An Unmourned Man (Lady C. Investigates Book 1) Read online

  “I am on a social call. I wondered if your Freda was at home. I know you said, before, that I ought to check before…”

  His smile, unconvincing from the first, was dashed away once more. She began to understand the cause of his sadness as he explained. “She is unavailable, I am afraid. And I fear that she will be unavailable for some time.”

  “Is she ill?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  “Have you sent for the doctor?” Cordelia asked, and it was deliberately done to see Ewatt’s reaction. He would not call him for the children, but surely for his wife…

  And Ewatt shook his head, his brows lowering. “Sadly, my wife’s … lack of care in her … interests … are part of the problem and the doctor, esteemed though he might be in medical matters, is not entirely welcome here. Some men of power let it go to their heads, perhaps. It is always a dangerous thing, do you not think, when a man is alone with a woman, especially a delicate woman such as my dear Freda? Male doctors and female patients … emotions run so high … no good can come of it.”

  Goodness. What was he suggesting? That Freda had been conducting an affair with Donald Arnall? Cordelia tipped her head to one side. For the wife to behave that way – oh, it was a very different thing indeed to Ewatt’s dalliances. The woman must remain pure. “I am so very sorry to hear that,” Cordelia said sympathetically, even as she thought, but why must it be such a different thing?

  Ewatt sighed. “There is hope. There is always hope. Today, I sent for an eminent doctor from Cambridge, who comes highly recommended. He specialises in feminine disorders of the mind, hysteria, wayward wombs, that sort of thing. I am dreadfully afraid that I …”

  “What is it?” Cordelia reached out a hand to his trembling shoulder.

  “I must face the awful fact that she might be completely … unwell. She needs … proper care. Away from here. Do you understand?”

  Cordelia understood perfectly and her heart ached for them both. His usually florid speech was staccato with pain. He meant that she might need to be committed into an asylum. “It could be a temporary respite of great success,” she said. “A few weeks of proper care, as you say, and she could return as a new woman. Trust in the medical man, and trust to science and new methods of treating such things.”

  He nodded. “You are right. Thank you. You have been a good friend to me,” he said sincerely.

  “If there is anything more I might do–”

  “I shall not hesitate. Thank you.”

  She bid him good day and turned. As she walked away, she pondered on the turn of events. It was true, what Ruby had said; she was getting to know the people here, and she liked them. Even Freda, with her irritating habits, was at times a likeable woman. Ewatt was in debt, that much was now obvious. He was hiding it, and that made him untrustworthy even if he was easily understood.

  And the doctor?

  Cordelia asked herself if she really thought that the doctor might be having an affair with Freda. She could believe it of Freda. But of Donald Arnall?

  Actually, she thought – perhaps. He is exceedingly modern in his lifestyle, she reminded herself. All that brown bread and the unhealthy fondness for vegetables. Was he also modern in his morality? Did he follow those that railed against the time-honoured institutions of marriage, and clamoured for a “new way” of living? Such cranks were known, but usually ignored.

  Had she ignored something very important about the doctor, she asked herself.

  And if so, what was she going to do about it?

  Chapter Twenty-six

  That afternoon, she walked with a purpose into the high-ceilinged kitchen, and straight into the middle of an argument.

  Mrs Unsworth had a ladle in her hand and she was brandishing it aloft. Her face was red and pearled with sweat, and she was breathing heavily, gripping the back of a chair with her other hand.

  On the other side of the table, hands on her hips and her head tipped defiantly back, stood Ruby. She, too, was flushed. “I wouldn’t want to take anything you’d touched anyway, you old–”

  Both fell silent instantly as Cordelia clapped her hands. It wasn’t a loud noise, but it drew their attention. It was her presence which silenced them.

  In a carefully low voice, she said, “What is going on? Mrs Unsworth. You speak first.”

  Ruby bridled at that, and Cordelia heard her tut.

  Mrs Unsworth snarled towards Ruby, but lowered the ladle. “My lady,” she mumbled. “This skilamalink hussy is nothing but a low gutter-bred thief!”

  “I am not,” shrieked Ruby but Cordelia threw out a pointed finger, and commanded her to hush.

  Mrs Unsworth flared her nostrils like a bull before continuing. “It is common knowledge that food has been going missing here,” she said. “And I tell you that it is she.”

  Ruby flung her hands in the air, and said, simply, “Your proof?”

  “Indeed,” Cordelia said. “Do you have evidence for this claim, Mrs Unsworth?”

  “Missing food!” Mrs Unsworth declared. “Constantly. Ask any of the staff here.”

  “It is true that I had heard of missing food,” Cordelia said. “Did not Ralph Goody suggest it was Thomas Bains? And in any case, when I ask for evidence, I mean, what evidence have you that it was Ruby?”

  Mrs Unsworth huffed. “Well,” she muttered, “just look at her.”

  “That’s all your proof?”

  This time, Mrs Unsworth was silent.

  Cordelia could feel the tension in the air. It had been brewing for a long time. It was unfair to ask her own cook to share another cook’s kitchen and it was uncomfortable for her staff to try and settle in here.

  She thought about the figure she had seen, a week or so ago, that night; it had been carrying a bundle. It? On reflection, she felt sure it was male, with a man’s broad shoulders and peaked cap.

  There were things that were tied together, here, she thought. Nothing is separate. It’s all linked. And she began to think she might know who was stealing food, and who was the murderer too.

  But she had no evidence and she could see no way of getting it. Like the scene before her, it could not be resolved. It was evidence she needed, more than anything else. She snapped her fingers. “Ruby, go up to my rooms. Mrs Unsworth, take the afternoon off.”

  Ruby and Mrs Unsworth glared at one another. But they ducked to obey.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Cordelia walked sluggishly back to her suite of rooms, and found Ruby standing by the window. She was staring out over the green lawns, her hand resting on the wooden frame. She glanced over her shoulder as Cordelia entered.

  “Ruby. Tell me about the troubles you’re having with Mrs Unsworth.”

  Ruby turned back to the glass once more, her chin tilted. She spoke to the view. “I am not the one having troubles; it is she.”

  “You are very different people.”

  “No,” Ruby said. “I think we are the same person at different times in one life. Don’t you think?”

  “What do you know of Mrs Unsworth and her past?” Cordelia asked curiously.

  “What anyone can tell from looking at her; a sad widow, or maybe abandoned. Dead family. No friends. She never says.”

  Cordelia had been holding her breath. She let it go slowly. Ruby didn’t know. “You are right in parts,” she said. “And tell me another thing. The truth, mind. Are you stealing food?”

  Ruby turned and leaned against the window frame, nestling her shoulder into the heavy crimson drapes. “No more than any servant ever does, my lady,” she said. “After all, all the fine stuff is under lock and key. The butler and the housekeeper see to all that. I could never pilfer tea or brandy or sugar or spices. But yes, of course, I may take a heel of bread or a rind of cheese from time to time. Why should the pigs or the midden have the waste? However, as to Mrs Unsworth’s accusations, no. I do not steal what she says I do. But it makes one wonder, do you not think?”

  “It makes me wonde
r who is taking it.”

  “No,” Ruby said, shaking her head lightly, and she smiled slightly. “They have taken large items. A wheel of cheese, a side of meat. So, for one, they are strong. And secondly, the amount that has gone, over time, I would wager that they are selling it. This is not the act of a hungry servant, my lady.”

  “You are right,” said Cordelia. “It is a business, indeed, and nothing to do with Thomas Bains. Perhaps.”

  “So, what do you do now, my lady?” Ruby asked boldly. “What have you lately discovered?”

  “I offended you when I chose Stanley to walk me into town, did I not?” Cordelia said.

  “Not at all,” Ruby replied, the offence writ plain upon her face. “I am just your maid.”

  They both knew it was not true. Cordelia laughed. “Come now. The passing weeks have been so strange that I think everything has changed, at least in my own household, and you a part of it. Anyway, I needed Stanley’s clear vision, and a different opinion.”

  “He has too much of that,” Ruby said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “His clear vision. He looks at me, in a way that a man so church-like ought not to,” she said. “And I am used to it from most men, because indeed I will it so. I’d be offended if most men did not look. But not from him. He is barely a man.”

  “Oh, Ruby. He admires you.”

  “No, he thinks I am sinful and wants to save me,” she said, sneering. “But he is also … curious about me. Though, standing twenty feet away and staring at my ankles is the closest he’s ever going to get to a woman.”

  Cordelia felt sorry for Stanley, all tied up in knots. “Well, you must ignore him.”

  “I do. But still, what did his clear vision tell you?”

  Cordelia sighed and sat down on a chair. “That it is better to marry than to be tempted, for one.”

  Ruby smiled. “He knows nothing. Now, my lady, the murder… time is pressing.”

  “Don’t I know it! Oh, Ruby, I feel as if the more I discover, the more unlikely it is that I shall ever solve it. We lack proof.”

  Ruby folded her arms. “Everything is proof. When you went into the cottage, and looked and listened, you found proof. When you found me sitting on the wooden chest that had been moved, that was proof. Everything is proof … now you must knit all of this together.”

  “You are right.”

  “There, then. Continue,” said Ruby. “We need you.”

  “Thank you, Ruby.” Cordelia closed her eyes in thought for a moment, standing still in the room, swaying in her self-imposed darkness. When she opened them again, Ruby had not moved.

  “I will have an early night,” Cordelia declared.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The claim of wanting an early night was, of course, a ruse. Cordelia sent Ruby to Hugo with the message that she was unwell and would not be attending dinner. She could not face the thought of him.

  When Ruby returned, Cordelia dismissed her for the evening. “I wish to get into bed, and read my books. Will you simply bring up a tray of food; after that you can please yourself.”

  Ruby looked at her curiously. “What are you planning, my lady?”

  “I need to look at the evidence,” she said. “As you told me.”

  “Hmm.” Ruby was obviously not convinced, but she followed orders. When she returned with a tray of cold meats, a salad, pickles and pies, Cordelia was wearing a dressing robe and sitting at her table.

  As soon as Ruby had disappeared for the evening, no doubt to an assignation with a footman, Cordelia leaped to her feet and shed the dressing robe to reveal she was dressed very curiously indeed. She was wearing a thin skirt, without layers of petticoats below; indeed, she was feeling rather light and exposed without the cascade of fabric so usual around her legs. Instead she was wearing a particularly long chemise which was nearly as long as the dark skirt. On top of her corset, she wore a tight-waisted riding jacket, and a mantlet. She bound a dark cloth about her hair, and wrapped a scarf around her neck, which she immediately unwound again as she became too hot. She wanted to be able to blend into the shadows, and it was imperative that she was able to move freely, and potentially swiftly.

  She prowled around her chambers, snacking on the food from time to time. She passed from window to door to window, as the night gathered and the sounds of the house grew lower and fainter. There was a bottle of wine on the tray as well, and she sipped at a glass for courage.

  Finally, she judged it to be time. She picked up the scarf once more, and twisted it around her neck and jaw. With her heart thudding almost painfully, she crept to the door and peered out along the corridor.

  There was a lamp still lit at the far end, at the top of the main flight of stairs. All was quiet. She slipped out, walking on the carpet in the centre of the floor so that her boots did not clack on the wooden boards. She paused every few steps, to listen and to look around.

  Nothing. No one.

  She made it to the hallway but this was a tiled floor. She walked as if on a frozen lake, lowering each foot to the floor in slow motion, endeavouring to move silently. At the main front door, she stopped again. Did it squeak? She could not remember.

  No, she said to herself. Ewatt Carter-Hall’s door squeaked with lack of maintenance but Hugo was a man intent on good appearances. His door would open perfectly. She took a deep breath, and tried it.

  It was silent.

  Then she was out on the steps under the pale light of a half-moon that peeped out from scudding grey clouds. Her eyes were by now well-adjusted to the gloom. It was cold, far more cold than she had expected for the summertime. Was that the hint of impending autumn in the air? She took a jump from the bottom step so that she could land on the grass and avoid the crunching gravel. She ran lightly over the lawn to the hedge that bordered it, and used its shadow to hide her as she made for the gates and the track beyond.

  She discovered, to her surprise, that she was grinning. After all, the whole enterprise was utterly absurd. She imagined how it might be reported in the London press; titled widow running amok in country estate, she thought. From there, they would take her straight to the asylum, just like poor Freda Carter-Hall.

  Poor Freda, she thought again, the words becoming like a refrain in her head as she crept through the dark lanes to the house of the Carter-Halls. She stopped by the bottom of their driveway, and studied it, but there was not a single light in any of the windows. Nothing stirred. It was curiously quiet. Too quiet. Was he away again, abroad this time? She hoped so.

  She was no longer cold. In fact, she was hot, and unpleasantly sweaty.

  No matter, she told herself. Onwards. She began to make a careful progress towards the front door of the house.

  But it was not the front door that was her final objective; indeed, she sought the post box to one side of the door. From her belt she drew out a flattened metal tool, about fourteen inches long, that she had tucked there after stealing it from the meat stores. She examined the box carefully before pressing the sharp end of the tool into the hinged side of the door. She pressed it into the slot between the post box’s door and the box itself, and then began to lever it to the side.

  Nothing budged.

  She shifted her grip and leaned, laying her whole weight against it, hoping to burst the door open. The wood began to groan and splinter. She pressed harder, nervousness making her throat dry. She was braced for it to give up, any moment, in a shower of wood shards and noise.

  A light went on in the window to the other side of the main door. She froze.

  Something clattered from within.

  Was it a dropped key?

  She pulled at the tool but now it was stuck fast in the post box. The door handle shook and she could hear the sound of a bolt being drawn back, or maybe – if she was lucky – it was only the sound of someone shooting the bolt home.

  With a great jerk, she tried to wrestle the tool free, but hesitated by the box, staring at the door. Surely it was som
eone – that slovenly housekeeper maybe – simply locking up for the night.

  Then two arms grabbed her from behind and she was hauled backwards so quickly that she could not even shout. She fought back and they tumbled together into the bushes that ran out at an angle from the corner of the house. She was on her knees, and grabbed instinctively at the assailant’s legs so that he fell down too.

  As he did so, he put a hand up to her mouth, and pressed hard, and whispered, “My lady, stay down and stay quiet! It is I, S-Stanley.”

  Cordelia was stunned enough to be unable to move. He removed his hand. She remained frozen, her knees in the cold earth, as Stanley came to her side and knelt as well. They both looked towards the front door.