The Counterfeit Lady (2 page)

I wanted to distract Phyllida from remembering her evil brother as much as I wanted some background on the victim whose death I knew I’d soon be investigating. “I only saw Clara a few times a year when she visited us on a Sunday. I thought she was sweet, but I know nothing of her background. Tell me about her.”

“She was an only child. Her parents both doted on her. After Isabel’s death, she and her father were very close, and her father’s interests were in shipbuilding. That’s how she met Kenny Gattenger. They were in love from the first time they met, but he wouldn’t marry until he had enough money to support her properly, and she wouldn’t leave her father on his own. They broke off their engagement twice, but they finally married a year ago. That was after her father’s death, when his title and property had gone to some cousin.”

“Ken Gattenger wasn’t from money?”

“No. His parents ran a small shop. He was apprenticed to a draftsman. The man realized Kenny was brilliant and made sure he received a good education. As Kenny gained more experience, he found powerful patrons. Naval architecture became his specialty. He was a hard worker and a strict saver. All those years of saving made him a little mean with money. Clara said he didn’t pay the servants well, so she was always having to hire new as soon as one found a better-paying post.”

“What kind of couple were they?” Emma asked.

“A happy one,” Phyllida snapped.

“No, I mean, were they always fighting and making up? Did they entertain a great deal, did they share interests, did they like to travel, things like that.” Emma gave her a smile.

“Oh.” Phyllida turned pink. “They were quiet. They both liked to read, to stay home together in the evening in the study. They went out to the theater or to a dinner party on occasion, but that was all. Clara was content to visit friends during the day and wait for Kenny to come home to her in the evenings.”

“Did you see her often?” I asked. “Besides those Sunday visits when she brought her husband along, did you see her alone?”

“We’d have tea once every few weeks after I came to live here, during the day while you were in the shop. She’s the only relative I wanted to see after my brother”—she shuddered—“died.”

Her brother had been hanged at Newgate Prison, where Gattenger was now. However, her brother had murdered a string of East End prostitutes and was captured by the Archivist Society.

We’d find a lack of evidence in Gattenger’s case, I feared, and that would present problems proving his innocence.

“She was very happy in her new life as a married woman,” Phyllida said.

“Did you see much of Mr. Gattenger besides on their Sunday visits?”

“No. During the week, Clara always came by herself for tea. But I saw them together several times over the years of their long engagement, and they were very happy. Happy in their own quiet little circle, even when there were other people present. Do you understand what I mean?”

“They were happy with just each other for company,” Emma said.

“It’s more than that, there’s a whole world two people can share that no one else can enter. My parents were like that,” I said. Sometimes frustrating for me as a child, but beautiful to think back on.

“Yes. That’s how they were,” Phyllida said.

“Last night, the servants heard shouting in the study. When the door was unlocked, Clara Gattenger was dead.” I looked at Phyllida. “Are you sure everything was all right between them?”

“Yes. I know evil. I lived with my brother long enough. Evil had never entered their home. They were in love.”

Glancing at my plate, I found I’d finished my luncheon. I never tasted a bite.

*   *   *

THE DUKE OF
Blackford returned to the shop in the middle of the afternoon to tell us what time to be at Sir Broderick’s and to escort me to the Gattenger house. Even with a hand up, I still had to struggle to get into the tall, ancient carriage given to the duke’s family by Wellington. Glancing out the window, I saw Emma in the bookshop doorway, grinning at my lack of grace. I looked forward to seeing the scene of the crime, but I would rather the duke had used one of his normal-sized carriages.

The Gattenger home was one of a row of similar houses in a fairly new, middle-class section of South Kensington. Once the duke caught me around the waist as I half tumbled from the carriage and set me safely on the sidewalk, he walked up the steps and rang the front doorbell. I straightened my skirt to give myself a moment to recover from the ridiculous flutter in my chest from his touch. I glanced down the steep concrete steps behind the black wrought-iron railing and caught a glimpse of a young woman’s face looking at me before she drew back from the tradesmen’s entrance.

The front door opened and I saw Inspector Grantham standing in the hallway. I hurried up the steps as the men exchanged bows and followed the duke inside.

“Inspector Grantham, is this your case?” I asked.

“Yes, Miss Fenchurch. I suppose I’ll be working with the Archivist Society again?” He sounded weary. I hoped it wasn’t due to working with us.

“Yes. Phyllida Monthalf, my friend, is the murdered woman’s cousin. She says the husband couldn’t have killed his wife.”

“It gave me no joy charging him. The navy has already involved itself in this case because of his importance to British ship design.” He looked at Blackford. “I suppose that’s why you’re interested. But there’s no evidence supporting his story.” The inspector spread his hands in the air.

“May we look at the room where the death occurred?” I gave Grantham a hopeful smile.

The inspector held my gaze for a moment before shrugging. “If you think you can find something we missed, go right ahead.”

Detective Inspector Grantham had worked several cases over the years for Scotland Yard that the Archivist Society was interested in, including the one last spring where I had first met the Duke of Blackford. I knew he trusted our abilities. Whether he liked working with us was another story.

The duke led the way down the wide hallway, past the staircase going up and a narrower one going down. I followed until we reached a door near the back of the house. The duke stopped and let the inspector open it. I was the last to enter the small study, making it a little crowded as we moved around. None of us stepped near the fireplace with the bloodied hearth rug.

The duke strolled to the triple bay window facing the garden. With the heat, only the lace curtains were across the open windows, while the heavy dark blue drapes were pushed back to the ends of their rods. “Were these windows open when you arrived?”

“Yes. With the dryness of the weather, there were no footprints outside, and the climb wouldn’t have been difficult for an agile man. The cook says she was in the kitchen, which is by the tradesmen’s entrance in the front under the dining room. The maids were clearing away dinner. You saw where the stairs are, and the first door we passed in the hallway leads to the dining room. There was no reason for the servants to come this far toward the back of the house,” Inspector Grantham said.

“There’re no back stairs?” the duke asked.

The inspector and I stared at each other in surprise for an instant before we must have had the same thought.
He’s a duke
. “Not enough room in a house this size,” I said. “There’re only the three servants? The cook and two maids?”

“Yes,” Grantham answered. “One of the maids heard the argument and stopped to listen. Her excuse was the master and missus rarely argued. The other came to find her after a minute and heard the end of the argument and the crashes. There were two loud noises.”

“Could the servants make out what was said?” Blackford asked.

“They said no.”

“Did they try to open the door or knock?”

“It was locked.”

“How long before the door—” I began.

“A full minute at the very least,” Grantham said as if the words hurt his mouth.

I took in the room without moving. There were two comfortable chairs with ottomans, one on each side of the fireplace. Gaslights were set to shine down on those two spots, and a small table by each chair held a stack of books. Shelves across the room from the fireplace held a large collection of volumes. A desk was set by the window to catch the best light. A jumble of papers, pens, ink pots, books, a diary, and a paperweight were scattered across the floor from the desk toward the fireplace, and the desk chair was knocked over in that direction. The fireplace held a pile of ash.

“Where were the plans kept?” the duke asked.

“In there.” Inspector Grantham pointed to a low chest with three drawers across the room from the windows and close by the door.

“I was told there was a burned fragment of a drawing found in this room. Where is it?” The duke stood facing the inspector with his arms crossed.

Grantham stared back, his jaw jutting aggressively. “Locked up by Scotland Yard until the trial.”

If they continued to act like schoolboys, I’d never learn anything. “What fragment?”

“A small singed piece of the last page of the missing blueprints was found at the edge of the fireplace.”

I needed to know more. “How many pages are there in one set of plans?”

“In this case, seven. It’s the master from which working drawings are made for the manufacturing process.”

“Are they large?”

Grantham held his arms wide. “When unfolded, each is this big.”

“Is this the only master set of drawings in existence?”

“No, but the other sets are locked up in the Admiralty.”

“Why wasn’t this one?”

“Gattenger said he had an idea that he needed to work on. He sometimes worked from home.”

“In this room? At night?”

I had both men’s attention now. “Yes,” the inspector said.

“This was also the room where he and his wife frequently read in the evening.”

“Yes.”

“So from the outside, last night wouldn’t have looked any different from any other night. But the thief chose last night to strike.” I looked from one man to the other. “If the Germans stole the drawings, there would have to be a leak in the office where the drawings are kept. Someone would have had to tell the burglar that Gattenger took a set of ship plans home last night. The only way that could happen is if there’s a traitor in the Admiralty.”

M
Y
conclusion made me even less popular than I expected. The Duke of Blackford looked as if he’d like to throw me out the window as he muttered, “Bloody hell.”

Inspector Grantham glared at me. “There’s no sign of a burglary. The Gattengers argued, he killed her, accidentally most likely, and then burned the plans he was working on to cover his guilt and blamed everything on a housebreaker. There’s no traitor.”

“That’s the answer you and I and Whitehall want,” Blackford said. “If we’re wrong, we have a bigger problem than anyone had dared mention before now. Thank you, Miss Fenchurch, for ruining my day.”

His dark eyes bored through me, making it hard to breathe. I reached out a white-gloved hand and grabbed his sleeve. “You think I’m right, don’t you? That Gattenger’s story is true.”

His answer meant more to me than I wanted to admit, even to myself. He continued to glare at me without speaking.

“How was Clara killed?” I needed details if I was going to help Ken Gattenger.

“A blow to the back of the head. Probably from striking that side table. She fell there, where the blood is on the hearth rug,” the inspector told me.

“Pushed in a struggle with a burglar over the plans?” I certainly hoped so. The other answer, pushed by Gattenger, would break Phyllida’s heart.

The duke finally gave one sharp nod. “We’ll have to investigate this until proven wrong.”

We
. The duke had described himself and me as
we
. I prayed the investigation would take a very long time. The stuff of my dreams only happened in the light of day when I was conducting an Archivist Society investigation. Under no other circumstances would a duke spend time with a bookshop owner.

“Scotland Yard is proceeding from the assumption Kenneth Gattenger killed his wife. If you find proof of his innocence, we need to know.” The inspector glared as he looked from Blackford to me.

I nodded as I walked over to look out the open windows. Paving stones made paths through the small dry patch of grass. Anyone could have walked through the back garden without leaving tracks. “Did the Gattengers entertain last night?”

“No. They ate alone. The dining room is the front room on this floor. Immediately after, they came in here.”

I turned and faced into the room. It was small and cozy. I could picture the Gattengers sitting in their matching chairs, reading in front of the fire. I imagined this was a room no outsider was ever invited into. “Did they frequently lock the study door from the inside?”

The inspector shook his head. “The maids said they’d never known that to happen before.”

The duke asked, “Have you searched the house for the ship plans?”

“Of course. They’re not here, and the Admiralty records office swears Gattenger took a set with him yesterday just after midday.”

“Did he take a set home with him frequently?” If he did, my thoughts of treason in the Admiralty disintegrated like the ashes in the fireplace.

“No.” The inspector strode to the door and held it open as he tapped his foot, letting his impatience show. He had work to do. I understood. I did, too.

From where I stood, I could see a foot or more of space between the back of the door and a bookcase. Could someone have hidden there when the Gattengers came in? Beyond the inspector, I saw a young woman in a black maid’s dress with white cuffs and collar. Dressed in her good uniform, she was ready to answer the door if there were any afternoon callers. I couldn’t imagine anyone but the ghoulish calling here.

I brushed past the inspector and stopped in front of the woman. When I looked at her closely, I discovered she wasn’t a woman but a girl younger than Emma. “I’m Georgia Fenchurch, a relative of Mrs. Gattenger’s cousin.” Better not to get too specific with the kinship. “What’s your name?”

“Elsie, miss.”

“May I ask you some questions, Elsie?”

“Do you think Mr. Gattenger killed his wife?” she asked, twisting her apron.

“No.”

“Good.” She gave one jerky nod with her head. “What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about yesterday.”

“All day?”

“Yes.” Behind me, I heard two male sighs.

“The day was the same as any other. I brought up the breakfast tray. Then Mary helped Mrs. Gattenger dress. Mr. Gattenger did for himself, being brought up that way.”

“Did Mr. Gattenger leave after breakfast and stay away for the whole day?”

She nodded. “Just as usual.”

“And Mrs. Gattenger?”

“She went out calling in the afternoon with Lady Bennett, then came home and dressed for dinner.”

“Did she always dress for dinner, even when it was just the two of them?”

“Yes. She was raised that way, her being the daughter of a lord.”

“Was she good friends with Lady Bennett? Did they make calls together often?”

“No. The lady had never called here before. The missus looked surprised to see her, but she went off in the carriage with Lady Bennett after they spoke in the front hall for a few moments.”

What had made Lady Bennett call on Clara that particular afternoon? “Did you hear what they said?”

“No. The missus looked furious at first, but then she put on a false smile when she spoke to me.”

“What did she say?”

“She said, ‘Lady Bennett and I are going out. I don’t expect this to take long.’”

Where had they gone? It didn’t sound like Clara had wanted to go. “Did she return before the master came home?”

“Yes, she was only gone an hour or two.”

“How did she look?”

“Ready to do murder.”

I glanced up to catch the eye of Blackford, who now stood behind the maid. He gave one slight nod, his face a ducal mask. “Elsie, where did the Gattengers first meet at the end of the day?”

“In the study. He’d wait in there until the mistress came down dressed for dinner. Last night, she was in there waiting for him. He went in and shut the door. I was busy in the dining room and didn’t hear anything.”

“Would you have heard if there was shouting?”

“Yes, and there wasn’t. There never was, well, not until after dinner last night.”

“What happened next?” What had changed their routine so dramatically?

“We served dinner.”

“No shouting?”

“They hardly said a word to each other.”

“Was that usual?”

“No. They usually talked about their day, people they saw, things they read. Last night, they were both upset and quiet.”

“You’re sure about that?” Inspector Grantham said from behind me.

The maid nodded.

“How were their appetites?” I asked.

“Neither one ate hardly a bite. Cook was furious, but Mary and I looked at the leftovers and danced around the kitchen. We get the leftovers. Well, some of them.”

“They don’t feed you very well?” Elsie was thin and pale. I wondered how she’d look if she were fed like a lady.

The girl shrugged. “Better’n some.”

“But they sat through all the courses?”

“There were only four when they were alone. Soup, fish, roast, and pudding. Master would have done without the soup and the fish, said they didn’t eat enough to make it worthwhile, but the mistress insisted on it. Sometimes they had fowl, too, but not last night. The mistress didn’t touch her pudding, and the master only had one spoonful. Then she said, ‘Let’s get this over with,’ and he put his spoon down and they went into the study.”

“And locked the door.” I was getting a picture of what had been an unusual night, even if no one had died.

“Yes, that was strange. They never locked the door. I couldn’t bring the coffee in, for one thing.”

“They always had their coffee in the study after dinner?”

She nodded. “Always.”

“With them not talking, and not eating, how long was dinner?”

The maid grinned. “Fastest ever. Mary and I were kept running.”

“How long was it after they locked the door before you heard shouting?”

“The shouting must’ve come first. I never heard the key in the lock for them yelling.”

That was different from what Inspector Grantham had told us. “Then how did you know the door was locked?”

“I brought up the coffee, like I was supposed to, and when I tried the handle, I couldn’t get in.”

“What did you do with the coffee?”

“Put it in the dining room. I thought they’d stop after a minute and let me in. They’d never behaved like this before.”

“How long did the shouting continue?”

“Long enough for Mary to clear away the pudding dishes and come back up. I couldn’t decide whether to knock on the door or not when there was a big crash. There was more noise, a shriek, and a second crash. Then it was quiet. We both banged on the door and called in.” The maid’s eyes widened as she recalled the drama.

“And then?”

“It was silent in there for the longest time. Then we heard sobbing and a moment later the master opened the door. He was crying.” Her eyes and mouth were round with amazement.

“How long was the silence? A minute? An hour?”

“A minute, at least.”

“And you didn’t go for another key?” I studied her face carefully.

Her shoulders slumped. “I tried looking in. The key was still in the lock on the inside.”

“What did Mr. Gattenger say when he came out?”

“‘Get a doctor and the police. I can’t wake Clara.’”

If Phyllida was right, Ken Gattenger must have been devastated. “What happened then?”

“I ran for Dr. Harrison, two blocks away. Mary ran for the bobby. Mary got back before me.”

“The inspector has mentioned a burned fragment of paper in this room when the police arrived. Do you know anything about that?”

She shook her head. “The master or mistress probably burned it in the fireplace.”

“Why did you have a fire last night?” I’d seen the ashes, but I was so used to seeing ashes in fireplaces they hadn’t made an impression. With the current heat wave, living in London was like living on the sun. Why would anyone need a fire?

“The mistress asked for it as soon as she returned from her carriage ride with Lady Bennett. I thought it strange, but I laid it and lit it while she dressed for dinner.”

“Did she give you any reason? It was an odd request.”

“I didn’t get a chance to say anything. She just ordered me to do it right then. She looked like she might cry, so I just went ahead and did what she asked.”

“Did Lady Bennett come in the house with your mistress?”

“No, the mistress returned alone.”

I was as suspicious of Lady Bennett as I was of the unknown burglar. “What happened once you lit the fire?”

“I got back to my regular duties. I helped Cook while Mary dressed the mistress and did her hair.”

I patted the girl’s arm. “Thank you, Elsie.”

She pressed her lips together and then said, “Excuse me, ma’am, but what’s going to happen to us? The master’s in prison and the mistress is dead. Will we be chucked out without our pay or a reference?”

I looked at the duke, who shook his head. I kept staring. I wouldn’t allow him to leave a scrawny young girl like Elsie to starve. Finally, he pulled a calling card out of his card case and said, “When the inspector is finished with you and the house is closed up, go to this address and see the housekeeper. She’ll see about finding you and the others a place to stay and employment, at least until we know the fate of your master.”

The maid dropped a curtsy and said, “Thank you, sir. I’ll tell the others.”

She hurried downstairs as Grantham stepped toward Blackford. “Why are you being so considerate of the help?”

“We’ll know where they are. Did you learn anything new, Inspector?”

“Yes. And none of it looks good for Gattenger.” He frowned. “Although the business with the fire seems odd in this heat. Are you two finished here?”

“For the moment,” the duke said. “You did well, Miss Fenchurch.”

“Questioning people is what I do.” Nevertheless, as I walked toward the front door, I couldn’t hide the lightness in my step caused by his praise.

Once we were back in Blackford’s carriage, he asked, “What do you know of Lady Bennett?”

“Nothing.”

The edges of his mouth curved upward. “She’s the widow of an impoverished lord, yet she lives in great style. She’s rumored to be the paramour of a German diplomat, Baron von Steubfeld.”

“A kept woman?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Or a spy.” There was no hint of a smile on his face now. “The baron’s accredited as a diplomat, but in reality he’s the kaiser’s spymaster in Britain.”

“Whatever Lady Bennett is, she caused discord in the Gattenger home. What did Clara burn, or what was she planning to burn, in that fire? And what do I tell Phyllida?”

He looked out the window of the carriage and watched the traffic for a moment. “To come to the Archivist Society meeting tonight.”

“Could you arrange something for me, Your Grace?”

“What is it?”

“I’d like to go to Newgate Prison and speak to Ken Gattenger.”

“Difficult, but not impossible. You’ll find the prison unpleasant.”

“I need to speak to him. It’s important if we’re to understand what happened.”

He studied me for a moment. “I’d forgotten how determinedly you approach whatever needs to be done. It does you credit. I’ll arrange for you to speak with Gattenger. And I’ll accompany you.”