Читать книгу A Lady's Guide to Gossip and Murder - Dianne Freeman - Страница 13

Chapter 5

Stepping into my library the next morning, with the hope of a few quiet moments to review my accounts, I found it occupied by every member of my household, including my seven-year-old daughter, Rose, and her nanny.

I dropped a kiss on the top of Rose’s head. Her dark, glossy waves, usually contained with a length of ribbon, were now pulled back in two severe braids. “I missed you at breakfast, dearest.” After receiving a soap-scented hug, I cast a glance around the room. “I wondered why I had the dining room to myself this morning. Why are you all hiding in here on this lovely day?”

I turned to Lily and Lottie who were browsing the bookshelf behind the desk. “Didn’t the two of you have some outing planned for this morning?” Even I had to admit my tone was a little peevish, but this was my library after all and I’d hoped for a bit of privacy.

Lily’s blond curls bounced as she turned around. “We do. Leo’s obtained bicycles and we plan to ride through Hyde Park.”

Bicycles? I hoped Lottie was more competent on wheels than on her feet. “Do be careful.”

“I’m waiting for Uncle Graham.” Rose clung to my hand, bouncing up and down on her toes. “He’s coming to work with Aunt Hetty, and Nanny and I are going back in the carriage to his house to play with the boys.”

The boys were her cousins, Graham’s sons. They were a few years older than her but because Graham’s family had moved into the old manor with us, while in mourning for my husband, the children had become close. Rose would be eight soon, putting her only two years behind Graham’s youngest. She loved following them around and I daresay they enjoyed showing off to her.

For my part, I was thrilled she had playmates. Most families kept their younger children in the country. Even her kitten, a gift from Lily’s fiancé, preferred the country life. She went into hiding when Rose and I returned to London from Harleigh Manor a few months ago, and we had to leave without her. From all reports, she was growing and earning her keep as a mouser in the stables. Lovely for her, but Rose missed her little companion. Perhaps I should consider finding another pet for her.

I glanced at Hetty, seated behind my desk. “I’d forgotten you planned to work with Graham today.” Graham was not the spendthrift my late husband was, but his genius was in agriculture, not finance. That was Hetty’s area of expertise. The last time he asked her for a loan, she offered to help him organize his finances instead. A strategic move on her part.

“I take it you’ll be working in here?” Lovely. Now I’d lost access to my own library.

Hetty sank down in her chair. “Sorry, Frances. I hate to be an inconvenience but we really have nowhere else to work. In the future I’ll check with you first before scheduling time here with him.”

I tamped down my disappointment. “Don’t mind me. I can make do elsewhere.” I took a seat across the desk from her as Rose took Nanny’s hand and slipped out through the French doors to the back garden.

“You’ve been working with Graham for a week now. Just how complicated are his investments?”

“I can’t be sure until I sort out his records”—she let out a tsk—“which are in a terrible state of disarray. Graham didn’t want to trouble his steward with the task as the man had his hands full with estate business, and he didn’t want to go to the expense of hiring a secretary.” Her lips twisted in a grimace. “So, he managed his investments and their records himself.”

“I take it keeping records isn’t his forte?”

“Far from it, and sorting through all the documents has been quite a task. I’m becoming rather frustrated.”

“I could assist you as secretary.”

We both turned to find Lottie standing beside my chair, her eyes wide and head bobbing as if in agreement with her own suggestion. “I’m very good at organizing records,” she said. “When I volunteered at the Metropolitan Museum of Art back home, I spent most of my time working on Mr. Cesnola’s records.”

Hetty brightened. “Well, that might be just the thing, my dear. I could certainly use someone with organizational skills.”

I stared at my aunt as the image of Lottie spilling ink all over Graham’s documents ran through my mind. “You are here to enjoy yourself, dear. We can’t put you to work.”

“I wouldn’t consider it work. I really enjoy organizing things.”

“Well, I won’t ask you to cancel your engagements, but if you can lend me your spare time, I’d be grateful for the assistance.” Hetty locked eyes with me and lowered her brows, daring me to interfere.

I shrugged. “If the two of you are in agreement, I won’t stand in your way.” Hetty gave me a satisfied smile while Lottie beamed. Odd what some people do to amuse themselves.

“Excellent,” Hetty said. “I’ll review everything with you when you return from your outing this afternoon.” She turned to me. “And speaking of afternoons, wherever did you vanish to yesterday? You left to speak with Hazelton and I didn’t see you again until we passed each other in the hall when I went out for the evening. Surely you weren’t discussing Mrs. Archer’s murder the entire time?” She lifted a brow suggestively.

“Sorry to disappoint, but indeed we were.” I leaned over the desk, and keeping my voice down, told Hetty what little I could reveal.

Her expression grew more concerned as I spoke. “I always suspected Hazelton was more than just an idle gentleman, so I won’t inquire how he became involved in this case. And I can certainly understand he’d want to defend his friend, but why on earth is he handing this task, as you call it, off to you?”

“The task is a simple parsing of documents, which may produce some evidence.” I shrugged. “He thinks I can help.”

“Perhaps Lottie would be of better use assisting you than me?”

“Cousin Charles has asked to help.”

Hetty’s expression grew clouded. “Is that wise? I understand he’s your cousin, dear, but a woman was murdered and Delaney has reason to suspect Mr. Evingdon.”

I shook my head in a firm negative. “I’m quite convinced he is perfectly innocent and it’s my fault he finds himself in this mess. Not only did I introduce the two of them but I’m the reason Delaney suspects Charles of murdering her.”

Hetty gave me a warning look and placed a hand over mine. “I’m confident Hazelton will do his best to protect you, but be careful all the same.”

As if on cue, Mrs. Thompson knocked on the door and announced George and Charles. Both Lily and Lottie turned to cast admiring gazes on the latter as the gentlemen entered the room. To my eyes, Charles faded into the background when standing next to George but I suppose everyone has her own preference.

Charles made his preferences clear when after greeting the rest of us, he walked straight over to Lottie. “Miss Deaver,” he said, giving her a shallow bow. “Delighted to see you looking so well, though I suppose I don’t actually know if you are well. What I mean to say is you appear perfectly uninjured.” He gave her his boyish grin. “After your misstep yesterday.”

Her cheeks pinkened. “I am indeed well and uninjured, thanks to your assistance.”

I left them to their conversation and turned to George. “It seems Aunt Hetty and Graham have plans to work here today. Could we conduct our business in your library?”

“Of course,” he said. “I was planning to suggest that anyway as the documents I’ve acquired are more numerous than I’d expected. If you’re ready, we can go now.”

“But if you rush off, you’ll miss Leo,” Lily said.

“I’m afraid we must, dear.” Mostly because I was itching to dig into Mary’s files, and worried that George could change his mind about my involvement at any moment. I had no wish to wait around for Leo. “Please make our apologies.”

Lily’s lips turned down in a pout. “At least try to remember we are to dine with the Kendricks tomorrow.”

Oh, yes. Dinner with the Kendricks. Actually, I was eager to become better acquainted with Lily’s future in-laws, but the business at hand had pushed it from my mind. Lily didn’t need to know that. “Of course I remember, dear. Saturday evening.”

With that, George, Charles, and I stepped into the garden, where I gave Rose a hug, and we took my sneaky back path from my garden to George’s, and from there to his library.

“Rather convenient, that private route,” Charles said. He choked back a chortle as George turned around and glared. “Not that I’m suggesting anything,” he added.

George grunted a reply I didn’t quite hear and pulled a leather satchel from behind his desk, dropping it with a thud on the desk.

“I hope it’s the bag that’s so heavy and not its contents,” I said.

My hopes were dashed as he unbuckled the straps and removed several large files bound in stiff paper and fastened with strings. He gave me a crooked smile. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid it’s the contents.”

Charles surveyed the stack of files and let out a whistle. “What is all this?”

I raised my brows as I turned to George. “You haven’t told him yet?”

“Told me what?”

“The police suspect Mrs. Archer was involved in a blackmail scheme,” George said, watching for a reaction.

Charles’s head jerked back as if he’d been struck. “The devil, you say! She was being blackmailed? Whatever for?”

“No, Charles.” I placed a hand on his arm. “The police believe she may have been blackmailing someone. Perhaps many people.”

He sank into a chair near the desk as if he were deflating. “No, no. That’s impossible. She was a kind and caring person.”

George gave him a sympathetic look. “These files contain information of a personal nature about nearly every prominent member of society. More investigation will have to be done to determine if she was using it to blackmail anyone, but the fact that she has this rather strange collection of facts about so many people in society, suggests it may be why she was murdered.” He shrugged. “Particularly since no other motive has surfaced.”

He tapped the top file with his index finger. “Someone found out she had damaging information about him and murdered her to keep it quiet. I daresay his name is in here.”

It sounded like a logical conclusion, but something was missing. “If the police found these files in her house, why didn’t the killer take them before he ran? Or at least take the note that pertained to himself?”

“He may have searched for them, but he wasn’t as thorough as Delaney. The whole bundle was found under a loose floorboard in a closet, covered by a rug.”

“Why’d the police turn them over to you?” Charles asked.

“Let’s just say a friend called in a favor. The files are said to be rather scandalous and he’d rather have me reviewing them than the police.” He leveled his gaze at Charles, then me. “That said, I expect confidentiality from both of you. None of this can be made public.”

Charles waved a hand. “Yes, yes. Mum’s the word and all that. After all, I’m hardly likely to discuss this with anyone. Not much for gossip myself.”

“Though I have every confidence you’ll both act with discretion, you’ll be taking in a great deal of information. Take care that none of it slips out.”

George waited for an affirmative reply from both of us. “All right then, let’s get to work, shall we?”

He handed each of us a bulging file of paper.

I seated myself in the guest chair next to Charles. “What exactly are you hoping to find in here?”

George took the chair behind the desk. “Anything that looks like fodder for blackmail. The more damning, the more likely. You might want to start with the most prominent names you find.”

“Are you staying to help us? I thought you intended to check up on the police investigation today.”

“That was my plan, but the constables were canvassing Mrs. Archer’s neighbors again this morning. I’ll need to wait for them to leave before I can nose around without causing suspicion. Only Delaney is aware of my involvement, and my official assignment is these files, not removing a suspect from their list.”

He glanced at the clock on the shelves behind his desk. “They should be finishing up about now. I’ll just stay long enough to get you two started in this quest.”

I wondered if his caution about the constables’ presence meant he planned to sneak into Mary’s house. George had taught me the art of searching someone’s residence without their knowledge a few months ago. Since I wasn’t sure Charles knew about his friend’s more clandestine activities, I decided the question would have to wait. Following George’s instructions, I settled the file on my lap, untied the string, and pulled out the first page.

It made absolutely no sense. Letters followed by dashes, sets of initials, and fragments of words littered the page. “What on earth is this meant to be?” I turned the page around to show George and watched his eyes glaze over in confusion as he took it in.

“It appears she’s used a type of short writing, or stenography.”

“Stenography?” I turned the page back to scrutinize it again.

A.S.W. dning? at Sav wt E.C? or E, PoW? Nt sn in public rms.

I stared across the desk at George. “How am I ever to determine what this means?”

He leaned back in his chair, stroking his chin while he stared back at me. “The note Delaney showed you, about yourself. Was it written in this manner?”

“No.” I stared over his head at the bookshelves and tried to picture the note. “Well, some of the words were abbreviated but Graham’s name, and mine, were written out.”

“Like this?” Charles handed me a page from his file. I read it aloud.

“‘Lady Elinor Finch held a festive gala at the Royal Opera House last Christmas much to everyone’s delight—except the proprietors, who wonder if she’ll ever pay them.’ ”

I let out a snort of laughter before recovering myself. “Good heavens, how did Mary hear of this?” I handed the page to George. “And yes, that’s precisely how mine was written.”

George placed the coded note on the desk, facing Charles and me, and beckoned us closer. “Let’s try to decipher this one, shall we? The content may explain why she chose to record it in this manner.”

“The letters followed by periods are likely initials, don’t you think?” Charles looked at us for agreement.

“A.S.W.,” I read. “Alicia Stoke-Whitney?”

“Possible,” George muttered. “A number of E.C.s come to mind.”

“Oh, my goodness.” My hand rose involuntarily to my chest as I glanced at my companions. “There can be only one interpretation for the next set.”

“Edward, Prince of Wales.” Charles waved a dismissive hand. “No point blackmailing him. The man’s never in funds.”

“Then E.C. is likely Ernest Cassel.” George’s gaze darted between the two of us, seeking confirmation.

“Makes sense,” Charles agreed. “The two are close friends.”

“And bear a striking resemblance to one another.” Now that we’d identified the principals in the note, or at least guessed at them, it made more sense. “Look, she is questioning whether it was the prince or Cassel with Alicia. Since she mentions dining, Sav is probably the Savoy.”

“Dining is followed by a question mark and she further notes the couple was not seen in the public rooms of the hotel. Leading one to wonder where they disappeared to once inside.”

“Heavens, will Alicia never stop trifling with other women’s husbands?” Neither man answered my question. Likely because it was commonly known Alicia and my late husband had spent a great deal of time—trifling.

I pondered the note as I stared across the desk at George. “Alicia’s husband threatened her with divorce,” I said. “At least that’s what she told me a few months ago. This little story would certainly provide him with grounds.”

He pursed his lips. “The question is, does Alicia want to hold on to her husband, and reputation, enough to pay a blackmailer to keep this story quiet?”

“Or does the gentleman?” I asked.

He raised his brows. “I’d say that’s a contender.”

“I agree. The note about Lady Finch, while embarrassing, is hardly worthy of blackmail. Perhaps that’s why she didn’t bother disguising the note with this stenography-short writing code. Are all yours like that, Charles?”

He raised a few pages in his hand. “Everything I’ve read so far has been crystal clear and completely dull.”

I thumbed through mine. More abbreviations and seemingly random letters. “Well, unless Charles wants to trade files with me, I don’t see how I’ll get through this lot without a copy of Debrett’s.”

George held up his index finger as he stood. “I may have one here.”

I’d spoken in sarcasm, but on second thought, a guide to the peerage might come in handy. George found the book and dropped it with a thud on the desk beside the first suspicious letter.

“If you find any further likely suspects,” he said, tapping the first note, “stack them here and we’ll determine what to do about them when I return. In the meantime, if the two of you feel comfortable with this task, I’ll move on and see how the police are proceeding.”

Charles slapped another page upside down on the desk. “I haven’t found anything other than general gossip so far, but I do comprehend the assignment.”

George paused in his departure. Charles had spoken the words coldly enough to make me wonder if he were indeed angry with his friend. I gave George a smile and tipped my head toward the door. If my cousin had something on his mind, perhaps he’d tell me.

As soon as the door closed he glanced up at me, a scowl on his face. “Before you say it, I know I was rude. Hazelton’s trying to save my worthless neck, and I snapped at him.”

“I’d never call your neck worthless, but I agree with you otherwise. Why did you snap at him?”

He dropped the stack of paper into his lap. “He’s taking risks on my behalf while I am stuck here reading gossip.”

“He can hardly take you with him while Delaney still suspects you. You shouldn’t take offense.”

“I’m not taking offense. Hazelton is one of a very small group of people who don’t consider me a fool. He’s a good friend and I’m grateful for his help. I simply hate being in the position of needing it.”

“He’s helping because he knows you didn’t murder Mary.”

“Only because he doesn’t think I have the brains for it.”

My cheeks grew warm. That sounded closer to my opinion. I placed a hand on his arm. “You just said yourself he doesn’t consider you a fool. He simply knows you wouldn’t do such a thing. As for being in your present position”—I shrugged—“for that you must blame me. I should have stayed out of your affairs and let you find a lady to court on your own.”

“Come now, Cousin Frances, I asked for your help.” He gave me a crooked smile. “And I did like Mrs. Archer. She was charming, lovely. I just can’t reconcile that woman with someone who’d commit blackmail.”

He rubbed a hand across his cheek. “And on that subject, how is your stack progressing? Anything blackmail-worthy?”

“As you are well aware, I haven’t progressed past the first page.”

He leafed through his pages. “I seem to have nothing more than gossip here. Some of it common knowledge, even to me.” He held up a page to read. “ ‘Miss Leticia Stuart has chosen a rather unique way of refusing her suitor. While in private consultation with Mr. Frederick Thornton in her family’s garden, she pushed him into the fountain. Did the cold bath cool his ardor or will the gentleman return to request the hand of this saucy miss again?’ ”

I raised my brows. “Frederick Thornton. I’d have given him a dunking myself. Humorous, I suppose, but I doubt anyone would pay good money to keep that quiet. What else do you have?”

“Another damp story.” He shuffled through a few pages on top of his stack and pulled one out. “‘ In an attempt at gallantry, Clifford Worthington leapt from his carriage to rescue a lady’s hat from certain destruction as it blew along the path toward the serpentine. He managed to save the hat but not himself. The hapless gentleman tripped over a rock and dove straight into the water himself.’ ”

“Goodness, I am familiar with that story.” I frowned, trying to bring the details to mind. “Oh, yes. It was very embarrassing. Mr. Worthington is the father of my late sister-in-law. I can’t imagine what possessed him to attempt such a silly feat. The man is approaching sixty and quite stout. I wasn’t the only one laughing at the image of him running to catch up with the blowing hat.”

I couldn’t contain a smile at the thought. “Mrs. Worthington was furious. But that story was the buzz of town several months ago. If Mary had hoped to blackmail the man over this little on-dit, she left it too late.”

He waved a hand at the file. “So far everything I’ve read has been of this nature, a bit salacious or embarrassing, but generally well known.”

“Strange.” I dug a little deeper into my stack and pulled out a page with a story I could easily decipher. “Here is something I’m sure His Grace, the Duke of Manchester, would wish to keep quiet. It links him to M.A. and whoever she is, he would never want Miss Zimmerman to hear about it. Though, for my part, I think somebody should inform her of what a scoundrel he is. He’s only chasing after her money.”

Charles leaned his head against the back of the chair and stared up at the ceiling. “Yes, he’s only ever interested in women with money. This other woman is probably just a flirtation.”

“I doubt that would make a difference to Miss Zimmerman if she found out. It would still be an insult to her.”

“Why would he do it then? Do you think the story’s true?”

I gave him a one-shoulder shrug. “It’s believable, I’ll say that much. He can’t seem to help himself. He must marry money, but he can’t resist female attention.” I turned my gaze back to the file, but he wasn’t finished with the subject of the young duke.

“How do you know he must marry money?” He leaned forward to reach a bowl of fruit on the desk. I waved him off when he offered it to me and watched him choose an apple for himself.

“I suppose because he doesn’t hide the fact that he has little, if any, money of his own.” A little warning bell sounded in my head. Something was inconsistent here. I frowned at Charles who stared, his eyes wide and innocent. “He has no money,” I said. “In fact, he is likely deeply in debt. How could he pay a blackmailer?”

“Well, I don’t suppose he could. One does need money to pay a blackmailer. Or for anything else for that matter. One can’t pay for anything if one has no money. Terrible situation to be in.”

I held up a hand to stop him so I could think. “Manchester couldn’t afford to pay blackmail, so why would Mary even bother?”

“Would she know that?” He sunk his teeth into the apple with a loud crunch.

“I rather think so. It’s common knowledge.” I scanned the note again. “She’d be wasting her time blackmailing him.”

“Maybe she didn’t. She wasn’t one to waste her time.”

“Then why keep the note? Why take note of it in the first place?” I waved a hand toward his file. “Why gather any of that useless gossip?”

Charles had a mouthful of apple and held up a finger for me to wait. Since I didn’t really believe he had an answer, I posed another rhetorical question. “How did she come by all this information?”

This time he merely raised his shoulders. “No idea,” he said from the corner of his mouth.

“Well, at this point I can’t see Manchester as a likely suspect but I suppose I should place him in the possible stack.”

“Have you found any likely suspects?”

I gave him a scowl. “You’ve been next to me this whole time, Charles. You know I’ve read only two notes. The first page, yes. The second, doubtful. Why?”

He unfolded himself and rose to his feet. Stepping over to the fireplace, he tossed his apple core onto the grate. As it was unlikely George would have a fire in that grate for the next month or two, it was probably not the best place for food detritus, but I held my tongue.

He turned to face me. “I just keep wondering if Mrs. Archer was really blackmailing anyone.” He gestured to the file he’d left on the chair. “I’ve seen nothing in that file but gossip, most of it well known. I’ve even heard it before.” He waved a hand in my direction. “You’ve found one possibility and another that’s completely impossible. A blackmailer isn’t going to bother with an impoverished peer.”

“What other reason would she have for keeping all these notes? And you have only just begun to read your file as have I. We may run into many likely suspects.”

He stuffed his hands into his pockets, stared down at the carpet as he outlined the pattern with the toe of his shoe. “I suppose I really didn’t know her well enough to make a judgment about what she would or wouldn’t do, but Mary Archer a blackmailer? I don’t believe it.” He raised his gaze to mine. “How would she even go about it?”

A good question. “I suppose she could have contacted her victims through the post.”

“Her victims!” He raised his hands and face toward the ceiling. “Her victims. How ridiculous that sounds.”

Though not without sympathy, I was beginning to lose patience with the man. “Forgive me, Charles. I’m aware these people are not all innocents, but I don’t know what to call them other than victims.”

He waved a hand in my direction. “Apologies, Frances. I understand how odd it is that she collected all this information, but we all have idiosyncrasies. I can’t keep two thoughts in my head at the same time. You, it seems, dabble in solving crimes. The fact she collects gossip and scandal does not make her a blackmailer.”

“Perhaps, as we examine these files, we’ll find another reason for them. But remember, if she wasn’t blackmailing anyone, that makes you an even more likely suspect to the police.”

He twisted his lips into a sad half smile. “Point taken. I just wish there were another way to prove my innocence than ruining a dead woman’s reputation.”

He moved back to his seat, and we both continued with our reading. Over several hours and a few cups of tea, I’d gathered a small stack of possible blackmail victims while Charles continued to find none. While we shared the silence of the room, I pondered his questions. Where did this woman find the audacity to threaten so many prominent people with exposure unless they paid for her silence? This was so different from the woman I thought I knew.

And where did she find her information? Mary didn’t move about in society much, at least not as of late. Since her husband died, she lived a subdued life in a quiet part of town. I assumed she had a small income from her own family. Enough to allow her to live alone, but it would hardly provide for attending social events.

I worried my lower lip while I considered Charles’s defense of Mary. He’d made his case well. He’d planted a seed of doubt. And that was another thing that bothered me. He had made a good case. With barely a word of the gibberish I’d become used to hearing from him. Perhaps he was not as foolish as I’d thought.