Death on a Silver Tray (17 page)

“But for how long, Mr. Dawlish?” Miss Ashton murmured weakly. “How long will it be before he returns to arrest me?”

I poured a glass of wine from a decanter on a side table and brought it to her. “Please try to be as calm as you can under the circumstances. It is difficult, but you must try. I am working to discover the killer.”

Miss Ashton drank the wine, and a bit of color returned to her pale cheeks. “Mr. Brummell, I heard what happened last night at Lady Crecy’s party, that Mr. Fairingdale made public your defense of me. I cannot help feeling mortified that your good name is now at stake in this as well.”

Mr. Dawlish curled his lip. “Fairingdale is a useless popinjay. He cares for nothing but selfish pleasures. Attending a party while in mourning and dancing, as I hear he did, is most improper. Mr. and Mrs. Hensley are no better. They are going to the opera tomorrow night as if nothing untoward has happened.”

I took a seat opposite, picking up on the fact that the Hensleys would be attending the opera the same night I had agreed to escort Lady Salisbury. That was all for the better, because I would have more of an opportunity to study them.

Though I viewed Sylvester Fairingdale as the probable killer, I wanted to keep an open mind. Besides, I would have to obtain evidence to present to Mr. Lavender if I accused the fop of the deed. I could not just tell the Bow Street man that

Mr. Fairingdale was guilty because he dressed badly.

“Mr. Fairingdale’s uncouth behavior toward me is of no consequence,” I assured Miss Ashton. “What matters is that you and Lizzie are safe, and that we strive to discover who really killed Lady Wrayburn. By the way, I met Lizzie in the hall. She seems most certain that the father of her baby will take care of them.”

Miss Ashton dropped her lashes under my intent gaze. I sensed she knew the identity of the baby’s father. As the silence grew, it became apparent she would not speak on the subject. Lizzie had most likely told her in confidence, and Miss Ashton was not the sort to betray her.

“As to Miss Ashton’s safety,” Mr. Dawlish suddenly burst out, his hand placed in a proprietary way on her arm, “I have offered her the protection of my name—”

“Mr. Dawlish!” Miss Ashton gasped, swinging around to face him. “I beg you not to—”

The rector interrupted her with heat. “I am convinced that Mr. Lavender and his cohorts at Bow Street would treat a rector’s wife with due respect. And, if you wish it, we could even provide Lizzie with a home. Despite what Lizzie claims, it has been my sad experience in these matters that the cad who fathers the baby rarely lifts a hand to help. Lizzie and the child would flourish with us. Why can you not see that this is the best plan? Why have you refused me, when you know how much I care for you?”

“I have told you, what I feel for you is friendship, nothing more.” Miss Ashton’s cheeks were certainly pink now, and I could not blame her.

Mr. Dawlish’s romantic words and promises should have been spoken in private. Apparently they already had been without success. I could see clearly just what an independent lady Miss Ashton was. Another woman in her circumstances might welcome the sanctuary the rector offered regardless of whether she loved him.

Clearing my throat, I said, “As to Lizzie, I have learned of a woman who is the directress of a shelter for women. I am inquiring into the suitability of her establishment for Lizzie in case it is needed, and will report back to you shortly.”

Miss Ashton sat in a state of embarrassment, and merely nodded her head at this plan. Mr. Dawlish’s expression reflected his deep frustration at being refused his heart’s desire. A film of perspiration glistened on his forehead.

A shout of laughter, followed by loud voices coming from the direction of the library served as an interruption. I rose and opened the door to the drawing room.

A man carrying a sheaf of papers hurried past us. The family solicitor, no doubt. Apparently, the reading of the will was over. Lizzie, still on duty in the hall, let him out the front door.

Sylvester Fairingdale and Mr. and Mrs. Hensley strolled out of the library. My gaze immediately fell on a smirking Fairingdale. Yes, I mused, he was exactly the sort who would have sent me the drawing.

Then, I looked at the married couple.

Mr. Hensley appeared relieved.

Mrs. Hensley had a smug smile on her face.

Mr. Fairingdale sauntered toward us. Today his coat was a vibrant lemon color. “I always knew the old squeeze-purse hated me. Ha! Two shillings and a lecture on my wastrel ways! Oh, that’s rich indeed!”

Miss Ashton glared and turned away when Mr. Fairingdale ceased laughing and raised his quizzing glass at the bosom of her gown.

“Be quiet, Sylvester,” Mrs. Hensley admonished. “We know you’ve plenty of money from your Uncle Williams. And all you have to do is spend summers with him in Bath. You’re lucky the Countess never succeeded in convincing Uncle you are a wastrel.”

Shock held me rooted to my place by the doorway. Fairingdale did not need Lady Wrayburn’s money. Fairingdale had a wealthy benefactor, the previously unknown recipient of the Countess’s last letter. Fairingdale had no motive to kill Lady Wrayburn.

“Would anyone care to join me for a drink?” Mr. Hensley asked, wiping his brow with a linen handkerchief and heading for the brandy decanter.

“I would,” I responded.

Everyone else trailed after him into the drawing room.

Mr. Fairingdale said, “Pour me one as well.” Moving past where I still stood motionless, he paused and spoke in a low voice, “Defending that pretty piece of goods will be your downfall, Brummell. But then, I feel sure under my leadership London will become a more colorful place,” he taunted, looking through his quizzing glass at my subdued coat.

“Impossible,” I said, forcing my expression not to change. “Despite a marked resemblance to the species, you could not lead a parched peacock to water.”

I moved away and accepted a glass of brandy from

Mr. Hensley.

“Mr. Brummell!” Mrs. Hensley trilled. “Do come over here. I want you to know that on your advice I purchased the new Egyptian-style crocodile sofa! Now that this tedious will-reading business is over, I shall be able to fill Wrayburn House with all manner of sphinx heads, serpents, and sarcophaguses. I shall be the envy of all my friends!”

“Indeed,” I remarked. “Such items will be quite fitting for Wrayburn House.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Hensley toss back another drink. Then, he quietly said, “My mother left you a small bequest, Miss Ashton.”

Miss Ashton’s hand flew to her throat. “Oh, I did not expect—”

“The Countess must not have had a chance to change her will,” Mrs. Hensley said archly. “But then, I imagine she did not expect to be murdered.”

Mr. Hensley acted as if his wife had not spoken, a tactic I was sure he often employed. “I have already extended an offer for you to remain here as long as you need to, Miss Ashton.”

“Timothy!” Mrs. Hensley hissed.

“And that offer is still open,” he finished.

Mrs. Hensley’s face mottled with rage.

I swallowed the remainder of my brandy in one gulp. I felt disgusted. Disgusted with myself for following the wrong path toward a resolution of the crime, and disgusted with Lady Wrayburn’s family for their callous treatment of her death. I wanted, no needed, to get away from Wrayburn House and sort out my thoughts.

Ready to take my leave, I crossed to Miss Ashton’s side. She was deathly pale once again, no doubt from Mrs. Hensley’s obvious belief in her guilt. She, too, needed a respite from the family.

Mr. Dawlish looked about to speak, but I was before him. “Miss Ashton, I have kept you from your rest long enough. I know you wished to retire to your room. Please forgive me.” There, that should give her a gracious way to escape.

She managed a weak smile. The rector helped her rise.

“Good day,” I said to the company in general, and walked from the room.

Reaching the hall, I surprised Lizzie dreamily brushing her short curls in the mirror. She quickly pocketed the brush and retrieved my things. “It was a pleasure to meet you,

Mr. Brummell. I know you are trying to help ‘Becca.”

“Yes, I am,” I said, slipping on my greatcoat. “By the way, the night of the murder, Lizzie, did you hear anyone go down to the kitchens?”

The girl frowned, then said, “I was in my room in the attics, sir, and didn’t hear a thing. However, I know ‘Becca could never do anything so evil as to poison anyone.”

“Have you any idea who could?”

The girl’s pretty face was a blank. “No.”

“Here is my card,” I said, extracting a square calling card from a silver case. “If you need anything or if you think of something that might shed light on the murder, come around and tell my man, Robinson, who you are.”

Lizzie’s face brightened. “Or, since Mr. Dawlish is teaching me my letters, I could write you a note.”

Smiling at the triumph on Lizzie’s face at her achievements, I left the house.

* * * *

My smile soon disappeared, as the pleasure I took in Lizzie’s pride evaporated. I was in a glum mood when I entered my house.

Robinson took one look at my face and poured me a large measure of claret. “Sir, has something else happened?” he asked, taking my greatcoat and hat.

“Nothing I understand,” I bemoaned.

Climbing the stairs with Robinson behind me, I said, “I shall be going out for the evening. It will not do for me to remain at home. I must be seen in my usual good humor by as many people as possible. Otherwise, it may be perceived that I am taking Fairingdale’s taunts seriously.”

“An excellent plan, sir. While you are gone, I shall step around to The Butler’s Tankard and see if Riddell is there.” The tavern is a popular gathering place for male servants. “Oh, and perhaps it will cheer you to know Andre has prepared your favorite lobster patties for dinner.”

I sighed. “That is welcome news.”

We crossed into my bedchamber, and I stopped. Chakkri was on my bed with my package from Floris’s in front of him. The paper was torn and the contents scattered. He held the tortoise-shell comb between his paws.

“Put that down!” I commanded.

His intelligent blue eyes gazed at me unconcerned.

I walked across the room and snatched the comb from his grasp.

“Reow!” he cried in protest.

Examining the comb, I found he had done no damage aside from a faint set of teeth marks on one end. Even so, with the cat’s penchant for fine things, I was amazed that he would treat the carefully crafted comb with such disregard.

“That was a bad-cat thing to do, Chakkri,” I scolded. “I am sure you were attracted to the string tied around the package—or was it the tortoise-shell of the comb?—but either way it is no excuse for marring one of my possessions.”

Chakkri looked at me askance. Then he hopped down to the floor and went behind the screen. Shortly thereafter a scratching sound could be heard coming from his tray.

I turned to Robinson. “About the container you chose to hold his sand—”

But Robinson stood with an appalled look on his face. Between two fingers he held the box of starch I had purchased at Floris’s. “If you find the stiffening in your cravats inferior, sir, I should be willing to pack my things and leave at once.”

“Why, no,” I said, perplexed. “The starch we currently use is quite acceptable. I purchased this thinking it would be a convenience.”

Robinson regarded me with the look of one dealt a supreme insult. “A convenience? Sir, I spent months experimenting to discover the exact formula for the best starch.”

“Is that so? A job well done then. You may throw the one from Floris’s away.”

Robinson did just that and then hurried to the washstand to fetch water for shaving. His demeanor was a trifle chilly over the starch incident, but life went on. “Would you like a salad with dinner, sir? I could step downstairs and ask Andre to prepare one.”

I sat under Robinson’s ministrations during The Dressing Hour, but, for once, my thoughts were only half on dressing for the evening. That should tell you the extent of my chagrin.

Robinson’s mention of salad reminded me of Fairingdale’s clothing at Lady Crecy’s party. Which made me think of the man himself.

I had been so sure Fairingdale was responsible for Lady Wrayburn’s death!

He would be the sort to commit murder in a non-violent way. He would be the sort to send me that drawing, which, in my view, was a cowardly thing to do. He would be the sort to murder for money.

Only there was the rub. It turns out he did not need the money.

Everything had pointed to him. Or had it been just my wanting him to be the murderer that made it seem so?

“Sir?” Robinson said, holding aloft a cravat.

I raised my chin so he could wrap the material around my neck. The thought crossed my mind that I deserved to be choked for allowing personal prejudices to interfere with my investigation. Mr. Lavender was right. I should leave the work to the professionals.

I lowered my chin, creasing the linen material of the cravat in just the right way. The cloth around my neck triggered the mental image of Miss Ashton with a hangman’s noose around her pretty neck. I shuddered.

“Cold, sir?”

“No, I am fine.” When was the last time a woman had been hanged in London? It did not happen often, but it was certainly possible for someone who committed a heinous crime. Poisoning your employer would fit into that category snugly. Of course, she might only be sentenced to be transported. Australia was the popular place England sent their criminals. Another dreadful fate. No one bathed there.

I must not and would not give up easily. Too much was at risk. Miss Ashton’s life. My reputation. Freddie’s good name.

Freddie’s favorable opinion of me.

I would continue to try my best, although I am no expert like John Lavender. I simply must bring the real murderer to justice.

Slipping into a Saxon-blue coat, I said, “If you do speak with Riddell, find out what he knows about Mr. Hensley in particular.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Did you send the designs for Ned and Ted’s livery round to Guthrie?”