The Gilded Shroud Read online

  A faint smile briefly lightened the worry in his face. “It would not trouble me if you did.” He gave a little bow. “Lord Francis Fanshawe, ma’am, entirely at your service.”

  “Thank you, my lord, but I am sure you are fully occupied elsewhere, and I shall do very well without any service.”

  He laughed at that, and Ottilia was pleasantly surprised to see the change in him engendered by even this tiny lift of spirits. His whole countenance lit, and a smile in the dark brown eyes struck a chord in her she had long believed had ceased to exist. The realisation made her look quickly away, and seeing the dowager still sitting in an attitude of silent distress, she recalled her duty with a twinge of conscience.

  The door opened to admit the housemaid, and Ottilia put in her request for fresh coffee. When the girl had departed with the pot, she resumed her seat and gestured to Lord Francis to take the one next to his mother on the other side of the table. He did so, and Ottilia saw his attention had returned to the dowager.

  “Forgive me, Mama. I had no choice but to tell you.”

  Lady Polbrook made a faint motion of her head. “You did right.”

  There was a tremor in her tone and Ottilia noted her fingers tighten, the knuckles going white. She reached over and laid a hand on the dowager’s nearest one.

  “The first shock is always numbing,” she said gently. “You will find you can think clearly again presently.”

  A pair of wan black eyes shifted to find Ottilia’s. “I can think clearly now, and I don’t like anything I am thinking.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Ottilia agreed. She glanced across at Lord Francis. “Painful though it may be, I daresay it may help to tell your mother everything you know. One’s imagination is apt to supply far worse than the truth, don’t you find?”

  From his expression, the suggestion appeared to horrify Lord Francis. “I should think the bare facts are quite sufficient at this juncture.”

  The tone was decidedly acid, and Ottilia eyed him with interest. “Dear me, sir, am I to take that for a reproof?”

  He flushed darkly, a frown appearing between his brows. “I beg your pardon, but if you are suggesting I should distress my mother further with a description of—”

  “Tell me it all.”

  The dowager’s voice had strengthened and her countenance showed determination as she turned to face her son. The look he flashed Ottilia must have crushed her, had she been of a less hardy disposition. She met it with as bland an expression as she could contrive, merely raising her brows in mute question. His jaw tightened, and Ottilia guessed he was keeping his temper with an effort. She ventured a tiny sympathetic smile.

  “You are having a trying day, are you not?”

  Something very like a snort escaped Lord Francis. “An understatement, ma’am.”

  “You will feel a great deal better for getting it off your chest.”

  At that, he gave vent to a muttered oath. “How old do you take me for?”

  Ottilia laughed. “Did I sound like a governess? You must pardon me, sir, for I have only lately begun to learn how to address myself to adults. But the principle holds nevertheless. It never does to keep one’s feelings bottled up.”

  At this point, the dowager entered the lists. “I wish to hear no more of this. If we are to talk of age, let me remind you, boy, I have lived far more years than either of you and I can stand a knock or two. Do you suppose me to be made of sugar?”

  Lord Francis sighed out a defeated breath. “I am outnumbered. Since you will have it so, I will relate all there is to tell. Lord knows it is little enough!”

  “Before you begin, sir,” Ottilia cut in, “let me be quite clear, if I may. Have I understood correctly that Emily is—or rather was—the current Marchioness of Polbrook?”

  “ ‘Was,’ ” he repeated dully. “What a hideous word that is.”

  “Only in that particular connection. One must strive not to place significance upon such things.” His eyes narrowed, as if he did not relish her comment, but he refrained from responding to it. “And Randal, I take it,” she pursued, “is the marquis?”

  “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 reenter 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.<
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  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,” rejoined 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 for 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. Intelligence she obviously 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 dressi
ng 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.”