The Candlelit Coffin (Lady Fan Mystery Book 4) Read online

  Francis jumped on this. “So also said Charlton. At least, he called her an innocent and tried to discourage her from falling victim to Paglesham. Did you get the impression she did so fall?”

  He felt her shrug beside him. “That I cannot swear to. He lamented her ineligibility to be courted in earnest. Any man must be proud, he said, to be able to show off such a prize.”

  This began to look grim indeed. “As his wife, did he mean?”

  “So I took it. He was perfectly frank about his wish to establish himself and had the gall to ask me what I thought of his prospects.”

  At any other moment Francis would have laughed at this. But his mind was racing. If Paglesham had succeeded and discovered Dulcie was with child, he would not have risked his future by marrying her. Might he have led her to believe he would, on purpose to make away with her? But had he the kind of mind to prepare the scene to cast suspicion upon the players?

  “Did he strike you as cunning, Mama?”

  “He struck me as an oily flatterer out for what he could get. Cunning? Perhaps, inasmuch as he cuts his cloth to suit his company. He was almost as obsequious as Rodber to begin with.”

  Setting himself up in his own conceit because he was singled out by the highest ranked lady in the town? Yes, very likely. Could he get more out of the fellow?

  “It sounds to me as if he will bear further investigation. I must see Tillie before I talk to him, however.”

  “To get your instructions, no doubt.”

  Francis laughed. “Of course.” He heard the sound of wheels on the flagway. “Here comes General Godfrey.” Halting, he turned to his mother and spoke low-toned. “I haven’t thanked you for persuading Ottilia to come here, Mama. It has changed her immeasurably already.”

  The dowager, her eyes on the approaching wheeled chair, nodded. “Yes, while this business lasts. But don’t imagine the megrims won’t return afterwards. The grieving process takes time, Francis.”

  He hesitated. Tillie’s tearful confession of the cause of her misery was too personal for sharing. There was an element of grief, though he hoped it had lifted.

  “I think she is over the worst,” he ventured.

  The dowager gave him a sceptical look but said nothing since the old general, his attendant pushing him along at a cracking pace, was almost within earshot.

  “Deuced windy, eh?” he called. “Say your piece quick, Fanshawe, for I’m damned — saving your presence, Syb — if I stay here to be blown about like a sailor up a mizzen mast.” It was evident the old man was as shrewd as they come if he had divined Francis’s purpose in the invitation. He craned his neck to look over his shoulder at his brawny attendant. “Stand off, Lidsey. Call you when I need you.” He waited until the flunkey had wandered some feet off down the turfed slope towards the beach and then looked under his brows at Francis. “Cut line, boy. What d’ye want of me?”

  Francis grinned appreciatively. “I should have known you would see through my subterfuge, sir.”

  “Wasn’t born yesterday, young feller me lad. Seen service, haven’t you? America, your mother told me.”

  “That is correct, sir. With my friend Tretower.”

  The general gave a nod of approval. “Good lad that. Sound as a roast.”

  “Exactly so, sir, but neither he nor I believe as much of Captain Edgcott.”

  “Captain Pah!”

  “Precisely, sir. I wondered if you might be better informed?”

  The general made a rude noise. “A half-pay officer, if any. A drill ground is all the soldiering he’s seen, if that. And if we do go to war with the Frogs, won’t see Edgcott in a landing boat.”

  “Unlikely, I agree, sir.”

  “None of which is to the purpose, Leo,” interrupted his mother on an exasperated note. “The man was after this dead girl. Do you know anything about that?”

  Her elderly admirer poked his head up as he gave her an irritated look. “How the devil should I know, Syb? Ain’t the fellow’s keeper.”

  “Don’t tell me. You’re a worse gossip-monger than the tabbies, Leo. You hear things.”

  His eyes twinkled. “Have to amuse myself somehow, m’dear girl.”

  “No doubt. Come, out with it, you wretch. What do you know?”

  Amused by the interchange and the way his mother’s slight flush belied her acerbic tongue, Francis was unsurprised when the general capitulated.

  “If you must have it, word is Edgcott was cut out by Paglesham. Made no secret of it. Complained of his rival to any who’d listen. Not the women, he ain’t as ill-bred as that. But he steamed off in the coffee houses and taverns. Said it was his belief the beauty preferred to dispense her favours among her own and Paglesham would get nowhere.”

  Francis jumped on this. “You mean he thinks she was involved with one of the players?”

  “That’s the story. No use asking me if she told him so, for I’ve no information of the kind.”

  “Then it looks as if Edgcott is not our man.”

  “What’s this, Fanshawe? Joined the Bow Street Runners, have you?” The jocular tone was nevertheless accompanied by a knowing look.

  “Merely assisting my friend, sir. He has to live here and he doesn’t want to upset people unnecessarily.”

  “He can upset Edgcott with my blessing. Man’s a menace. So is the Paglesham court card. Can’t abide these jumped up toadies. Won’t find me objecting if Tretower arrests the feller.”

  “He won’t arrest an innocent man, however.”

  “Francis, I’m cold. If Leo has nothing more to tell us, let us go in.”

  The general gave a whistle and his man loped back up towards them. He gave Francis another of his shrewd looks from under his brows. “I’ll keep my ears open, lad, and pass anything useful along to Syb.” The tease came back into his gaze as it turned on the dowager. “Don’t you forget our rendezvous tomorrow, Syb, my lovely.”

  She made an explosive sound. “Be silent, Leo! Rendezvous indeed.”

  The old man grinned and waved. “Get me out of this wind, Lidsey.”

  He was wheeled away and Francis gave his arm to his mother, who was muttering under her breath. “What is this about a rendezvous then, my dear and flighty mama?”

  “Don’t you start. He means the whist table, wretched man. I declare, he’ll drive me to distraction before the week is out.”

  Sorely tempted to tease but all too conversant with his mother’s temper, Francis held his tongue. He was inclined to think she was secretly enjoying the old man’s attentions and suspected she was a deal less dismissive when he was not there to witness her blushes.

  Tillie was found to be sipping yet another cup of coffee in her time-honoured fashion. She was alone, and imparted the intelligence that George had insisted on escorting Cecile to her lodging before going off to beard the theatre manager.

  “For what purpose? Does he mean to close the place?”

  “Ah, you do not know, Fan,” said Tillie with a gleam in her eye. “We have another possibility for Dulcie’s lover.”

  His mother groaned. “As if there are not men enough already. Who is the fellow?”

  “His name is Fitzgerald and, unfortunately for him, poor man, he fits the criteria. Older and sophisticated. We have yet to learn if he is kind, but personable he most certainly is.”

  Having settled his mother into a chair, Francis edged onto the chaise longue as Tillie shifted to make room for him. “How do you know? You’ve seen him?”

  “Briefly, when I went to find Cecile at the theatre.” She set down her empty cup and stretched out a hand. “Tell me what you managed to discover. I can see you are big with news.”

  Francis clasped the hand with a rise of pleasure and held it loosely between them as he related his discussions, leaving his mother to tell her part with Paglesham again. As was her wont, Tillie listened with close attention, a tiny frown coming and going between her brows. Francis guessed her brain was busy and wished he might see into her thoughts. She
was ever quick, revolving complex issues in her head and coming out with conclusions he rarely arrived at for himself.

  His mother seemed as anxious for Tillie’s opinion as was he.

  “What do you think, Ottilia? For my part, everything points to Paglesham. And he, I surmise, would be most damaged by an alliance with an actress.”

  Francis quashed this without hesitation. “I can’t agree there. Though I no longer believe Charlton did the deed, that motive must be stronger with him. Who is Paglesham after all?”

  “A nobody, and that is just the point,” argued the dowager. “Many a man of title has forced the world to accept an unsuitable wife in the teeth of disapproval.” Her eyes snapped. “Nor need we look far for an example.”

  Francis threw up his eyes. “Not this again, ma’am, for pity’s sake!” He had heard enough from the dowager on the subject of his brother’s ill-timed second marriage to last a lifetime. “Besides, Violette is not an actress.”

  “No, she was my son’s mistress and don’t tell me all the world does not know it, for even Leo dared to twit me on the subject.”

  Which explained a great deal in her attitude towards the general. “The more fool he then. He ought to have known you better.”

  Conscious of the bitter note in his voice, he was relieved when Tillie intervened, dragging the conversation back to the main issue.

  “You make a valid point, Sybilla. If, by all accounts, this fellow Paglesham has only a precarious foothold in Society, then a marriage with Dulcie must inevitably bring him down. It is the way of the world sadly.”

  “Then you would put him at the top of the list?”

  “I am not sure, Fan. Cecile is adamant that Dulcie did not trust good-looking men, remember?”

  To Francis’s annoyance his mother let out a snort. “I would not allow that to weigh in the balance. I tell you, the man is a practised flatterer. Any young girl might well be fooled into supposing his affections were engaged. He knows just how to beguile and cheat.”

  “Then I think we must indeed keep him to the forefront of our minds,” said Tillie in a soothing tone.

  The dowager rose. “I am going to my room. All this nonsense is singularly fatiguing.”

  Francis watched his mother stalk out and turned to find Tillie watching him with a rueful look in her eyes.

  “That was unfortunate. I am so sorry, my dearest. As if you had not had enough to bear from me.”

  He gripped her fingers tighter. “Don’t say that. I’ll endure anything from you, Tillie, and you know it. But I’d hoped Mama was over the business of Randal’s untimely nuptials.”

  “My poor darling. You were sorely beset, I know.” Tillie leaned forward and lifted their joined hands, planting a kiss on his fingers. “I doubt she will ever get over it completely. It was a severe blow and quite ruined her relationship with your brother.”

  He might have said a great deal on the subject, but Francis held his peace. He had no wish to burden Tillie when she was still in a delicate state of health. He reverted to the murder.

  “If you wish me to question Paglesham, I need guidance.”

  Tillie smiled at him. “Sparing me, Fan?”

  He was betrayed into a laugh. “Yes, you wretch. I have no wish to rake all that up again in any event. I had much rather concentrate on the consequences of this murder, I thank you.” Her clear gaze shifted and Francis knew at once her mind was back on the problem confronting them. He released her hand and instead ran a finger down her cheek. “What is it, Tillie? I know that look. You have fathomed something, have you not?”

  Her gaze came back to him. “I am still wondering what happened to the purse.”

  “Is it so important? Won’t you find it with the murderer when we catch him?”

  There was a frown between her brows. “I doubt it. Too incriminating. I am persuaded the man who was clever enough to lay a trail to the players would not have made so foolish an error.”

  “But George’s men found nothing,” Francis pointed out. “Neither the players nor the villagers were in possession of the thing. The murderer must have it.”

  The look she always wore when she had something worked out persisted. “No, I think not.”

  “What, then? There is no doubt it was taken from the body.”

  “Yes, but not by the murderer.”

  He eyed her with some degree of impatience. “Well? If you will have it so, you must have some notion in your head.”

  A faint smile flitted over her face. “You know me too well.”

  “This is not one of those things you are going to refuse to speak about until you know more, is it?”

  She shrugged. “I can’t know more, nor do I dare to hope I may.”

  “Tillie!”

  She laughed. “Pardon me. I am being exasperating, am I not?”

  “Yes, you impossible female!”

  “Very well, I won’t tease you, but don’t blame me if you think I have taken leave of my senses.”

  “You did that an eon ago and you are fortunate I happen to love you or I should have had you clapped in Bedlam long since.”

  The gurgle he had not heard in an age sounded and Francis was moved to kiss her. Her smile faded as he released her, and the look he recognised was back.

  “Fan, I think someone did take the purse, long before anyone else came upon the scene. If I am right, there may have been a witness to Dulcie’s murder.”

  Chapter Eight

  The manager was discovered in his poky office in the recesses behind the public façade of the theatre. Chagrined to find him in conference with The Grand Ferdinando himself, George was the more hampered when the impresario hailed him in a fashion as irritating as it was affected.

  “Ah, look who it is, Fitz, look who it is. The arm of the law yet again, by heaven! If you have come to arrest me, Colonel, I must remind you that you found no incriminating evidence among my personal accoutrements, none whatsoever, sir. Oh, the humiliation! The shame of it! My purse turned out before all my people, my standing impaired, my —”

  “Would you have me discover Dulcie’s murderer, or would you not?” George cut in, stemming the flow.

  “I would, I would, of course I would. Ah, my poor little Dulcibella, yes indeed, we must flush out the villain, we must indeed. But, Colonel, in such a fashion?”

  “In whatever fashion appears to me expedient, Mr Ferdinand, your sensibilities notwithstanding.”

  A muffled snort drew George’s attention to the man Fitzgerald. So he was alive to the flourishing affectations of the impresario, was he? Ferdinand did not appear to notice. He clapped a hand to his heart.

  “You speak sooth, Colonel, indeed you do. I am lacerated, sir, lacerated. I have not been right since the dreadful event.” A great sigh came and he shook his leonine head. “But the show must go on, Colonel, the show must go on. Such is the life of a player. We halt not for the best or worst that life may throw at us. Let thunderbolts fall where they may, we go on.”

  “Very commendable, I am sure.” George glanced past the impresario to Fitzgerald. “Forgive me if I interrupt your conference, sir, but I would be glad of a word.”

  The manager’s mien, which had been one of indulgence, changed. His brows snapped together, giving his face a piratical look. George had not before noticed how his very dark hair, smoothed back from his brow and resting on his collar, together with the slanting brows, the lean nose and cheeks and a somewhat swarthy complexion, added up to a whole to which an impressionable female might well be drawn. Sophisticated it certainly was. A certain aloof air might add to the attraction. But before any enquiry, he had to rid himself of Ferdinand, who chose to be astonished.

  “You want Fitz? But my dear sir, what in the world do you suppose he can tell you that I cannot? Not that I mean to suggest you are not well acquainted with us all, my dear friend, but you cannot know my people as I do.”

  “There is no reason to suppose the colonel wishes to question me about your people, Art
hur.” Fitzgerald’s tone was measured, although his eyes held on George in a calculating way as if he sought to determine just what he did want. “I am at your service, Colonel. Arthur, we may resume presently. I have the dates down and we may go over the receipts in due course.”

  The impresario appeared far from satisfied, his gaze going from George to Fitzgerald and back again. He adopted a grumbling tone. “It’s deucedly inconvenient, but I suppose I know when I am not wanted. I will see Hilde instead. Not that I can afford a new costume for Kate, with audiences dwindling as they must without our little Dulcibella. As for Rob’s elaborate scheme of staging for Love’s Last Shift, that is utterly out of the question. You will find me in the Green Room, Fitz.” With which, he got himself out of the place by dint of squeezing past George, and making a production out of his exit with a valedictory reference to the importunities he was obliged to endure from sundry players and others, unspecified.

  George waited for the door to shut and then turned to the man behind the desk, who at once gestured to the one chair available other than his own.

  “Shall we sit?”

  “By all means.”

  The desk between them was a large receptacle, leaving little space for much else beyond a set of filled shelves, a dresser crammed against the back wall, which was covered in playbills, and a corner stove, presently unlit but giving evidence of emitting smoke at every opportunity by the blackened walls either side.

  “I wonder you don’t remove to a more convenient apartment to conduct your business, sir,” George remarked.

  Fitzgerald cast a disparaging glance about his little kingdom. “It serves me, sir. Space is at a premium in a theatre, Colonel. However, you did not come here to discuss my function.”

  “I did not.”

  The mouth twitched. Discomfort? The man’s gaze did not waver.

  “Let me guess. You wish to ascertain the extent of my involvement with the fair Dulcibella, is that it?”

  His cool assumption took George aback. But it made him suspicious. Too clever by half, if he was the man. He chose to be direct.