Dorchester Terrace (28 page)

N
ARRAWAY SAT BY THE
fire in his study, the gaslight turned low, and thought about Serafina Montserrat. Pitt said he had asked the doctor to keep his own counsel regarding the conclusion that her death could not have been accidental. He said he had given the doctor his word that the death would not be investigated by the police, but by Special Branch, because of its possible connection with a current case.

The possible plot against Duke Alois needed to occupy all of Pitt’s attention; he could not afford to be distracted by anything else. But Narraway was not certain if his promise to investigate Serafina’s death was wise. Detection was not a skill he had refined to anything like Pitt’s degree. However, he still believed it possible that there was a direct link between Serafina’s fears and the proposed assassination of Duke Alois. If there was, it was imperative that he find it before it was too late.

If Serafina’s death was a political act by someone afraid she might
reveal a long-dead scandal or personal indiscretion, surely it must have ceased to be embarrassing to anyone but the attacker himself?

He did not think, from what Vespasia had said of her, that Nerissa Freemarsh had the nature to contemplate killing her aunt as an act of compassion to free her from the mental suffering of knowing that her own mind was betraying her.

Tucker, the lady’s maid? That was more likely. She was devoted to Serafina. Vespasia had told him that, and he trusted her judgment without question. She had certainly had enough maids to know, and seen dozens of others.

But then Tucker would also lose her position at Serafina’s death. And she must know that she would be suspected before anyone else if an overdose was discovered. After the years of looking after Serafina, no one would believe her capable of doing such a thing accidentally.

That left only the far uglier thought that Nerissa Freemarsh had killed her aunt for personal reasons: possibly the inheritance of the house and whatever money Serafina possessed, before it was too late for her to enjoy it—or perhaps before the money had been spent on Serafina’s care.

He would have to interview the household staff. There was no one else who could answer the difficult, probing questions he needed to ask. He stared up at the firelight patterns on the ceiling and tried to think of facts, physical evidence, anything at all that could prove who had given Serafina the extra laudanum. Nothing came to mind. Whoever had done it would have cleaned up after themselves. The house would be dusted and polished every day, the dishes washed, everything put back into the cupboard or onto the shelf where it was normally stored. All household staff would have access to all parts of the house, though it was likely that only Tucker and Nerissa would spend time in Serafina’s bedroom, and perhaps one of the housemaids.

Had anyone else been there? Would they have been noticed? And what reason would they have to harm Serafina … unless they had been paid by someone? But no, that thought was absurd.

By midnight the fire had burned down. Narraway stood up, turned off the lights, and went upstairs to bed. He had not thought of any
solution to his quandary, except to investigate personal motives. He had little more than a week before Duke Alois arrived in Dover.

In the morning he decided to ask Vespasia’s opinion. He dressed smartly, as was suitable for a visit to a lady for whom he had not only a deep affection, but also a certain awe.

“Victor! How pleasant to see you,” Vespasia said with some surprise when he was shown into the withdrawing room a little after ten o’clock. She wore a highly fashionable dress of a pale blue-green shade with white lace at the throat, large sleeves, and her customary pearls. She was smiling. She knew, of course, that he had come for a specific reason.

“Well?” she inquired, when she had sent the maid for tea.

He told her briefly the thoughts he had entertained the previous evening. She listened to him in silence until he had finished, merely moving her head fractionally every now and then in agreement.

“There is one thing you have apparently not considered,” she observed. “Nerissa is not a particularly charming young woman, and, judging from her present position as companion to her aunt, she has no great means of her own.”

“I know that,” he said. “Maybe she decided not to risk Serafina spending all of what would be her inheritance.”

Vespasia smiled. “My dear Victor, there is another consideration far more urgent in a woman’s mind than mere money.” She noted his expression with amusement. “Nerissa is not plain in appearance, but she is quite unaware of how to flatter or charm, to amuse, to make a man feel high-spirited or at ease. She is also rapidly coming toward the end of her childbearing years. At the moment her prospects are good; but if Serafina were to have lived even another five years, which she might have, then it would have been a different matter. Her present lover may not be willing to wait so long for Nerissa to come into her inheritance.”

Narraway froze. “Her present lover! Are you certain?”

“Yes. But I am not certain if it is an affair that has any realistic hope of ending in marriage. If it does not, then privacy may be all that she desired.”

“But surely Serafina Montserrat would be the last woman on earth to interfere in an affair, let alone disapprove of one?” he said reasonably.

“Perhaps. But Nerissa may not have realized that. I am not sure whether she is fully aware of Serafina’s earlier life. These are things it might be profitable for you to discover.”

“Yes,” he agreed, ceasing the conversation while the maid brought in the tea and Vespasia poured it.

Vespasia smiled at him. “Tucker will know,” she remarked, taking one of the tiny crisp cookies off the plate. “Treat her with respect, and you will learn all kinds of things.”

He thought for a moment. “If this lover of Nerissa’s is serious, might he have killed Serafina, to preserve the money Nerissa could inherit? With the house, it would make him very comfortable.”

“Possibly.” Vespasia’s face expressed her pity for such a thought, and her contempt. “Which is why it is important that you discover who he is.” Her eyes softened with a deeper kind of sadness. “It is also possible that his reason was nothing to do with money, or with Nerissa at all, except insofar as she gave him access to Serafina, and her disintegrating memory.”

“I know,” he agreed. “I will investigate that too.”

A
FTER LEAVING VESPASIA
’
S HOME
, Narraway rode in the hansom to visit Serafina’s doctor, consumed in thought. He was starting to realize how much more difficult detection was than he had originally appreciated. He was guilty of having taken Pitt’s skill very much for granted in the previous years. He did not even notice the brilliant blue sky darken over, or the people on footpaths hastening their steps. He did not see the first heavy spots of rain. He was unaware of the swift change in the weather until one man lost grip of his umbrella and it whisked into the street, startling horses and causing a near-accident.

Dr. Thurgood was unable to give any further assistance. There was nothing medical to add to the bare fact that Serafina had died of an overdose of laudanum so huge that it was impossible that she had given it to herself accidentally.

He caught a hansom to go to Dorchester Terrace. On the journey he turned over in his mind the practical facts, which severely limited the number of people able to administer such a dose.

The most obvious person was Nerissa Freemarsh; not that he seriously thought it
was
Nerissa, unless her lover had built up the nerve, or the desperation, to force her into it. What could have caused that? A sudden, urgent financial need? The longing to marry before it was too late for children?

Then why now? Why not sooner? Was it really coincidental that Serafina’s death had happened just before Duke Alois’s visit? It was not easy to believe.

He arrived at Dorchester Terrace, alighted, and paid the cabbie, then walked up the pathway to the door. He was admitted by the footman and gave him his card.

“Good morning,” he said quickly, before the man could protest that the house was in mourning and would receive no callers. “I need to speak with Miss Freemarsh. I hope she is still at home?” He was certain she would be. She was very traditional in her manner and dress, and, so newly bereaved, he was certain she would not leave the house for some time.

The man hesitated.

“Will you inform her that Lord Narraway is here, on business to do with the recent death of her aunt, Mrs. Montserrat.” He did not pitch his voice to make it a request. “I shall also need to speak with the housekeeper, the maids, the cook, yourself, and Miss Tucker.”

The man paled. “Yes … yes, sir. If you …” He gulped and cleared his throat. “If you would like to wait in the morning room, my lord?”

“Thank you, but I would prefer to use the housekeeper’s sitting room. It will make people more at ease.”

The man did not argue. Five minutes later Narraway was seated on a comfortable chair by the fire, facing the plump, pink-faced housekeeper, Mrs. Whiteside. She looked angry and bristling.

“I don’t know what you are thinking, I can tell you that much,” she began, refusing to sit, even though he had asked her to.

“You are in charge of the house, Mrs. Whiteside. You can tell me about each of the servants employed here.”

“You can’t imagine that any of them killed poor Mrs. Montserrat!” she accused him. “I’m not standing here while you say wicked things like that about innocent people, lordship or not, whoever you are.”

He smiled with amusement at her indignation, and with quite genuine pleasure at her loyalty. She looked like an angry hen ready to take on an intruder in the farmyard.

“Nothing would give me more pleasure than to prove that true, Mrs. Whiteside,” he said gently. “Perhaps with some detail, you can assist me in that. Then we widen the circle to include others who might have observed something of meaning, even if they did not realize it at the time. The one thing that seems impossible to deny is that someone did give Mrs. Montserrat a very large dose of laudanum. If you have any idea who that might be, or even why, then I would be obliged to you if you would tell me.”

It was the last sort of response she had expected. For several seconds she could not find words to answer him.

He indicated the chair opposite him again. “Please sit down, Mrs. Whiteside. Tell me about the members of your staff, so that I can imagine what they do when they are off duty, what they like and dislike, and so on.”

She was thoroughly confused, but she did her best. A quarter of an hour into her description, she began to speak naturally, even with affection. For the first time in his life, Narraway was offered a vivid picture of a group of people utterly unlike himself, all away from the homes and families in which they grew up, slowly forming a new kind of family, with friendships, jealousies, loyalty, and understanding that gave comfort to their lives, and a certain kind of framework that was of intense importance. Mrs. Whiteside was the matriarch, the cook almost as important. The footman was the only man, Serafina not requiring a butler, and therefore he had a place of unique privilege. But he was young, and not above bickering with the maids over trivia.

Tucker, as the lady’s maid, was not really either upstairs or downstairs. Her position was senior to the others, and as Narraway listened to Mrs. Whiteside’s descriptions, he came to the conclusion that Tucker’s position was an oddly lonely one.

“I don’t know what else you want,” she finished abruptly, looking confused again.

Narraway was quite certain that none of the staff had had anything to do with Serafina’s death. Their own lives had been sadly disrupted by it; now, even their home was no longer assured. Sooner or later Nerissa might choose to sell the house, or might have to, and they would be separated from one another and without employment. Then again, if she suspected them of disloyalty, or of speaking out of turn to Narraway, she might dismiss them without even a reference, and that would be worse. He became suddenly sensitive to the fact that he must phrase his questions with care.

“I would like to speak to them one at a time,” he responded. “And see if anyone has noticed anything out of the ordinary in the house. Something not in its usual place, moved, or accidentally destroyed perhaps.”

She understood immediately. “You think somebody broke in and killed poor Mrs. Montserrat?” Her face was horrified.

“The more you describe the people here, the less likely I think it is that one of them could have gone upstairs, found the laudanum, and given Mrs. Montserrat a fatal dose.”

“I must stay right in this room while you talk to the maids,” she warned him.

“Of course,” he agreed. “I wish you to, but please do not interrupt.”

His questioning proved fruitless, as he had expected, except to confirm in his own mind that Serafina’s staff was ordinary, an artless group of domestic servants, capable of occasional idleness, gossip, and petty squabbling, but not of sustained malice or evil. For one thing, they seemed far too unsophisticated for the degree of deception required to poison someone and hide all traces. For another, they confided in one another too freely to keep such a secret. Mrs. Whiteside’s estimate of them was reasonably accurate. He made a mental note that if he was ever involved in detective work again, he would pay more attention to the observations of housekeepers.

Tucker was a different matter. She had been with Serafina for decades. She looked pathetically frail now, and somewhat lost; she
would be cared for now, but never needed in the way Serafina had needed her. She sat in the chair opposite Narraway and prepared to answer his questions.

He began gently, and was amused to find her observations of the other servants very similar to Mrs. Whiteside’s, if a trifle sharper. But then she did not have to work with them anymore. She no longer had a position to guard.

She was not without humor, and he regretted having to move his line of inquiry to more sensitive areas.