Sheri Cobb South (16 page)

“My name,” he continued in the same serious vein, “ish John.”

Suppressing a smile, the viscountess managed a very creditable curtsey without relinquishing his arm; indeed, she feared that, were she to release her hold on him, he would in all likelihood fall over. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“They both begin with J,” he said, with the air of one revealing an important discovery.

“Imagine that!”

He blinked as if a new thought had only at that moment occurred to him. “Am I jug-bitten, d’you think?”

“I should not be at all surprised,” she said soothingly, steering him in the direction of the staircase. “But Thomas has gone to prepare a room for you, where you may have a good night’s sleep. In the morning, you shall no doubt feel much more the thing.” As she recalled the effects of her own over-indulgence on the night her husband was slain, however, honesty compelled her to add, “Eventually.”

Chapter 12

In Which Is Seen the Power of the Written Word

Pickett awoke the next morning with the distinct impression that someone was pounding his head with a sledgehammer. Opening his eyes, he discovered that he was alone in an unfamiliar bedchamber. The hangings were open, and from his supine vantage point he could see a small writing desk and chair positioned beneath a window through which poured an indecent amount of brilliant sunshine. Turning his head away from the offending light, he saw a small table outfitted with a large porcelain bowl and pitcher, with a rectangular looking-glass mounted on the wall above. Gradually he realized that the sound reverberating off the robin’s egg blue walls was in fact no hammer at all, but someone tapping on the door.

“Come in,” he croaked.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Thomas, entering the room with a can of hot water, which he emptied into the pitcher, “but her ladyship is at breakfast and invites you to join her.”

Pickett recognized Lady Fieldhurst’s footman, and certain of the previous night’s events came rushing back to his consciousness. He lurched forward to a sitting position and instantly regretted his haste, wincing at the pain that shot through his abused head. “I’ll be there in five minutes—no, best make that ten.”

“Yes, sir.”

As the door closed behind the footman, Pickett flung back the counterpane. Glancing down at his rumpled person, he was relieved to find that he had at least managed to remove his coat and boots before collapsing—or had Thomas removed them for him? He could ask, but he was not at all certain he wanted to know. His neckcloth was untied and draped across the back of a chair, along with his coat and waistcoat, but his wrinkled shirt and breeches bore the unmistakable signs of having been slept in.

He staggered out of bed and lurched across the room to the looking-glass to survey the damage. The image that met his bleary-eyed gaze resembled nothing so much as a death’s head on a mop stick. His brown eyes were bloodshot and his complexion pasty. His queue had come undone at some point in the night, and his hair now stood up from his scalp in all directions. His chin was shadowed with faint stubble; too late he wished he had requested of Thomas the loan of a razor.

But there was no good to be found in repining over what could not be helped. Pouring some of the water from the pitcher into the bowl, he made his ablutions as best he could, and felt rather better for the feel of warm water on his face. A prolonged search through the bedclothes at last unearthed the black ribbon that had held back his hair. If it was sadly crumpled from the night’s misadventures, it was at least in better shape than his neckcloth. At last, having arrayed himself in his creased clothing, thrust his feet into his scuffed boots, and retied his queue, he was forced to acknowledge the fact that there was nothing else he could do to make his appearance less repugnant. Thus, with mingled dread and anticipation, he left the room and staggered forth to meet her ladyship.

He found her awaiting him in the breakfast room, reading a letter and sipping chocolate from a delicate Sèvres cup. The lusterless black of her mourning gown comprised the only dark spot in the sunny yellow chamber—and, consequently, the only spot upon which he could fix his gaze without hurting his eyes.

At his entrance, she set her cup down and laid her letter aside. “Good morning, Mr. Pickett. Would you care for bacon and buttered eggs?” she asked, precisely as if she entertained inebriated Runners at her breakfast table every day of the week.

She raised the lid of a silver chafing dish, and the smell of the proffered bacon assailed Pickett’s nostrils. His stomach lurched.

Lady Fieldhurst, seeing his pallid countenance change to a queer shade of green, lowered the lid hastily. “Or perhaps a bit of dry toast and some coffee—

“Just—just coffee, if you please.”

“I have just received a most curious communication from Limmer’s hotel,” she continued, filling another one of the ornate china cups with steaming dark liquid. “It seems that Papa intends to leave London this very afternoon, and wishes me to suggest something that he might purchase for Mama as a gift.”

Pickett, receiving the cup with hands that shook slightly, found her quizzical gaze fixed upon him and felt it behooved him to offer some sort of explanation. “Perhaps, having seen your situation for himself, he wished to reassure your mama on that head.”

“I daresay that must be it. He pays you the compliment of saying that I appear to be in good hands. Although,” she added, noting the way his cup rattled against its saucer, “it appears those hands are not as steady as they were when he saw them yesterday.”

“My lady, about my conduct last night, I can’t say how sorry I am—”

She shook her head, dismissing his half-formed apology out of hand. “Not at all. I daresay most men over-imbibe from time to time. Certainly my late husband did so with sufficient frequency to prevent my being shocked by seeing another in that condition.”

Pickett was moved to protest a comparison he considered highly unflattering. “I don’t know anything about your late husband’s habits, my lady, but I can assure you that they are not mine.”

She said nothing, but raised one skeptical eyebrow in a manner that made him all the more painfully aware of his unkempt appearance, the lingering proof of last night’s excesses.

“As to that, it wasn’t by my choice, believe me,” Pickett put in hastily. “I was trying to find some trace of the missing butler. I visited several pubs he’d been known to frequent, and when one of the proprietors proved tight-lipped, I had to, er, lubricate his tongue a bit.”

“If he was half as well-lubricated as you were, I wonder he was coherent at all,” observed the viscountess, but the severity of her tone was belied by a lurking twinkle in her eyes.

“Yes, and I was a regular addle-pate not to realize he was trying to drink me under the table. It was unforgivable of me to foist myself on you in such a condition, my lady, and if I said or did anything to offend you—”

“ ‘If,’ Mr. Pickett?” she echoed in tones of exaggerated surprise. “Do you truly not remember?”

The Runner’s bleary eyes opened wide, his expression so replete with mortification that she could only wonder what the poor man might imagine he had done.

“I was only roasting you,” she assured him hastily. “You were none too steady on your feet, I grant you, but no fault could be found with your manners.” Seeing that he was still far from convinced, she quickly turned the subject. “But you were searching for Rogers, you say? Tell me, did you find him?”

“No, but I found something else. Lady Fieldhurst, were you aware that your husband intended to sack the butler that evening?”

“Sack—you are asking if he meant to discharge Rogers? Impossible! He has served the Fieldhursts all his life, like his father before him.”

“And yet he told the publican at the Grey Goose that he’d been given the boot.” A possible explanation presenting itself, Pickett suggested, “Perhaps your husband caught him trying to nab the family silver.”

“Nonsense! Rogers would no more steal from Frederick than he would murder him.” She frowned over this last declaration. “But if it is true that Frederick dismissed him, it would seem Rogers has a motive for that, too.”

“Let’s just say it casts his disappearance in a very odd light.”

“But if he did kill Frederick—not, mind you, that I believe for one moment that Rogers could commit such a heinous act!—then why should he bolt? He would be better served to pretend nothing had happened, thus retaining his position, collecting his bequest, and deflecting suspicion away from himself.”

“Perhaps he panicked when he realized what he’d done,” suggested Pickett.

“Perhaps,” Lady Fieldhurst conceded doubtfully, “although blind panic does not sound like Rogers any more than theft or murder does. Clearly, he must be found.”

“My thoughts exactly—which, I hope, will explain why I spent most of last night swilling ale at the Grey Goose.”

“Yes, but you must not do so again, for should Rogers return to that establishment, the proprietor will certainly inform him of your visit.”

“Believe me, I have no desire to repeat the experience, but in the absence of a better idea—”

“Oh, but I have a better idea,” declared her ladyship, her blue eyes sparkling in anticipation. “We shall set a trap for him!”

“ ‘We,’ my lady?” echoed Pickett with some misgivings.

“Most certainly ‘we,’ Mr. Pickett. Rogers was my butler, Fieldhurst was my husband, his body was found in my bedchamber, and it is my neck that is likely to be placed in the noose. Surely you cannot mean to insult my intelligence by trying to convince me that the matter need not concern me?”

“No, but the Grey Goose is no place for a lady—”

“Which is just as well, since I do not intend to go there. But there is another possibility. You will remember that my husband left me a small house in Kensington. Provided that I contrive to escape the gallows, I intend to remove there after the investigation is complete. Naturally, I will require some staff. Camille will accompany me, and perhaps Thomas, in his rôle of footman. Why should I not advertise for a butler? Rogers must be in need of a new position, and so would be quick to answer such an advertisement.”

“Surely he’d get the wind up when he recognized the house number and street,” Pickett objected.

“No, for I should interview applicants at the house in Queens Gardens. Then, after I have reassured Rogers that he is not in imminent danger of arrest, but wanted only for questioning, I shall send for you.” Seeing that Bow Street was not entirely convinced, she added, “I make the suggestion not only to assist you in your investigation, Mr. Pickett, but to repay a kindness. When I was first wed, Rogers was very kind and patient with a green girl who knew nothing of the management of a great house. If he is in some sort of trouble, I should desire to offer him my assistance.”

Pickett wavered. He had no doubt that, provided Rogers took the bait, Lady Fieldhurst’s proposal was likely to be far more successful than anything he might accomplish at the Grey Goose. Still, he could not overlook the fact that the butler now had a motive for murder. No matter how much she might feel she owed him, the viscountess must not be left alone to confront a man who might well be a killer.

“Very well,” he said at last, “you can place your advertisement under one condition: I will accompany you to Queens Gardens and remain with you throughout the interview.”

Lady Fieldhurst frowned. “But Rogers may prove reluctant to speak with you present, and—oh, I see! You want the element of surprise, is that it?”

Better, he decided, if she should think that was his only concern. “Yes, that’s it.”

Lady Fieldhurst rose from the breakfast table, signaling the end of the interview. “Very well, Mr. Pickett, we have an agreement. Now, if you will excuse me, I must pen an advertisement for the Times.”

Pickett took his leave in as punctilious a manner as his condition would allow, and Lady Fieldhurst turned her efforts to composition. She had scarcely finished this task and laid aside her pen when Thomas entered the room, bearing the morning’s post on a silver tray. She leafed half-heartedly through the thick stack of condolence cards—all of which would have to be answered later—but stopped abruptly when she reached a card noticeably different from its fellows. While the others were written in elegant script on fine vellum, this one was scrawled in pencil on cheap, coarse paper. Turning it over, she broke the seal (a single blob of yellowish tallow dropped from a burning candle) and spread the single sheet open.

I know what you need and I can help. Bring 25 shillings to the Sailor’s Rest in Upper Well Alley off Wapping Street. Ask for Jane.

A Friend

Lady Fieldhurst’s initial reaction was one of fear, for she had never before received a blackmailing letter. A second, closer reading, however, gave her reason to hope that herein lay her salvation. There was, after all, no implied threat, merely an offer of help in exchange for a relatively modest sum of money. Furthermore, although her experience was admittedly limited, she suspected that extortionists rarely identified themselves as friends of their victims.

Eager to share this most recent development with young Mr. Pickett, she instructed Thomas to send for the carriage, then rang for Camille to fetch for her a shawl and a deep-brimmed bonnet with a long black veil which covered her face and trailed down her back. Thus arrayed, she allowed Thomas to hand her into the waiting carriage and gave the driver directions to set her down at Number 4 Bow Street.

Alas, she had quite failed to anticipate the effect of a crested carriage, occupied by a heavily veiled lady, upon the inhabitants of that venerable address. She entered the building to find every man-jack in the place on his feet and staring at her with ill-concealed curiosity. Of Mr. Pickett there was no sign.

“I should like to see Mr. John Pickett, if you please,” she informed the Runner nearest at hand, a man of about thirty-five with straw-colored hair and an indefinable air of command.