The Gilded Shroud Read online

  “I thank God, no, I was not. Judith was in the habit of driving herself. It had come on to rain and the roads were slippery. A misjudgement only. She went over the side of a bridge.”

  Disconcertingly, Mrs. Draycott’s eyes did not waver from his face. “Yet you can find it in you to wish you had done something to prevent it? Curbed her desire to handle the ribbons? Forbidden her to go out that day?”

  A laugh escaped him, despite the familiar gnaw of guilt. “How well you understand the human mind, ma’am.”

  She smiled. She had a smile of great warmth, he reflected, friendly and intimate.

  “It is merely a trick of taking notice, sir. I assure you I am no better informed than another. It is natural, is it not, for those left behind on these occasions to look for ways in which the worst should not have happened? I daresay you have caught yourself thinking even today that there might have been some fashion in which you could have prevented your sister-in-law’s death.”

  It was precisely what Francis had been thinking. Had he only accompanied his brother to the Endicott ball last night. Or if he had not taken a second glass of port before going to his bed, perhaps he might have slept less soundly and woken at some betraying noise.

  “You are uncannily accurate, Mrs. Draycott. How do you do it?”

  “Merely experience, my lord. There was no possible way I could have changed Jack’s orders, but I promise you, I thought of a dozen impossible means by which I might have done so. I think it is in part due to one’s desire for the event not to have happened at all.”

  “In particular when one is confronted by all the attendant difficulties,” agreed Francis feelingly. “But here we are.”

  The massive wooden doors of the stables stood open, and two grooms were sweeping debris from between the stalls where the whiffle and shift of horses could be heard. Francis called for the head groom.

  “Turville!”

  An elderly individual emerged from the shadows within. Francis noted the heavy frown and inwardly cursed. “You’ve heard the news, then?”

  “Aye, my lord. A bad business.”

  He threw a curious glance at Mrs. Draycott, but Francis did not trouble to explain her presence. “Then you will understand my anxiety to ascertain some vital information. At what hour did his lordship leave?”

  The man scratched his chin. “I don’t rightly know, my lord. It were dark still, I know that, for we had to light the lanterns. Must have been four or five, by my reckoning.”

  “The devil! I’d hoped you could be more precise.”

  “Sorry, my lord, but all I know is I woke to find Abel shaking me, saying as how his lordship were wishful for his travelling chariot to be brought round immediate like. So I woke the lads and set to, my lord.”

  Disappointment rode Francis, but from beside him, he heard Mrs. Draycott speak.

  “Pardon me, but was it you, Turville, who drove the carriage round to the house?”

  The man’s gaze went frowningly from Mrs. Draycott back to Francis, as if he sought instruction.

  “Answer the lady,” Francis said impatiently.

  Turville grunted. “Aye, miss.”

  Mrs. Draycott smiled, and Francis noted the instant lessening of the head groom’s surly look. She had a way about her, this companion of his mother’s.

  “Thank you. Do you recall just what your master said to you?”

  Turville screwed up his face in an effort of concentration. “He complained of the time we’d taken, I remember that. Not that we could’ve done it any quicker, and so I told him.”

  “Did he say where he was going?” asked Francis, disregarding this terse aside.

  Turville shook his head. “As to that, his lordship ain’t in the habit of confiding in me.”

  “But you might take a guess, man. Have you no notion at all?”

  The fellow lifted his shoulders and blew out his cheeks. “I might’ve paid mind, my lord, if’n he’d gone by daylight. I can’t say as how I was more’n half awake.”

  “Confound the fellow!” Francis burst out. “Why could he not have said something?”

  He felt a touch on his arm and looked round, but Mrs. Draycott still had her eyes fixed on Turville. It occurred to him that she was adept at signalling her wishes. He was to keep silent, was he? They would see about that. But he nevertheless held his tongue as she spoke again.

  “Turville, should you object to closing your eyes and allowing your mind to dwell on the moments when you handed the reins to the coachman? I presume you sent a coachman along?”

  “Stibbs, miss, his lordship’s personal groom. He rides postilion, miss, for the chariot only takes a pair.”

  “Very good, then. Close your eyes.”

  The man blinked for a moment, but rather to Francis’s surprise, he did as he was bid.

  “Now, you are handing over to Stibbs. Can you hear anything said?”

  For a moment there was no response, and then Turville’s frown cleared and his eyes flew open. “Aye, miss. His lordship said as he hoped to catch the early tide. He must have been heading for the coast.”

  The surprise that the companion’s ruse had worked was overborne in Francis by the jar of realisation. “France, by heaven! He must be heading for Calais.”

  He found Mrs. Draycott’s eyes upon him. “France? Surely not? At a time when there is so much unrest and danger?”

  It was a valid objection. News from the continent had been riddled with panic. Since the April riots, the troubles in Paris had escalated, with the change of government in May, the forming of the National Assembly in June, and then the fall of the Bastille in July when the ensuing riots had spread to the country. Only now did it strike Francis to remember how Randal had appeared inordinately exercised for the possible fate of those born into the upper echelons of French society, raising his voice in the House of Lords and calling for action to be taken. Already there was a trickle of refugees crossing the Channel. English Society was sweeping them up into their ranks, calling them émigrés and condemning the uprisings of the French populace. Only last week, the terrible news had reached them of the storming of Versailles, leaving the Bourbon King a prisoner in his own palace.

  “Nevertheless, it is entirely possible that Randal is heading for Paris,” Francis said slowly. “He is a frequent visitor. Or had been before the French began upon their internal squabbling.”

  “Begging your pardon, my lord,” cut in Turville, “but the word among the stage coachmen is that it’s still safe for English travellers. No Frenchie wouldn’t touch ’em, for fear of reprisals. Them Frogs don’t want no war with England, my lord.”

  “There is something in that, I suppose.”

  “Did you not say, Lord Francis, that your nephew is on the continent? Is it possible your brother might be trying to reach him, fearful perhaps of these happenings across the Channel?”

  Francis shook his head. “Unlikely, I think. Giles can be in no danger in Italy, and word will no doubt have reached him of what is happening in France. His tutor at least would have the sense to bring him back via a longer route, avoiding France altogether. No, if Randal had wanted him home, he would have sent a messenger. As I must do without delay,” he added, recalling this duty. “Turville, send one of the grooms on horseback to Mr. Jardine, if you please. He must speak to him in private, explain what has occurred, and ask him to wait upon me at Hanover Square as swiftly as he may.”

  “I’ll send Jem directly, my lord.”

  “Come, Mrs. Draycott. There is nothing more for us to do here. Unless you have any other questions?”

  “Only this,” said the companion, turning once again to Turville. “If your master has indeed left the country, where will his horses and the chariot be stabled during his absence?”

  “There’s a stables he uses at Portsmouth, miss.”

  “Have you the address?”

  “Aye, miss, I know it well.”

  “Why did you wish to know that?” asked Francis as they retra
ced their steps towards the house.

  “Because you must send a man down to bring the carriage and horses back.”

  Francis stared down at her, befogged. “Why in the world should I do so? And how is Randal to get back here when he returns?”

  “If he returns,” she corrected soberly. “I assume you have the intention to instruct your lawyer to find him? Then the person who does so will see to hiring transport. Meanwhile, if you do not wish your brother’s whereabouts to be discovered by the authorities, it will be politic to remove any possibility of their finding his carriage and horses and putting two and two together.”

  On returning to the mansion, Ottilia found the dowager haranguing a quivering and tearful woman who turned out to be the late Lady Polbrook’s personal maid. The woman, Huntshaw, was being championed, with a good deal of belligerence, by a stout dame whose black serge gown, adorned at the belt with an enormous bunch of keys, proclaimed her calling.

  “Mrs. Draycott, thank heavens,” the dowager called out the moment Ottilia walked through the door. “I will be glad if you can get some sense out of this creature here, for I have done.”

  “And so you might, my lady,” came angrily from the woman Ottilia took to be the housekeeper. “As nasty a shock as a body could stand has this poor girl had today, and she ain’t nowise in any state to be ranted at. I’ll not have it, my lady, if you shoot me out the door for saying so.”

  “It is not in my power to ‘shoot you out the door,’ as you put it,” snapped the dowager. “I am no longer mistress here, as you well know.”

  “No, and it wouldn’t make no difference if you was, my lady, for I’d say it just the same.”

  “You always were a tartar, Thriplow. I don’t know how I bore with you all those years.”

  “It takes one to know one, my lady,” returned the housekeeper with brutal candour. “And with the house in this terrible upset, it’s my part to keep my girls calm. Master Francis asked me and Cattawade in particular to see to it.”

  “Very well, very well.” The dowager waved an airy hand at the lady’s maid. “I’ll say nothing more, Huntshaw, but you’ll oblige me by answering any questions Mrs. Draycott may put to you.”

  Ottilia found two pairs of astonished eyes trained upon her and made haste to make herself known. “I am her ladyship’s companion. Temporarily, I hasten to add, while Miss Mellis is laid up. Lady Polbrook has entrusted me with the task of discovering just what occurred last night.”

  The housekeeper nodded. “I’d heard as much. Not that I can tell you anything. It was poor Huntshaw here who took the worst of it.”

  “Yes, indeed,” agreed Ottilia, infusing sympathy into her tone as she went to the maid, taking her hand in an impulsive fashion and enclosing it warmly. “It must have been horrid for you. I should think you must wish to lie down upon your bed with a soothing draught.”

  For the first time, the woman spoke up, a quiver in her voice. “I couldn’t sleep, ma’am. And I couldn’t bear to be alone, not for a minute I couldn’t.”

  “I am not surprised,” Ottilia said, pressing her hand. “You are to be commended for your bravery. I daresay any other might have swooned on the spot.”

  Huntshaw looked gratified, and her tone became stronger. “Well, I’ll admit I did scream.”

  “So would anyone have done.”

  “To see her lying there like that! My poor mistress.”

  “Do not think of it, I pray you. We need not dwell upon that picture.”

  Ottilia led her gently to the sofa situated against the wall behind the dowager’s chair and obliged her to sit, herself taking a position such that the elderly dame would not be immediately visible to the lady’s maid.

  “Now,” she began, “I wonder if you would be able to cast your mind back to last night.”

  Huntshaw nodded, but her eyes showed she was still apprehensive.

  “Had your mistress been out for the evening?”

  “She had, miss. She attended the ball at Endicott House.”

  “Did you wait up for her?”

  The woman’s features were calming now, as she concentrated on the questions. “My lady told me not to, but I did, for I knew she’d need help to take off her gown and her jewels.”

  “Do you know what time it was?”

  Huntshaw shook her head. “It must have been one or after, for the house was quiet and I’d dropped off in the chair.”

  “But you did not prepare her ladyship for bed?”

  A look of discontent crossed Huntshaw’s face. “I was going to, but his lordship went in.”

  Ottilia heard the faint intake of breath from the dowager and quickly put out a hand to prevent her from breaking into speech. She did not look away from Huntshaw’s face.

  “He went into her bedchamber?”

  “Yes, and my lady went in to him.”

  Ottilia lowered her voice to a confidential murmur. “Can you tell me what happened? Did you hear anything that was said?”

  At this, the maid’s eyes became wild and she hunted frantically about until her gaze settled on the housekeeper. The woman waddled over.

  “No need to be afraid, Mary. No one ain’t going to blame you for listening, not at a time like this.”

  “How could you help but do so?” put in Ottilia gently. “You were waiting to put your mistress to bed. You cannot be accused of eavesdropping.”

  Huntshaw’s fingers fiddled with the folds of her gown. “I don’t like to say, miss.”

  “Of course you don’t. But you, of all people, know what it is we fear. The least light you can throw upon the matter may be of use.”

  “Well, that’s just it, miss,” uttered the woman in a burst of candour. “I wouldn’t want to be the means of putting a rope round his lordship’s neck.”

  “No indeed, and it is that very apprehension that prompts us all to find out the truth. What was it, Miss Huntshaw? Did they quarrel?”

  The woman put her fists together and thrust them against her mouth, muffling her words. “Terrible it was. I’ve never heard his lordship so wild, and I’ve heard them at it hammer and tongs often and often.”

  “What was he wild about?”

  The maid leaned out to cast a fearful glance back towards where the dowager was seated, but to Ottilia’s relief, the housekeeper’s bulk was in the way.

  “Come now, Mary,” she said in a friendly tone, deliberately using the woman’s given name, “you must have heard enough to deduce what the quarrel was about.”

  Nodding unhappily, Mary twisted her fingers into her illused skirts and sighed. “It was always the same. His lordship accused my lady of being unfaithful. My lady countered with asking him what he did in France. He said it was none of her affair, and she threw back at him that what she did in England was none of his.” Here the lady’s maid sighed again. “Then my lady slammed the door to the dressing room and I could hear no more.”

  Ottilia noted a certain shifting in the woman’s eyes as she said this, and resolved to pursue the matter further. “Then what did you do?”

  “I put my lady’s gown away and laid up her jewels.”

  “Did you leave after that?”

  “No, for I heard the other door slam and I thought his lordship had gone.”

  “And then?”

  “The door opened and my lady came in. She must have forgot she had not dismissed me, for she says, ‘What, Huntshaw, are you still here? Go to bed at once,’ she says. ‘I will manage on my own.’ Then she goes back into the chamber and I can hear her pacing back and forth, back and forth. Talking to herself, she was. Whispering. If it hadn’t been as I once heard her laughing, I’d have thought she were praying. And then I heard his lordship’s voice again, and realised he must have come back in. So I—so I left.”

  Ottilia reached out and set a hand over the unquiet fingers in the woman’s lap, holding her gaze. “But you did not go to bed, did you? You were worried about your mistress, I think, and so you listened at the keyhole.”
Dismay was in the woman’s eyes, but dumbly she nodded. Ottilia smiled at her. “And what did you hear, Mary?”

  Once again, the woman looked to the housekeeper for guidance. Mrs. Thriplow, who was looking grim, gave her a tight nod. “Go on, Mary.”

  Huntshaw drew a breath and capitulated. “His lordship was asking for the fan.”

  “The fan?”

  For the first time since the recital began, the dowager spoke. “It’s an heirloom. It is passed down through the Polbrook brides.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Ottilia said calmly, and turned back to Mary, who was once more looking scared. “Go on, Mary. He asked for the fan, you say.”

  “He was accusing my lady of losing it. He wanted it back, he said. My mistress said he couldn’t have it back for it belonged to her. He said it didn’t, for it was hers on loan. And my mistress said—” Here Huntshaw’s voice quavered on the edge of hysteria. “She said—‘For my lifetime.’ And now she’s dead!”

  “Softly, Mary,” urged Ottilia. “These are mere words.”

  “I’ll never forget them, miss, never.”

  “Do you recall what the master said to that?”

  “He said she was entitled to the fan only as long as she was his wife. And if he had his way, that wouldn’t be so long, neither.”

  There was a muttered expletive from the dowager, but Ottilia ignored it and pressed on. “And then?”

  Huntshaw’s distressed features had taken on a frown. “I can’t think what he meant by saying such a thing. My lady said nothing to it, but when his lordship demanded to see the fan, she refused to show it to him. She said she had it safe. Then his lordship shouted at her. ‘You had it not this night, madam,’ he shouted. Then he said she had given it away, to one of her lovers, for he’d seen it in the fellow’s hands.”

  “And what did your mistress say to that? Did she deny it?”

  “She screamed at the master to get out. Then I heard his footsteps and I ran to hide. I watched him come out and he went off down the stairs in a bang, miss, shouting for Foscot.”

  “His lordship’s valet that is, ma’am,” put in the housekeeper.