Death at Gallows Green (6 page)

If the thought of Kate's visit gave Mr. Fairley any pleasure, he did not reveal it. Kate knew from Eleanor's premarital confidences that he was a widower, his first wife having been a woman of no particular family, who had borne him only one child, a son. Mr. Fairley's fortune had been established in the 1850s by his grandfather Franklin Fairley, the esteemed founder of Fairley's Finest Fancy Candies, and on this account he was a man of some considerable consequence. However, he was in trade and went daily to an office in the Fairley Building in Lombard Street, and hence could not aspire to any particular social recognition beyond that accorded to a newly rich man who could keep a fine house, three carriages, and two footmen with crested buttons and gold lace. But he could use his wealth to marry the social distinction he lacked, and so he had. His father, like his grandfather, had been a chocolatier. Eleanor's was a baron. It was exactly the kind of marriage any man in business must have longed to make.

Poor Eleanor, Kate thought. But then Eleanor's diamonds caught her eye, and she thought again. She felt it was wrong to marry for anything other than love, and she wouldn't do it. But society marriages were made for society's reasons and had very little to do with the heart's deeper motives. If Eleanor were dissatisfied with the choice she had made (mostly, Kate knew, at the urging of her mother), she did not show it. Indeed, she looked exceedingly well, in a rich turquoise silk with tight-fitting bodice and diamonds at her wrist, her ears, her throat. She was obviously using her husband's fortune to suit herself.

Eleanor smiled at Mr. Fairley and fluttered the ivory fan fastened to her wrist with a gold cord. “Would you allow us a few moments?” she asked. When he inclined his head and moved away, Eleanor's pretty mouth tightened slightly, and the lightness vanished from her voice. “I must talk to you, Kate. I have just discovered something terribly unsettling, and I am hoping that you will be able to help me.”

“I trust all is well with you, Ellie,” Kate said, allowing herself to be pulled a little apart from the crowd.

Eleanor's mouth tightened imperceptibly. “It is not about myself that I am concerned, Kate. It is about Mama.”

Kate was surprised. Lady Henrietta Marsden was a strong woman, a law unto herself. Even Lord Marsden acquiesced to her wishes. “I hope your mother is not ill.”

“Not ill,” Eleanor said. She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “There has been a theft, Kate. One of the servants has stolen my mother's antique emeralds.”

“How terrible for her!” Kate said. Everyone in England who could possibly afford it used domestic help, even if only a young girl to help with the cooking and cleaning. And many who had servants suffered from moments of doubt and fear, and even terror. There were frequent reports in the newspapers of servants making off with the silver and even, quite recently, of a lady's maid who murdered her mistress and fled to France with that lady's jewels and best dresses.

The dour, black-shawled dowager walked past and said a word of acerbic greeting to Eleanor. She smiled and bowed, replied, and then turned back to Kate. “Fortunately,” she said behind her fan, “Mama does not yet know of the theft.”

Kate raised her eyebrows.

“She does not yet know of it,” Eleanor went on, “because I myself had a loan of the emeralds—a necklace, earrings, bracelet, and two rings. They are quite lovely, but several of the stones are Hawed so that while they are valuable, they are not priceless. I wore them at a ball given in my honour several weeks ago. Shortly after the ball, I returned the jewels to their box in the safe in Mama's sitting room, with the exception of the small tea ring, which I had forgotten. Yesterday, when I went to return the ring, the box was gone.”

“Perhaps your mother took them,” Kate said

“My mother does not
know
that they are gone,” Eleanor replied with some agitation. “When I mentioned the tea ring, she asked me to give it to her so that she could put it with the others.”

“What did you do?”

Eleanor coloured. “I told her a lie,” she said with the discomfort of one who has been raised to tell her mother the truth. “I said that I had forgotten the ring and left it in London.”

“And you deduce from this that—”

“That Mama does not yet know that her jewels are missing. The safe is quite crowded with other things and this particular box is small. She wears the jewels only on special occasions, and sets a great sentimental store by them. Oh, Kate, she will be
livid
when she discovers that they have been stolen! And I myself feel an appalling responsibility.”

“You?” Kate asked in some surprise. “Why should you hold yourself responsible?”

Eleanor bit her lip. “Because I fear that when I returned the jewels I failed to lock the safe. I was in a great hurry to dress for dinner, and Mama's footman came in with a message just as I was putting the emeralds back. He distracted me with a question and I left the room without assuring myself that the safe was locked.”

Kate frowned. “Do you then suspect the footman?”

“Lawrence?” Eleanor's lavender eyes clouded. “I fear I must. I am very sorry, for he has been at the manor for seven years and has been a help to me on many occasions. Two years ago in London, I was involved in a rather foolish liaison. Lawrence carried messages for me and kept my confidence when he might easily have betrayed me to Mama for his advantage. Since then, I have felt obliged to him, and would hate to see him sent up on charges on my account.” She put her hand on Kate's arm. “Can you not see why I feel such a terrible responsibility? If I did not close the safe properly, I placed temptation in Lawrence's way.
I
may have caused his downfall.”

“If it is true that the footman took the jewels,” Kate said gently, “the moral fault is his, not yours. Have you taken your suspicions to your father or to your brother Bradford?”

At the mention of Bradford, Eleanor pulled herself upright. “I am sorry to say that my brother and I have not been on the best of terms of late. And as for speaking to my father—” She paused. “I will, of course, if I must. But I hoped that you might be able to help.”

“I?” Kate was surprised. “How could I help?”

Eleanor's shoulders lifted helplessly. “I am not at all sure,” she said. “I was hoping that perhaps you might discover whether Lawrence took the jewels, and if he did, how he disposed of them. If redeeming them is not too costly, I may be able to persuade Mr. Fairley to assist. I've come to you because I know that it was through your investigations that the murderer of your aunt was brought to justice, and I thought—”

“I very much fear, Ellie,” Kate broke in, “that you overestimate my abilities. In any event, I do not see how I might have the opportunity to do the kind of investigation required in this case. I think you must speak with your father or your brother about this matter, and let them handle it.”

Eleanor looked crestfallen. “I suppose you're right. But I did so hope—You're sure, Kate?”

“I have a great interest in mysteries,” Kate said firmly, thinking of Beryl Bardwell. “But I am no detective. I fear you must pursue this without my assistance, Ellie.” She smiled and deliberately changed the subject. “I trust that your disagreement with your brother is not serious.”

Eleanor fanned herself. “Probably not.” Her mercurial face brightened and her voice became lighter. “Do you know that he has a romantic interest in you?”

“I doubt that it is a serious interest,” Kate said, matching the lightness of her friend's tone. She had long since come to terms with the fact that she was not a beauty. Her face and figure were presentable and her mop of mahogany hair attractive when she bothered to comb and dress it properly (which she did not always do). But she spurned the social arts of flattery and flirtation and said what she .thought without worrying much about how it might be received. Hers was not a style that readily attracted lovers, who seemed to wish for more compliance than she was willing to offer. And to tell the truth, she was glad, for she had not met many men, either American or British, whose romantic attentions she would welcome. If spinsterhood was the price for her independence, she was more than ready to pay it.

“It may be more serious than you think,” Eleanor said with a mysterious smile. “And have you heard from our mutual friend, Sir Charles Sheridan? Did you know that he has returned from Paris and is staying at Marsden Manor?”

“I had not heard,” Kate replied casually, not betraying her interest. Before leaving for Paris, Sir Charles had called twice. They had walked among the ruins on the other side of the lake, where he had found a rare species of bat that interested him greatly. She found him quite attractive and enjoyed his company—had indeed almost thought that he might be a man whose attentions she could welcome. But something told her that it was the bats that brought him to Bishop's Keep, rather than an interest in her. Now, thinking of Sir Charles and remembering his investigative skills, Kate said, “You might speak to Sir Charles about your mother's jewels, Ellie.”

Eleanor brightened. “What a splendid idea! Mr. Fairley and I will be going back to the manor on Monday to spend the week. Mama is planning a garden party to introduce him to the neighbourhood.”

“Yes, I know,” Kate said. “I've been invited.”

“I can't be sure, of course,” Eleanor went on in a teasing tone, “but I suspect that both Sir Charles and Bradford are interested in you. Tell me, Kate. Which do you prefer?”

Kate returned Eleanor's teasing with a deliberately arch smile. “Oh, come, now, Ellie. Sir Charles is interested only in my bats. And your brother has spent most of the past few months in London immersed in his automobile investments. Faced with such masculine preoccupations, what is a woman to do? I think I shall not prefer at all, but remain exactly as I am, unmarried and independent, answering neither to a baron-to-be nor to a knight who loves bats.”

Eleanor shook her head in despair. “Oh, Kate, you are so wicked. Whatever shall I do with you?”

“Yes,” Kate said decisively, “I am very wicked and very unmarried. And I intend to stay that way.”

I
t was raining the next afternoon at the hour that Kate had agreed to walk with Bea. A little while before their appointed time, she went in search, expecting to find her room on the third floor where the visitors' servants were put up—or in the garret, where Bea's ward was no doubt confined. But Kate was surprised when the maid of whom she inquired told her that the room was on the second floor, near the head of the stairs. When she knocked and was bade to enter and did, she was surprised again. Not only was the room on the wrong floor, it was far too handsomely furnished and decorated to be that of a servant. It was hung with rose damask draperies and contained a four-poster bed, carved mahogany furniture, and a blazing fire in the fireplace. And there was no madwoman mumbling insanities in a corner. Instead, stretched out on the hearthrug, in drowsy repose, lay the white rabbit Kate had apprehended yesterday.

“Hello,” Bea said, looking up from the sketch pad in her lap, on which she was working in pencil. On the table in front of her sat a small creature, quiet and complacent enough, but with a prickly coat as rough-bristled as a scrub brush and a black snout almost like that of a small pig. “I should have come to find you in a moment or two,” she added. “It is much too wet to walk out, don't you think?”

“Yes, it is,” Kate said. “I would rather enjoy the rainy afternoon by looking out the window.” As she came forward, a brown mouse with large black eyes peeped out from beneath Bea's skirt. “Excuse me,” Kate said urgently, and backed up a step. “There's a mouse under your skirt!”

“Oh, dear.” But instead of jumping onto the chair and shrieking, as Kate might have expected, Bea pulled her skirt aside and looked down. “Hunca Munca,” she scolded, “get back in your house. Can't you see we have a visitor?” When the mouse still sat blinking beadily at her, she scooped it up, rose, and popped it into a small wire cage on the window sill. “You shall have a bit of cheese if you are polite,” she said.

“But if you persist in making a nuisance of yourself, you shall be put to bed without any tea.”

Kate was so astonished that she could only stare. “Do you often talk to mice?” she managed finally.

“It depends upon whether I have anything to say. I more often talk to hedgehogs.” Bea went to the table and picked up the prickly creature, which snuggled into her hand.

Kate stepped forward. “What a funny creature,” she said, extending a finger. “What is its name?”

“Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle,” Bea said.

Kate couldn't help smiling. So
this
was the madwoman in the garret! “She's just like a fat, sleepy little dog.”

Bea nodded. “As a model, she's very comical. So long as she can go to sleep on my knee, she's delighted. But if she's propped up on end for half an hour, she begins to yawn pathetically, and then likes to bite.”

Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle chose that instant to yawn, showing sharply pointed yellow teeth.

“You're very brave, to make a pet of a creature with such sharp teeth,” Kate said. She glanced down at Bea's sketch pad on the table. There were several drawings of the hedgehog. In one, she was wearing a large apron over a striped petticoat and a ruffled mobcap, and her forelegs were soapy to the elbow. “I see you've dressed her up,” she added, admiring the skill and humour with which the cunning little animal had been drawn. “How clever. And what a remarkably lifelike figure!”