The Gilded Shroud Read online

  His features became grave. “I will not conceal my doubts from you on that score, ma’am. But I did stress the need for discretion in light of the imminent scandal. I am assured that Bow Street is not in the habit of disclosing its beliefs and actions to anyone connected with newssheets, in particular the more scurrilous rags devoted to gossip.”

  “Not that it will stop them printing anything they choose,” said the dowager bitterly, taking a sip of her wine. “Nor do I imagine we can rely on every member of Polbrook’s household to be immune to the offer of a bribe.”

  The butler, under instruction, was serving the company himself without the services of the footman or one of the maids, a precaution instituted by the dowager in order that they might talk freely. At this juncture, he coughed delicately. Lady Polbrook looked round at him.

  “Well, Cattawade? Can you vouch for all of them?”

  “Not all, my lady, but I venture to hope that none will be as disloyal as you suggest.”

  “A vain hope, my friend,” said Colonel Tretower on a dry note. “Show me the fellow who will not be swayed by the sight of a fistful of gold, and you will show me a saint.”

  Ottilia noted the look of deep offence in Cattawade’s features and resolved to tackle the man as soon as she might. At least she might trust to one account being as accurate as the man could remember it. Meanwhile, she deemed it politic to change the subject.

  “I have been wondering, ma’am, about mourning clothes.”

  The dowager looked startled. “Lord, if I had not forgotten that!”

  “It is not urgent, I suppose, but perhaps it would be wise to prepare.”

  “I will send Venner to fetch my seamstress. Not that I need go into blacks until I am receiving, but as you say, it is well to be ready. Apart from offending people, I could not wish to show Emily the slightest disrespect. Little though we saw eye to eye, she did not deserve such a death.”

  Ottilia was well satisfied to have found another matter to take up the dowager’s attention. Mention of the lady’s maid reminded her that she was hoping to find an opportunity to talk to the woman, but without alerting her mistress. Venner had been tight-lipped with reluctance upon hearing of the removal to Hanover Square, and Ottilia was anxious to discover the reason. It had been borne in upon her that Venner regarded the late Lady Polbrook with scant approval, for she’d apparently had no sympathies to offer when news of the murder had been broken to her the previous morning.

  Ottilia had met the woman when she had fetched her warm cloak from upstairs. Venner had been requested to bring down the dowager’s pelisse, but a moment’s conversation made Ottilia realise she had not been apprised of the morning’s events. Thinking to save the dowager an unpleasant task, she delivered the information herself.

  “So she’s dead, is she?”

  “I am afraid she was brutally murdered, Miss Venner,” Ottilia had said as lightly as she could manage.

  The woman’s eyes had widened a little, but her features had remained taut. “How?”

  “She was strangled.”

  Venner’s stare had remained fixed for a moment, and Ottilia could read nothing in her face either of pity or indeed shock. At length, she’d given a wriggle of the shoulders, as if to shake off the fixing of her attention.

  “I’ll fetch her ladyship’s pelisse to her,” she’d said curtly, and had turned away into the dowager’s bedchamber.

  Ottilia came back from this recollection to find that Colonel Tretower was speaking of his further actions today. “I enquired of the coroner when you may be able to hold the funeral, and he has no objection to a burial being arranged as soon as may be. I imagine you cannot wait upon Lord Polbrook’s arrival, ma’am.”

  “We cannot possibly do so, since we have no notion when he might return. Or indeed if he will return.”

  “I beg you won’t dwell on that possibility,” said Tretower, taking the words out of Ottilia’s mouth. “I have been thinking it over, and I believe he must return, regardless of the circumstances. He cannot remain abroad forever. How would he live? And who would take his place?”

  “The burden would devolve upon Giles,” said the dowager. “And if it came to it, I daresay Jardine would be able to arrange to send money to him wherever he is. I had rather that than to see him—”

  She broke off, leaving a depressed silence around the table. The slice of beef Ottilia was in the process of consuming became abruptly nauseating to her palate. Laying down her fork, she drank a little wine in hopes of damping the rise of discomfort in her stomach. Delayed shock? If the business could have this effect upon a virtual stranger, how much worse it must be for members of the family. The sooner she could set their minds at rest, the better pleased she would be. She had been dilatory today. No stone must be left unturned. No more time could be wasted.

  The lateness of the hour was far less than it must have been upon the night when the dismaying events had taken place, but Ottilia was nevertheless conscious of an eerie sensation as she trod the empty spaces of the mansion. Strange shadows were thrown ahead and behind the light of her single candle in its silver holder, and when the flame swayed threateningly as she pushed open the door to the Blue Salon, she began to wish she had instead appropriated a candelabrum.

  There was little to be noted in this, the grander of the two receiving rooms, situated across the hall from the parlour. The house being double-fronted, the two rooms were much of a size, but as Ottilia held the candle aloft, the sparse and austere furnishings set around the walls made this one appear much the larger. A door to one side led back into the dining parlour, cosier than it might have been due to the smallness of the table with its rounded ends. With its leaves extended, it would no doubt render the space as formal as the salon.

  Ottilia left it by its main door and found herself back in the vestibule for the main staircase. She passed it and found the smaller lobby with the meaner stairs for domestic use and came to the last room on the ground floor, which proved to be a wood-panelled library. This was no doubt where Lord Polbrook conducted his business affairs, for a large desk dominated the room, which was otherwise lined with glass-fronted bookshelves.

  Ottilia left it and contemplated the two sets of stairs. She had been up the main staircase, of course, but not down, so she chose to follow this route first, in preference to the darker, and thus less welcome, staff stairway. One flight set her on a small landing with a door to the outside. There was no key. Peering through the window into the gloom beyond, she discerned the outline of a balustrade upon part of a stair. Shadows indicated the presence of one or two trees and a hedge.

  A pulse began to thrum in Ottilia’s throat. Here was a likely entrance point for a lover. He might be visible, but at that late hour of the night, would it matter? Who was to see him enter?

  So far, so good. But she must not discount the other possibilities. Which meant she must brave the darkness of the basement and penetrate into the domestic quarters. Most of the servants were already abed, in preparation for an early start in the morning. Ottilia might count on making her exploration without interruption.

  The thought of a lonely visit below stairs was not encouraging, however, and she was obliged to summon every ounce of that determination to achieve a swift resolution before she found courage to descend into the depths.

  She looked downward from the landing on which she stood and drew a steadying breath. Come, what was so difficult? It was merely a copy of the floors above, and she already knew how they were laid out. There would be one door to the back, one to the front. She had only to traverse the corridor to each and that would be the end of it.

  But when she reached the bottom of the main stairway, Ottilia immediately saw she was mistaken. She was confronted with a lobby, but a door separated her from the domestic staircase. She was facing a corridor, which appeared from this end to be devoid of doors to either side.

  It was narrow and very dark. Ottilia’s logic told her it must be in daily use and its appu
rtenances would be obvious by day. But logic played no part in the riffle of unease that travelled through her veins. This was precisely the sort of clandestine byway through which a lover might enter, and the thought that such a one might have made his escape down this very corridor after committing his brutal assault was disturbing in the extreme.

  Ottilia was obliged to give herself a stern reminder that it was in the highest degree unlikely that any such marauder would return to the scene by this means, or indeed any other, before she found courage to proceed. Indeed, she very nearly turned tail, thinking to come back on the morrow. Only the reflection that very little daylight could penetrate here, rendering the place as unprepossessing by day as it was now, kept her from abandoning the project. Her mouth a little dry, she urged herself onward and slowly made her way along the passage, holding the candle high to throw the light as far ahead as she could.

  Nothing untoward occurring within the first few yards, she grew bolder, stepping along smartly and keeping an eye out for any means of exit there might be. As it chanced, the only door lay ahead of her, and Ottilia paused when she saw it.

  Ridiculous as it was, she had an almost overwhelming feeling that there was someone on the other side. Without intent, she went on tiptoe to conceal her footsteps along the bare wooden boards. Creeping forward, she transferred her candle to the other hand, and gripping the handle of the door, turned it smartly and jerked it wide open.

  A massive shadow on the passage wall ahead showed the figure of a man.

  Chapter 6

  Ottilia’s heart jerked and her startled eyes shifted to the smaller silhouette that formed the origin of the shadow. She smothered a shriek, forcing herself to call out.

  “Who is there?”

  For an instant, before his candle went out, Ottilia caught his features.

  “Abel!”

  Then the door handle slipped from her grasp and the heavy door swung shut. For what felt like an age, she stood benumbed, struggling to recover herself, feeling the thrumming of her heartbeat. Presently she rallied, calling on common sense. Come, it was but a trick of the light. There was nothing to fear.

  Gathering her forces, she reached out to the handle again and pulled the door open with a force engendered by fright. The solid body of a man confronted her, his bulk directly in the way. She flinched, but stood her ground. There was a brief pause, and then the man moved into the light of her candle. It was the butler.

  “Is that you, madam?”

  Ottilia stared at him blankly. “Cattawade?”

  “Yes, madam.” The butler coughed. “I did not expect to see you here, madam.”

  “Nor I you,” said Ottilia with feeling. Had her senses so deceived her? She saw the holder in his hand with a candle half burned down, the wick of which was smoking. “Why did you put out your candle?”

  “It was blown out by the draught when you opened the door, madam.”

  Blown out? At that distance? A tiny seed of confusion settled at the back of her mind, but she put it aside for the moment.

  “Well, I beg your pardon for that, but I was so sure there was someone behind this door—and you see I was right. One should always trust one’s instincts.”

  She offered him a light from her candle, and the additional glow was comforting. She discovered the horrid passage ended past the door, and she was in a roomy vestibule, from which several doors led off in each direction.

  “May I ask what you are doing here, madam?” Cattawade asked, not without a touch of austerity.

  “I wanted to check on the doors to the outside,” Ottilia told him. “Where is the nearest to here?”

  “The one at the front, madam.”

  “To the area?”

  “That is correct, madam.”

  Ottilia eyed his rather puffy features in the semigloom. “Could you show me, if you please?”

  The butler turned and gestured towards a heavy door behind him. “I have just locked it for the night, madam.”

  Ottilia did not miss the disapproving note in his voice, but she ignored it. “Well, perhaps you would be kind enough to unlock it again?”

  He hesitated but an instant, and a resigned look came over his features. Turning, he went to the door, and Ottilia followed. It was a heavy door of coarser wood than the one leading to the garden, and it was unpainted. Cattawade turned the key and undid a couple of bolts. Then he opened it and held it for Ottilia to go through.

  The little yard outside contained little besides a coal hatch and a narrow set of steps leading up to the street. This would be the easiest entry for a lover but for the bolts inside, which would require an accomplice within the house. Who but Mary Huntshaw, in that case? But she had been told not to wait up that night.

  Not dressed to face the elements, Ottilia shivered in the chill of the night. She came quickly back inside and watched the butler shoot the bolts and lock the door again. He turned to her.

  “May I escort you back, madam?”

  “You may not,” said Ottilia flatly. “What other outside door is there down here?”

  “Only the one to the yard.”

  “Lead me to it, if you please.”

  Cattawade hesitated. Then he bowed slightly and, turning, led the way through a different door than that through which she had arrived, revealing a second and much more open corridor, with doors leading off. One was ajar, and Ottilia caught a glimpse into the large kitchen. In a very short space of time, the space widened and she recognised the narrower of the staircases within a small lobby. The butler took a path that led directly past the stairway towards an outer door.

  Holding her candle high, Ottilia noticed an opening in the stairwell. She halted, discovering a horrid-looking iron spiral stair that seemed to descend into the bowels of the earth.

  “Where does this lead, Cattawade?”

  The butler was in the act of unbolting the door, but he turned and looked where she pointed.

  “The cellar, madam.”

  “Is there a door to the outside down there?”

  He looked surprised. “Yes, madam, but it leads only to a small area below ground level.”

  Ottilia’s heart skipped a beat. “I should like to see it, if you please.”

  The butler did not move, and the austerity of his features intensified. “I should not advocate it, madam.”

  She stared him out. “Why not?”

  “The area merely contains the outside facilities for the use of the staff, and a narrow alleyway for the night soil men to carry away the refuse from the pit.”

  Ottilia understood his reluctance, but she continued to meet his gaze. “I should still like to see it.”

  Without further argument, but with a look that said clearly she had only herself to blame, Cattawade turned and led the way down the horrid iron stair. Ottilia had to steel herself to follow. She had to forego an instinct to cling tight to the railing, for she needed her free hand to hold up her skirts, and not for anything would she have abandoned her candle. Both sets of feet clanged on the steps in a manner hardly conducive to any clandestine intent.

  At the bottom, the butler set down his candle and wrestled with several bolts. Once again, an accomplice in the house must leave the bolts open. But, Ottilia reasoned, a determined intruder could wait his moment for one of the servants to come out to use the privy or deposit a bucketful of ordure into the cesspit. There were enough dark corners down here for a man to lurk unseen.

  The stench as the door opened was distinct, and Ottilia wrinkled her nose and held her breath. She stepped out behind Cattawade and immediately saw what he meant. The area was a mere square patch of gravelled ground, containing only a wooden shed, the purpose of which was obvious. Running down the side of the garden, an extremely narrow pathway led off towards the street, and from the look and smell of it, anyone venturing down there could expect to trail unpleasant debris upon his shoes. Hardly conducive to an amour with the lady of the house.

  Spreading the light of her candle about,
Ottilia saw that the area itself gave onto the yard above, or perhaps the gardens, but a surround of high iron railings with pointed tops looked to provide a substantial deterrent. It would take an agile and determined lover to scale them.

  “Thank you, Cattawade.”

  Turning back into the house, Ottilia waited for the man to bolt the door again. Then she mounted the stairs ahead of him and stood aside for him to unlock the back door. A wide yard was revealed with a plethora of domestic accoutrements round about and two doors into a lean-to shed. The railings seen from below surrounded it on all sides. An iron gate opened onto a path that adjoined the gardens, and the lower railings to one side must, Ottilia reasoned, let into the alley she had just seen.

  Three doors, and each had possibilities. In truth, any one of them might have been used, given particular circumstances. Which supported the notion of a lover having been with Emily on the fatal night.

  The butler was waiting by the door, and Ottilia came inside and retraced her steps to the lobby. She eyed the narrow stairs with misgiving, and turned impulsively to Cattawade.

  “Are you on your way to bed? Would you escort me? I have no mind to traverse the stairway on my own, and I must go all the way to the second floor.”

  The butler unbent a trifle. “Certainly, madam. It is very dark tonight.”

  Ottilia could not but feel that this escapade had lost her ground with Cattawade. She sought in her mind for an olive branch, for she needed the fellow in her camp. Useless to attempt to converse while he walked ahead of her up the narrow stair. To her relief, when they reached the ground floor, he led her through to the larger vestibule and started up the main staircase.

  “Ah, this is better. Thank you, Cattawade. I am sorry to have incommoded you.”

  “Not at all, madam,” said the elderly man, and there was less stiffness in his tone.

  Ottilia halted as they arrived on the first floor vestibule and turned to the butler with a confiding air. “If I seem to you to be prying, I hope you will understand that I am merely trying to piece together the events of the other night.”