Death on a Silver Tray (6 page)

Freddie looked past me and a slight frown marred her ivory brow. “Charming, but yes, he was a rackety sort. He died after an incident with Mr. Peepers.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Peepers. One of my monkeys. You know how I like to keep a little colony of them on the lawn outside my bedchamber window. Their antics often relieve my boredom. Such entertaining little fellows.”

She looked to me for agreement and I nodded politely. In truth, I avoided the creatures when possible. One of them had ruined a pair of my pantaloons in a most rude, uncivilized way. I must say that if the action was meant to be a statement on the validity of the garment’s style, the monkey had more hair than wit. The pantaloons were cut with the precision of a surgeon’s knife, and their color, Skeffington brown, was one I had just brought into fashion and named after my friend, Lumley Skeffington, who first brought the shade to my attention.

I turned my thoughts from my desecrated pantaloons back to Freddie’s story.

“Mr. Peepers had climbed up the side wall and perched in Lord Kirgo’s window. The monkey is fond of spying on people, don’t you know. That is where his name comes from. At any rate, as best as we can put the events together, it was early morning and Lord Kirgo was lying in bed, suffering from a disordered spleen brought about from the previous evening’s indulgences—”

“You mean he was drunk.”

“Quite,” Freddie agreed. “I imagine his head hurt terribly, poor man. At any rate, we can only gather that

Mr. Peepers sat chattering away on the window sill annoying Lord Kirgo to no end. We believe that Lord Kirgo went to chase the monkey away, and in his lordship’s unsteady condition, fell out the window to his death. Old Dawe, my footman, found him in the rhododendrons.”

I raised a hand to cover a barely suppressed smile at the mental picture the tale evoked. Freddie glanced at me sharply, and I brought myself under control.

“Lord Kirgo left Miss Ashton with nothing but debts. She sold everything and had to resort to taking a paid position. I helped her gain employment with Lady Wrayburn. It was not what I would have liked for her, not at all. I would have preferred to sponsor her coming out in Society instead, but Miss Ashton is an independent sort and had no wish to marry. That was over a year ago.”

“Perhaps her decision to remain unwed will change now. Miss Ashton is hardly a fubsy-faced old maid at her last prayers. And there are few options other than marriage for a gently bred girl,” I pointed out.

“Unless she is sentenced to Newgate.” Freddie gazed at me intensely. “George,” she said, reaching over and placing her hand in mine. “My carriage is outside. You will come along with me now to see Miss Ashton, will you not? You are so very observant, dear, and an excellent judge of character. If anyone can find out what really happened last night, I am confident it is you.”

Staring down into Freddie’s pleading eyes, I could not help but take pride in her belief in me. I would have puffed out my chest, but I had on a rather tight-fitting waistcoat.

Freddie’s gloved fingers tenderly squeezed my hand. The pressure filled me with warmth. All thoughts of my plans for the day and the Perronneau painting fled from my mind.

Mr. Kiang would win that round after all. Loss of the painting was a small price to pay to retain Freddie’s admiration.

I rose to my feet, still holding her hand, gently bringing her with me. “None of your monkeys are hiding out in the carriage waiting to ambush me, are they?”

* * * *

Our arrival at Wrayburn House was not greeted with any great ceremony. The knocker had been muffled, straw had been spread in the street to lessen noise from passing carriages, and forbidding black crepe hatchments were draped over the front door.

The latter was opened by a gloomy butler, dressed in black, whom Freddie addressed as Riddell. In somber tones he informed us that while the family was unavailable, he would send for Miss Ashton.

Following Riddell’s silent footsteps, I decided the funereal air which permeated the house went beyond the death of its mistress. Despite the obvious cleanliness of the furnishings, carpeting and draperies, the rooms held a dreary, unused feeling, as if there was no life to be found within their walls. The dark, Jacobean style of furniture, and the equally dark draperies sucked light from the room and added to the depressive atmosphere.

“Poor Miss Ashton,” Freddie whispered when Riddell left us alone in a small chamber which I supposed served as a second drawing room. “How dreadful to live in such grim surroundings when one is young. I wonder how her soul managed to survive.”

Perhaps it did not, I mused as we seated ourselves on an uncomfortable brown settee.

But when Miss Ashton joined us a moment later, all thoughts of a young lady driven to the depths of despair by a domineering tyrant of an employer vanished from my head. Here was that mixture of composure and fear I had perceived at the art gallery the day before. Surely no soul-less being could project such emotions. Or possess such divine eyes.

“Your Royal Highness!” Miss Ashton exclaimed upon entering the room and seeing Freddie. A look of happy relief spread across her features. “How wonderful to see you. Mr. Dawlish must be responsible for your coming to me.” She dropped into a deep curtsy, then straightened and glanced at me.

“Yes, ‘Becca, I did have a note from Mr. Dawlish and must remember to write and thank him for it,” Freddie said. She gave the girl a quick hug, then turned to me. “George, this is Miss Rebecca Ashton. ‘Becca, Mr. Brummell.”

I had risen at Miss Ashton’s entrance and made a slight bow at the introduction. She stood nonplussed for a moment, but quickly recovered.

A tall, slender girl with excellent posture, she wore a simple black mourning gown, made of that dull, loathsome material called bombazine, which heightened the translucence of her skin. Tiny curling tendrils escaped from a mass of dusky blonde hair on which a black cap with trailing ribbons had been placed.

 “Mr. Brummell, of course I know who you are and am honoured by your presence. I thank you for coming to my assistance yesterday at the art gallery.”

“I am uncertain whether or not I rendered any aid under the circumstances,” I said as we took our seats. Miss Ashton sat across from Freddie and me in a walnut armchair.

“Oh, but you did. You distracted Lady Wrayburn from her ... “ Miss Ashton appeared uneasy, searching for the right word to describe her late employer’s behavior.

I rode to her rescue. “Tirade?”

A hint of color invaded her cheeks. “Well, yes, actually. But I fear I was to blame for provoking her ladyship.”

“‘Becca,” Freddie said gently, “George has told me what transpired. Are you and the lady’s maid, was it? in need of a place to go?”

Miss Ashton twisted a handkerchief between her fingers. “No, I thank you, we are not. At least not at present. Lizzie and I have been told by Mr. Hensley, Lady Wrayburn’s younger son, that we may stay on for a while, at least until the household settles down from ... I mean to say, after the d-death—”

The young girl broke off, raising the handkerchief to damp eyes. I was reminded of the seriousness of the crime involved and vowed not to let those eyes, the color of a faraway sea, blind me to any truths about the young lady’s possible role in the murder.

She tucked the handkerchief away and gracefully accepted the tea tray from a returning Riddell who actually unbent enough to smile at her. I was surprised his lips did not crack from the effort. She placed the heavy tray on a table between us, and poured a cup for Freddie, then me.

I had had enough of tea for the morning, but reached out for the offered cup and saucer. I noted Miss Ashton’s slim fingers and tried to imagine them adding poison to a glass of milk which would bring on a permanent sleep.

It was not a pleasant image.

Chapter Five

When I raised my eyes from the cup of tea we both still held, I found Miss Ashton watching me steadily. In that second, the expression on her face changed to one of defensive pride, as if she knew I was weighing the possibilities and was determined to rise above my suspicious scrutiny. She had courage.

And there was something more. Or more accurately, something lacking. Confidence. Though she put on a brave face, Miss Ashton’s demeanor said that life had not been fair to her in the past, and she feared fate might hand her worse in the future.

For the time being, I decided I would give her the benefit of the doubt and abide by my initial impression that she was innocent of any wrongdoing.

“Miss Ashton,” I said, after taking a sip of tea, “we have come here this morning for two reasons. First, to ascertain that you are in no danger of losing the roof over your head. You have reassured us on this point. Secondly, we wish to learn as much as possible about the events of last evening so that we may ... er, protect you from any unpleasantness.”

Miss Ashton squared her shoulders and fixed me with a forthright gaze. “What you mean is you want to know if I was the one who poisoned her.”

“‘Becca!” Freddie exclaimed, setting her teacup on the table with a sharp click. “Neither of us thinks you had anything to do with this terrible matter. Anyone who does possesses not a grain of sense.”

“Mr. Lavender, the investigator from Bow Street who was here last night, seemed an eminently sensible man, and I daresay he is convinced I am the most likely suspect.”

Miss Ashton raised her chin during this pronouncement, but I noticed it trembled a bit toward the end of the speech.

“Stuff and nonsense!” Freddie cried.

“Not a bit of it,” Miss Ashton said. “I-I wondered at first if I had not been responsible—”

“What?” Freddie demanded, taken aback.

I studied the young woman. “Perhaps you might begin with what happened when you returned to Wrayburn House after the exhibition, Miss Ashton,” I encouraged gently, putting on my best sympathetic expression. The one that has been known to extract information out of the most tight-lipped member of Society.

Miss Ashton glanced at me, nodded, and took a deep breath. Releasing it, she began, “When we returned home, I tried my best to act as if nothing had happened at the art gallery. Lady Wrayburn complained that her feet hurt. I offered to fill a basin with warm water for her to soak them, but she refused. She feared she might catch a chill. So, I helped her undress and got her settled comfortably into bed, hoping and praying she had forgotten the news about Lizzie.

“She had not. Directly after I brought up her dinner and read to her until she finished her meal, she commanded me to send Lizzie to her.

“One really cannot argue with Lady Wrayburn,” Miss Ashton explained, looking at me. I nodded in understanding, took another sip of my unwanted tea and waited for her to continue.

She turned her face away as if mentally viewing the scene again. “I hurried up to the attics to fetch Lizzie. She has been laying down a lot lately because she has been feeling poorly. She is sick every morning and worn out completely by evening. It is a shame what women in general—I speak now of women not of the Nobility—have to endure during their lives. They are at the mercy of the kindness of others. It quite makes me angry.”

Miss Ashton’s hands had clenched in her lap and her jaw hardened.

Freddie’s expression was set, and I knew she was thinking that it was
not
only women in the lower orders who suffered. I wanted to reach over and touch her, reassure her that she had me to rely upon, but I knew such an action would be inappropriate and only embarrass her in front of her young friend so I restrained myself. A few silent curses at the Duke of York were all I indulged in before turning my full attention back to Miss Ashton’s words.

“I told Lizzie that Lady Wrayburn knew about her condition.” Miss Ashton bit her lip in dismay and lowered her head. “I apologized for my wretched tongue. I had never meant for the news to come out that way.”

The girl looked up to Freddie for reassurance and received it at once. “One cannot, after all, hide the fact for very long,” Freddie pointed out.

“That is what Lizzie said, Your Royal Highness. When we got to Lady Wrayburn’s chamber, I tried to remain in the room to protect Lizzie, but her ladyship ordered me out. I stayed outside the door, though, because ... well, sometimes Lady Wrayburn ...”

Again, Miss Ashton lowered her head. “Every once in a while, Lady Wrayburn has been known to strike the servants.”

The sentence ended in a whisper as if even now Miss Ashton feared reprisal for speaking against her mistress. I gritted my teeth but said nothing.

“Contemptible,” Freddie stated flatly.

Miss Ashton continued. “Lady Wrayburn said ugly things to Lizzie. Lizzie began crying hysterically. I suppose the enormity of what was happening dawned on her. And Lizzie is a good girl, truly. She was crying so hard, I feared for her and the baby. Unable to bear it any longer, I rushed into the room just in time to catch Lizzie ready to faint from upset. Lady Wrayburn was standing over her, her face red with rage. I put my arms around Lizzie and, I am ashamed to say, I tricked her ladyship into letting the poor girl alone for the rest of the evening.”

“Tricked her?” I inquired softly.

Miss Ashton nodded. “Yes, I made as though I feared for
Lady Wrayburn’s
health—a tactic always sure to please—and told her I would take Lizzie away and bring her ladyship her evening milk so she might calm her nerves.”

“Trickery or not, it was an excellent way to handle the matter. Did it work?” Freddie asked.

“Yes. I managed to get Lizzie upstairs, tucked away in her room. Then, feeling overwrought with worry and guilt, I went to my own chamber for a few minutes to compose myself.”

I put my teacup down and leaned forward. “Naturally you were upset. What person of any sensibility would not be? You were frightened for Lizzie and the baby and yourself. Where would you go if Lady Wrayburn made good on her threat to have you removed from the house?”

Miss Ashton took a shaky breath. “I could not think about it at that moment. My head was in a whirl. I concentrated on simply getting through the rest of the evening. A few minutes went by—”