The Lady Fan Series: Books 1-3 (Sapere Books Boxset Editions) Read online

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you,” she said, ignoring the clipped tone. “Pray begin your narrative.”

  “With your permission, ma’am.”

  The ironic inflexion was not lost on Ottilia. She merely smiled at him in a friendly spirit. He gave a faint laugh and capitulated.

  The tale that unfolded was brief and to the point, and Ottilia suspected he was guarding his tongue as to detail, fearing to sully feminine ears with unpalatable facts. If only the male sex would realise how much less squeamish was the distaff side. She yearned to point out that few men bar doctors had the stomach to attend a birthing, than which little could be more bloody and agonising. On the other hand, she must allow for his and the dowager’s personal involvement, which naturally exaggerated the loathsome nature of this situation.

  “I obliged myself to examine Emily’s body further and to take a good look around the bedchamber,” Lord Francis concluded, “and then I locked the door and left a footman to guard it.”

  Ottilia gave voice to her instant thought. “Did you lock the dressing room door?” His frowning glance met hers, and she added quickly, “I must suppose there is a dressing room in such a house?”

  “Of course there is,” said the dowager. “But why should he lock it?”

  “Because there will be a connecting door to the bedchamber and anyone might go in and tamper with the scene.”

  Lord Francis was staring. “As it happens, I forgot to begin with. I recalled it after I had dressed and went to remedy the omission. But Abel would have seen anyone going in.” Puzzlement entered his features. “What made you think of it so swiftly?”

  Ottilia could not help laughing. “My dear sir, if you had ever been called upon to incarcerate a pair of enterprising little boys, your mind would jump in much the same vein.”

  “You have been a governess, then?”

  “Oh no. But I have managed my nephews for a number of years. My sister-in-law is sickly and so the care of them fell to me. They have gone away to school now, however.”

  “Which is presumably why you have taken up this post as my mother’s companion?”

  Ottilia spread her hands. “I had to do something. What would you? I should have died of boredom else.”

  The stiffness and preoccupation that had hitherto held Lord Francis relaxed a trifle. “I don’t think I have ever heard a less convincing argument for entering upon a life of drudgery.”

  Warming to him, Ottilia would have answered in kind but that the dowager intervened, in some little heat. “When the two of you have quite finished, perhaps we may confine the conversation to more pressing matters.”

  “Pardon me, ma’am,” said Ottilia, contrite. “You are perfectly in the right. Lord Francis had reached the point of locking the door.”

  He shrugged. “There is little more to tell. I waited for Pellew, but he says he cannot sign the death certificate in such a case and must defer to the coroner.”

  “You’ve sent for the man?” demanded the dowager.

  “My friend Tretower did so, and I have left him in charge while I came here. I believe you are acquainted with him, ma’am.”

  “George Tretower? Of course I’m acquainted with him. Charming fellow. But what can he do?”

  “I am in hopes he may keep the officials at bay while I discover Randal’s whereabouts.”

  Ottilia saw the dowager’s hand clench. “He did not do it, on that I will stake my life.”

  “Unfortunately, ma’am, the matter does not rest upon your testimony.”

  The curt tone brought about a depressed silence and Ottilia was relieved that the maid chose this moment to re-enter the room, equipped with a pot of fresh coffee and clean cups and saucers. She thanked the girl and busied herself with supplying the dowager and his lordship with the much-needed restorative before dealing with her own requirements.

  Downing a gulp of the welcome coffee, Francis was moved to wish it might have been laced with brandy. With the worst task over, he was conscious of a feeling of deflation, like the drop after the tension of battle. Buoyed by the necessity to set things in motion, he had been carried to this point without allowing himself to dwell on the darker implications. They loomed up now like a thick fog, wreathing him in impenetrable difficulties.

  “I wonder, Lord Francis, did you find time to enquire at the stables?”

  The question flicked into his abstraction, and he looked up. “The stables?”

  “Is it perhaps possible,” said the new companion, “that your brother let fall some chance remark which might give you a clue as to his destination?”

  Francis felt instantly culpable. “Lord above, I never thought of that!”

  Her smile was warm. “That does not surprise me, for you have had a severe jolt, besides being obliged to take all in hand.”

  His discomfort did not alleviate. “It’s no excuse.”

  “Does it matter? You may go round to the mews presently and question the grooms.” The snap in his mother’s tone was an irritant, but Francis curbed a sharp retort, reminding himself that she was as deeply distressed as he.

  “I will do so, but I am vexed to think I may have wasted valuable time. If I knew where Randal had gone, I could have sent a messenger after him.”

  “Of what use to send a messenger?” argued the dowager. “You will have to go yourself. If Randal did indeed kill Emily — God help us all, if that is so! — he will not return at the behest of a servant.”

  “If he did,” re-joined Francis, “he is unlikely to return at the behest of anyone less than a Bow Street Runner.” His mother visibly blanched, and Francis instantly regretted allowing his tongue to run away with him. He put out a hand to hers. “Have no fear. Tretower will take care it does not come to that.”

  A faint cough from the other side of the table drew his attention. Mrs. Draycott was wearing a look of slight reproach. Torn between indignation and a sneaking feeling of guilt, Francis knew not how to respond, but she spoke before he could open his mouth. “Should we not bend our minds to discovering who in fact did the deed?”

  Francis was taken aback. “We?” He was startled to observe a twinkle appear in her eyes.

  “Why yes, my lord. As Lady Polbrook’s companion, it is surely my bounden duty to see to her comfort, and as it is very uncomfortable for her to be thus anxious, I must do all in my power to alleviate her distress.”

  Despite everything, Francis could not but be amused. But he was not deceived. “I begin to believe, Mrs. Draycott, that in fact you have an insatiable curiosity.”

  She threw up a hand. “Guilty as charged, sir.” But as he laughed, a more serious expression crept across her countenance. “Although I would not have you believe I do not appreciate the true horror under which you both labour.”

  He knew not how to reply to this, but his mother had no such qualms. She set down her cup with a snap. “She is perfectly correct. We must find out the real culprit. But how we are to set about it, I have no notion.”

  Somehow it did not much surprise Francis that she turned to her companion as she spoke, as in a tacit expectation that Mrs. Draycott might supply the answer. Indeed, he was much inclined to do likewise, though he could not imagine how in the world the woman had so readily insinuated herself into such a position.

  “It is much easier for me to look at the situation objectively,” she said, as if she had read his mind, “since I am not intimately connected with the parties involved. A stranger is often better placed to perceive what might be less obvious to those in the family circle, do you not think?”

  Francis took up his cup again. “I am fast coming to that conclusion. Pray tell us what you may have perceived.”

  Mrs. Draycott’s clear gaze met his. “Would you object to describing what you saw when you examined your sister-in-law’s remains?”

  The image of Emily’s mutilated body leapt into his mind, and he cast a glance at his mother’s set face. She waved an impatient hand. “Do not withhold yourself fo
r my sake, Francis. I am made of sterner stuff than you suppose.”

  Suppressing his doubts, he complied, confining his remarks to the bare minimum. “As I told you, Emily had been strangled. And if you would ask me how I know it, I could not mistake. Her face was deeply reddened, her eyes were bulged out, and her tongue was protruding. She had blue stains on her neck, finger marks, not to put too fine a point on it. And there were stains of blood and froth around her nose and mouth.”

  His mother’s lips were tightly compressed, as if to stop the onrush of nausea, and her black eyes snapped dangerously, almost daring Francis to comment. Instead, he looked to the companion and found only a faint frown between her brows. It struck him that her earlier pronunciation was sound. She had no picture of Emily alive with which to compare this sickening portrait. That she was undisturbed seemed to be borne out by the meditative tone when she spoke.

  “Did you note what she was wearing?”

  Francis looked at the picture in his mind. “A nightgown, I think.”

  “Was she between the sheets?”

  He noted his mother’s puzzlement that mirrored his own. He could not prevent a slight disgust at the turn of these questions, but there was no reason not to answer. Again he consulted the image of his remembrance and found it wanting. “I cannot be sure.”

  “Well, did it seem to you that she had been asleep prior to the — the event?”

  He shrugged, perplexity deepening. “I cannot tell you that, either.”

  Mrs. Draycott took a sip of her coffee, as if she sought to fortify herself. Then she looked at him again. “The nightgown. Had it been — pardon me — disturbed?”

  Francis was struck dumb. He was recalled by his mother’s voice. “Don’t sit there with your mouth at half-cock like the namby-pamby nincompoop I know you are not. Answer the question!”

  Exasperated, he let fly. “I don’t know the answer! I did not think to look for such a thing. Besides, what in the world can it signify?”

  Mrs. Draycott’s gaze did not waver. “It may mean the difference between your brother’s guilt or innocence, if — pardon my candour — your sister-in-law had been dispensing her favours elsewhere.”

  Shock ripped through him. “You are trying to find out if there was a lover involved?”

  “It is possible.”

  “Not merely possible,” stated his mother in a voice of triumph, “but certain. We all know Emily has been dispensing her favours elsewhere.”

  Sympathy for the dead woman made Francis jib. “If she has, she can scarcely be blamed. My brother’s conduct has been far from blameless on that score.”

  His mother summarily dismissed this caveat. “That is different. He is a man.”

  “Why?” Francis glanced curiously at Mrs. Draycott as she chimed in, showing hackle for the first time. “Pardon me, ma’am, but why? Why should the male side be less faithful to their marriage vows than the distaff? I know there is the precious question of inheritance, but a promise is a promise.”

  Her vehemence impressed and intrigued Francis. So Mrs. Draycott believed in a certain equality between the sexes. It was a novel view. He began to be interested in the evident complexity of this female’s mind. Perception she had in abundance, but this was the first intimation she had given of underlying passion.

  His mother looked to be inclined to argue the point, but Francis intervened before she could have an opportunity. “Be that as it may, do I understand you to suppose, Mrs. Draycott, that some other man could have been in the house during the night?”

  She was still frowning, and her tone was tart. “I am supposing nothing at this present, sir. I am merely inspecting the possibilities. By the by, did you get an opportunity to look in the dressing room? There may be some little thing to show whether — or no, wait! Did you not say her ladyship’s maid found her mistress in this sorry condition? It might be politic to question her. And any other who entered the room before she did.”

  “I can’t think of anyone who might have done that.”

  “A chambermaid? Someone must have made up the fire.”

  “Devil take it, how right you are! It never occurred to me.”

  “And if your brother left in the early hours, there will be servants who were stirring. Someone may have heard or seen something. They may not have thought it significant, perhaps, but —”

  “Enough!” The cry came from his mother. She was holding up a hand. Francis felt his sympathy stirred as Mrs. Draycott, halting midsentence, looked suddenly dashed. She sank a little in her seat, setting her hands in her lap.

  “Your pardon, ma’am. I have no right to interfere.”

  “Don’t beg my pardon,” snapped the dowager. “I am only too happy for you to be interfering, but it’s of no use to do so here. We will repair to Hanover Square so that you may see for yourself.”

  Francis was moved to rise from his seat. “Have you run mad, Mama? You cannot mean to go to the house. I will not allow it.”

  “Oh, indeed?” His mother stood up. “Since when do you tell me what to do? I am certainly going. What is more, I will see Emily for myself.”

  He threw a fulminating glance at the companion. “Now see what you’ve done!”

  To his chagrin, the wretched woman looked utterly composed. “I have known Lady Polbrook but a few short hours, but I am ready to believe her constitution is strong enough to support the experience, my lord.”

  “Of course it is,” his mother corroborated. “Set your mind at rest, Fanfan. Mrs. Draycott will ensure that I will not faint or collapse with shock.”

  This was so absurd, Francis could not but smile. “Perhaps not, but it will be extremely unpleasant, and so I warn you.”

  “I am prepared for that.”

  He turned to Mrs. Draycott, who had also risen. “And you, ma’am? This is hardly what you expected in taking up this post.”

  She smiled. “Hardly, but I daresay, I may brush through the ordeal — without fainting or collapsing with shock.”

  Laughing, Francis threw up his hands. “I am outgeneralled and cannot do other than capitulate.”

  “Excellent,” said his mother. “Ring the bell, Francis. I will have Venner fetch a pelisse. You had best put on something warm, Mrs. Draycott. I daresay it is cold out. Francis, did you walk round?”

  “I did, but we will call up a chair,” he replied, tugging on the bellpull. “Things are bad enough without finding myself obliged to carry you.”

  “And then,” said the dowager, disregarding this, “we must turn our attention to the children. Thank the Lord neither of them is home.”

  Mrs. Draycott paused in her way to the door. “Are they of an age to be told the truth?”

  “I doubt it can be kept from them,” Francis said, “but it will be some time before my nephew can be reached.”

  “Giles is on an extended tour abroad,” put in the dowager. “His last letter came to me from Italy. Francis, you will have to fetch Candia from Bath.”

  He nodded, having already foreseen the necessity. “I had best bring her to you, Mama.”

  “She is at school there?” asked the companion.

  “In her last year,” said his mother. “Poor child. Her coming-out will have to be postponed.”

  “That, Mama, is the least of the troubles heaping around Candia’s head. If we don’t look sharp, she may lose her father as well as her mother.”

  The first thing that struck Ottilia about the Hanover Square mansion was its atmosphere of suspended gloom. The butler who opened the door had a countenance grey and drawn. They entered upon a long marbled hall with landscapes on the walls that led into a wider vestibule affording access to a grand staircase of carved and polished wood. Ottilia became immediately prey to a sense of hushed expectancy, which did not, she was convinced, originate within herself. It was as if the whole house were waiting for the skies to fall down.

  Even the dowager, following Lord Francis as he headed for the stairs, seemed part of it, her silence fraught
with tension. Ottilia wondered if they had made a mistake to come.

  She trailed behind, her darting gaze taking in dark panelled doors, an alabaster bust on a stand, the sumptuous patterned curtains at the landing window, and the row of silent watching portraits lining the walls above the stairs. She got a glimpse of a black skirt swishing swiftly back into the shadows, and her ears caught the sound of a door closing softly below. The place was alive with peeking servants, doubtless thrown into a curious agitation of horror mingled with awed excitement and expectancy. Ottilia at once wondered how useful they might prove. In her experience, servants, party to all that occurred in a household, were a fount of information, often knowing far more than they themselves realised.

  The party slowed at the top of the second flight and halted in the carpeted vestibule. Ottilia caught sight of three men up ahead, standing in close conversation in a small lobby. One, red-coated in the attire of an officer of the army, stepped out of the group to greet them.

  “Ah, Fan, dear boy. Just in time. Mr. Satterleigh is about to make his examination.” His expression changed as his eyes fell upon the dowager. “Lady Polbrook! Good God, ma’am, is this wise?”

  “Good day to you, Colonel Tretower,” returned her employer with a calm Ottilia could not but respect. “I am come to see for myself, and I do not require any argument to the contrary.”

  The colonel, whom Ottilia judged to be much of an age with Lord Francis, broke into a grin, considerably lightening both the atmosphere and the suitably grave expression he had worn hitherto. “I should not dare argue with you, ma’am. I have it from Fan here that you are in the habit of doing precisely what you wish upon every occasion.”

  A thin little smile hovered on the dowager’s mouth. “I am glad he understands me so well.”

  “If I did not, ma’am, you would not be here now,” retorted her son. His glance went to the other two men. “I’m not sure we are opportune, however. I take it this gentleman is the coroner?”