The Devious Duchess (18 page)

“I don’t believe my ears!” Dick stormed. “It’s some new stunt Nevil’s playing off. I don’t know yet what it can be, but he’s up to something.”

“And thank God for it! It’s time someone did something useful. You’re too suspicious, too quick to believe the worst of Nevil.”

This oblique charge that he had been dragging his heels inflamed Belami, but he quelled his anger. “I can see any slur on Nevil isn’t to be countenanced. Have I understood the terms of your decree properly, I wonder? Is it only I who am to have the honor of your hand if I prove the duchess innocent, or was a similar honor bestowed on Sir Nevil?”

"I never charged you to prove her innocent! And I never said I’d marry you if you did either. I only said I wouldn't marry you if Auntie is convicted. No one would want to marry the relative of a murderer,” she pointed out.

“Then you’ll die an old maid,” he said sharply. “Because if the duchess is innocent, your cousin Nevil is as guilty as sin.”

“Oh!” She gave a gasp of horror. That possibility hadn’t occurred to her. She was kin to a criminal either way. The best course seemed to be to leave the crime unsolved. “I wish you’d stop your investigation,” she said on a sigh.

“Oh, don’t worry yourself unduly, Miss Gower. Remember, you haven’t promised to marry me if I solve the case."

Dick turned on his heel and went off to look for Straus. He found him in the common room, cooling his hot temper with an ale. "I'd like to hear exactly what cock-and-bull story Ryder gave you,” Dick said.

Straus narrowed his eyes and examined Belami for a moment. "He tells me he never went to Bath at all. Don’t think that didn’t occur to me several days ago!”

“Of course he went. My groom knows every move he made,” Dick said.

“I’ve had close inquiries made in Bath as well. He was there, right enough. He tells me he was in the stable at the Grange the whole time, planning to shoot his uncle to get his share of the money from the will. When he saw the duchess take the bowl into the house, he slipped into the kitchen. When Anna left for a minute, he stirred arsenic into it. Just happened to have a packet of arsenic in his pocket, you see, when it was a gun he meant to use in the first place. And besides that foolishness, Anna never left the kitchen. I have notes on what she told me earlier. The duchess gave her the bowl and told her to heat it. She stuck it into the oven, then took it out and went with it to the dining room. Ryder knows his story wouldn’t stand up for five minutes in a court of law, you see, but if he insists he did it, it will confuse things. He didn’t even
try
to make it convincing. The kitchen at
Fernvale
is where it might conceivably have been done. The stuff was sitting about there for a while before it was taken to the Grange. Why, it’s a story concocted by an idiot.”

“I’ve heard Sir Nevil called a lot of things, but never before an idiot, Mr. Straus,” Belami objected.

“You heard about the will?” Straus asked. He was calming down now that he had had an opportunity to let off some steam.

“Yes, a bit of a shocker for Ryder, eh?”

“You see what he’s up to, of course. Trying to cozzen favor with the old malkin since he got so little blunt from the uncle. Old Charney’s pockets are deep, if local gossip serves. She’ll never fall for such a stunt, do you think?”

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Belami replied. “The confession went down very well with the ladies. Did you discover anything more about Polly Shard?”

“She wasn’t seen hopping aboard any of the coaches. Didn’t buy a ticket in town at least.” Straus began a shifty-eyed examination of Belami. It was quite clear that he had some additional information he was dying to discuss. Belami ordered him another ale, and, before long, the news came out.

“What’s your opinion of the widow?” he asked. “The new widow, I refer to—the Pankhurst woman."

“Are you asking for an aesthetic opinion?” Belami parried.

“No, sir, I’m talking about her conduct. I’ll tell you mine,” he added without waiting for an answer. “I think the widow might be more deeply involved in this business than we ever suspected. I’ve been chatting to anybody in town who’d have a word with me and learned why she went flying off from the old fellow ten or so years ago. There was another man in the case,” he said, nodding his head wisely.

“Sir Nevil?” Belami asked eagerly.

“Nothing of the sort. Tommie Broome that runs the brandy up from Portsmouth. The old gaffer, Lord Dudley, was Tom’s best customer next to the inn here. Miss Pankhurst took to smiling at him when he made his deliveries, and since they’re a pair cut from the same bolt, before you could say one, two, three, she was slipping out to meet him on the sly. Patmore didn’t care for it and tried to get a leash on her. She wouldn’t have that and left him. She didn’t move in with Broome, however. She moved to Bath instead, but she paid Broome a visit yesterday morning.”

At the end of this speech, he sat still, waiting for Belami’s reaction. It was not as spectacular as Straus had hoped. “You see what I’m getting at? She had Tom do the job for heir.”

“But the poison wasn’t in the brandy. It was—at least we think it was—in the stew. And as Anna never left the kitchen, how did Tom get the poison into it?”

“That’s exactly what I’m working on now,” Straus replied. “And you’d better hope I succeed, or we’re back to one suspect—the Duchess of Charney.”

Belami said not a word about the arsenic being in her kitchen. Not that arsenic was hard to come by. Sir Nevil, if he was guilty, had gotten some—probably in London, as the chemist’s shop wasn’t one of his stops in Bath. His reaction was one of relief that a little more time might be given to him to think of something as Straus was now widening his field of suspects.

Before Straus left, he had only one more piece of news. “The inquest will be the day after tomorrow at ten in the morning, if you’d care to attend it,” he said. “The best I look for is a verdict of death by person or persons unknown. Someone has started the rumor that Lord Dudley did away with himself, but I don’t buy that. Why would he do it so close to his own birthday?”

“But on the other hand, why not?” Belami countered. “I should think a birthday is not a happy thing at Lord Dudley’s age.”

“You get presents, don’t you? A Patmore kill himself the day before he was to get presents? Not likely, my friend!”

On this kindling phrase, Mr. Straus arose and took his departure. Belami went back to the lobby, where the duchess was looking for him.

Deirdre was with her. He looked for a token of softening in her mood, and when he found none, he held back any sign of pleasure.

“Sir Nevil is not here,” Deirdre said. “My aunt wants to go home now, so we’ll say good day.”

“I have a few things I’d like to look into here,” Belami said.

“I have left a note asking Sir Nevil to come to us for dinner. You’re welcome to join us, Belami, and Mr. Pilgrim as well,” the duchess said. “We’ll be counting on you. Good day."

And still there was no encouraging smile from Deirdre. She looked completely indifferent to his answer. “I’ll come if it’s possible,” he replied.

They were off in a swirl of black crape, and Dick returned to the common room to read his list of details to be looked into. There was now a new name on his list: Tom Broome. Polly Shard’s name still bore a question mark. It was high time Réal reported back on stealing the letter from Marsh. Last and most incomprehensible of all, there was Sir Nevil's freakish confession of murder. Why? Was it to win Deirdre’s affection? Was she that easily cozzened? At least Straus wasn’t, and neither was he.

Chapter 13

Sir Nevil found himself in such high aroma at Fernvale that he was invited to make a visit there. The minuscule size of his inheritance showed him the wisdom of accepting the offer, and the very evening of the funeral he sent off to the inn for his belongings. Lady Dudley, as Adelaide now called herself, had her luggage removed to the Grange. With a newly acquired air of noblesse oblige, she offered to “go snacks” with Nevil and pay half the bill run up at the Green Man, only caviling when he tried to include the stable charges.

Belami was unable to accept the duchess’s offer for dinner on the day of the funeral. Réal had finally reported back regarding the mail from Woolwich, and it was just possible that the letter from Marsh would arrive on the evening mail coach. Réal had insinuated himself into the good graces of the clerk assigned to the duty of sorting the mail and spent many an hour comfortably curled up in his office, puffing a cloud, and relating apocalyptic tales of Indian massacres and year-long snows in Canada. While the clerk sorted the letters, Réal kept his sharp black eyes peeled.

When he espied a missive addressed to his master, he invented a ruse to distract the clerk. Mr. Marsh had been thoughtful enough to inscribe his own name and address on the outer envelope and mark it “urgent.” Réal at once went into a coughing fit that required a glass of water, and by the time the glass was handed to him, the precious envelope was already inside his jacket. He soon took his leave and went darting off to the inn.

Réal was so swollen with pride at his accomplishment that he was hardly able to speak when he handed the letter to Belami. “This was very much dangerous work,” he pointed out. “Triflings with the post are the serious matter, but I, Pierre Réal, have made the grand success.”

Belami snatched the letter out of his fingers while he was still expostulating on his ingenuity. He was on the point of ripping it open when something stopped him. Instead, he opened it very carefully, in a way that didn’t preclude resealing it and returning it to the post office. His eyes flickered swiftly over the page, then he read it again more carefully to be certain that hope hadn’t colored his perception.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” he breathed softly. A reckless smile lifted his lips, and he handed the letter back to Réal. “Glue this up and take it back where you got it.”

“It is no good?” Réal asked.

“It is excellent, Réal. You’ve earned yourself a bonus this night. The sky’s the limit. As soon as you get that letter safely back, come here and drive me to Fernvale. We’ll have to take Pronto’s carriage.”

* * * *

Such goings-on as returning the letter after all his trouble in securing it were quite incomprehensible to Réal, but he knew that he was back where he belonged, on the highest pedestal in England, and he was happy. He would claim no reward, no bonus for his work, but would rub salt in the master’s wound for his recent harsh words by being the best groom who ever held the ribbons and the most humble and modest in the entire world.

It was nine o’clock at night when the carriage headed to Fernvale. Pronto was so bored that he elected to go with Dick, and Dick was in such an elated mood that he would have taken up the dustman if he’d asked.

“Odd hour to be calling. Charney won’t like it,” Pronto warned him.

“Oh, yes, she will!” Belami replied, and laughed. “I just hope Ryder has left by the time we get there.”

Sir Nevil had left, but only to scoot across the meadow and begin making advances to Lady Dudley, as the duchess had intimated that Deirdre and Belami were re-engaged. The duchess had retired to her bedchamber, not that she had any hope of sleeping, but even sitting up was becoming a strain.

Deirdre was alone in the cavernous saloon, trying to make some sense of all the recent events. She was delighted at the unexpected call and didn’t even mind that Pronto was along to rob it of half the pleasure. At that troubled time in the romance, she half welcomed a third party’s presence. As soon as she saw the excited, febrile glow in Dick’s eyes she knew that he had some startling news, and she judged by the reckless smile adorning his lips that it was good news for them.

“What is it? What have you done?” she asked.

“Done? That has an accusing ring to it. I haven’t done anything, but I’ve learned that your aunt is innocent. Where is she?”

“She’s gone up to bed. Dick, tell me! What is it?” Her hands went to his lapels, and when she noticed she was pulling them, she let go and stepped back.

A hint of her perfume wafted to him. Dick’s hands went out to her, almost by instinct. He felt an urge to seize her in his arms and demand his reward. She read something of his thoughts in his eyes and lowered her own gaze.

“Letter from Marsh,” Pronto told her, as he was privy to the secret by this time. “No arsenic in the stew at all. All a hum.”

Dick was furious to have the wind pulled from his sails, but Deirdre didn’t believe Pronto, so at least Dick had the pleasure of reassuring her that it was true.

“It’s absolutely true. I read it in black and white, and very soon Straus will be reading it as well. This will throw a spanner into his case.”

“I’m so relieved!” Deirdre said. She felt as though a mountain had fallen from her shoulders. “And all Auntie’s worries were for nothing. Nevil, too! Oh, dear, he will look a fool now, saying he put the arsenic in the stew when there was none there at all.”

“He wouldn’t have said he did it if he’d had the least worry what that analysis would contain,” Dick told her. “Now I understand his great gesture of saving your aunt. He quite obviously knew where the arsenic wasn't. Do you really believe for one moment he doesn’t know where it was?”

Deirdre considered it, but became more confused than ever. “It begins to look as though Dudley inhaled it from the air. It wasn’t in anything he ate or drank. Where did it come from?”

Belami, who had given it considerable thought by this time, made a suggestion. “Obviously the table had been tampered with. Whatever contained the poison was removed, and an innocent, arsenic-free substitution made.”

Deirdre frowned, doubtful of this idea. “That points to Anna Wilkey. She was the only one there.”

“Ah, no! Polly was also there before we arrived the next morning,” Dick reminded her. “She returned around midnight. She might have done her—or Sir Nevil’s—work at that time, or she might have done it the next morning, when she claims she went in to clear the table. We know she was mixed up in something with Sir Nevil,
vide
the letter to Mrs. Haskell, their argument, and her flight.”