comfort and support he has provided, unlike some people.…” A quick look in her daughter’s direction confirmed whom she meant, but it was not necessary to Bea’s understanding. “He might have been a little overly ambitious in his plans, for how could he seriously believe I would consider marrying someone of his standing, a former steward who had cultivated opium in a foreign backwater, especially now that my daughter’s advantageous marriage will put me in the reach of a much better quality of suitor. But surely that gives him cause to wish me harm, not the other way around?”
Bea wasn’t entirely sure she agreed with that reasoning, for if Mrs. Otley had decided to end the relationship and her lover resisted, then slipping him a little poison with the morning tea might be the ideal solution to a potentially awkward problem. “How did Mr. Wilson feel about your rejection of his suit?”
“Gutted, naturally, as he positively adored me, but he understood the opportunities available to me, an attractive woman with many good years left,” she said as Emily snorted at the description. Mrs. Otley was firmly situated at the upper end of forty, and although she most likely had quite a few years left, it was debatable how many of those could be categorized as good. Determined to ignore her daughter, she added, “Charles wanted me to have the best. Since he’d returned—”
“When was that?” Bea interrupted to ask.
“When was what?” Mrs. Otley said blankly.
“When did he return from India?”
“Several months ago,” she said, furrowing her brow. “Poor dear. He had an arduous journey home, and he does abhor the sea. It’s so violent sometimes. I don’t quite remember when it was. Perhaps the end of October? I don’t see that it matters. He had decided to set himself up as a farmer with the money he made and was looking for a property to buy. He knew such a humble existence would not appeal to me. Above all else, Mr. Wilson was a sensible man. When Otley insisted on sending him to India he didn’t want to go, of course, but he recognized the assignment for the opportunity it was and agreed to go without ever letting on that he knew the real reason he was being shipped off to a foreign land.”
Recalling his letter to Mrs. Otley grumbling about the inhospitable environment of India, which Bea had discovered and read during her investigation in the Lake District, she wasn’t surprised to hear of his reluctance. “And what was that?”
“To separate us,” she explained. At her daughter’s shocked gasp, she snapped impatiently. “Of course your father knew we were lovers. He wasn’t a ninny, and half the reason to have an affair is so your spouse may seethe over it. Really, my dear, it’s as if you were raised in a convent, your notions are so puritanical.”
Emily’s lips turned white at this taunt, but she remained silent, and Bea, whose notions could also be described as puritanical, strove to keep her thoughts hidden. There was nothing to be gained in appearing to sit in moral judgment of one’s suspect. Rather, she asked how long she and Mr. Wilson had associated before he was sent to India.
“A year,” she answered promptly. “He had been in my husband’s employ for a year before we could no longer fight the overwhelming attraction we felt for each other and was sent to India a year later. Otley was so churlish about the whole thing. If his own romantic liaison had not ended in acrimony, he would not have minded my happiness quite so much.” Here, she sighed long and deep. “He had always been a stingy man.”
Her daughter whimpered at this further glimpse into the cold indifference that characterized her parents’ relationship. Most marriages among the ton were transactional, shoring up status and property, and the Otleys’ lack of sentiment was hardly unique. Nevertheless, Bea felt the same revulsion as Emily. Even if her aunt and uncle had little affection for her, they respected and esteemed each other.
“In what way was going abroad an opportunity?” Bea asked.
“In every way,” the widow replied. “Otley made his fortune there, and it seems as though every other month another second or third son returns from there a nabob. It could not be that difficult to accrue money in such an environment, and Mr. Wilson was clever. He knew how to make the most of a situation. I knew he would flourish there, and he did. He returned with several thousand pounds to his name, which is considerably more than he went with.”
Although the widow made the accumulation of wealth sound as effortless as stepping off the boat in Bombay and catching banknotes as they flew by in the wind, Bea could not believe it had been that easy. Even in India, money was a limited resource and its acquisition frequently called for an aggressive stance. It would not be unusual if, in the pursuit of his fortune, Mr. Wilson had made an enemy or two. After all, the man had run a successful opium-smuggling operation for more than a year, which had to require a certain ruthlessness.
“Do you know how Mr. Wilson made his fortun
e while he was there?” Bea asked.
“Gracious me, no!” Mrs. Otley said with a dismissive chortle. “Talk about money matters? What do you take me for, Miss Hyde-Clare, a cit? No, I did not ask him about the source of his wealth any more than I’d asked Otley about his. As long as the bills are paid, it is none of my concern.”
Emily snorted in disgust. “Yes, as long as the dressmaker is appeased, she doesn’t care how filthy the lucre is.”
With surprising patience, Mrs. Otley turned to her daughter and said, “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times that I had no idea your father was swindling nice young men like Mr. Skeffington.”
“You thought he was just swindling senile old men,” Emily said with spiteful cynicism. “Do stop trying to appear high-minded in front of our guest. She knows what you are.”
Mrs. Otley shrugged her shoulders, as if unable to muster the interest in composing a response to the charge, and looked at Beatrice. “As I said, I know very little about Mr. Wilson’s time in India and nothing about his associates there.”
Bea nodded and imagined this was true, as Mrs. Otley seemed particularly devoted to remaining as ignorant as possible about many things. The better to enjoy the fruits of her husband’s immoral labor. “I believe Mr. Wilson wrote you letters from India. Perhaps you or I could peruse them for information about his business dealings. They may contain a name or two that would help us find out who wished him ill.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” she said with a firm shake of her head. “I burned all his letters last year after I discovered Emily had rifled through my private things and found a missive from Charles. They were too dangerous to keep.”
“I would not have had to rifle through your private things if you and Papa had been honest with me about our financial situation,” Emily said defensively. “You both insisted everything was all right when in fact things were quite desperate. Perhaps if you or Papa had sought my counsel, you would not have turned to thievery.”
“I didn’t turn to thievery,” Mrs. Otley protested with a calm smile. “Your father is the one who lied and set up the swindle. Perhaps if he had not, he would still be alive right now and you could direct your ire at him, where it belongs.”
Knowing her mother was not as innocent as she claimed, Emily harrumphed loudly.
Bea also found it difficult to believe Mrs. Otley knew nothing of what her husband was doing, especially as she had admitted at Lakeview Hall to having suspicions, but she did not press the issue, as she considered it to be a digression from the main topic.
“What about current matters?” Bea asked. “Where did he stay in London? Did he rent rooms?”
“What a question to ask!” Mrs. Otley said sharply. “Of course he rented rooms. He certainly wasn’t living here.”
“Do you know the name of the establishment?” Bea asked.
“I do, yes,” she said firmly.
But she did not volunteer its name, which convinced Bea the woman was determined to be as unhelpful as possible. Did that mean she was trying to hide something or was she simply that miffed at having to answer impertinent questions in her own drawing room? Regardless of her motivation, she required Bea to ask three more questions before ultimately revealing Mr. Wilson had been staying at the Melbourne in Piccadilly.
“Do you also wish to know the number?” Mrs. Otley asked irritably. “I cannot supply that information as I had no need to seek it. What I do know is that Charles frequently complained about the positioning of his rooms, at the top of the steps on the first floor. Such a bother with people tromping up and down the stairs all day.”
As Bea had not dared believe the widow could be so informative, she was genuinely grateful to be spared the awkwardness of discovering which rooms were Mr. Wilson’s. Marking the location in her head, she asked if Mrs. Otley knew what dealings her lover had in London. “With whom was he associating?”
The widow shook her head, as if exasperated by Bea’s obtuseness. “As I’ve already said, I make it a practice not to involve myself in business matters.”
“What about social matters, then?” Bea asked. “Do you know who he associated with socially?”
Mrs. Otley tittered with amusement. “My dear, he was a former steward and aspiring farmer. Such a creature doesn’t have social engagements. Next you will be asking me to which gentleman’s club he belonged.”
“For God’s sake, Mama, she didn’t mean he attended Almack’s,” her daughter growled impatiently. “She just wants to know what Wilson did all day when you weren’t together.”
“How would I know?” she asked owlishly. “We weren’t together.”
Emily grunted at this intentionally disingenuous response just as the butler returned with the tea tray. He laid it on the table in front of Mrs. Otley before leaving the room as quickly and silently as he’d entered.
“You weren’t curious what he was doing?” Bea asked.
“No, should I have been?” Mrs. Otley said as she reached for the teapot. “Would you like some, my dear? I always find a cup of hot liquid to be soothing when I’m riled up by unnecessary drama, which this entire ordeal has been. I do not understand why my daughter and her fiancé can’t simply agree with my intelligent assessment that Charles suffered from a disagreeable gallstone he was unable to dislodge. Then we might arrange a private disposal of his body to a well-respected medical institution that is always in need of specimens for anatomical study. Truly, I don’t know what Emily has against science, but she clearly does not esteem the advancement of knowledge. I suspect her illogical response to the situation is due to the fact that she’s not used to adversity and hasn’t yet learned how to handle it with equanimity. If the worst she has to deal with, however, is her mother telling her a little white lie to spare her feelings, then perhaps she will never have an opportunity to cultivate that skill. She has been coddled her whole life, which is my fault, as well as her father’s, and we take full responsibility for that. I fear Mr. Skeffington will continue the practice. I’ve tried to explain to him the importance of holding her to account, but he resents me because of that minor to-do with the investments. I don’t know why he thinks it’s my fault, as I never told Mr. Otley to swindle the son of one of my oldest and dearest friends. Indeed, if he had consulted me, I would have counseled the opposite.”
“What about his past?” Bea asked, realizing the widow would not be a useful source of information about the deceased’s recent activities. “What position did he hold before entering your husband’s employ?”
Mrs. Otley stared blankly at Bea, as if confused by the question, then insisted she had no idea. “Presumably, he was someone else’s steward, for Otley would never engage a man without proper qualifications. It’s possible he had inherited his previous position from his father, as he might have mentioned an estate in the wilds of Yorkshire. It’s all so vague, you see, because I did not spend time with him for his conversation. He had other talents.”
“Mama!” her daughter screeched.
“You see,” Mrs. Otley said wearily, “a Puritan.”
Bea was equally horrified to discover the widow’s interest in Mr. Wilson seemed to be primarily carnal, but she was denied the luxury of avoiding the issue and asked her to narrate the events of that morning. “What was your first indication that all was not well with Mr. Wilson?”
“I heard him call out,” she said, holding out a cup of tea to her daughter.
“Were you not in the same room?” Bea asked, confused.
“Good gracious, no. I rose before him, as was my custom,” Mrs. Otley explained. “I awoke a little before eight and rang for tea, which I took in the sitting room so as not to disturb him. When he is not working Charles prefers to sleep late. It’s the novelty, I think, of being on no man’s schedule but his own. I don’t know how long it was—perhaps an hour and a half, possibly a little longer—but suddenly I heard him call out. I thought he was calling for me, so I went into the room to remind him to
keep his voice down, for we didn’t want Emily to know he was here. I realized then that he was in tremendous pain, for he was doubled over on the bed, as if suffering from horrendous cramping. Almost immediately, however, he seemed to lose control of his body and began to convulse repeatedly, his back arching in a dreadfully awkward way.”
Her voice was placid and smooth as she gave her account, which surprised Bea, for the events she narrated were quite disturbing.
“And the whole time, he was making such a tremendous amount of noise, all that screeching and wailing,” Mrs. Otley continued, her voice growing agitated as she recalled the scene and her anxiety about being discovered. “’Twas as if he were at an ice fair or Vauxhall Gardens. No matter how I pleaded with him, he would not modulate his voice. Indeed, he seemed to hardly notice I was there. And then, as I knew it must, the ruckus drew Emily’s attention. She came flying into the room to see what was the matter and instantly began castigating me about my relationship with Mr. Wilson. I thought it was heartless of her to worry about a minor thing like a harmless fabrication when a man was suffering so dreadfully. Only a minute or two later, however, he stopped convulsing and lay still on the bed—finally silent, thank goodness! I thought he was better, that the stone had passed and he would now be well, but Emily insisted he was dead.”
Her daughter, who had remained silent during the entire recital, even at the charge of heartlessness, now spoke, confirming the events as her mother had described them. “I, too, assumed he would mend once the fit had passed and was very disturbed to discover that was not the case,” she said mildly. “It did not help that my mother refused to accept my pronouncement and insisted I was lying because I did not like Mr. Wilson. We argued over what I consider to be perhaps the most absurd claim any human being has ever made, and it was left to Fillmore, our butler whom my mother deemed a trustworthy third party, to make the final determination. Naturally, he confirmed my report.”