The Mortal Blow Read online

  “His face ain’t blooded, my lord. Don’t make sense to me. She’s got it all over.”

  It didn’t make sense to Francis either. No choice. His guts crawled with hideous anticipation, all too familiar.

  “Ryde, you stay here and keep an eye out. I’ll fetch her ladyship.”

  It had been a piece of work to get the woman into the coach. Speaking gently, Ottilia had urged her to a walk, a hand at her back. She ambled quiescently enough, but the instant she found herself at the open coach door, she whimpered, fighting all attempts to get her inside.

  In the end, Hemp had picked her up bodily and thrust her in, dumping her on the forward seat and holding her there with a heavy hand until Ottilia intervened.

  “Let her be, Hemp!”

  “She’s thrashing, milady.”

  “I doubt she’s alert enough to escape. Release her and come out of there.”

  He did as she bade him and Ottilia left him space to exit the coach before re-entering it herself.

  The woman was pushing back against the squabs, breathing hard, her fingers gripping the edges of the seat either side. In the dim interior it was more difficult to read her face, but the eyes were enormous. Dilated with fear? Ottilia set herself to soothe.

  “We mean you no harm. We mean to help you. You could not remain standing in the road, you know. It is cold.”

  As if in proof of this the woman began to shiver. Ottilia took up one of the fur rugs and set it about the woman’s shoulders. She would come under severe criticism from her maids for the inevitable bloodstains, but that could not be helped.

  The woman clutched it about her, huddling, and Ottilia caught a dark smear appearing on its surface. Were those stains on her fingers?

  “Show me your hands.”

  She spoke with deliberate authority and the woman at once complied, putting them out palm up so that they fell into the light from the open door. Ottilia hissed in a breath as she took the thin wrists in a gentle grip. The woman whimpered again but she did not attempt to withdraw her hands, almost as if she wished the cuts to be discovered.

  There were several on each palm, oozing too much red for Ottilia to be able to see how many or how deep. Defensive wounds? Or had she cut herself in a frenzy of attack. Impossible to guess until the blood was cleaned and Ottilia had nothing with which to perform the office. But bandage them she could.

  She rummaged in her pocket for a handkerchief, calling out to Hemp, on guard outside the door. “Give me your pocket handkerchief, Hemp, if you have one.”

  She tied her own about the woman’s hand, though it failed to cover the entirety of the cuts. Hemp was holding out a large square of linen. She took it with a word of thanks.

  “Her hands are a mass of cuts.”

  “Her hands, milady? How so?”

  “As yet I have no notion. But there is undoubtedly a knife somewhere.”

  She was tying up the other hand as Hemp looked in.

  “Is she wounded anywhere else?”

  “Not visibly.” Ottilia lowered her tone. “The rest does not appear to be her own. There is no seepage.”

  Hemp’s low mutter reached her. “Too like my Tamasine.”

  Ottilia’s heart squeezed. He rarely mentioned his unfortunate half-sister. She had hoped he was over the grief. But he need not feel this a reminder.

  “She has her wits, Hemp. She is only in shock. It is not the same.”

  He drew a breath and stiffened. “I will stand guard, milady.” He turned to face the road again.

  How he hated that wound to be touched, poor Hemp. The thought returned her to the matter at hand. It looked as if the damaged hands were the woman’s only wound. She tried a throw.

  “How did you hurt yourself?”

  Released, the woman drew her hands into her chest, holding them together as if only now she was aware of their condition. She made no answer.

  Ottilia tried again. “May I know your name?”

  No response. The woman neither looked at her, nor spoke, seemingly reburied in the horrors of her mind. But she had shown her hands. She was able to attend.

  “Come, I am not your enemy. You may call me Lady Fan. What may I call you?”

  Was there a whisper on the woman’s breath? If so, it was inaudible. Perhaps the direct questions were dismaying to her?

  “My husband has gone to find the dead man.”

  A shudder? Now they were getting somewhere. Although it would not do to send the woman into another frenzy. Better to keep her calm, even if she could not — would not? — speak.

  “We will go on to London presently, my dear, and we can take care of you there. I will find you another gown and we will get you cleaned up, fed and rested. That will be better, do you not think?”

  The woman’s eyes rose, meeting Ottilia’s for a brief instant. Her lips parted, and a low sound emerged. It sounded like a name. Pierre, was it?

  “What did you say, my dear?”

  The woman made a slight negative gesture and no further sound came out. She gave a little sigh and sank back against the squabs, huddling into the fur covering and closing her eyes.

  At least she was accepting of a modicum of safety now. Ottilia made no further attempt to engage her, instead looking her over. She wore no wedding ring, yet her figure looked to be mature. Was she girl or woman? The gown was augmented by boots, scuffed and stained, but of good quality, as was the under-petticoat showing beneath. Hard to place her social condition, but she could not be much above twenty. How came she to be in this parlous state?

  The mystery teased at Ottilia’s brain and a familiar rise of intrigue began to grip.

  “Milord is returning.”

  The warning from Hemp shot guilt into her bosom. Francis was not going to be pleased with her. To be delving into yet another unexplained death at this juncture was bound to throw him into distemper. But her interest quickened to know what he might have discovered.

  She leaned out as the footsteps she could now hear brought the beloved figure into sight. She resolved to keep her reflections to herself for the present. Yet she could not withhold the question as Hemp gave place and he came to the door of the coach.

  “Did you find it?”

  His face gave away his dissatisfaction. “Yes, and I need you to come and see, curse it. I can’t make head nor tail of it. How the deuce this female got covered in blood is a complete enigma.”

  Chapter Three

  Ottilia was glad to know the body had been replaced just as they found it.

  “From the trail, we thought he crawled or staggered here,” her spouse offered, “but only his chest is covered in blood, you’ll find.”

  Ottilia was on her haunches by the upper body, leaning to see how his head lay. “Was his face visible?”

  “Ryde? You were that side.”

  The groom was standing off a little. “Face down he was, my lady, like this. I couldn’t see no wound.”

  Ottilia could see none either. Not in the head as she felt through the hair. No depressions, and her fingers came out clean. She had removed her gloves, though she was cloaked against the cold at her husband’s insistence. She tugged the coat collar down and pressed along the neckline above the edge of the shirt, without result.

  “He’s only scantily dressed, you note,” observed her spouse.

  “Yes, so I see.”

  “We looked for blood at his hands, but found nothing.”

  She glanced up at the stains Francis had pointed out on the bark of the trees through which the dead man had fallen. The woman’s hand prints? Turning back, she felt down the arm for breaks and lifted the man’s flung out hand when she found none. It was a trifle cool, but not yet cold, the skin waxy, the fingers turning blue though the nails were pale.

  “I doubt he’s been dead more than an hour, if that.” She turned the hand. “There is a smear in the palm, but he is not cut the way she is.”

  “Cut?” Her spouse dropped down to join her. “What are you talking about?”

  She looked across. “The woman’s hands are cut about. That is her own blood and I suspect she made those marks on the trees.”

  “You think so? She didn’t escape him back there then?”

  “She left him for dead, Fan, remember? She reacted when you said the word. And she pointed when I asked about a dead man.”

  “Of course.” He blew out a breath. “I’d forgot that. She killed him here then.”

  “We don’t know that she killed him. As yet, there is nothing to show how he died.”

  “We’ll turn him and you’ll see it fast enough.”

  The curt tone rankled. If Francis was jumping to the first conclusion, so would the authorities. Vital to find the truth before they saw the woman, if she could.

  She pushed up from the ground. “Turn him for me, if you please.”

  Ryde came to her spouse’s aid. Between them, they heaved the man onto his back. Ottilia at once saw what had dictated the notion Francis had in his head.

  “Ah, the matter now becomes comprehensible.”

  “Ha! You are of my opinion then,” said her spouse, rising, one eyebrow cocked.

  She had to smile. “Sadly, no, Fan.”

  “What then?”

  She gestured across the bloodied chest. “Her gown is stained all down the front. It is likely his blood. Either he clutched her to him or she fell upon him. But as he was face down, I can’t think it is the latter.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she would have been underneath him. The effort to throw him off, even could she have managed it, would have changed his position.”

  “Could she not have wriggled out?”

  “From under a dead weight?”

  He grunted, plainly dissatisfied. “Then let us suppose she knifed him so badly that he fell forward.”

  “So she might have done, but the blood would have spattered across her. She was definitely held against him. What happened after that we have yet to fathom.”

  “Can you fathom it?”

  She shrugged, her attention snagging on the face. “I do not yet know. We may need her testimony for what actually occurred. But we still don’t know that this attack killed him.”

  Francis threw up his eyes. “When he’s cut to pieces?”

  Ottilia dropped down for a closer examination. The lips were pale, though the countenance had the purplish look from his blood pooling as he lay face down. She lifted an eyelid, exposing the glassy, flattened look of death. Shifting to the chest again, she opened the coat further.

  “Help me tug this shirt out, Fan.”

  He dropped to join her, grasping the bloodied shirt and ripping it out of the man’s breeches and up his chest. “Lord, but he’s badly bruised!”

  “No, that is the blood collecting after death.” She touched the skin and it showed white under her finger. “See. It looks livid, but it is no bruise. It makes it harder to judge the cuts, though they look superficial to me.” She used a portion of shirt to wipe at the red blood, exposing several slashes, but no deep wound that could have caused the man’s death.

  “He did not die of these cuts.”

  “Then how the deuce did he die?”

  Ottilia sighed at the impatient note. “Some internal malady of the heart, I suspect. The chest looks a trifle uneven, but without a post mortem it is impossible to say. A collapsed lung, perhaps.”

  “Would that affect his heart?”

  “Severely. The air escapes and the heart cannot pump properly. The woman, if she witnessed his death, may tell us more.”

  “Has she yet spoken?”

  “There was a murmur. Of a name, I think. It sounded as Pierre, but I am by no means sure I caught it correctly. But she is able to understand, so we must hope she will be more forthcoming in due course.”

  “Not if she killed him, she won’t be.”

  The sceptical note rankled, but Ottilia was growing chilled and she had seen enough. A thought occurred as she pushed up from the ground. “Did either of you think to look for a weapon?”

  Ryde stepped in. “I scoured the area while his lordship was fetching you, my lady. Didn’t find a thing. Ain’t come to light under him neither.”

  “We’ll let the justices worry about that,” said Francis on a curt note. “Their men will likely conduct a thorough search.”

  Ottilia smiled at the groom. “Thank you, Ryde.” She looked at her spouse. “I can do nothing more here, Fan.”

  “Then let’s get you back to the coach.”

  Relief sounded in his voice. Ottilia was abruptly grieved for him, taking on this burden in addition to the rest. She moved around the body and went to him, lowering her voice.

  “My poor darling, I’m so sorry. This is wholly unfair on you.”

  His look was wry. “It isn’t your fault, Tillie.”

  “But you believe I attract these things, so perhaps it is.”

  He returned her smile. “I admit I was thinking how you are a very bloodhound, but I can’t very well blame you for this wretched woman’s appearance.”

  “Thank you, Fan. And Weymouth was entirely your doing, so I am happy to be exonerated. Bloodhound indeed!”

  He laughed but became brisk as he took over control in the way he usually did once she had done her part. Much to her admiration and relief. She was so very lucky to have him at her back on these occasions.

  “We’ll have to leave one of the men here until the authorities arrive. Ryde?”

  The groom was tidying the body, but he looked up at this. “Best leave Hemp, my lord. He’s no hand with the horses and Williams’ll need me.”

  Loath as Ottilia was to put her steward to such inconvenience, she could not argue with Ryde’s dictum. But she entered a protest, nonetheless. “Is it necessary to leave a man, Fan?”

  “Unless you want this corpse to disappear.”

  “He’s not going anywhere.”

  “He might, if there’s a murderer other than the woman about.”

  “Yes, but I don’t think there is.”

  “I thought you said she didn’t do it.”

  “The knife attack, yes, though I suspect that was more of a fight. But if he died from some internal injury, it was not inflicted here. Or even today. It may well be days old.”

  “What injury?”

  “A broken rib perhaps, if his lung had indeed collapsed. A jagged edge might tear into the lung, especially during an altercation such as these cuts suggest. But this is mere speculation.”

  She shrugged her cloak back into place and moved to check the two trees. The stains were drying, growing dark, but a fingertip touch certified their origin.

  Francis was discussing with his groom the advisability or otherwise of leaving Hemp in situ. Ottilia left them to it and moved on, spying out the bloodstained trail as she went. Francis joined her in a moment.

  “Ryde is covering the body as best he can.”

  “You’ll leave it unguarded?”

  “As you say, it’s going nowhere. We’ll mark the spot well at the roadside. Ryde was a scout in our soldiering days. He’ll show the way with arrowed twigs.”

  She could hear the groom’s activities behind them and glanced back to see Ryde laying a leafy branch across the body. Her attention was drawn back by her spouse.

  “What do you make of all these bloody marks, Tillie? We thought the dead man must have made them, but if the woman was still with him…”

  Ottilia looked about as she resumed walking at his side. “It grows less as we go, do you not think?” She pointed to the smattering of red spots here and there. “Her hands may have bled a great deal to begin with. She might have clenched them or clutched her garments, which would stem the flow a little.”

  “Ryde noticed the undergrowth was flattened along here. He thought she must have felled him at that point.” He started forward, holding a stray branch out of her way. “Yes, here. Look, Tillie.”

  She paused, regarding the space where a number of broken twigs and bent gorse indicated some heavy object had rested there. Francis showed her the folded brushwood.

  “To my mind, it points towards the spot where the body is lying, not towards the road.”

  “I agree with you, but it does not necessarily mean the man fell here.”

  “You think she did?”

  The sceptical note was not lost on Ottilia. “It is possible. From her condition we may take it she was severely disorientated. She could certainly have fallen. She might have tracked back and forth, unknowing what she did. She may even have gone back or begun to move in that direction. What would you? There had clearly been a fight. The man was dead or down at least as far as she knew. She was injured. It is quite a feat in the circumstances to have found the road and waited there for rescue.”

  She moved on as she spoke, feeling the cold more severely, her mind roving questions.

  “How the deuce did they get here, either of them? There is no sign of a conveyance, nor horses.”

  She threw her husband a mischievous look. “Are you reading my mind, Fan? That is just what I was wondering.”

  “Ha! I’ve got your measure, my woman of wonder. I know how you think.”

  She gave an irrepressible giggle. “Fiend.”

  He slid an arm about her as they walked, lending support as he always did. “Let’s get you into the coach. If we were not so close to the capital I would have Williams stop at the next convenient inn to get you warmed up.”

  “No, we must make all speed, Fan. You will have to go directly to Bow Street.”

  “So I may, but there is scant chance their man will be able to return here before dark. I suspect they may leave it until the morrow.”

  “By which time the body will be crawling with maggots, making the doctor’s task of reading its messages well-nigh impossible.”

  “It doesn’t matter. They will have your testimony as well as mine and Ryde’s.”

  “True. And the internal organs should still reveal why he died as he did.” They were within sight of the coach and Ottilia’s mind was shifting to the woman inside. “What is more to the point is how we can prevent the justices from taking that poor woman into custody.”