Death of a Dowager (20 page)

Chapter 41

My much-subdued friend and I trudged along the pavement back to her home. A light rain had begun, and as we walked, others flagged down hackney carriages so that they could find shelter. But the rain was more of a mist than a downpour, and I found it oddly refreshing, as if it washed away some vestige of Blanche Ingram.

Upon reflection, I had no idea how Blanche might accomplish such a dire conclusion as a hanging, because I knew that there was no way to link Lucy to Lady Ingram’s death. Still, I had seen firsthand how much damage a mere snub could cause. How much more would Lucy suffer for an unjust accusation?

I imagined it would create great harm. Especially if Blanche put any effort into it, which she undoubtedly would. Her grievance against Lucy was fresh, and while nothing could change history and erase my marriage to Edward, Blanche
could
potentially force Lady Grainger to change her mind about her will. This prize was both attainable and worthy of effort.

When we arrived home, Lucy tracked down Rags and then went to her room with a sick headache, forgoing her noontime meal. Ned was napping, so I had a quick lunch during which Adèle and I conversed for a while in French. We talked about the paper dolls, the weather, and the story of St. Jerome from
A Child’s
Book of Martyrs.
The idea of being skinned alive had appealed to Adèle’s innate sense of drama, and I regretted having selected it. However, she had been a good girl and read the entire piece, even though certain English words represented challenges to her vocabulary. There ensued a lively discussion, one that I could have avoided with a more judicial choice of reading matter.

After allowing Adèle to prance around in my feathered headpiece as a reward for her good effort, I left her to play with her paper dolls.

My children were fine, my husband was healing (or so I hoped), but my friend was at risk. Inside me there arose a restless feeling such as happens before a thunderstorm. I could not help but stop and peer out the window on my way downstairs from the nursery. The young conkers on the chestnut tree were hidden by pentagon-shaped leaves that had turned over, a sure sign bad weather was to come. I didn’t doubt it. I could feel the storm gathering, although I could not see it. The hairs on my arms bristled with electricity.

I found my husband and Bruce Douglas sitting in the library, huddled over the day’s newspapers. “You are home earlier than I supposed. What is the latest?” I asked Edward after planting a kiss on his cheek. A bit of road dust smudged his forehead, but I quickly cleaned it off with my handkerchief. Both men wore the coating of soot so common to anyone who spent time out of doors in the city, especially when the trip involved travel in the crowded streets and shopping stalls.

“I ordered a new pair of boots, Hessian style with white cuffs, because my friend here tells me they are all the rage. They and my old ones will be ready next week.”

“That is good news, but I was actually wondering what Mr. Waverly had to say.”

“We have been fortunate,” my husband said. “Waverly is a friend to us, indeed. Although someone leaked word that there are questions surrounding Lady Ingram’s death, Waverly has refused to confirm that he has opened a murder investigation. So at least we don’t have the newspapers to deal with. Not yet.”

“Oh!” I had forgotten all about the papers and their ongoing desire to print anything remotely salacious or inflammatory. This added a new and troubling dimension to Lady Ingram’s death—and Blanche Ingram’s threatened accusations.

Mr. Douglas added, “Waverly has confirmed that the woman had long-standing heart problems. I believe the receipt of Lady Ingram’s obituary sparked an interest—and then the tittle-tattle that followed whetted the newshounds’ appetites.”

“Who would have talked to the papers? I can’t believe that anyone from Lady Grainger’s staff would. They are devoted to her,” I said as I took my accustomed place on the hassock near Edward’s feet.

“I would surmise that one of the undertaker’s men has been paid to keep his eyes open. Would that make sense?”

I remembered that Mr. Lerner had stayed with Lady Ingram’s body, and that during that time, he had procured the leftover coffee. A sharp observer might have put two and two together. Mr. Douglas straightened and rubbed the back of his neck. “The question is, how long will Waverly be able to hold them off? Especially once the magistrate reads Lerner’s report?”

“Meanwhile,” said Edward as he tamped the medicinal herbs down in his pipe, “I told Waverly that I had offered young Lerner a job, and that I personally vouched for the man’s character. While the constable did not credit Mary Ingram’s rambling accusation with much reliability, it was troubling to him. My faith in the young man’s character gave Waverly yet another reason to disregard her nonsense.”

I told them about our visit with Lady Grainger and shared the news about the change in the woman’s will. The men were surprised by the woman’s generosity, although Mr. Douglas said, “Lucy has been wonderful to the Dowager Lady Grainger. My sister has the knack of nurturing friends, just as some people are good with their gardens.”

I finished my narrative by describing how Blanche had threatened Lucy.

“Blast,” muttered Edward.

“Good Lord,” said Mr. Douglas. “That woman will stop at nothing! I’ve never heard of a person so greedy. Blanche Ingram would destroy Lucy’s reputation and endanger my sister’s life to get her hands on Lady Grainger’s fortune? That’s unconscionable!”

“It’s more than the money to Blanche. It’s the end of her life as she knows it.” I explained what Blanche had said about her mother being held captive by the late Lord Ingram.

“I had never thought of it that way,” said Edward, “but now that you explain it, I can see why that would be an unhappy fate.”

I shrugged. “Most marriages do not enjoy the sort of compatibility ours does. But even still, Lady Ingram could have taken matters into her own hands. She could have done charity work, or read books, or pursued other arts, or visited with neighbors. Anyway, all that is in the past. We must deal with what lies ahead, and I know of nothing that Lucy can do to save herself from Blanche’s fury.”

“Is it possible that Miss Ingram killed her own mother?” Mr. Douglas wondered. “What if Lady Grainger told Lady Ingram how unhappy she was about paying for endless balls and parties? And then Lady Ingram had a talk with Blanche, telling her that she must find a husband and give up her gay life?”

“So you are suggesting that Blanche murdered her mother, not realizing that the directive to get married came from her aunt?” I concluded.

That required conjecture, and as I applied my thoughts to the problem, I decided it was possible but unlikely. “Blanche Ingram’s mother was her foil. Lady Ingram reflected her daughter’s glory, the way a magnifying glass amplifies an image for the viewer. I doubt that the Dowager would have dampened down her daughter’s enthusiasm for such a desultory life. Besides, Blanche also drank the coffee. Why would she drink a beverage to which she had added poison?”

“Then who did it? Her sister?” asked Mr. Douglas.

“Mary was brokenhearted,” I said. “As much as Blanche was uncaring, Mary evidences the very heart and soul of grief. I cannot believe she would hurt her own mother.”

“Whom does that leave us with? The staff?” asked Edward. “Lady Conyngham? Lady Grainger?”

“Or Mr. Lerner,” I said. “Mary has accused him. She seems to know him better than any of us. Perhaps we’ve been too quick to dismiss her claims.”

Chapter 42

The gentlemen turned their attention to news of the day, while I worked on my pen and ink for Evans. Thus the time passed pleasurably until Higgins announced that our tea was served, and we all proceeded into the dining room.

“Well, you shall have your chance to know Mr. Lerner better,” said Edward, “because I have invited him and Mr. Carter here to discuss particulars of the young doctor’s employment.”

“Mr. Carter is in town?”

“He sent word this afternoon. This is one of his regular visits to London, I take it.”

Polly conveyed the message that Lucy’s head was still bothering her. “Changing weather, I s’pect. It hits her hard,” she said. So we went on and supped without her. The day had wearied me, and I allowed the men to take the lead by discussing a boxing match to be held in Hungerford. Although organized fisticuffs had been illegal for seven decades, they still drew crowds. When I asked what kept the constables away—since a large gathering might surely be a tip-off that there was some mischief afoot—both men laughed.

“Members of the gentry pay constables to stay clear,” said Mr. Douglas. “And the bouts are held on private land.”

“Peers are willing to bribe the law? But why? Who would want ruffians from all over to congregate on their property?” I wondered. “It seems like they are taking a huge risk.”

“They are, but the reward is worth it,” said Edward.

“Many lords of the realm sponsor the boxers, owning and promoting them just as they might own a racehorse,” explained Mr. Douglas.

“But we’re talking about human beings!” I protested.

“Yes, and men have owned other men for centuries. That’s how the pyramids were built,” Edward reminded me.

It was gone eight when Mr. Lerner and Mr. Carter arrived. Mr. Douglas instructed Higgins to bring the men into the library, since Lucy’s large desk could be used for note taking if necessary. After our visitors had said their hellos, the ever-efficient butler offered to relieve the young doctor of his satchel. Once again, I noticed how the papers threatened to spill out of it. This time, a glance told me the reason why: The latch was broken.

“No, thank you,” said Lerner, holding the leather bag as if it were his most precious possession. “I keep all my important notes in it,” he explained. Although his method did not inspire confidence, Higgins took the man at his word.

“Higgins, can you scare up a bottle of brandy? Perhaps some port for my wife?” asked Edward.

I excused myself long enough to check on Ned and Adèle as they prepared for bed. Ned wanted to cling to me, a new habit of late, but I gently transferred him to Amelia’s welcome arms. Adèle stumbled over a few words as she read a portion from the Bible in English, but I praised her effort anyway and tucked her in. I looked in on Lucy, as well, and found her sound asleep with Rags curled in the crook of her legs.

In the library, Higgins poured brandy for the men, and a small glass of port for me, as Mr. Lerner watched Edward pack the medicinal herb in his pipe.

I thought back to Lady Grainger and her kindness toward the seamstress. There was a lesson there that I could happily absorb. “Mr. Carter and Mr. Lerner? Have you had your tea?”

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Rochester,” said Mr. Carter. “I ate at a pub near the inn where I’m staying.”

But Lerner was slower to answer. “Um, no. No, ma’am. I usually only eat but once a day.”

I did not press him for the reason why. His clothing showed signs of excessive wear. When he crossed his legs, I saw the soles of his boots were worn through. Excusing myself, I went downstairs to the kitchen and asked Cook if she might prepare a tray with a selection of sliced meats, leftover aspic, cheeses, and fresh bread.

Back in the library, Mr. Douglas was querying Mr. Lerner about his method for proving that Lady Ingram’s coffee cup had held poison. His questions were interrupted by a knocking on the door. In short order, Higgins returned with a highly agitated Mr. Waverly.

“So, Lerner, you ran here to hide. Well, I have a bone to pick with you. Tried to pull the wool over my eyes,” he said, yanking at his waistcoat.

Mr. Carter puckered his brow. “This young man did nothing of the sort. I’ve been with him all day, and we are here to keep a standing appointment with Squire Rochester.”

“Mr. Waverly? May I introduce you to my doctor and longtime friend, Mr. Carter?” Edward said. “Carter, this is the man from Bow Street whom we all admire so much.”

My husband’s compliment flummoxed Mr. Waverly, as it is terribly hard to maintain ruffled feathers when one is being praised.

Sadie carried in the tray. I watched Mr. Waverly’s eyes follow the food. So did the parlor maid, who set down the repast and then whispered to me, “I’ll bring more right up.”

“Have a seat, Mr. Waverly, your charges can wait a moment,” said Edward. “Help yourself to the food.”

“Brandy?” asked Mr. Douglas, offering a glass to the man from Bow Street. Mr. Carter passed the decanter to Lucy’s brother.

“I, er . . .” Mr. Waverly seemed flummoxed as he stared at the liquid. At last, he answered, “No, thank you, but I would be grateful for even a thimbleful of that whiskey. The one we had the other night?”

“Of course.” Mr. Douglas rang Higgins and asked that a bottle of the spirits be brought up from the cellar. “Now, you were in the midst of calling Mr. Lerner and Mr. Rochester ‘two of a kind,’ I believe. Care to pick up where you left off?”

At last Mr. Waverly slumped down into a chair. His glasses rested crookedly on his face, and his boots—always polished to a fine shine—were scuffed and dull. “In all of your visits to me, neither of you happened to mention this group that Mr. Lerner’s a member of. Completely slipped your minds, didn’t it? So then Miss Mary Ingram stomps into the magistrate’s office—apparently, she wasn’t satisfied with our response to her last visit, since I didn’t arrest the doctor, so she went on and on rehashing her accusations about Mr. Lerner and his character, saying how he poisoned her mother and I’m caught completely off-balance. My supervisor had a go at me. He cuffed my ears. Well, verbally at least.”

I thought to myself,
Of course she’s striking out. Blanche now blames Mary for the loss of their fortune! And without their mother to intercede, Mary is on the receiving end of all of Blanche’s fury!

Edward looked amused. “You mean you didn’t realize Mr. Lerner was a Jew?”

But a quick glance at Mr. Lerner affirmed that he was not laughing. No, he was terrified. The blood was draining slowly from his face. As I watched, he looked over at Mr. Carter, and the older doctor turned pale, too. I thought this a curious reaction, indeed.

“You know very well what I’m talking about, Mr. Rochester. You’ve got my head in a vice, and I’m not happy about it. I trusted you when you vouched for this man’s character. Now Miss Mary has made it clear that she has no compunctions about taking this up with the bishop. None. She’s more than willing to keep talking to anyone who might listen.”

“The bishop?” Mr. Douglas leaned forward in his chair, so that his elbows were on his knees. “Because Rochester is hiring a Jew, she thinks the bishop will interfere? Hasn’t he got better things to do, such as memorize his portion for the coronation?”

Again, I looked quickly at the two doctors. Both wore a sheen of perspiration on their foreheads. Mr. Lerner sat with shoulders stooped and his head bowed, while his older mentor emptied the contents of his glass.

“Tell him, Lerner,” said Mr. Carter.

What on earth was this all about?

“It’s true,” said Lerner. “I don’t know how she found me out, but it’s true. I am a Lunartick.”