The Candlelit Coffin (Lady Fan Mystery Book 4) Page 2

  Her eyes widened. “How? That is what you think?”

  “Not I, mademoiselle. If I may hazard a guess, I must rather suppose you to have escaped from the horrors in your country. Is that it? You are what we call here an émigré?”

  She set her head on one side in an oddly endearing gesture. “Émigré? This word I like. Better, I think, than refugee.” Her eyes clouded as she straightened again. “But this is indeed what I am, and all this pitiful collection of jewels is my fortune.” Her fingers tightened on a reticule in her lap.

  Beset with a stab of sympathy for the matter of fact way in which she spoke, George softened his tone. “Misfortune rather, mademoiselle. How do you come to be in Weymouth?”

  “I am with the players, sir.”

  Was there a note of defiance? Did she think he would judge her? He kept his tone carefully neutral.

  “Indeed, mademoiselle? How did that come about?”

  She gave a little sigh. “They were performing in Chartres. It is not far from our home. My father was taken. My brothers also. My mother sought to save me at least. There was a negotiation.”

  “The players smuggled you into England?”

  “That is so.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She was too ill to venture. Also she was afraid to be recognised by the canaille of the town. Therefore I came alone.”

  The tale in the telling had no vestige of the tragic circumstances. The girl was stoic, but George could not but be exercised by the suffering that showed in her eyes. He proffered no words of pity, suspecting she would resent them.

  “When was this? Not recently, I must suppose?”

  “Since two years, or nearly.”

  “Yet you remained with the players?”

  The dark eyes raked him. “Where else shall I go?”

  Where indeed? But if she had this refuge, why did she need to sell her necklace? “Do they not pay you that you are in need of funds?”

  Her chin came up, proud and defiant. “These funds I need for a reason into which I will not take you, sir.”

  George gave a slight bow. “Accept my apologies, mademoiselle. It was an impertinence.”

  She inclined her head with a poignant dignity George found touching.

  “May I know your name?”

  “I am Cecile Benoit, monsieur. And you?”

  “George Tretower, entirely at your service.” He held out an imperative hand. “Allow me to procure your release here. I can at least ensure you receive a fair price for your jewels.”

  “You are very kind, monsieur.”

  She took his hand and George assisted her to rise, guiding her back to Throcking and switching to English.

  “This lady is neither spy nor thief, my friend. She is one of these unfortunates forced to escape the troubles in France. You will accommodate her needs, if you please.”

  He had waited while the proprietor counted out a quantity of coins and gave the girl a ticket of receipt so she could redeem the necklace. George had made a mental note to ensure Throcking did not sell the thing if the due date should have passed before Mademoiselle Benoit had means to retrieve her property.

  He had bowed her out of the shop, and she accepted his escort as far as the street but not the door of the lodging house where the players were in residence. Intrigued and, if he was honest, inordinately attracted to the girl, George took care to attend the very next performance given by the company, a group under the auspices of a flamboyant actor manager proclaiming himself The Grand Ferdinando, much to George’s amusement. The piece was indifferently performed, but Cecile Benoit, to his disappointment, made no appearance.

  Although, was there not a golden-haired wench in one of the juvenile roles? The thought brought him back to the present moment and he discovered they had almost reached the cemetery. The doctor’s gig was standing outside the gate, and George caught a glimpse of his redcoats at a little distance within the fence of iron railings that surrounded the tree-lined graveyard.

  “Here we go, Sullivan. I can’t say I’m looking forward to this.”

  “No, sir.” His junior brought his horse to a standstill. “It promises to be a fair bit of a puzzle.”

  “Indeed.” George bethought him of the one person who might be counted upon to unravel it. “I’m tempted to write to a friend of mine for assistance.”

  The lieutenant was swinging himself out of the saddle. He patted his horse’s neck and looked up at his colonel. “Who would that be, sir?”

  “Lord Francis Fanshawe.”

  “You think he might be able to help?”

  “Not he, but his wife. This is precisely the sort of rigmarole to test Ottilia’s ingenuity to the utmost.”

  Doctor Lister’s grave expression was not encouraging and Lord Francis Fanshawe’s frustrations rose to the fore. “Well, man? Have you anything to suggest?”

  The surgeon cleared his throat. “There is nothing physically wrong with her ladyship, my lord, despite her weakness, which is to be expected.”

  This much Francis already knew. Ottilia had come through the disastrous ordeal alive, for which he was profoundly thankful, and her bodily hurts had mended over these fretful weeks. She was able to walk and perform ordinary tasks, as long as she took frequent rests. But her physical condition was not what was worrying him.

  The doctor gave a delicate cough. “I regret to say, my lord, that her ladyship was extremely reluctant to allow me to make an examination.”

  Yes, he was aware of that too. “But you insisted?”

  “I was obliged to state that it was upon your orders, my lord, before her ladyship capitulated.”

  Oh, Tillie. Playing the dutiful wife? It had become her practice and Francis loathed it. Like a ghastly game that had nothing to do with the woman he adored, who was almost a stranger to him now. He was desperate for a solution. Anything to bring her back to the mischievous, interested, loving, vital creature she was beneath the settled deadness of her current state.

  He could wish Patrick had been able to remain. He trusted his skills far more than those of this man, competent though the fellow had proved to be. But he could hardly expect his brother-in-law to leave his own practice for such a length of time. Yet he must find a way.

  “What can I do, Lister? Come, let us be frank. We both know the difficulty is in the mind. Have you nothing to suggest for her ladyship’s relief?”

  The doctor harrumphed. “Perhaps a change of scene, my lord? I do not recommend one of the watering places —”

  “By no means!” Francis almost snorted. Tillie would fly out at the very suggestion. She was already beyond furious with him for suggesting she needed help. “My wife would not care for that notion, I fear.”

  “No, my lord, and I do not feel it would be conducive to her recovery to be racketing about such a place as Bath or Tunbridge Wells.”

  “Besides that they are both at some distance. She is not well enough to travel far.”

  “True, my lord. However, we are not at a great mileage from the South Coast and sea air is always invigorating, and we have a warm August upon us. One of the smaller resorts might answer the purpose. Lyme Regis perhaps?”

  Francis turned the notion over in his mind. It might answer. If he could get Ottilia to agree, that was the crux of the matter.

  After the doctor had left, he moved to look out of the window, aware the view of the picturesque grounds of Flitteris Manor was the same as that Tillie saw in her little parlour in the room above this. Without being there, he knew she was seated on the daybed, unmoving and staring out, as she did whenever she was not required to participate in the day-to-day activity of the household. Whether she saw anything of the tiered terraces, the fountain or the little copses either side was doubtful. She seemed lost in her own dismal thoughts and the suspected tenor of them sat at the root of Francis’s inability to reach her.

  He might wait a little before raising the prospect of a sojourn elsewhere. Until perhaps he received a respons
e to his frantic plea for help to the only person he dared trust. His mother would not fail him.

  Once he had seen for himself the extraordinary scene created by this peculiar murderer, George could not but feel the more convinced that it smacked of theatricality. Moreover, the players who frequented Weymouth were his only lead to the possible identity of the corpse.

  “I think my next move, Sullivan, is to track down The Grand Ferdinando.”

  His junior turned from watching the doctor’s careful examination of the unfortunate female in the coffin.

  “The what, sir?”

  George grinned. “If it’s the same players in town again, that’s how their impresario styles himself.” He bethought him of his sergeant. “Where’s Puckeridge? Perhaps he knows if they’re back.”

  His junior called across to where the men were still casting about for any other disturbance in the vicinity of the grave.

  “Puckeridge! Over here!”

  The stout bewhiskered sergeant puffed over. “Sir?”

  “The colonel wants to know about this theatre troupe.”

  Puckeridge saluted smartly, turning to look up to George’s superior height. “Sir! They calls themselves The Company of The Grand Ferdinando, sir. He’s the top man. One of them roaring actors he is, sir. Fancies himself a bit, if you know what I mean.”

  George knew exactly what he meant and concealed an inward groan at the prospect of dealing with the fellow. “Yes, I’ve seen him in action. You’re sure you’ve seen this girl on the stage with him, are you?”

  “Not to say with him, sir, but I’d stake a quarter’s pay it’s the same as what was in the piece I seen last time they was in the town. A month gone that would have been. Seems as they do one of them circuits, sir, going from one place to another round about the coast whiles the visitors are here for the summer.”

  “A big company, is it?”

  Puckeridge frowned in concentration. “Not to say big, sir, no. A fair few players though. Enough for them comedies what I enjoy. The Rivals they was doing last time and this here girlie with the gold hair was in it, sir.” A sigh escaped him. “’Tis a crying shame, if you ask me, sir, for her to come to grief in this horrid fashion.”

  “Indeed.” George refrained from informing his sergeant that he had seen the same play but failed to notice the victim, if it was indeed her. “Do you know if they are here again at the moment?”

  “They are that, sir. Just come back, they have. I seen the waybill and they was in the theatre last night and doing The Country Wife as I recall.”

  “Thank you, Puckeridge, that will be all.”

  The sergeant returned to his task and George set out for what was likely to prove his most unpleasant duty, leaving his junior in charge at the cemetery to document all they had found for the coroner, oversee the removal of the body to Dr Roffey’s surgery and deal with the distress of the cleric, called in to perform the last rites in his own graveyard, and rebury the violated remains of the other unfortunate whose grave had been turned out.

  It was perhaps an advantage that he had met Cecile Benoit earlier, even if it had caused him a momentary alarm when Sullivan told him the victim might be from the theatre company. At least he knew where the players could be lodging.

  The door of the boarding house was opened to him by a weighty dame in a mob-cap and apron, who exhibited instant consternation at sight of a military uniform.

  “Gracious, sir! Is it the militia? What’s happened? Have the French come?”

  “Nothing of the kind, ma’am. I am Colonel Tretower and I believe you have a troupe of players staying here?”

  The woman’s alarm increased. “You’ve not come to arrest one of them, have you? I know there are those who consider theatricals thieves and vagabonds, but I’ve never had no trouble with them, sir.”

  George sighed. “My dear ma’am, I am not here to arrest anyone, but I must have a word with the impresario of the company. Mr Ferdinando?”

  “Ferdinand it is, though he styles himself different. He’s the dramatic sort, sir, if you know what I mean. Mrs Ferdinand now, she’s different. More genteel-like.”

  Realising he might be kept on the doorstep for an age if he did not take a high hand, George cut in with his authoritative voice. “Yes, very well, ma’am, but I would be obliged if you will lead me to Mr Ferdinand without delay.”

  “Well, I’ll go and see if he’s up,” said the landlady, turning into the narrow hallway and leaving the way clear for George to enter. “No early risers these theatricals, sir, that much I can swear to. If you’d wait in here, sir, I’ll go up and tap on his door.”

  She ushered George into a musty downstairs parlour, evidently little used and kept for best. A couple of heavy old-fashioned sofas with scrolled legs graced the walls, their garish chintz upholstery echoed in the wallpaper which overpowered the two landscape paintings. Left to kick his heels, George discovered in himself a hope of again meeting the little French émigré, if indeed the victim proved to be who Puckeridge supposed.

  He took up a stance before a fireplace with an elaborately gilded mirror atop a richly carved mantel, with a Chinese fire screen hiding the empty grate on this warm August day and gave himself up to contemplation of the intricacies of the murder.

  The one thing he pinned his hopes on was that there must have been at least one witness. If not to the killing itself, then by way of the digging of the grave. This was not the first instance of trouble in the cemetery. Indeed, Sullivan had supposed at the outset it was yet another theft perpetrated by the gang of grave robbers operating in the vicinity. He would have to report to the justices at Dorchester, who might have better information, not that the surgeons at the hospital there would admit to purchasing unlawfully acquired bodies for their anatomical studies.

  Worse, the event having occurred in his jurisdiction, the justices would likely leave discovery to him. Lord knew he was no expert. As a soldier, he’d had plenty to do with death, but his only brush with murder to date had been the debacle when Lord Francis Fanshawe’s sister-in-law was strangled. Ottilia, whom Francis had subsequently married, had been instrumental in sorting that one out. In this predicament, there was no one better qualified to help him.

  His ruminations were interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. He looked towards the door as it opened and vaguely recognised the large gentleman of full habit who entered, at once throwing out his arms in a wild gesture and rolling his eyes.

  “Heavens above, an officer of militia indeed! I hoped our good Annie had it wrong, but so it is. My dear, dear sir, I do trust and hope this does not bode ill? Tell me at once! What has he done this time?”

  George introduced himself, eyeing the fellow in some amusement. Attired in an Indian banyan in a pattern of flowers of virulent hue, with an embroidered and tasselled soft cap crowning flowing grey locks, The Grand Ferdinando exhibited all and more of the drama of his trade.

  “But you have not answered me, Colonel,” he protested in a voice rounded, mellow and as expressive as his gestures. “Is it young Jasper again? What was it? Gambling into the small hours and finishing up in a brawl? Have I to bail him out? I swear to high heaven that boy will be the death of me!” He leaned towards George in a confidential manner. “If he was not the performer he is, I should have been rid of him long since, I assure you. But a regular Garrick, sir, I promise you. A Garrick in the making, there can be no doubt.”

  George seized his chance as Ferdinand paused to draw breath. “I have not come about your Jasper or any other young man as far as I know.”

  Sudden dismay clouded the impresario’s grey eyes and he threw up a staying hand. “The French, is it? You mean to close the theatre!”

  “Nothing of the kind, sir,” George said with asperity. “Give me leave to speak without interruption and I will tell you my business. Which, I may add, is urgent.”

  The impresario waved hands as apologetic as his tone. “You must forgive me, Colonel. If you knew upo
n how many occasions it has been my misfortune to endure a visit from the local constabulary! But I must not anticipate. It is a fault of mine, sir, I confess it to be a fault.”

  Torn between exasperation and a desire to burst into laughter, George cut directly to the meat of the matter. “Can you tell me if one of your female players is a young beauty with golden hair?”

  Consternation, question and rapid alarm showed one after the other in the fellow’s mobile features. “Dulcibella! She is our juvenile. Why, what —? Is she in trouble? Not little Dulcie surely? Jasper, yes, but…”

  George became brisk. “Have you seen her this morning? Is she in the house?”

  Bewilderment and dismay were already gathering in Ferdinand’s eyes. George began to dread his reaction if this Dulcibella of his proved to be the murdered girl.

  “I must suppose so, sir, though I have not yet been into the common parlour. But why do you ask? Why our little Dulcie?”

  Relieved that the impresario had abandoned the grand manner, George yet had no intention of speaking out before he knew whether the girl was here.

  “Will you ascertain whether Miss Dulcie is in the house, if you please, Mr Ferdinand?” He bethought him of the havoc that might ensue if the fellow should speak of his question upstairs. “Should you object to it if I were to accompany you, sir?”

  The impresario was at the door, but he turned, waving George forward in another expansive gesture. “By all means, Colonel. We have nothing to hide. Be so good as to follow me.” He continued, as he started up the narrow stairs, George on his heels. “I have no doubt she will be found to be partaking of breakfast. I cannot think our little Dulcie could be mixed up in anything nefarious. Such an innocent as she is.” He directed an enquiring look over his shoulder as he spoke, but George preserved his silence. The fellow appeared to be recovering his sangfroid, but if his little Dulcie proved to be absent, he was in for a rude shock.

  The stair gave onto another meagre hallway leading into a corridor and then continued on up. Ferdinand took a turn and approached a door at the front of the house from which emanated a desultory murmur of voices. The impresario flung it open, leaving the door wide, and cast a glance about the room. He interrupted the conversations of the occupants without ceremony. “Has anyone seen Dulcie this morning? Is she yet up?”