The Mortal Blow Read online

  THE MORTAL BLOW

  Lady Fan Mysteries

  Book Five

  Elizabeth Bailey

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  HEAR MORE FROM ELIZABETH BAILEY

  ALSO BY ELIZABETH BAILEY

  Chapter One

  Despite the fur rug covering her legs, the chill seeped into Ottilia’s bones. Her husband’s breath was misting as he grumbled his dissatisfaction against the rattle of the coach, the chink of harness and the steady clopping of hooves. She lent only half an ear, drowsy with the rhythm and fatigued by the length of the journey.

  Lord Francis Fanshawe’s monologue ceased and he leaned a little to peer into her face. “Are you even listening to me, Tillie?”

  The sharp note made her shift in her seat. She looked round, caught the frown and gave a little sigh. “You’ve said it all several times, Fan.”

  “Oh, I’m boring you, am I?”

  She brought one gloved hand out from under the warm rug and set it against his chest. “Don’t turn on me, Fan, if you please. It was not my notion to join the family for the Season.”

  He let out a defeated breath, caught the hand and held it. “You could have told Mama you are not yet well enough to leave Flitteris.”

  “What, lie? I am perfectly well now. Besides, I owe it to Sybilla. She took time to come to Weymouth for me.”

  The Dowager Marchioness of Polbrook had been instrumental in jerking Ottilia out of the doldrums after the disastrous end to her pregnancy the previous summer. The seaside trip had been her husband’s solution, drawing her in to help solve a particularly grisly murder. She had relished the intervening months of quiet content at their home, with its undemanding pace of life. But if truth be told, she was ready for a little more interest. She was guiltily aware that Francis knew it.

  “You need not dissemble. I saw how your eyes lit when Mama’s summons came, you wretch. You were bored to death.”

  She let out a gurgle, but clutched his hand nevertheless. “Not bored, dearest. Just beginning to itch a little.”

  “Well, you may scratch to your heart’s content,” came the acid response. “The whole business promises a debacle of the first order.”

  This was undeniable. Randal’s decision to bring his new marchioness and her now legitimised children to town had sent Sybilla into a predictable rage.

  “Stealing poor Candia’s thunder,” she wrote, “when the child has been obliged to wait a year for her debut already. Harriet is furious and I don’t blame her. How will it look, I ask you? Could he not have waited? It is all of a piece and I must have you here, Francis, to lend support to your niece.”

  “What the deuce she thinks I can do I really don’t know,” Francis said, for the umpteenth time. “She only wants me there so she may vent her spleen upon me instead of raking Randal over the coals.”

  “She will not, Fan, because I shall intervene. I won’t let her rub you raw, I promise.”

  He drew her gloved hand to his lips and pressed it there. “Thank the lord for you, my dear one. Though I am minded to hire a house instead of staying at Bruton Street. How will that look, if you please?”

  “Well, we can hardly stay in Hanover Square. The place will be crowded out, what with Giles in residence as well as Violette’s two children.”

  “No, and I don’t wish to listen to my nephew’s complaints either.”

  “Giles is betrothed to Phoebe now, remember,” she soothed. “I should imagine he will spend little time at home.”

  “But Mama is right, you know. There is bound to be a deal of talk with Candia staying at Harriet’s for her come-out instead of the family home.”

  Lady Dalesford was bringing Candia out along with her own daughter, and Ottilia knew she had confidently expected a free hand without the interference of her elder brother and his scandalous marriage to his erstwhile mistress a bare year after his first wife was horribly murdered. Gossip was inevitable and Ottilia made no attempt to gloss the matter over.

  “Just so. And therefore I think it will be of help to her, and to Candia, to have us there to smooth the waters.”

  Her spouse gave one of his wry laughs. “You’ll smooth the waters, Tillie. I am more like to muddy them further.”

  She was about to answer in kind, when a warning shout from the box and an abrupt lurch changed the pace of the coach, throwing the words out of her head. Francis let out an expletive and Ottilia’s attention snapped in.

  “What’s to do?”

  He was leaning to look out of the window. “Ruts in the road belike.”

  But the carriage slowed and drew to a standstill. Ottilia heard muffled talk from above. Coachman Williams and the groom Ryde on the box? Then came the sound of boots hitting the ground.

  Francis let down the window just as Hemp Roy’s dark features appeared outside it, coming from behind where he had been travelling in the rear seat.

  “What is amiss, Hemp?”

  Ottilia’s steward poked his head into the aperture.

  “There’s a woman standing in the middle of the road, milord.”

  “Alone?”

  “That is what Ryde seeks to find out, milord. It may be a trap.”

  “Make way, Hemp. I’m getting out.”

  The steward drew back but lifted his hand. “No need, milord. I am armed. I will go.”

  With a riffle at her breast, Ottilia saw he was holding a serviceable pistol. He disappeared towards the front before Francis could protest.

  “Why a trap, Fan?”

  “Footpads.” Her spouse was making himself master of his own pistol, tucked in the holster on his side next to the window. “A common trick. The woman may be a decoy to get everyone away from the coach.” He cocked the gun and opened the door.

  “Then had you not best remain here, Fan?”

  “Don’t fret. I’m getting out, that’s all. You stay put, Tillie.”

  He exited the coach, leaping down without bothering with the steps. Ottilia watched him glance this way and that, checking into the trees. The area was heavily wooded, a perfect place for concealment if highwaymen were looking to waylay travellers. She would have thought they were too close to the capital to be a target. Shifting onto Francis’s side, she called out, “Where are we?”

  He was looking towards the road ahead, but he glanced back. “Well past Hounslow, I think.”

  “Can you see the woman?”

  “I can see a figure. Looks female. Standing stock-still.”

  “Ryde and Hemp?”

  “Ryde’s with her. Hemp’s keeping watch between. Good man. He’s checking both sides of the road.”

  Curiosity got the better of Ottilia and she pushed to the edge of the seat, making to lean out. Her spouse cursed.

  “Ottilia, stay in! For pity’s sake, will you for once do as you’re told?”

  She held onto the door jamb but did not move. “I’ve no intention of getting out — yet. It doesn’t seem to be a trap.”

  “They may ride out on us at any moment. Get back inside!”

  Perceiving he was in earnest, she made to move back into her place, but his attention shifted away as footsteps sounded.

  “Ryde’s coming back.”

  “And Hemp?”

  “Seems to be staying on watch.”

  A flitter of anxiety for her steward went through Ottilia. He was eminently capable, but her relationship with Hemp bordered on friendship.

  The groom’s dour tones took her attention. “No use, my lord. I can’t get her to move.”

  “It’s not a trap then, you think?”

  “A queer one if it is. She’s covered in blood.”

  “What?”

  Ottilia jumped, her eyes flying to Ryde’s face as he gave a brisk nod.

  “All over. Her face too. She won’t talk. Wouldn’t answer me. Just standing there, staring.”

  Ottilia took a frowning glance from Francis and made up her mind. “Let down the steps for me, Ryde.”

  As usual, the groom looked to his master for guidance. Francis came to the door.

  “Must you, Tillie? I know you’re intrigued, but it’s not safe.”

  “Nothing has happened yet, Fan. And the woman is clearly in trouble.”

  She could see the uncertainty in his face, but at length he stepped back and nodded to the groom, who unfolded the steps. Francis helped her down, keeping his pistol aloft and ready.

  “I’ll come with you. Ryde, you guard the coach. Ottilia, wait for me!”

  She had started forward but she paused at this, her eyes on the strange figure. The woman was perfectly still, her arms at her sides, positioned in the road so that no coach could pass without encroaching on the bushes either side. She must have intended it. Which meant she was indeed either a decoy or in distress. Ryde’s report of the blood suggested the latter.

  The horses were shifting, steam rising from flanks glossy with sweat,
nostrils snorting mist.

  “Can’t keep ’em standing too long, me lord.”

  Francis, just ahead of Ottilia, glanced up at the coachman’s call. “We’ll be off again as soon as we can get this female off the road.”

  “If we can.” But Ottilia’s mind was buzzing as she passed the horses and paused at Hemp’s side where he stood, eyes everywhere, pistol at the ready. She kept her gaze on the motionless figure ahead. “She has not moved?”

  “Not a muscle, milady,” Hemp replied.

  “What in hell’s name ails the wench?” muttered Francis.

  “Let us find out, Fan.”

  Ottilia approached with caution, allowing her spouse to remain a step or two ahead. She could see the splashed red colouring the woman’s gown, which looked to be fashioned of a serviceable woollen material, plain in style. Not a female of the first stare then? But no country wench either from the cut of the garment. She was hatless, her countenance streaked with blood. It was in her hair too, Ottilia saw as she neared, in thick gobs bunching the hanging locks, fairish in colour, lank and untidy.

  Drawing close, Ottilia was taken by the staring eyes. They were blank, drawn inward. She would swear they saw nothing. A stupor of shock? Unsurprising, considering her condition. She looked to be young. Hard to tell under the harsh contrast of red against her pallid face.

  Ottilia placed herself within the woman’s eyeline and spoke with gentleness.

  “What happened to you, my dear? Can we help you?”

  No response. Ottilia waited a little and then tried again.

  “Can you hear me? You are not alone. We are here to help you.”

  Still nothing. Her spouse’s dry voice came.

  “Dead to the world.”

  A flicker in the eyes. The woman’s head shifted a bare inch in the direction of his voice.

  Ottilia’s hope quickened as the words replayed in her head. With deliberation she repeated the one she guessed had penetrated.

  “Dead? Is that it? Who is dead?”

  The woman flinched. Her arm rose and a finger pointed into the woods as her head turned towards it.

  “Hell and the devil confound it! Here we go again.”

  Chapter Two

  Lord Francis Fanshawe took instant command, turning towards the coach and calling out, “Ryde, with me! Bring the blunderbuss. Hemp, take care of the women.” He uncocked his pistol and dropped his tone as he turned to his wife. “Get the wench into the coach, Tillie.”

  His wife’s hand caught his arm. “If you find a body, I need to see it, Fan.”

  “If we find a body, we’ve likely got a murderess on our hands, God help us. It needed only this!”

  She did not release him. “Fan, don’t go off at half-cock, I pray you. You know as well as I there may be any number of explanations. I must see the scene.”

  Frustrated by the complication, not to mention the delay, Francis yet hesitated. There was no denying his wife’s ability to read the signs better than he ever could.

  “Yes, very well. If we find anything. If she isn’t off her head.”

  “For shame, Fan. You have only to look at her. There has been some dreadful happening and she is in shock.”

  “Yes, and bloody to the hilt.” A thought struck him and he turned back to the woman. Her arm had dropped again and she had resumed her motionless staring state. “Has she a weapon?”

  Ottilia was already peering into the woman’s other hand. “Not that I can see.” She straightened, thrusting at him. “Go, Francis! I will attend to her.”

  He gave a curt nod and left her, crossing back to the coach where Ryde awaited him.

  “Keep that pistol at the ready,” he told the steward as he passed him.

  “I will guard her well, milord, do not fear.”

  He would too. Hemp Roy’s devotion to Ottilia had grown noticeable to all. Francis fought down the familiar twinge he knew was unnecessary and ridiculous. Tillie was his and his alone. Her partiality for Hemp niggled nevertheless. The sweating horses impinged. He called up to his coachman, “Blanket them, Williams. We may be a while yet. Hemp can assist you. I can’t spare Ryde. Let’s go, man!” This to his groom, patiently waiting by the roadside, blunderbuss at the ready.

  Francis took a path into the woods, following the direction in which the woman had pointed, pistol in hand.

  “Though if there is someone dead, we won’t need weapons.”

  “We might, if it’s highwaymen as did for him, my lord.”

  “We don’t know it’s a man, if any.” Despite the bloodied female, he was sceptical of finding anything. “The body could be anywhere, if there is one.”

  “There’s one right enough,” came in a dry tone from his groom. “Bloodstains.”

  Francis halted, looking where Ryde was pointing his weapon at the ground. Sure enough, a smear of red was visible along the ground in a sweep of dead leaves and twigs.

  “Could it have come from the woman?”

  Ryde shook a grizzled head. “Flattened grass.” His gaze rose, lighting further into the woods. “Felled here, belike. Might have crawled off. Looks like he left a trail.”

  “Staggered off more like,” offered Francis, noting the intermittent splashes of blood rising from the ground to bespatter bushes. “That tree is marked. Leaned against it for support?”

  Ryde moved to examine the stained bark. “Could be. No doubt someone injured went this way.”

  Despite his deep discontent, Francis found interest growing. Damn Tillie for being right again.

  “Come on. It can’t be far.”

  He set off at a faster pace, following the tell-tale signs, his henchman on his heels. But the inconvenience rankled. Must there be a mystery now? As if matters were not complex enough. Typical though. These things seemed to fall in Ottilia’s path as if she were a bloodhound. Ha, yes. A perfect analogy and he would take pleasure in telling her so. A laugh rumbled in his chest at the thought of his wife’s probable reaction.

  “There, my lord!”

  His attention snapped in. Ryde was hurrying ahead, pushing through the undergrowth, thankfully sparse with Spring still weeks away.

  Francis caught sight of the body, sprawled on the ground, face down between two trees. In passing, he noted blood on both barks, as if the man had held to them before he fell. A man it undoubtedly was, coated and booted, but without his hat, dark hair awry at the back of his head, the ribbon that must have tied it vanished.

  Ryde was already kneeling, the blunderbuss set aside, his hands in a position preparatory to turning the body.

  “Don’t move him!”

  Primed by his wife’s string of earlier adventures, Francis knew the cadaver must be checked in situ first.

  “Just trying to see if he’s dead, my lord.”

  “Feel for his pulse or his heart. Don’t turn him.”

  Ryde shifted to the hand flung out at an angle and drew off his glove. Francis watched him set his fingers about the man’s wrist. Useless. The fellow was clearly gone.

  “Anything?”

  “Can’t feel it, my lord. He’s cool.”

  “Dead then. Where’s the blood?”

  He dropped to his haunches. There ought to be a pool of blood, but there was none immediately visible.

  “Underneath, my lord? We’ll not find the wound if we don’t turn him.”

  “There’s none on his back?”

  “Not as I can see.”

  Francis ran his gloved hand down the coat and lifted it to look at the palm. Nothing.

  “Where the deuce did all that blood come from then?” Recalling the smears on the trees, he glanced up to find them. “What of his hands? Check that one, Ryde.”

  The other arm was under the body, but the groom lifted the visible hand and dropped it again. “No blood.”

  Puzzlement wreathed Francis’s brain. A trail of blood, but no traces on the body? The devil. He needed Tillie for this.

  “We’ll have to turn him.”

  Between them, he and Ryde heaved the dead weight onto its side. The groom’s brows snapped together.

  “He’s blooded on this side right enough. She’s knifed him to pieces.”

  Francis leaned over to look. The man’s coat was open, his shirt criss-crossed with rips and bloodied through.

  “What a mess!”

  No neck-cloth? Nor yet a waistcoat? The man seemed as little fit for being out and about as had the woman. His glance swept to what he could see of the fellow’s slack face. Of middle years? A growth of beard on a broad jaw, thick foamy lips and a heavy nose, features as unprepossessing in death as they must have been in life.