Deadly Affair: A Georgian Historical Mystery (Alec Halsey Crimance) (46 page)

“Yes.”

“Poisoned as Tam suspected?” asked the old man.

“Yes.”

“I do not see at all,” Lady Rutherglen stated with a sniff, “what this scruffy non-entity has to do with that whore Mir—”

“Stop calling her that!”

“Can you not, my lady?” Alec stated coldly, ignoring Lord George’s emotional outburst. “Yes you do. You know full well that the Reverend Blackwell was in truth Kenneth Dempsey-Weir, second son of a Viscount and the only man your sister Ellen truly loved. And if you wish to preserve her memory and thus your family’s reputation, as well as your nephew’s sanity, do not tempt me to reveal all that I know. And when I state I know everything about your sister and Blackwell, you can believe me.”

Lady Rutherglen stopped fluttering her fan at mention of her sister and took a quick furtive look about the room at the other occupants before returning her gaze to Alec’s blue eyes. She glared at him with controlled anger but just under the surface there bristled loathing, resentment and hatred. Alec saw that she yearned to take the stage to vent her feelings about her sister and the shabby vicar and most of all about Miriam but Alec’s threat of revelation and family ruination was enough to make her pause in thought. He saw this when she glanced away to Lord George, possibly the only person she had ever invested any feelings akin to real love, before returning her gaze to his blue eyes. There was a moment of indecision and then she reluctantly closed her mouth, set her jaw, and resumed fanning herself. Ellen Duchess of Cleveley and the Reverend Kenneth Blackwell, their secret marriage and their offspring were to be left to rest in peace.

“Blackwell wasn’t the intended victim,” Alec said with a note of sadness, addressing his uncle. “He just happened to have in his possession a snuffbox identical to the one carried by the Duke of Cleveley. Perhaps given him by the same gift bearer, I do not know.”

“Good God, the poor man,” Selina murmured, a hand to her white throat. “The poison was intended for
Cleveley
?”

“That is my belief.”

“But who? And how?” Selina demanded. “And
why?
”

“After dinner, when the gentlemen were sitting over their port, Lord George and Charles moved away to a locked cabinet containing jars of snuff,” Alec explained. “Several gentlemen had their boxes refilled. At first I presumed this to be the moment when the snuffboxes were switched, or when the poison was introduced to the Duke’s snuffbox. But neither the Duke or the vicar handed up their snuffboxes to be refilled. The Duke was rather possessive of his and the vicar took his out to take a pinch while Charles and Lord George were standing at the cabinet. Therefore the snuffboxes must have been inadvertently switched before the Duke and the vicar arrived for dinner. Perhaps when the two men were ensconced in the Duke’s library alone earlier that day as Lord George complained about at the dinner.

“The Duke’s death was not meant to take place at such a public occasion. It was supposed to be a quiet affair; made to look like he had had a heart attack, which is how it appeared when Blackwell was poisoned. The poison was successful in its application just not in its execution. Had Cleveley died at his residence, no one would have questioned a physician’s diagnosis that he had suffered a fatal heart attack. For the murderer this would have been a neater solution and an easier, unquestioned transition for the heir to become Duke.”

“Stanton! I knew it!” the old man announced with satisfaction. “You murdering cur!”

“Wh-what? I didn’t kill Father!” Lord George whined in falsetto. “Why would I do such a thing? He’s my father, for God’s sake! I had no reason to want him dead! I wouldn’t even know where to get poison. God, I don’t know what poison causes a heart attack. What do you take me for, a damned apothecary? That’s Halsey’s ilk! He knows more about that hocus-pocus than anyone! Auntie! Charlie! Tell them! Tell Halsey I couldn’t kill a beetle! Tell them, Auntie!”

“Hangman’s noose for you, Stanton,” Plantagenet Halsey goaded him, a sad shake of his grizzled locks though he looked anything but sad. He winked at his nephew and said cheerfully, “Time to call the militia so we can go to our beds. A satisfied end to the evenin’, wouldn’t you say so?”

When Lady Rutherglen and Sir Charles continued to sit silent and unmoved as did the rest of the occupants, Lord George’s bottom lip began to quiver, tears to fill his eyes and his nose to run. Panic set in and his bloodshot eyes widened in terror.

“No, I wouldn’t say so!” Lord George retorted. “Halsey! You’re a Trusty Trojan! Always said so. You don’t seriously believe I meant to kill my father and killed a shabby vicar by mistake, do you? Do you?”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, my lord, put the wet weasel out of his misery!” Selina demanded provoked beyond tolerance by Lord George’s pathetic runny-nosed pleas.

“No, I do not. Nor did I say you did,” Alec stated.

“Eh? You don’t and-and you didn’t?” Lord George repeated and unconsciously wiped his nose free of snot with a swipe of his sleeve. “Then who is the murderer?”

“Charles.”

There was a short silence and then Lord George, having instantly regained his bravado on Alec’s one name pronouncement, thumped the padded arms of the wingchair and stamped his feet with undisguised relish.

“I knew it! I
knew
it was you, Charlie! I knew! I said to Auntie that Charlie was a snake and a-a black dog and not to be trusted. And he is! He is!”

“Be very certain of what you accuse me, my lord,” Sir Charles stated very low, gaze never wavering from Alec’s face. “I challenge you to produce evidence of any kind that will stand up in a court of law. It will not.”

“Let’s hear what his lordship has to say in any event,” the old man said cheerfully.

When Sir Charles shrugged and the others nodded, Alec said matter-of-factly,

“You needed the Duke out of the way. You feared he was at the point of altering his will, of disinheriting Lord George because of what Kenneth Blackwell had confided in him. If he disinherited George all your hard work spent pandering to a nobleman you considered a parasitic waste to humankind, but who you could influence to do as you wished—he would certainly continue your sinecures—would be wasted. You were not prepared to allow that to happen. You certainly did not want the Duke walking away from his posts, that would leave you very little if any income, no influence, and there was no certainty of Lord Russell offering you a post, least of all his daughter’s hand in marriage. Thus for you to continue you needed Lord George to inherit the title.

“What you did not calculate or foresee was that the Duke had known the truth about the Duchess and the Reverend Blackwell for years. When Blackwell and the Duke came together recently you were more than ever convinced the Duke was about to resign. And then you had intelligence, possibly from Lord Russell himself, of a late night clandestine meeting between the Duke and Lord Russell. You tried to intervene before there could be any announcement, but the vicar died instead of your mentor, and the very public truce at the Opera between Cleveley and Russell went ahead as planned. You and everyone else presumed this truce meant the Duke was about to remarry; that Lord Russell had accepted an offer for Lady Henrietta’s hand in marriage. Russell had, but not for the father but for the son, Lord George—”

Lord George was half out of his chair. “
What
? Father is having me leg-shackled to
Hatty Russell
? Auntie—”

“Shut up, George! She’s your social equal in every respect. You could do much worse. I applaud Cleveley’s astuteness. Go on, Halsey.”

Alec inclined his head in agreement to Lady Rutherglen’s clipped statement and as no one disagreed with her, Lord George sunk back down in his chair with a pout and grumbled into his stock, a wave at Alec to continue.

“Thus, Charles, you misinterpreted why these men had come together, and why the Duke had set about putting his affairs in order for a future that you could not possibly imagine him contemplating least of all living... But I digress and the militia await... The good vicar up and dying at your dinner party and the Duke very much alive was the worst possible outcome for you, Charles. You had not only killed the wrong man, but the Duke was alerted to the very real possibility that he was the one meant to inhale the poisonous snuff. He realized this soon after Blackwell’s demise, when the attending physician was asking me questions. Cleveley went to take a pinch of snuff. He flicked open his snuffbox, but one look inside, possibly at an inscription inside the lid, and he went white. He dropped the snuffbox and its contents all over your dining room floorboards. He knew then he was the intended victim, not Blackwell, and he stormed from the room.”

Sir Charles waved a hand in dismissal. But Alec saw the trickle of sweat at his temple. “All conjecture and unsubstantiated. Tell him, my lady. Surely you don’t believe this nonsense?”

Lady Rutherglen shrugged a shoulder with indifference and said blithely, “Why ask me, Sir Charles? I am merely an ignorant old woman who knows nothing of politics.”

Sir Charles blinked at this very public betrayal; he was now very much on his own. Still, he managed to say with a veneer of confidence, “You won’t convince a jury, Halsey! None of this muck will stick to me. None of it!”

“He’s convinced me!” Plantagenet Halsey stated jovially. “What about you, ma’am?”

Selina smiled behind her fan but kept the laughter from her voice. “Lord Halsey’s argument is very persuasive, sir.”

Alec ignored them both. He withdrew his spectacles and the Duchess of Romney-St. Neot’s sealed letter from a frockcoat pocket, perched the eyeglasses on the end of his long boney nose and then held up the letter.

“How perceptive of Lord George to point out that I do know quite a bit about the hocus-pocury of the apothecary. Thanks to Thomas Fisher, who was, until quite recently, my valet and who is in the final year of his apprenticeship, discreet enquiries were made into the recent purchases of poisons, a register of which is kept by every apothecary. This letter I have here—Jeffries!” he shouted. “Your foot to it!”

Before Alec had time to utter the name of his correspondent, Sir Charles Weir was up off the sofa. He made a dash for the door. There was a general outcry. Lady Rutherglen leapt to her heels, fan and reticule falling to the floor. Plantagenet Halsey and Selina Jamison-Lewis did likewise though they remained where they stood. Talgarth Vesey opened an eye, saw Sir Charles making a run for it, saw Alec’s valet in pursuit and closed his eye again, a satisfied grin splitting his face.

Balancing a tray of clinking empty glass tumblers and a bottle of brandy, Hadrian Jeffries took three long strides across the room and stuck out his right foot. His polished black leather shoe with its plain silver buckle connected with Sir Charles’s stockinged shin, which instantly tripped him up just as he was lunging for the door handle. The fugitive was in the air for a matter of moments and then fell flat on his face, this time his chin hitting the floorboards hard before the rest of his stocky person came crashing down. He yelped in pain as his jaw jarred shut and his teeth ground against each other. He yelped some more when he was hit on the head by a heavy glass tumbler. Three glass tumblers had slid off Jeffries’ drink tray. One hit Sir Charles, another smashed on the floorboards; the third was caught in mid air.

“Well done, Jeffries!” Alec complimented, catching the third tumbler and replacing it on the tray as half a dozen militia, their captain at the helm burst through the door, all brandishing swords.

“And you, my lord,” Jeffries replied as he scooped up off the carpet Alec’s eyeglasses and handed them to him, all admiration for his master’s quickness of eye and hand coordination. “A masterful cricket catch, if ever I saw one!”

“Thank you, Jeffries,” Alec grinned, pocketing eyeglasses and the Duchess of Romney-St. Neot’s letter; a ruse, but one, he was relieved, had worked to his advantage.

“This is not over, Halsey!” Sir Charles growled as he was roughly hoisted up by two of the militia, arms whipped behind his back, and marched from the room. “I’ll tell all and sundry what I know! Lady Rutherglen! Stanton! I’ll let them all know what I know! And they’ll listen! No one cares about a shabby vicar! But they care very much about...”

“And I thought the evening was going to be wretched,” Lord George exclaimed with a self-satisfied smile, fat fingers splayed to the warmth of the fire as Alec followed the militia out of the room and Hadrian Jeffries closed over the door. “Charlie’s for Newgate and I’m for bed. Coming Auntie?”

“The evenin’ ain’t over yet, Stanton,” Plantagenet Halsey pointed out. “Some questions still need answers and you may very well be the person who can answer ’em!”

“Me? What would I know?’ Lord George snorted. “Charlie was the bright one. Fat lot of good his brains did him in the end!”

“I’d like to know who had me bopped over the skull by a couple of thugs in Cleveley livery,” said Plantagenet Halsey, eyes narrowing at Lord George. He jerked his head at Hadrian Jeffries who was quick on the uptake and moved to stand in front of the door. He smiled at the valet before saying to the room, “Left their calling card—a Cleveley livery button. Wanted me to think your father was after me. Me and a young lawyer in canary yellow were both accosted. Know anythin’ about that, Stanton?”

“Me?” Lord George looked startled. “Not a needle! Dare say Charlie put the footmen onto you. And for that I don’t blame him. Father don’t like you one drop. You’re a damned republican and a public nuisance. Come on, Auntie! Let me help you up.”

“And what I would like to know, dear sir, is who killed poor Billy Rumble,” Selina said to Plantagenet Halsey, “and why. His sisters and aunt are entitled to an explanation. Such a waste of a young life...”

“Sit down, George,” Lady Rutherglen ordered and flicked open her fan. “We will remain until I’ve seen with my own eyes that thieving kneeling-whore upstairs.”

The door opened and Alec stepped back into the room, having seen the magistrate, the militia and their struggling prisoner off the premises, to hear Lady Rutherglen’s proclamation and witness Lord George’s explosive response. There was an almost imperceptible swish through the air of a blade and the loose flabby flesh under Lady Rutherglen’s chin was tickled by a sword point before anyone in the room realized Lord George had unsheathed his sword from its ornate scabbard.