Regency Masquerade (23 page)

“No
I’d better look for myself, if you wouldn’t mind waiting here Hopgood?”

The
Squire spent a few moments looking up and down the path first, then walked
slowly to the hedgerow and soon saw the body of a man, laying where he had
fallen on the ground.  He bent down to examine the body.  The cause of death
was obvious, a bullet to the chest.  Gingerly he reached into the man’s coat pockets
and drew out about ten shillings, a couple of French coins, a linen
handkerchief and the stub of a coach ticket to Guildford.  Interesting, it was
clear the man was not a local, in fact the indications were he was not even
English.  Squire Herbert stood up and looked around in the immediate vicinity
of the body and soon spotted a pistol in the grass to his right.  He picked it
up and sniffed it, yes, it had definitely been fired recently.  He judged where
the assailant would have been standing when he was shot and peered through the
hedgerow to ascertain what he would have seen.  He found himself in agreement
with Lady Carleton, it had undoubtedly been a deliberate ambush.

“I
doubt that there is anymore to learn here.  Would you wait here to guard the
corpse and I shall send some of my men to collect it and take it to the
church,” Squire Herbert requested. John nodded in resignation and sat down to
wait.  The squire was already thinking ahead, he would need to send a man to
Guildford to canvas the inns for a missing guest because once they knew the
identity of the assailant it might give them a lead to the motive.  Once Lord
Carleton had regained his senses he would ask him to have a look at the corpse
and see if he recognised him, but the more he considered it, the more he
fancied the man was a foreigner.  French possibly, if the coins in his pocket
were an indication.  At least, from what he had seen so far, there was no doubt
the man had been killed in self-defence.  He could not quite believe Lady
Carleton had shot him herself, and suspected it had actually been her husband
who had fired the gun, although how he had managed it with a wounded shoulder
was something to mull on.

Carleton
came to his senses gradually and discovered that his shoulder hurt like the
devil and he was lying on the couch in the front parlour. What on earth had
happened?  Frances saw that he was awake and hastened to his side.  Gently she
kissed his forehead, “How do you feel?  You saved my life you realise?”

“What?”
he asked, still half in a daze.

“You
were shot, do you remember?”

She
saw he was struggling to recollect what had occurred and filled him in.  “I
fired back at where I had seen the shot come from and I hit him.  In fact, John
says I killed him.  It was the Comte Duverne.  Richard I am so sorry, it is all
my fault you were shot.”

“Nonsense!”
was the firm reply.  “What ailed the man to think he could get away with
murder? He must have had windmills in his head!  Did you send for Herbert?”

She
nodded, “John has taken him to the scene just now.”

“I
suggest you keep mum about your previous encounter with Duverne, though,” Carleton
recommended, holding her gaze.

“Yes,
John advised the same, but I have been able to tell the truth so far about the
shooting because it is quite true that I did not see a thing!” agreed Frances. She
glanced down at her shirt, still spattered with Richard’s blood.  “I need to go
upstairs and change my clothes.  I’ll just ask Fanshaw to stay with you until I
return in case you need anything, you must not try and do anything for yourself
for a day or so the doctor ordered.”

The
next day, Squire Herbert found Lord Carleton had been removed upstairs to his
bed, but he was awake and waiting to talk to him and after a brief exchange of
greetings he was ready to answer the Squires questions.  “The only thing I saw
Will, was the gun muzzle pointing towards us. I shouted a warning to Frances,
then I was hit and I don’t remember anything else until I came to my senses in
the front parlour. Have you found out anything about the man yet?  Was he a footpad?”

“Unlikely
I think, for one thing he was too well dressed to be a footpad, his coat was
made by Weston and his hands were those of a gentleman, white and well cared
for.  He may even be someone known to you. I suspect he may have been French,
or recently come from France, for he had French coins in his pockets.”

“A
spy?” interjected Carleton.

Squire
Herbert frowned. “I had not thought of that, but what would a spy be doing
here?  And why lay in ambush for you? No, I do not think it. I will do my best
to describe him to you, betwixt thirty and forty years, medium height I would
say, black hair, olive complexion but no distinguishing features apart from
that.  Does that sound familiar at all?”

Carleton
shook his head, “Certainly not anyone I know closely.  A passing acquaintance?
Possibly.”

“I
wish you were able to take a look at him! He will have to be buried soon, we
can’t keep him much longer, even in the crypt,” the Squire fretted.

“Perhaps,
if I were well bandaged I could manage the journey in my carriage,” Carleton
pondered aloud.  He had to tread carefully here, if he had not already known
the identity of his assailant he would certainly have been anxious to find out
everything that he could about him.  He could not afford to appear too
complacent. 

The
Squire brightened at that.  “That would be excellent, if you could manage it
without re-opening your wound,” he felt obliged to add. “I sent a man to
Guildford this morning to check if our man was staying at one of the inns, but
apart from that there is not much else I can do at present.  I shall take my
leave of you now and hope to see you this afternoon at the church.  If you can
get there, my men can carry the body out to the carriage for you to cast your
eyes over.”

“I
shall do my best,” promised Carleton.

“Oh
– just one thing,” remembered the Squire. “Lady Carleton told me it was
she
who shot the man?” he said enquiringly.

“Yes
indeed, if she said so,” confirmed Carleton. “Frances is an excellent shot, I
have seen her at target practice myself!  Just ask her to show you if you would
like proof.”

In
spite of Frances’ misgivings and indeed his own weariness, Carleton insisted on
making the trip to the village church, protected with cushions as well as he
could be against the jolting of the carriage. Frances reluctantly stayed behind
so that she would not risk being asked to view the body, she was trying hard to
avoid lying outright to the Squire.  Squire Herbert was waiting at the church,
having been informed by Toby of Carleton’s imminent arrival and he quickly
ordered two of the village men to bring the body out from the crypt to the
carriage on a litter as he had promised.  One of the men lifted the sheet
covering the body so Carleton could see the face and he looked carefully at it
before shaking his head.  “I don’t know him, though he does have rather the
look of a Frenchman I have seen around town, but he is a count, the Comte
Duverne, I think he is called.  This fellow is unlikely to be
him
!”

“Astonishing
as it may seem, I have reason to believe this is in fact the Comte Duverne. 
There was certainly a man of that name staying at the King and Crown in
Guildford who is now missing.  You weren’t acquainted with him at all?” the
Squire looked puzzled.

“No,
I’ve never spoken a word to him!” said Carleton honestly. “I cannot imagine
what I have done to warrant such a deed.  Surely if I had offended him in some
way he would have confronted me openly, as one gentleman to another, not hidden
in ambush like a common footpad!”

“It’s
beyond belief!” agreed the magistrate.  “Perhaps he mistook you for someone
else?”

“It’s
a mystery. Either he was queer in the attic or else I deeply offended him in
some way without even being aware of it!  Do you think to contact the French
embassy about the matter?”

“I
suppose I must,” the Squire agreed reluctantly. “I had best ride up to London
myself and see what I can discover, he may have family here who would wish to
make arrangements about the burial. At least there is no doubt about what took
place.  Thank you again for coming here.” The Squire bowed his head and
gestured to the men to return the body to the crypt.  Carleton returned home
slowly, grateful to be back in bed despite himself.

The
Squires trip to the French embassy, although enlightening, produced no
information to explain the attack.  In fact the man he spoke to was quick to
distance himself from the Comte, stating emphatically several times that he was
not connected to the embassy and was barely known to them.  It was soon
apparent to Will Herbert that the late Comte had not been a popular man. 

His
visit to Bow Street bore more fruit.  Lord Carleton’s name was familiar to the
man he explained his situation to and he sent someone in search of the Runner
involved in the affair.  Mr Higgins was at first reluctant to speak to anyone involved
with Lord Carleton, he still felt his pulse leap unpleasantly when he
remembered the feel of the sword point against his throat, but when it was
explained to him that Carleton was currently laid up with a gunshot wound he
was able to come forward and speak more or less sensibly to the Squire. 

“I
never heard anything about no Count,” he shook his head dubiously, “It were a
Lady wot sent me there, Lady Murray ‘er name was.  She was dead set to get ‘er
‘ands on a girl she reckoned had run away from ‘er.  Frances Metcalf, that was
‘er name, very keen to get ‘er back she was. Dunno why she thought this Lord
Carleton had ‘er, but I went there to ask ‘im and ended up in the suds over
it.  Girl weren’t there o’course. Just this this young’un, looked like ‘e  ‘ad 
‘is mother’s milk on ‘is lips,  but ‘e had his sword at my throat quick as a
flash.  Right bumble-broth it was.  I reckoned it was the old Lady wot was
dicked in the nob, not any missin’ girl.”

Squire
Herbert, readily identifying the presence of Peter Francis in this story, clarified
a few details then thanked the Runner for his help and set out on the return
journey.  So far the only person who appeared to have a grudge against Lord or
Lady Carleton was this Lady Murray, who, he remembered, was Frances’
grandmother.  He wondered whether it was possible that, having failed with the
Runners, Lady Murray had somehow engaged the Comte Duverne to take care of her
problem for her in a more permanent manner.  However, it seemed unlikely he
would find sufficient evidence of this to warrant approaching her about it. 
Hopefully the Comte’s violent end would put paid to any further schemes.

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

A
fortnight later, Lord Carleton had recovered sufficiently from his injury and
they decided it was time to return to London and re-enter society.  Fanshaw,
Hopgood and Mrs Pearson all went with them.

Carleton’s
first step was to contact Mr Adams, his solicitor and brief him about Frances’
claim for recognition of her birth and inheritance.  He also put him in
possession of the letters retrieved by Mrs Pearson concerning Frances’ history,
and the record of her parents’ marriage.  Mr Adams left them with a sombre look
on his face and a cautious warning about not getting their hopes up but
secretly feeling rather thrilled by the most exciting case he had ever been
presented with.

The
couples’ next step was to send invitations to a carefully selected group of
friends to a dinner party at their house at the end of the month.  Jack
Lambert, Harry Belmont and Sammy Fairfax were among the small guest list, along
with cousin Theo and his wife Fanny.  “Might as well face everybody at once!”
ventured Frances bravely. 

Carleton
agreed, “Yes, it is best to know where we are placed as soon as possible.  If
these people will stand our friends we should brush through tolerably well,
no-one else apart from Lady Murray will be in a position to cause trouble.”

Several
days later, Mr Pilkington called on Lady Murray, his normally sober face even
more dour than usual.  He was shown in to the front parlour, where his client
was seated in front of the small fire which was kept burning most of the year
apart from high summer.  She wore a deep blue morning dress, its high neck
buttoned up to her chin and a white cap on her head.  A book lay face down on
the small table beside her, indicating that Annie had been reading to her prior
to his arrival.  She looked up at him with a slight frown. “You have news for
me?” she enquired. 

“Yes
my Lady.  I had a visit from Mr Adams yesterday, he is Lord Carleton’s
solicitor,” he explained.  Her hand clenched briefly on the arm of her chair. 
“What does he have to do with this business?”

“I
am afraid matters are now serious, perhaps I should say more serious,” he
paused for an instant then took the plunge. “They are married, Lady Murray. 
Miss Frances is now Lady Carleton and they are here in London.  She is being
introduced to the ton, not only as Lord Carleton’s new wife but as your
granddaughter.” 

“How
dare she!” Lady Murray hissed incredulously.

“I
am sorry my lady, but Mr Adams showed me copies of several letters supporting
her claim, letters about her birth from Lady Amanda and her father Henry
Metcalf, addressed to her aunt Lady Julia.  I really do not consider there is
any doubt of her pedigree.”  He let her digest the unwelcome news for a moment,
then continued carefully. “Mr Adams presented me with an offer from Lord
Carleton on behalf of his wife, that he requested me to present to you.”   Mr
Pilkington cleared his throat and attempted to infuse a positive tone to his
voice, really it was a very generous offer though he doubted Lady Murray would
see it that way.  “In return for your public acceptance of Frances Carleton as
your legitimate granddaughter, they will forgo any request for distribution of
her inheritance until you ..uh..well, until you pass on and the estate is wound
up.”