The Gilded Shroud Read online

  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 comingout 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?”

  In defiance of protocol, the colonel hastened to perform the necessary introductions, by which Ottilia understood the third gentleman to be the doctor. Then the colonel’s questioning gaze fell upon her.

  “My mother’s companion, Mrs. Draycott,” announced Lord Francis, forestalling any attempt she might have made to explain her presence.

  Mr. Satterleigh, a spare little man with a businesslike manner, coughed. “Shall we proceed? Or would her ladyship prefer to go in before me?”

  The dowager waved a dismissive hand. “You have your duty, sir. I shall follow.”

  Ottilia observed her closely, noting the tightness at her lip and the rapid blink of her eyes. She moved closer.

  “Will you take my arm, ma’am?”

  The dowager cast her a sharp glance. “I am perfectly all right.” She added in a murmur, “Besides, you have work to do.” She raised her voice and held out a hand. “Colonel Tretower, will you oblige me?”

  “With the greatest of pleasure, ma’am,” he said at once, offering his arm.

  Ottilia held back as the party made its way into the room, only now noticing the footman standing away from the chamber door but with his back against a door in the centre. The dressing room? Yes, it must be so, for the third door, opposite the marchioness’s chamber, was likely the master’s room.

  Ottilia turned her attention to the footman. He was a handsome fellow, with a head of burnished hair and a fine physique flattered by his livery. Ottilia smiled at him in a friendly way.

  “Ah, the guardian at the gates. A sombre task for you, I’m afraid.”

  The servant looked at her oddly, as if surprised at her singling him out. He bobbed his head in a bow. “Yes, madam.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Abel, madam.”

  “No one has tried to enter while you were here, Abel?”

  “Only the gentlemen here present, madam.”

  Ottilia eyed him, running over in her mind such details as she could recall of the story Lord Francis had related.

  “Was it you, Abel, who was sent to the stables in the early hours?”

  His astonishment was plain, either at her knowledge or at being questioned on the matter. She kept her gaze steady and remained silent, knowing he must answer.

  “Well, yes, madam.”

  Ottilia leaned confidentially towards him. “There is no time now, but would you object very much to talking of the matter a little later? Lady Polbrook has requested that I find out as much as I can on her behalf.”

  His face cleared. “In that case, madam, I’ve no objection, of course.”

  “Thank you.”

  She smiled at him again, and passed through into the bedchamber. The word, she believed, would pass rapidly from tongue to tongue, opening the way for a barrage of questioning. It might even cause minds to think, going over what they knew in preparation. She resolved to be selective at first, thus ensuring that those she missed would be eager to be included.

  An unpleasant aroma pervaded the bedchamber. Ottilia, moving silently past the closed curtains of the four-poster, saw as she reached its end that the windows were open and the room consequently cold. Undoubtedly the smell must be a good deal reduced from what it had originally been. Had Lord Francis been within hearing, she would have been tempted to chide him for leaving such an obvious mode of access available to any marauder. Although it was less of a danger in the metropolis, she conceded, than it would be in a country house. At least there were no nearby trees to afford an easy climb. But a determined man could readily negotiate a brick wall or a drainpipe, should one happen to be within grasp of a window. Lord Francis, however, was out of reach, standing with the doctor on the other side of the curtained bed, while the rest of the party had disappeared from sight.

  Ottilia glanced around the chamber, taking in the opulent paper on the walls, the cust
omary chest at the foot of the bed, the long mirror in one corner, and the chaise longue just ahead of her, positioned to catch the heat from the fire.

  There was a discarded garment upon it, and she moved closer to see what it might be. A sumptuous silken dressing robe lay there, open in a manner to suggest the wearer had slipped it off in situ. In which case, Ottilia reasoned, noting its angle, its occupant had been sitting sideways at the time. Could another person, a man, have been sitting beside her? Could it have been his hands that slipped the garment from her shoulders during a moment preparatory to lovemaking?

  A feeling of being under scrutiny came over her, and she looked round to find Lord Francis watching her. Was his frown curious or admonitory? In a bid to explain without drawing the notice of anyone else, she gestured briefly towards the dressing robe. His eye fell upon it and then returned to her, this time with clear question in his face. Ottilia gave a tiny shake of her head and unobtrusively put a finger to her lips. The frown disappeared and he gave an infinitesimal nod.

  His attention was at this moment diverted, for the dowager came into view, a handkerchief held to her mouth. Despite her courageous intent, she was leaning heavily on Colonel Tretower’s arm and her face was ashen. Under her cloak, Ottilia dived a hand through the slit in her petticoats to find her pocket and brought out a little silver box. She crossed to intercept Lord Francis as he followed his mother to the door.

  “Sal volatile,” she said quietly, handing him the box.

  He nodded, called to the doctor, and the two of them passed out of the room.

  Ottilia took a breath and walked purposefully around the bed to confront the sight that had wrought such poignant dismay.

  Chapter 3

  By the time Ottilia came out of the bedchamber, her mind was churning as thoroughly as her stomach. Holding herself well in hand, she followed hard upon the heels of the coroner, who had taken notes with a pencil in a little book he took from his pocket. She discovered only Lord Francis awaiting them in the lobby. The footman had presumably at last been dismissed from his post at the dressing room door.

  “You may wish to call in the undertakers, my lord,” said Mr. Satterleigh. “I have seen all that is necessary.”

  “Thank you. My friend Tretower will see to the matter.”

  “There will have to be an inquest, of course.”

  “So I understand.”

  An embarrassed cough proceeded from the coroner’s throat, and Lord Francis raised his brows.

  “Well?”

  “It is not within my province, my lord, but if you will take my advice, you will make all speed to locate your brother the marquis and discover his movements last night.”

  Ottilia was unsurprised to see quick anger flare in Lord Francis’s eyes. “What do you know of my brother’s absence?”

  Another cough escaped Satterleigh as he reddened. “He is not here, my lord, which is, in the circumstances, a trifle unexpected. When I mentioned this to Colonel Tretower, he told me his lordship’s whereabouts are not known at present.”

  “And from this you deduced what precisely?”

  The little man pursed his lips and his tone became clipped. “I deduce nothing, my lord. I merely observe the evidence and make a judgement as to the cause of death. Other matters are, as I say, outside my province.” When Lord Francis would have spoken, he held up a hand. “All I am endeavouring to convey to you, my lord, is that there are other parties whose business it will be to discover the perpetrator. I am obliged, you understand, to inform them of what I have found here.”

  “You mean the justices at Bow Street.”

  The coroner inclined his head. “I mean just that, sir.”

  Lord Francis eyed him with ill-concealed resentment, and Ottilia wished she might intervene. Mr. Satterleigh was but performing his office, and it did not behove him to give even the mild warning he had done. His lordship ought to be grateful.

  “I suppose I must thank you,” said Lord Francis, echoing her thought as if he had read her mind.

  “That will not be necessary, my lord. I will take my leave of you now. Pray convey my respects and commiserations to the Dowager Lady Polbrook.”

  With which he bowed and departed. Lord Francis watched him hurry away and then turned to address Ottilia in a tone savage with resentment.

  “I hope to God you have found something that will dig us out of this mess!”

  Ottilia gave him a sympathetic smile. “If not that, at the least there is enough to cast doubt upon the spectre of your brother’s guilt.”

  So eager a look sprang into his face that Ottilia was touched. Until this moment she had not fully recognised the strain under which he was labouring. He was clearly far less assured than he appeared. Impulsively, she put out a hand and grasped his fingers.

  “Don’t feel so worn, my lord. There is hope, I promise you.”

  For an instant, his fingers returned the pressure of hers. A sensation not unlike the shriek of ice water slithered between Ottilia’s ribs. Then he let go and she unconsciously took her own fingers into the protection of her other hand.

  “How you came to take your place with my mother at precisely the right moment is a mystery,” he said, speaking rapidly and low, “but believe me, I am glad of it.”

  Ottilia was aware of a flutter in her bosom, but she did her best to ignore it. “If I can be of service in any way, I will be glad of it, too.”

  His face broke into a smile, startling and sudden, making the dark eyes glow. “Then we are of one mind.” He drew a breath. “Speaking of my mother, let us go in search of her. She will be as eager as I to hear what you have found out.”

  He led the way to the stairs and Ottilia followed, beset by a swift lowering of spirits. Perhaps too much was expected of her. She had little enough to report, after all. What there was led to mere speculation on her part, and not proof.

  The dowager was found in a downstairs parlour, divested of her pelisse and sipping a restorative provided by the hovering butler, with Colonel Tretower and Doctor Pellew in attendance. The colonel looked towards the door as Lord Francis opened it and held it for Ottilia to enter.

  “Has Satterleigh gone, then?”

  Lord Francis nodded, crossing to where his friend was propping up the mantelpiece. “He says we may call in the undertakers. Would you—?”

  “My dear fellow, it is all in hand,” interrupted the colonel. “I set the business in motion while you were attending Lady Polbrook. The men will be here presently.”

  Lord Francis clapped a hand to his friend’s shoulder. “I cannot thank you enough, George.”

  “Then don’t try. Instead, allow our friend Cattawade here to supply you with some of this excellent Madeira. I can thoroughly recommend it.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” said Lord Francis, a laugh in his voice. But he looked first to Ottilia. “Can we tempt you, ma’am?”

  The suggestion was welcome. She might not have known Emily, Lady Polbrook, but the ordeal had nevertheless been testing.

  “Indeed, yes.”

  After removing her cloak, of which Colonel Tretower relieved her, Ottilia was supplied with a glass and a chair by the fire opposite the dowager, to whom Lord Francis, having dismissed the butler, now turned. But his address was to the doctor who was standing beside her.

  “Is my mother recovered?”

  “Why not ask me directly?” cut in her ladyship, very much in her usual tone.

  Lord Francis’s lip tightened, but he bowed with a dutiful air. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. Are you recovered?”

  “You can see I am, can’t you? But since you ask, I am perfectly well again.”

  Doctor Pellew’s gaze was upon his lordship. “I have recommended that her ladyship should take to her bed with a soothing draught. I will make one up before—”

  “I want none of your draughts, I thank you, Pellew. Do you take me for an invalid? And I am not going to bed.”

  “I have no doubt your ladyship enjoys the best o
f health,” said the doctor primly. “And though you may not feel in need of it at this juncture, it is my duty to warn you that the effects of shock can be delayed for some hours and the draught I am proposing—”

  “Will probably send me to sleep just when I need my wits about me. Don’t fuss, man. Madeira is all the draught I require.”

  Doctor Pellew was inclined to argue the point, and Ottilia began to think of intervening when Lord Francis forestalled her.

  “Make up the draught, Pellew, if you will. Let Mrs. Draycott have it, and she may put it to use if the need arises.”

  The dowager’s black eyes turned balefully upon Ottilia. “She had better try!”

  Ottilia smiled. “I should not dare, ma’am.” A grim laugh escaped the elder lady, and Ottilia added, “Unless you should request it of me.”

  “Well, I won’t,” snapped the other. “And I don’t need this.”

  She opened her free hand and Ottilia saw her little silver box reposing there.

  “My vinaigrette? Then I shall relieve you of it.”

  She made to rise, but Colonel Tretower was quicker. Deftly moving in, he took the box and handed it over. Ottilia thanked him with a smile and caught a grudging look from the dowager.

  “I must thank you, child. It was of help to me.”

  An unaccustomed note of underlying distress struck the company to silence, and Ottilia could not think how to break it. To her relief, Lord Francis turned the subject.

  “Doctor Pellew, I shall be glad if there is anything you can tell us from your examination that may help to establish when the deed was done.”

  Alarm sprang into the doctor’s features, and he threw a meaningful glance at the dowager, as if to deprecate such discussion in her presence. Lady Polbrook saw it, for she at once took it up.

  “You may safely speak before me, Pellew. Do you suppose I should have subjected myself to the horrid sight we have all just witnessed if it were not of vital importance to me? I need not give you the reason, for it must be obvious.”