Black Gold (7 page)

“Our good fortune,” said Saint-Martin at the door. “Bath is our destination. We shall leave tomorrow and meet her there. Do you have any messages for her?”

Cartier seemed delighted. He said he would write one and have it delivered to their inn before nightfall, together with messages from Mr. Braidwood and her solicitor, Mr. Barnstaple.

“Where is she living?” asked Saint-Martin, almost as an afterthought.

“With the family whose son she's tutoring. The Rogers. Sir Harry and Lady Margaret. They've leased Combe Park, a large fine estate complete with servants. Near the city.” Cartier smiled with satisfaction as he spoke.

Saint-Martin felt the blood drain from his face. His heart missed a beat. My God! he thought, Fitzroy might live there with his cousin Lady Margaret.

Cartier glanced sharply at Saint-Martin. “What's the matter, Colonel?”

“At supper last night, I heard a disturbing report about a certain army officer who has accompanied his cousin Lady Margaret to Bath. I'm sure Anne is resourceful enough to deal with him. But, Georges and I shall make certain she's safe.”

Cartier breathed a sigh of relief. “Trouble appears when you least expect it. I'm happy you will join her. God has sent her a friend she can count on.”

Chapter 6

An Accident?

Wednesday, March 28

Anne glanced at the faun's bright eyes staring at her from the mirror and grinned. Charlie had been so pleased with their work. She felt relieved. The boy had rebounded from his depression. Her pleasure, however, was tempered. William and Critchley would eventually discover that their peepholes were blocked. What new mischief would they attempt?

A young maid arrived to help her dress for the day. Anne chatted with her for a while, putting her at ease. Then, while the maid was hooking up the bodice, Anne seized the opportunity to inquire about Mary Campbell.

“She was no better than she should be,” remarked the maid dismissively. “She never took notice of me.” Then, sensing her opinion had discomfited Anne, she added, “Mind you, she took good care of Charlie.”

Other servants reacted to Anne's questions in a similar way. They told her mostly what she had already heard from Harriet, except that they were annoyed by Mary's superior attitude as tutor. She had been in the household only a month and had not become one of them. As a tutor, she held a position apart and slightly above the other female servants. That she was young and bold further irritated them.

The servants lived mostly in the garret rooms far from the site of the accident. None of them observed anything unusual about Mary before going to bed. Nor did they hear any screams or other sounds of violence in the house during the night.

It was almost ten in the morning when Anne went to Lady Margaret's apartment in accord with the lady's wish to discuss Charlie's tutoring. She sat at a breakfast table in a buff dressing gown with a pot of tea and a half-eaten biscuit before her. She gazed idly out the window. Jeffery stood off to one side attending her.

Her maid announced Anne's presence.

“Miss Cartier, do come closer.” She beckoned to a chair.

Anne sat down facing her, observing evidence of an ill-spent night. Heavy eyelids, lines of irritability at the mouth. After a polite exchange about Bath and its weather, Lady Margaret inquired if Anne's accommodations were satisfactory. Anne replied she was pleased, avoiding mention of the peepholes. She sensed Lady Margaret did not wish to hear of trouble.

When the conversation turned to Charlie, Anne explained how she intended to work with the boy. They would practice lipreading and oral articulation. She went on to briefly describe her devices and techniques to make the instruction more palatable.

Lady Margaret groaned occasionally, due perhaps to a headache, but she listened as well as could be expected, occasionally asking a pertinent question.

When the lady professed to be satisfied, Anne begged to raise another matter. “Mr. Braidwood would like to know the circumstances of Mary Campbell's death in order to assuage the grief of her deaf parents.” Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a flicker of interest flit across Jeffery's face.

“I wrote them a message of condolence,” Lady Margaret said wearily. “If you need more, you must speak to the steward. I have placed this regrettable affair in his hands.” She nodded a dismissal to Anne and gestured to Jeffery to remove the breakfast tray. The visit was over.

Anne found Mr. Cope, the steward, in his office in Combe Park's east wing, a large two-story structure joined to the main house by a low open arcade. The office walls were lined with shelves of files and account books. The steward sat behind his desk, quill in hand, busy with a sheet of paper.

Anne stood at the open door and cleared her throat. Mr. Cope looked up. A frown creased his brow.

“Yes? Do I know you, Miss?”

“Anne Cartier. Charlie Rogers' new tutor. Please excuse the interruption. If it's convenient, I'd like to ask you a few questions.”

He studied her for a brief moment, then smiled hurriedly. “Allow me a minute to bring this letter to a close.” With his quill he pointed to a chair.

She sat opposite him and took in his appearance. A once-handsome, elderly man, he had a tired look about him, a heaviness of spirit. His hair was thin and gray, his cheeks were pallid, his lips had a tint of blue. After a long minute, he laid down his pen, blotted the paper, and looked up at Anne. “What can I do for you, Miss Cartier?”

By his speech, she judged him to be intelligent and well-educated. Encouraged, she began to lay Mr. Braidwood's desire before him.

The steward repeated the common understanding of how the body had been found. As far as he was concerned, her death was clearly accidental. The doctor had found no evidence of violence, and a magistrate had concurred.

“And her body? What was done with it?” Anne asked.

“Placed on board a ship bound for Scotland the next day,” he replied.

This seemed remarkably abrupt, Anne thought with dismay.

Her face must have betrayed her feeling. The steward leaned forward, hand clasped before him, and met Anne's eye. “Lady Margaret wanted the incident closed as neatly and quickly as possible.”

“Miss Campbell was a decent, upright woman,” Anne persisted. “Were not prayers said for her? A parson called?” She wondered, was any mark of respect shown to her?

“This is not a religious house, Miss Cartier. Sir Harry has converted the chapel into a ball room. No one living or dead should expect prayers here.” He paused. His face darkened. A tinge of asperity crept into his voice. “I might add, Miss Campbell was a brash young woman who often forgot her place. I gather that many here had felt the lash of her tongue. Though no one wished her ill, or was glad of her accident, they are pleased she is gone.”

Anne sensed that the steward might have been one of the targets of Miss Campbell's blunt speech. There was something furtive and insincere about him. Anne concluded nothing more could be gained from further questioning. She thanked him and left. On the way back to the house, she regretted that a sharp-eyed investigator like her friend Georges Charpentier had not examined Mary's body.

As Anne approached the servant's entrance to the house, she suddenly became aware of Jeffery at her side.

“Have you learned what you set out for, Miss Cartier?” There was a note of doubt in his voice.

“Only enough to make me want more.” She stopped at the door and turned to him. “Did you know Mary Campbell?”

“Only a little. She was kind and helpful to little Charlie. Spoke her mind. Fought for her rights. But, at Combe Park, one should be cautious.” A warning look in his eye seemed intended for her.

“Oh! What do you mean?”

He shook his head, unwilling to be drawn out. “I think you should speak to Mrs. Powell, our cook. She knew Miss Campbell better than anyone. I'll bring you to her.”

He opened the door to the basement and let her into the hallway. They were immediately embraced by scents and sounds from the kitchen and bake house, mixed with those from the laundry, the beer cellar and the wine vault. Jeffery peered into the kitchen, exchanged a few words with someone inside, smiled, and beckoned Anne.

“Miss Cartier, this is Combe Park's cook, Mrs. Martha Powell.” Jeffery stepped aside while the two women shook hands. “You've been here hardly a day, Miss Cartier, but I've already noticed a change in Charlie. He's a much happier boy since you arrived.”

The cook was as tall as Anne but heavy-boned. Her face was round and red, her hair dark brown streaked with gray. She spoke with a heavy west country accent that Anne found difficult at first. At a glance Anne could tell that the woman was lord in her own kitchen but appeared friendly as well.

She wiped her hands with her apron and greeted Anne. “You may call me Martha. Join me for tea.” She sat her visitors at a small wooden table by a window and directed a kitchen maid to make the tea.

“Could we speak about Mary Campbell?” asked Anne cautiously, when tea had been served and the maid had joined others in the scullery next door.

Martha glanced at Jeffery, who nodded ever so slightly. She cocked her head. “What would you want to know?”

Anne explained Mr. Braidwood's interest in the matter, then asked, “Why was Mary in the stairway so early in the morning?”

“She was taking care of Charlie. His asthma flared up.” The cook spoke emphatically, as if to counter the rumor of a tryst. “For several days, he had been waking up early in the morning, gasping for breath. It helped when he sat up in bed, drank hot herbal tea, inhaled its vapors. I always prepared a pot for him and set it in the hearth. I'm sure she was coming to fetch it when she fell.”

The cook's voice hesitated on the word “fell,” prompting Anne to wonder if she suspected foul play. “So, someone else could have known she might be using the stairway at that time of night,” Anne remarked.

“The kitchen maids knew, so did Jeffery. Perhaps others.” She glanced at the footman. “But it wasn't broadcast upstairs.”

“Was there someone ‘upstairs' who shouldn't know?”

Martha hesitated to reply.

Anne pressed on. “Did anyone in the house wish to harm her?”

The cook sighed. “Captain Fitzroy had been courting her ever since he arrived from London. She was a very pretty girl and wonderfully light on her feet. Loved to dance. For a time, she was flattered by his attention and pleased to be his partner in the ballroom upstairs. Later, she grew to dislike him. A vain, brutal man. He took offense at her attempts to avoid him.”

She glanced over her shoulder before continuing. “The day before she died, he found her alone in the kitchen gathering dried crumbs for the geese in the pond. I was in the scullery. Suddenly, I heard raised voices and a loud slap. I stepped into the kitchen to see what had happened. He had tried to kiss her and she had hit him smartly. He stalked out without a word.”

She paused for a sip of her tea. “I could tell by the set of his jaw he was angry. So I called Jeffery and asked him to look after Mary on her way to and from the pond. The captain might try to hurt her.”

“I went after her right away.” A hard expression had settled on the footman's face.

“It's a good thing he did,” continued Martha. “On Mary's way back, about half-way up the path to the house, Fitzroy suddenly came out of the woods. In an instant, Jeffery was there. The captain took one look at him, mumbled an excuse and left. Jeffery walked Mary back to the house.”

Martha shook her head. Her voice wavered. “We thought Fitzroy had learned a lesson—he had better leave Mary alone. She seemed no longer in danger. Anyway, Jeffery couldn't stay up all night to guard her after he'd worked all day.”

A heavy silence descended over the table. The cook appeared overcome by Mary's fate and by the feeling she might have failed to prevent it. Jeffery seemed saddened as well.

Anne stirred, then took the lead. “You've probably heard the rumor that followed the captain from London…” She could see from expressions of distaste on their faces that they had.

Jeffery answered, “Yes, the captain himself spreads it about. It's a lie. He was the one who hurt that French girl, and he would have hurt Mary, if I hadn't stopped him.”

“Could he have killed her in the stairway?” Anne asked.

Martha shrugged. “He claims he was gambling with friends in the city at the time.”

“Did she have any other enemies?” asked Anne.

“None that disliked her enough to kill her,” said the cook. Jeffery agreed.

In the discussion that followed, Anne realized they were unaware of Mary's conflict with Mr. Critchley over the stolen spoons. She briefly reported what Charlie had told her.

“I'd swear he snitches things from the pantry, but I can never catch him at it. I suspected him from the start when the spoons went missing last Wednesday after a fancy dinner upstairs. I was in the scullery. He came in, stood near to the silver, and chatted while I was washing it. Later, when I counted the lot, I was short six pieces. I went to Mr. Cope who looks after the silver, keeps it under lock and key. He might search for the spoons in Mr. Critchley's room, I said. Late in the morning after Mary died, Mr. Cope came to me. He had found the spoons, he said. Where? I asked. None of your business, he replied.”

The cook glanced from Jeffery to Anne. “What do you make of that?”

“It appears that Mr. Cope and Mr. Critchley are friends of a sort and have reached an understanding,” Anne replied. “Have you heard the rumor that the spoons were found in Mary's room after her death?”

Both Jeffery and Martha nodded.

“Mary's threat to report Critchley may have sealed her fate,” offered Anne.

Jeffery had listened attentively without saying much. He rose now from the table, thanked the cook, and excused himself. He had to return to work. “Mr. Critchley might have wished to kill Mary that night,” the footman remarked. “But he was seen at The Little Drummer on Avon Street until dawn.” Jeffery left without another word, the two women staring at each other bewildered. How did Jeffery know? Had he been there?

As Anne left the kitchen, she had to admit to herself that it was possible Mary simply tripped and fell to her death. Still, she wouldn't report as much to Braidwood yet. Her mind was too uneasy. The captain's alibi needed to be checked. Despite what Jeffery had said, Critchley was still suspect.

And, there could have been someone else.