Elizabeth Thornton - [Special Branch 02] (34 page)

Jason, with the same caution Harper had shown, had paid off his hackney, but it was an easy walk to the inn, and half an hour later Jason and Gwyn were in an upstairs private parlor of the Stag, in Hampstead’s High Street.

Gracie’s blue coat was still in Gwyn’s possession. She laid it over the back of a chair, removed her own pelisse and bonnet, and sat down at the table like someone who was under the influence of a powerful sedative.

Jason’s mind was teeming with questions, but he realized that Gwyn was in shock and needed time to come to herself. He’d ordered sandwiches and coffee, and had already procured glasses and a bottle of brandy. He quickly poured a double measure of brandy into one of the glasses and set it to Gwyn’s lips.

“I’ve been so stupid,” she said.

“Drink!”

She drank, not in small sips, but greedily, before she understood what was in the glass, and in the next instant she was coughing, spluttering, and gasping for breath. Jason whacked her on the back and she sucked air into her lungs.

“You idiot!” she snapped when she could breathe again.

He pulled a chair closer to hers, seated himself, and grinned. The color was coming back into her cheeks; her eyes were stormy. The brandy was having the desired effect.

“More,” he said.

She took the glass from him and sipped delicately. He waited with raised brows. She obediently took another sip, then another, but the eyes that glared at him over the rim of her glass were anything but obedient.

When he thought she’d had enough, he poured himself a neat shot of brandy and demolished it in two swallows. “Not a pretty sight,” he said, remembering the seething hordes of maggots devouring their prey.

The fight went out of her eyes. “No. One never gets used to it.”

He was amazed. “You’ve seen sights like that before?”

This time, she didn’t have to be prompted to sip her brandy. She took a healthy swallow and nodded. “War isn’t pretty. But I never thought I’d see a sight like that in England. That poor woman.”

He thought of the letters she’d sent to Trish, and the amusing anecdotes she’d told. Life with the army, at least for the wives, was just one big party. He wished, with his whole heart, that he could move the clock back so that he could make sure nothing ugly had ever touched her.

“But it wasn’t Gracie,” she said.

“Then who was it? Do you know?”

“I think it was Lady Mary Bryant, only, I don’t think that’s her real name, not now. It’s so bizarre, I don’t know if you’ll believe me. I’m not sure that I believe it myself.”

Harper had told him as much as he knew, about the coat that had been left in the library by a young woman named Gracie—a name that Gwyn had never mentioned to him—and about the sales assistant who had given them Gracie’s address. Looking at Gwyn now, he decided to defer his questions and let her tell her story in her own way.

“Bryant,” she said. “That’s what made me think of Lady Mary.”

“Lady Mary?”

“Lady Mary Gerrard. Do you know her?”

“I know her husband. I don’t know him well, but he seems affable enough. I’ve met him in my clubs. He’s well liked.”

Her voice was hard-edged. “He’s affable to men he considers his equal. To everyone else he’s a quick-tempered tyrant.”

He was taken aback by her vehemence. “As I said, I don’t know him well.”

She stared at him hard, nodded, and somewhat mollified, went on, “Lady Mary’s gardens at Rosemount were designed by a landscape gardener named Williard Bryant. Some time ago—I can’t remember when exactly—she brought a box of his sketches and designs to the library. They’re still there. But we haven’t seen Lady Mary for more than a month. She’s supposed to be suffering from some kind of dementia. Are you following me so far?”

“I think so, except that I don’t see what this has to do with Gracie.”

She took another sip of brandy. “The coat was
bought for Gracie by an older lady named Lady Mary Bryant. That’s what the salesgirl told us. I don’t know. It all seemed to come together in my mind—Maitland mentioned Mr. High-and-Mighty, and I made a list for him of all the ladies of rank who came to the library—Lady Mary’s name is on that list—then there was Gracie. I thought she was hiding from her husband, and Jason, she was truly terrified. But now I think she was running from Mr. High-and-Mighty, too. Don’t you understand? Lady Mary Bryant and Lady Mary Gerrard are one and the same person. Gracie is her maid.”

She was becoming impatient with him, because what was as clear as day to her was obviously confusing him. She tried again. “I think Mr. High-and-Mighty is Hugo Gerrard. And I think Lady Mary assumed a new name and went into hiding.”

“You’re assuming a great deal, aren’t you, on the strength of the name Bryant? It’s not that uncommon.”

“Maybe not. But I think Lady Mary was in love with Williard Bryant once, so when she was thinking of a false name, it came naturally to her mind. When she spoke of him, there was always a wistful quality to her voice. He died very young, she said, before his promise was fulfilled.”

She thought for a moment or two, then went on, “Something must have gone wrong, I don’t know what. So Gracie came to the Ladies’ Library looking for help. It was Lady Octavia she wanted to see. I think she hoped Lady Octavia could do something to help her mistress.” She couldn’t go on.

“Whom you liked very much,” he said quietly.

“Yes,” she said, her voice cracking. “When she first came to the library, she was very timid, but she gained in confidence with every visit. A bond formed between us. She knew that my marriage had been
anything but happy. I didn’t say much. I didn’t have to. It was the same with her. But we both knew we’d been victims of brutal men.”

Her whole expression hardened. “I detested her husband. Not that I ever met him, but the other ladies told me he was a brute, and I could see for myself what he’d done to Lady Mary. I don’t think she had much stamina to begin with, and Gerrard wasn’t easy to take on. The only one among us with the nerve to stand up to him was Lady Octavia. Some of the ladies and I went to call on Lady Mary and the butler turned us away at the door. But Lady Octavia refused to be turned away. She stormed the house and insisted on seeing Lady Mary. Not that it did any good. She said that Lady Mary had suffered some sort of breakdown.”

“Why,” he asked thoughtfully, “didn’t Gracie ask
you
to help?”

She gave a short laugh. “Obviously, because Lady Octavia is the bravest of us all. Gracie must have known that. Oh, Jason, you should see Lady Octavia when her righteous fury is roused. She’s magnificent. The rest of us are cowards.

He smiled, and reaching out, clasped her hand. “I want you to know,” he said slowly and seriously, “that I deeply regret my uncalled for and totally erroneous remarks about Lady Octavia and her volunteers at the library. I mean it, Gwyn. I have nothing but admiration for you all.” Then, as her eyes filled with tears, in a different tone, he went on, “And I don’t believe for one minute that Gracie thought you were a coward. Good grief, Gwyn, how many women would stand up to the maniac who attacked you like you did? You are, without doubt, one of the bravest women I know.”

“Don’t go putting me on a pedestal, Jason. I was terrified. I’m still terrified.”

“That makes two of us.”

His remark won a smile from her, but it was fleeting.

He saw that his glass was empty and setting it aside, got up. He went to the window, opened it, and stared down at High Street. He hardly noticed the bustle of carriages and pedestrians outside. He was thinking of the body in the grounds of Heath Cottage and his rage sharpened to a razor’s edge. It could have been Gwyn lying there. It could have been Gwyn.

He turned abruptly from the window when there was a knock at the door. He almost smiled when he saw Gwyn, as cool as ice, reach into her reticule and produce her pistol. She got up and motioned for him to answer the door. As he expected, it was only a serving girl with the coffee and sandwiches. Gwyn hid the pistol in the folds of her gown as the girl entered and put the tray on the table. When they were alone, she set her pistol on the table, within arm’s reach.

“I know,” she said, watching him watching her. “It may seem far-fetched, but Harper would lose all faith in me if I didn’t follow his instructions to the letter.”

“I don’t think it’s far-fetched,” he said, and to prove it, withdrew his own pistol from his coat pocket and set it on the table.

They both smiled. He offered her a sandwich and took one himself. She had almost put it to her lips when her throat suddenly tightened.

“I can’t eat this,” she said hoarsely. “It would choke me.”

He looked at his own sandwich. Beefsteak. Rare. He had a vision of seething maggots and he swallowed hard. “Coffee?” he asked.

“I’ll pour.”

After taking a few swallows of coffee, Jason said, “So let’s assume you’re right about everything. We’re still no closer to finding the portrait.”

“Maybe Harry found it in the cottage and gave it to Gerrard.”

“The timing is wrong. The body in the gardens is at least ten days old, maybe longer.”

“She was murdered the same night as our Open House,” said Gwyn, remembering the umbrella and the programme.

“There you are then. Harry attacked you two days ago. That doesn’t sound to me as though Mr. High-and-Mighty has got his portrait back.”

“Gerrard!” she said emphatically. “Don’t call him Mr. High-and-Mighty when we know his name. Or don’t you believe me?”

He spoke in a placating tone. “Gwyn, it’s all very circumstantial. Lady Mary never mentioned a portrait to you, did she?”

“No.” Her shoulders slumped. “All she ever gave me was that box of Bryant’s sketches, and there is no portrait in that box.”

She lifted her head and their eyes locked.

Gwyn said slowly, “But I wasn’t looking for a portrait. I didn’t examine the box.”

“Then maybe we should take a closer look at it.”

Gwyn got up suddenly and went to the window. “Where is Harper? What’s keeping him?”

“We haven’t been here long.”

“No. But now that you’ve put the idea of that box in my head, I want to go through it and see if I missed something.”

“Do you have a key to the library?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. It’s in my reticule.”

She walked back to the table and picked up her reticule. It took her a moment or two to find the key. “I open the library three mornings a week,” she said. “Another helper opens it on the other three mornings. I never let the key out of my sight.”

She held up the key.

“Good, then we’ll go to the library and collect the box before we go on to the house in Marylebone.”

She sat down at the table again. “We’re not going back to Brandon’s rooms first?”

He topped up his coffee cup and did the same with hers. Her face was pale and showing the strain of the last few hours. It was her face that made him decide to add a generous measure of brandy to each cup. “Drink,” he said.

She looked at the cup, looked at him, sighed and did as she was told.

“No, we’re not going back to Brandon’s rooms,” he said. “Richard doesn’t want us to. You see, he thinks Harry will trace us to Bond Street.”

“How can he do that? What a silly thing to say! He found me at Sutton Row. He found me at Haddo. He may even find me at your Marylebone house. But do you know what? I don’t care anymore. He killed Lady Mary and somebody has to stop him. I knew it would come down to this.”

He was sitting on the edge of his chair. “Now just a minute,” he said. “Nobody said anything about Harry tracing you to Marylebone. Didn’t you hear me? Richard thinks he will trace you to Bond Street. And Special Branch will be there waiting for him when he shows up.”

“I hope you’re right, only …” She massaged her throat.

“Only what?”

“Only it’s too late to save Lady Mary.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Then whose body could it be?”

“Why don’t we wait until we hear what Harper says?”

He put his hand in his pocket, felt something, and pulled it out.

“What is it?” asked Gwyn.

He gave a wry grin. “The special licence I procured this morning. This was to be our wedding day.”

“Our time will come,” she said, “when this is all over.”

“Yes, Gwyn, our time will come.”

The sun was beginning to set when Harper arrived. “The local magistrate,” he said, “is also the local doctor. I had to wait until a baby was safely delivered before he would agree to look at the body.”

He walked to the table and helped himself to one of the sandwiches. “I wouldn’t mind some of that coffee,” he said.

“It’s stone cold,” said Gwyn.

“That don’t matter to me.”

“And?” prodded Jason, whose patience was wearing thin.

“It’s a local girl, he thinks. ‘Mad Hattie,’ they calls her. She often wanders the heath at night, but no one has seen her for over two weeks. They searched the heath when she first went missing, but didn’t find her. ’Course, the doctor couldn’t really say it was her, but we found her shoes. Her mother recognized them ’cos they was new.”

“Was she murdered?” asked Gwyn, her voice trembling.