Death on a Silver Tray (7 page)

“How long?” I interrupted.

“Perhaps fifteen, even twenty minutes. Then I went down to the kitchen to get the milk.”

“Try to remember exactly what happened then,” I pressed her. “Who was in the kitchen?”

“George!” Freddie protested at my probing questions, but Miss Ashton raised a hand indicating it was all right.

“No one was about. The kitchen had been cleared of the servants’ meals and everyone was gone. That is the way it is almost every night by the time I go down for the milk.”

“What time is that?”

“Just before nine. Lady Wrayburn takes her milk each evening promptly at nine o’ clock. A milkmaid brings it fresh, by Lady Wrayburn’s strict orders, daily around seven-thirty in the evening. Lady Wrayburn is ... was ... most particular about her milk. The milkmaid has special glass containers marked with Lady Wrayburn’s initials that she picks up in the morning and she returns them filled at night. It is my duty to bring the milk upstairs—on a special monogrammed silver tray—add three drops of laudanum, and give it to her ladyship.”

“Laudanum?” I asked. “Every night?”

“Oh, yes. Lady Wrayburn cannot sleep without it. It serves to relax her,” Miss Ashton explained. Then her brow creased in anxiety. “That is what I thought I had done wrong. Added too much laudanum to the milk in my distress. I was so upset, and it could have been four drops, or—”

She broke off, overcome with the very thought of having caused the old lady’s death. Freddie rose and crossed to Miss Ashton’s side. She bent and put a comforting arm around her. “But that is not what happened, is it, ‘Becca?”

“No,” Miss Ashton replied on a sob. She brought herself under control and looked at me, her cheeks damp with tears. “The doctor assured me that because of the condition of the body, he knew it was a strong poison, not simply a drop or two of extra laudanum, which caused Lady Wrayburn’s death.”

“Which doctor is that?” I asked in a mild tone, but I still received a glare from Freddie.

“Doctor Profitt.”

“Ah, yes, a good fellow. Known him for donkey’s years. He mixes some potent cures.” I stood and addressed Miss Ashton. “I believe it might be beneficial for me to inspect Lady Wrayburn’s chambers.”

Freddie gasped. “George, it would be most improper for you to go upstairs to the countess’s bedchamber.”

“While she was still alive, certainly you would be right. But the woman is dead, and we are trying to find out by whose hand she was poisoned. There may be something in her room of importance to our inquiry.”

“Mr. Brummell has a point, Your Royal Highness,” Miss Ashton said. “I think we can trust Riddell to escort him.”

Good girl, I thought silently. My esteem of Miss Ashton grew, as did my instinct that she was not the killer.

“Very well,” Freddie conceded. “Do hurry, George, before we cause comment by the family.”

Miss Ashton summoned the butler. In hushed tones, she explained the situation. He glanced at me once, then nodded and motioned for me to follow him.

We did not encounter anyone on our way up the stairs. Riddell stopped in front of a door at the end of the corridor. “Shall you require my assistance, sir? Or will you go in alone?”

“Thank you, Riddell, I shall be fine on my own. You may return to the ladies.”

“I believe I’ll wait for you outside the door, sir,” the butler replied with a stubborn line to his old lips.

Loyal to the end, or should I say,
beyond
the end? “Tell me, Riddell, did her ladyship have friends in London?”

A shuffling of his feet preceded his answer. “No, she never had callers and didn’t go about much. The Countess had many years in her dish. At her age, many of her contemporaries had already gone on to greater rewards.”

“Of course,” I agreed, though I reflected that nastiness, rather than death, had caused Lady Wrayburn to be friendless. “I shall not be above a few minutes in her ladyship’s chambers.”

Riddell’s face remained gloomy.

I entered the room and closed the door quietly. Turning around, my first thought was that there had been some mistake. This spartan chamber, furnished with the minimum of necessities, could not have belonged to a woman of the Countess’s wealth and position.

But then my eyes adjusted to the dim light, and I saw that though the furniture was dark and depressing, and the pieces few in number, they were of the best quality.

The purple draperies hung in folds of heavy silk, closed tight against the outside. From the musty smell in the room, I felt they had rarely been opened.

Although the chamber was clean, without a particle of dust, an entire apothecary’s worth of bottles stood cluttering the bedside table. I strolled over to examine them, harboring the feeble hope that perhaps Lady Wrayburn had given herself a deadly combination by accident. Reading the labels, however, I had to discard the thought. The bottles contained harmless preparations an elderly lady might turn to for the relief of minor pains, as well as some cream guaranteed to “Ease the swelling of joints.”

I turned toward the Sheraton desk. Conscious of Riddell just outside the door, I opened the drawers with stealthy care. They were almost empty, with only sheets of Lady Wrayburn’s personal stationery, a few pencils and a quill pen stored in their depths.

On the polished top of the desk, more stationery rested under the Countess’s seal along with a partially used stick of sealing wax. Hmmm. Now that was interesting. Lady Wrayburn was writing to someone.

I shuffled through the pieces of parchment until I came upon one with writing on it. I almost yelped a cry of glee, but remembered Riddell just in time.

The letter had been tucked underneath the other papers, in the manner one might employ to keep others from reading their correspondence. I quickly scanned the few lines and realized that what I held was the second page of a letter. All it said was, “... he spends his money as if his very life depended upon his getting it out of his pockets as fast as possible. None of it goes to anything commendable either. Excessive amounts are wasted on gambling, and, I am ashamed to say, his clothes! Mark my words, he is the most ramshackle of fellows and will come to no ...”

I raised an eyebrow at this. Obviously, the Countess was interrupted here before she could complete her condemnation.

But of whom?

And for whom was the letter intended?

And where was the first sheet?

I turned toward the fireplace and strode to view the contents of the ashes. Nothing that looked like a burned letter, discarded by someone—perhaps the murderer hoping to conceal its contents—could be found.

The sound of Riddell clearing his throat in the hallway caused me to hasten through the remainder of my search. All I discovered was that if one’s bedchamber could be seen as a window to one’s character, Lady Wrayburn was a stark, unforgiving landscape.

Much to Riddell’s relief, I exited the room and shortly rejoined the ladies.

Miss Ashton looked at me expectantly.

“Well, George, what did you find?” Freddie asked.

“Nothing of apparent import,” I replied, noting the crestfallen expression on Miss Ashton’s face. “You are not to worry excessively, Miss Ashton. I shall come back tomorrow, and perhaps then I can meet the family. I want to get to know them better. Who is in residence?”

The strain on Miss Ashton’s face seemed to lessen at the news that I would be returning on the morrow. “There is

Mr. Timothy Hensley, who is Lady Wrayburn’s younger son, and his wife, Cordelia. Then we have Mr. Sylvester Fairingdale. He is Lady Wrayburn’s nephew.”

“I know I have seen him around town,” I remarked in a dry tone. Indeed one could hardly miss Mr. Fairingdale’s salmon-colored coats, yellow breeches, and shirt points which reached his ears.

Fairingdale!
But of course
, I suddenly thought. Sylvester Fairingdale was a fop of the first degree. He could very well have been the subject of Lady Wrayburn’s letter. At the very least, he would bear further investigation.

Miss Ashton rose and we all moved toward the chamber door.

Freddie spoke soothingly to her friend, while I stood deep in thought. Freddie’s last directive called me to attention.

“And, ‘Becca, in addition to writing to me, you have only to send word to George if you need anything.”

Miss Ashton looked at me uncertainly, and I smiled at her. “Yes, please do, Miss Ashton. But as I said, I shall return tomorrow to see how you go on.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brummell,” Miss Ashton said, and I was touched by the sincerity in her voice.

Freddie and I took our leave and paused for a moment on the front steps. I shook off the melancholy that the murky atmosphere of the house had pressed on me. My mind raced with questions, uppermost was: who had access to the milk while it was still in the kitchen waiting to be retrieved by Miss Ashton? The answer had to be anyone in the house. Including Sylvester Fairingdale. And including Lizzie, the pregnant lady’s maid with so much to lose if Lady Wrayburn was allowed to carry out her threat.

Freddie’s lips curved as she looked at me. “I can see from your expression that the affair has caught your interest.”

I could not resist smiling in return. “You wretched woman, you knew it would.”

Freddie laughed, but the amusement quickly died from her lips. For down on the street a carriage had slowed. Through the window, a gentleman could be seen. He raised his quizzing glass and peered at us curiously. I recognized the man at once. He was the Duke of Cumberland, Freddie’s brother-in-law. Her face paled. I grasped her arm gently, but firmly, and escorted her to her carriage, all the while mentally cursing the Duke of Cumberland and the Duke of York.

I know Freddie refrains from coming to London for the sole purpose of avoiding her husband ... and the mistress he goes about with openly. To be seen in town by the Duke of Cumberland would most certainly mean that the Duke of York would be apprised of his wife’s whereabouts. Her presence in London would give him an opportunity to amuse himself at her expense, flaunting his mistress in her face. Without a doubt, I knew Freddie would want to leave for the peace of Oatlands immediately.

Ignoring the outstretched hand of her coachman, Freddie accepted my assistance into her carriage. She seated herself, staring straight ahead.

I remained standing in the doorway of the vehicle. “My princess,” I murmured, and she turned slightly toward me. “You can return to Oatlands with a quiet mind. I promise to look after Miss Ashton. But perhaps I should escort you home?”

Some of the tension drained from her lovely features. “Thank you for offering, dear. I shall be quite safe with my coachman and two outriders. As for Miss Ashton, I knew you would agree she is innocent.”

I neglected to remind Freddie that I had reached no final conclusion in the matter. Instead, I smiled at her and gave her gloved hand an affectionate squeeze.

She tried to return the smile, but failed. Then she spoke in a low voice. “I fear, George, that my mind will not be quiet until I leave the turmoil of London and reach the comfort of home. Besides, I must see to Minney and the pups, you know.”

I drew a deep, dispirited breath. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a mongrel dog making his way down the opposite side of the street. Even though his shabby brown coat was matted and caked with dirt, a young girl accompanied by her governess stopped to pet him.

About to close Freddie’s carriage door I said, “And you do take such good care of your dogs, Freddie. Why, I almost envy them. But I fear I should make a very poor canine myself. Only think of my frustration over not being able to change my coat.”

She succeeded in smiling then. To me, it was a beautiful sight. I felt a burst of an emotion best left unsaid considering Freddie is a married woman, and I am an honorable gentleman.

I bowed, closed the door, then stepped back from the curb. The carriage rolled away, and I watched it until it could be seen no more.

Across the street, the mongrel seemed to have found a new home with the young girl.

Dogs are devilishly lucky creatures.

Chapter Six

As I had anticipated, by the time I had visited with Freddie and she had departed, the hour was such that the auction at Talbot’s Art Gallery would have been well underway. I pushed aside thoughts of hurrying over to Pall Mall at the last moment. Such a late arrival would be viewed as rude.

 No, I had made my decision to sacrifice the painting and that would be the end of it. Or so I thought.

For the remainder of the day, I retired to my bookroom. I often sit there when I have something weighty to contemplate. I like to think that the wisdom of the sages who line the numerous shelves will somehow be imparted to me simply by my proximity to them. I needed their intelligence if I was to help Freddie and Miss Ashton by solving the mystery of Lady Wrayburn’s demise.

Perhaps you might not think aged brandy can possibly help this process. As it turns out, you would be accurate in your assessment. While I lounged in my snug chair by the fire, the level in the decanter growing ever lower, my thoughts centered more on Freddie than the mystery I should have been contemplating.

Sweet, dear, Freddie who had come to England from Prussia fourteen years ago with hopes, if not expectations, of a comfortable marriage. Shakespeare’s question of “to be or not to be” could hardly have been uttered regarding the union, before clearly the answer was “not to be.”

While most of Society, including me, thinks the Duke of York a figure of distinction as he is, after all, the Commander in Chief of England’s land forces, I cannot help but believe he falls short of being a true gentleman. A gentleman, in my view, does not bring dishonor to his wife by his behavior. A gentleman honors his marriage vows.

I poured myself another brandy. Next to me, at arm’s length, stood a smallish mahogany revolving bookcase with a gilt Greek key apron. I absently twirled the circular

book-holder round and round while thinking of Freddie and her husband.

The Duke of York had married Frederica Charlotte Ulrica Catherine in two ceremonies. The first time was in Berlin with her family, the second held shortly thereafter in London. ‘Twas a shame neither ceremony had affected the Duke of York, who currently kept Mrs. Clark as his mistress. How his Royal Highness could chose such an uncouth woman over Freddie was the mystery I did ponder over two more glasses of brandy. In my view, Mrs. Clark, a faithless creature if there ever was one, was bound to bring calamity onto the Duke’s head at someday.