Death on a Silver Tray (26 page)

“Thank you. Now, Riddell, I have something to ask of you. It is very important and concerns Lady Wrayburn’s death.”

“Then I shall do whatever you ask.”

“Good man.” I asked a few questions, then whispered hasty instructions. Certain Riddell understood what I required, I pressed several coins into the butler’s wrinkled hand.

“You may rely upon me, Mr. Brummell,” he said, pocketing the money. “Miss Ashton and Mr. Dawlish are in the drawing room. He just arrived. Miss Ashton has not yet rung for tea.”

“Excellent. Remain here. I shall announce myself. That way, we will give Miss Ashton no chance to ask you personally to bring refreshments.”

I walked toward the drawing room, a wave of apprehension sweeping through me. I felt it appropriate under the circumstances to mutter a silent prayer.

Opening the door, I found a familiar scene. Miss Ashton, clad in her black mourning dress, appeared so pale as to be almost lifeless. Beside her on the settee, the rector sat turned toward her. He held one of her hands. His expression was fervent.

“ ... Would just reconsider my proposal. How can I convince you—”

“Good morning,” I interrupted. My tone was somber.

Mr. Dawlish eyed my crisp cravat, faultless Bishop’s blue coat, tight-fitting breeches, and silk waistcoat—a new one—with obvious disdain. “Hello, Mr. Brummell.”

“Mr. Brummell,” Miss Ashton said, a small ray of light coming into her eyes. “You are about early this morning. I know it is on my account.” She rose wearily. I could tell her store of hope was almost empty. “How can I ever express my gratitude for everything you have done?”

I moved toward the settee and bowed over her hand. I put the first part of my plan into action. “Perhaps before we discuss recent developments, you might offer me some tea, if you please. I hate to trouble you, but my throat is parched.”

“Of course.” She reached for the bell-rope and gave it a pull. She resumed her place next to the rector. “You must forgive me, Mr. Dawlish, for not ringing for tea when you arrived.”

“
I
do not expect you to concern yourself with trivialities when I know you are much distressed. So deep is my anxiety for you that neither food nor drink appeal to me.”

“Those are honorable sentiments to be sure, Miss Ashton,” I said, then settled into a chair opposite them. “I am afraid, though, I cannot share Mr. Dawlish’s finer feelings.” I cleared my throat. “Do excuse me. It is just that I am quite thirsty.”

Miss Ashton got up again, motioning the rector and me to remain seated. “I do not know why Riddell has not answered the bell. Let me go and see what is keeping him.”

“Must you?” Mr. Dawlish protested. “We have matters of import to discuss that surely must come before Mr. Brummell’s tea. Can he not refresh himself from the wine decanter?”

“I do beg your pardon.” I coughed. “But I never partake of spirits this early in the day.” I felt my pious tone worthy of the rector.

“Do not give it another thought. I shall order a nice pot of tea and return in a moment,” Miss Ashton said.

The rector and I were alone.

“You will forgive my little machination to send Miss Ashton from the room, Mr. Dawlish.” I watched him closely.

“What?” he asked, blinking behind his spectacles.

I leaned forward. “I did want to talk with you privately about a most urgent development.”

“Is that why you sent me that letter last night?”

I nodded. “Yes. Thank you for coming here as I asked.”

A touch of impatience flickered across his pasty features. “What has happened? Your letter said only that it was imperative for me to be at Wrayburn House this morning at ten. That Miss Ashton would need me more than ever.”

“Indeed that is the case. You see, the situation grows grave.”

Mr. Dawlish stared at me, his body completely motionless. “‘Becca? Have they found more evid—-but, no! There cannot be anything else against her.”

So tense was the atmosphere in the room, I thought at any moment one of us would break. Struggling to maintain my calm, I returned the rector’s gaze. “It grieves me to tell you an arrest is imminent.”

Mr. Dawlish’s hands clenched in his lap. “Miss Ashton is to be arrested?”

I nodded sadly. “For a crime she did not commit.”

The rector broke the stillness by jumping to his feet.

I stood as well, unwilling to give him any advantage. I watched him closely.

He removed his spectacles. With the fingers of his other hand, he pressed the bridge of his nose. “I never believed it would come to that.” He put the spectacles back on. “Are you certain?”

“Yes, I went to forestall Mr. Lavender, but my efforts were in vain. He let slip that he would be here this morning to take her away.”

Mr. Dawlish thrust his hands into his pockets and stared at the floor. “My God! I never once thought it would go this far!”

“Of course not. You care for her.”

“Yes,” the rector declared vehemently, his head coming up. “I love ‘Becca.”

My stomach twisted at the idea.

He mistook my silence.

“It can be no secret to you how I feel. And she is innocent of any wrongdoing!”

“We both know that, Mr. Dawlish.” My voice was soft. Knowing. Wise.

Our eyes locked for a moment.

He looked away first and began prowling the room. He came to an abrupt halt. “When is this to happen? Perhaps I might still convince Miss Ashton to marry me. We could be away before Mr. Lavender arrives.”

I positioned myself near the fireplace.

“Will she go with you?”

The rector moved closer and faced me. “You could help sway her decision, Brummell. She must come away with me. We can go to the Continent. Not France, of course, but perhaps Spain. Now! It must be now!” His voice had risen. A damp sheen of perspiration covered his brow. “How much time do I have?”

I gazed at him steadily. “Mere moments. I wanted you here this morning because Mr. Lavender is coming for her at any minute.”

Mr. Dawlish’s eyes popped. His breath came in gasps. I had caught him off guard. Exactly as I planned.

“Any minute?” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes.” I reached down to consult my watch. “I expect—”

The rector grabbed the lapels of my coat. I could feel his breath on my face. “You must help me! You must tell ‘Becca to come away with me instantly. It is the only thing to do!”

He released me and made as if to leave the drawing room and find her.

I followed and caught up with him halfway across the room, bumping into a side table, causing the decanters to rattle. I grasped his arm in a light hold. “Are you sure? She may not be persuaded. Is it the
only
thing to do?”

He swung around. Uncertainty crept into his expression. He licked his lips but said nothing.

“You know there is another way Miss Ashton can be saved,” I said, my gaze boring into his, my voice terse.

“No, I do not!”

“I believe you do, Mr. Dawlish.”

“No!” he cried desperately. “I do not know of any other way. Release me!”

I dropped his arm. We were both breathing heavily now. I forced down revulsion and made my expression sympathetic. “Why not tell me precisely what happened the night Lady Wrayburn died. Perhaps I could help.”

“I cannot imagine what you are talking about!”

“Yes, you can,” I persisted, deadly calm now. “Tell me. Tell me now. I shall try to help you,
Mr. Turtleby
.”

The rector sucked in his breath. Fear filled his eyes.

My gaze did not waver.

A chill black silence surrounded us.

Then, like an actor shedding a role, his expression changed to one of resignation. He knew. “How did you find out?”

I struggled to answer lightly. “Oh, Society’s secrets rarely stay secret.”

The rector turned away and slumped into the armchair next to the little side table we had almost toppled. “He treated her worse than an animal.”

“Your father?”

“
Lord Wrayburn
,” the rector sneered. “I shall never refer to him as ‘Father.’ Did he care that Mother’s reputation was in ruins? Did he care that she was forced away from London, the only place she had ever known, to live in disgrace in Yorkshire?”

“Apparently not.”

“You are damned right he did not care!” the rector shouted. “He never cared for anyone but himself! His selfishness was surpassed only by his wife’s,
Lady
Wrayburn.” The rector gave a mocking snort of laughter. “
She
was never a
lady
. For what kind of lady throws a pregnant girl of nineteen out on the streets to fend for herself? I grew up hating her! My mother was ten times the lady that Countess Wrayburn was.”

Spent, Mr. Turtleby’s angry outburst subsided to a tortured muttering. “Oh, dear God, help me” he groaned, over and over.

I leaned down next to his chair. “It must have been horrible for you. Seeing the same thing about to happen to Lizzie. History repeating itself, as it were.”

His head shot up at that, his gaze pleading. “You understand then? I could not sit back and do nothing while another girl was caught up in the countess’s malevolence, could I?”

I thought of many ways the rector could have helped Lizzie besides murdering the countess, but I held my tongue.

He looked off into the distance. “Lizzie is such a guileless girl. Like Mother was before years of fighting to sustain us took its toll on her. I could not bear to see another woman suffer the same fate.”

“Or to see her child grow up in the shame that you did?” I asked softly.

The rector produced a handkerchief and wiped his brow. “Mother did her best, but there was always talk. She did not deserve it. And neither did I deserve to be teased unmercifully and called a bastard by the local boys.”

“No, of course not. So what did you do to save Lizzie?”

“It was so simple,” he said, eager now to share how clever he had been. “Almost like divine providence. I teach some of the servants around Mayfair their letters. Lizzie is one of them. Wrayburn House’s milkmaid, Belinda, is another. Every evening Belinda comes to my parish house for lessons.”

“Before she delivers the milk?”

“Exactly. Belinda collects the milk for Lady Wrayburn, then on her way to Wrayburn House, she stops by the parish for her lessons. She usually just leaves Lady Wrayburn’s container of milk by the door so as not to forget it when she leaves. The Countess had to have a special container just for herself, you know.” This last was said with a sneer.

“So I have been told.”

He nodded. “Such pretension. It was her undoing, though. I keep arsenic powder in the house to get rid of insects. It was the simplest of things to slip some into the milk when Belinda was not looking.”

I caught my breath. I could not tear my gaze from his. He made it all sound so reasonable, so logical.

“Belinda and I spent our usual half an hour going over the alphabet, then she went on her way. No one would ever have known except for—”

He broke off, a sudden anger lighting his eyes.

I stood, my knees unsteady from crouching next to him. And, I must say, from something more. For a killer had just confessed to me. It is a decidedly uneasy feeling, let me assure you.

“Everything would have been all right if you had not gone poking into my business,” the rector said, rising from his chair. Realization blossomed on his face. A hint of menace entered his voice. “If only you had heeded my warnings.”

“The drawings,” I whispered, backing away. “You sent me the drawings.”

“Mother taught me how to sketch. She was an educated and genteel lady. Dear Mother would have approved of Miss Ashton. ‘Becca. I must get to ‘Becca and take her away from here.”

Mr. Turtleby advanced toward me.

My heart began to pound. Why had I relinquished my cane to Riddell?

The rector’s face had changed. He was angry now. Angry that I had figured it out. “I never meant for Miss Ashton to become involved in this. I love her! It is
your
fault that our future happiness is at risk. You will tell that man from Bow Street, and he will see that I hang. I cannot allow that to happen!”

In a split second, Mr. Turtleby seized a decanter from the side table. With a swift motion, he crashed the crystal against the wood. He lunged at me, holding a long, narrow shard of glass.

I feared my perfectly tied cravat was about to be bloodied.

Then a voice with a slight Scottish lilt said, “He won’t have to tell me, Rector. I heard every word myself.”

John Lavender stood in the doorway holding a pistol aimed at Mr. Turtleby’s heart.

I released my breath in a long sigh. “I say, Lavender, if you fire that thing, I beg you not to miss. This is a new waistcoat.”

Chapter Twenty-four

Mr. Lavender kept the gun leveled at Mr. Turtleby. I could see beyond him, through the doorway. Miss Ashton and Riddell were standing close together, peering into the room. Two burly men, obviously Mr. Lavender’s assistants, waited for instructions.

“Take him down to the roundhouse, boys, and lock him up. I’ll be there presently.” The men marched forward and shackled the rector, who had begun weeping again.

“‘Becca,” he sobbed, “I love you.”

Miss Ashton’s hand went to her throat as the men led the rector away. I hurried to her side.

“I-I cannot believe it,” she said faintly. “I stayed away, as Riddell told me you had asked. And when Mr. Lavender arrived, I thought he was coming for me. Never in my wildest imagination did I think—”

For the first time during the entire ordeal, I feared she would faint. “Steady now, Miss Ashton. You have had a shock. Come into the drawing room and lie down for a few minutes.” I guided her from the hall to the settee. She laid down without protest.

“I trusted him, Mr. Brummell,” she said, gazing up at me. “I trusted him.”

I bent down on one knee at her side. “You could not have known to do any differently. He is a sick man. But it is all over. Would you like me to send for Miss Lavender? I am certain she would come. You need another female just now, do you not think so?”

“If ... if it would not be a bother. I have never wanted to be a burden. Not ever in my entire life.”