Page 12 of A Gentleman of Sinister Schemes (The Lord Julian Mysteries #8)

Chapter Twelve

Tragedy, in my experience, invariably inflicted a stink along with upheaval and sorrow. The cloying stench of lilies at a funeral, the acrid aroma of gun smoke above a battlefield, the symbolic odor of false pity surrounding a scandal of any size.

The marquess’s London sitting room reeked of both damp and sulfur, with notes of scorched wool adding a bitter tang.

“Devil take it,” Tam said, flourishing an embroidered handkerchief and covering his nose. “Rotten affair, literally rotten.” He stood surrounded by destruction in the middle of the sitting room. “Could have been worse, I suppose. We might have already removed to Town, along with the rest of polite society.”

He used the toe of his boot to flip aside a burned length of carpet. “Grandmama decorated this room before I was born. Gordie wasn’t willing to see it changed. Said that was for his bride to do.”

Gordie…? Then I recalled that Dalhousie’s given name was Gordon.

“Try not to move anything else,” I said, remaining in the doorway to the corridor. “We are exceptionally fortunate that the housekeeper decided to allow the rooms to dry before cleaning them.” The windows were open to the raw early morning air, Tam and I having arrived a mere three hours earlier. By agreement with Dalhousie, we bided at the Caldicott London residence rather than under a roof that had survived a bout of possible arson.

Arthur’s pigeons had done a yeoman effort, alerting the Caldicott staff to my itinerary and, through the good offices of the ducal butler, warning Dalhousie’s staff away from the crime scene.

“What can you possibly tell from this mess?” Tam asked, turning a circle, “other than that somebody tried to burn us out.”

I’d already reviewed with Dalhousie’s butler the schedule followed by the chimney sweeps. Those dubious fellows had sworn on the souls of their sainted grannies that every single chimney on the premises had been duly cleaned in early January. London laws were strict and unforgiving on the topic of dirty chimneys, and if a sweep were to cut corners, he’d do so somewhere other than a marquess’s household.

“The fire started on that hearth.” I took a few gingerly steps across the room. “Observe the pattern of smoke stains on the wallpaper. The bedroom suffered much less damage and little on the inside wall.”

“Meaning?”

“The prevailing breeze in London is from the west, for all but a few weeks here and there. In mid-April, it often comes from the north, though only temporarily. To ensure the flue draws, most footmen will crack a window, even in cold weather, when the fire is first started.”

Tam’s gaze went to windows thrust open as high as the sashes allowed. “Therefore…?”

“The greatest portion of smoke is accumulated on the easternmost wall.” I gestured to a smoke-blackened landscape of Dalhousie Manor hanging above a sideboard. “The window was opened, the mess in the hearth did not draw, and thus you see the smoke billowed nearly to the ceiling.”

“But the rug isn’t completely charred,” Tam said.

“A passing footman smelled the smoke, and because his errand had been carrying washing water from the laundry to the dormitory on the next floor up, he heaved a lucky few gallons right onto the heart of the fire.” Or so a teary housekeeper had informed me.

I would talk to the footman who’d been in such an opportune place at such a fortunate time. All of London smelled of coal smoke. What had alerted this fellow to inchoate tragedy?

I sniffed around in the bedroom, which had been damaged as much by water as by smoke, despite there being little evidence of an extinguished fire.

“An abundance of caution,” I muttered. “At least they spared the bed hangings.”

“But not the carpet.” Tam seemed genuinely unhappy at the state of his grandmama’s rugs. “This one can be saved, don’t you think?”

“The wool will dry, but getting the stink out will take some effort. Lend me that walking stick.”

He passed over an unprepossessing wooden affair that would barely qualify as an accessory in the better clubs. “I like that one. Susanna gave it to me, so please…”

I jabbed the hooked end of the walking stick up the flue of the sitting room chimney. A shower of soot, ashes, and charred rags came down onto the andirons. More hard poking dislodged a larger wad of what had likely been intended as tinder.

I bent down and sniffed, but could detect no odor of gunpowder or kerosene.

“A very odd sort of arson,” I said, handing Tam back his walking stick.

He wiped the handle with his handkerchief and tossed the exquisitely embroidered square of linen onto the heap of detritus half burying the andirons.

“What is my lord wittering on about now?”

I picked up the handkerchief, both because it did not belong among the evidence and because some careful washing would restore it to usefulness. The stitchery had taken some lady—probably Susanna—hours to complete, and Tam hadn’t sense enough to value that labor.

“We can confirm that the fire was deliberately set,” I said, dusting my hands and making for the door. Dalhousie would be displeased. When I’d left the marquess, he’d graduated to muttering about faulty flues, lazy chimneysweeps, and bad luck on top of worse.

“Well, I didn’t set it,” Tam said. “Neither did my mother or—one must admit the obvious—the marchioness. What does a lot of old rags stuffed up a chimney prove anyway?”

“In itself, nothing, except that Dalhousie’s malefactor has had access to his town house in the past few weeks. That rules out practically every soul on the estate, as well as the family.”

“But not Northby,” Tam said, following me from the room. “He and Cressy come up to Town to see his brother after the holidays. He’s dead set against the enclosure, and if Dalhousie can’t come to Town, he can’t introduce his bill before Parliament.”

We moved down the corridor, the scent of smoke fading, though I knew it would linger in my clothes and hair until both were thoroughly washed. Artillery crews resigned themselves to reeking for days after a battle—provided they survived the hostilities—and some of the older sergeants lost their sense of smell as well as their hearing after years of campaigning.

Damn the Corsican for that, too, and damn whoever was plaguing Dalhousie.

“Why doesn’t Dalhousie ask somebody else to introduce his bill?” I asked.

“Because he wouldn’t,” Tam said, accompanying me down the main staircase. “That would be… not exactly cowardly, but it would ask another man to take on one skirmish in Dalhousie’s battles, and our Gordie is too honorable for that. Before all this upset, he might have relied on a crony or two to see to the formalities—he will be waltzed off his feet once he does come to Town—but not now.”

“Waltzed off his feet by prospective marchionesses?”

We reached the frigid main foyer, a temple to white marble flooring, white gesso pilasters, robust ferns, and uninspired landscapes. The whole was illuminated by a skylight in addition to large windows facing the street and their mirror images facing a back garden sporting a few ambitious daffodils.

“This is the year Dalhousie must wed,” Tam said. “Or that was the plan. I will miss him, and his defection from the ranks of bachelors might inspire me to take a bride myself. Of course, that would leave Suze to the tender mercies of the Dandridge dragons, and what sort of cousin would I be if I allowed that fate to befall her?”

Precisely the sort of cousin the world expected him to be? “You will leave the Manor if Dalhousie marries?”

“I might.” He leaned conspiratorially nearer. “When a man of any standing marries, he tells himself little need change. A pleasant duty features on the end of some evenings, but other than that, his life will continue as he wishes it to. This is a lie perpetrated upon the unsuspecting by the majority of former bachelors. They prevaricate out of a combination of self-delusion and declining faculties. Marriage makes a fellow see things differently, and children… They are noisy and dear and nearly inevitable following the vows and sometimes even before them. One shudders.”

No, one did not, but from Tam’s perspective—an overgrown boy with the means to cherish his juvenile self-indulgence—the recitation was doubtless honest.

“Tamerlane, whom do you think set this fire?”

He glanced up the steps. “Devils. Playing with fire is for devils or the poor souls they torment. I’m off to the club for a decent beefsteak. Care to join me?”

“Thank you, no. I’d like to question the footman who found the fire and led the efforts to contain it. I will also speak with the sweeps who look after this house and do some further nosing around.”

Tam retrieved his hat from a hook over the deal table beside the porter’s nook. “You be careful, Caldicott. Potshots and poison are bad enough, but arson in London breaks all bounds. Dalhousie is a peer in his prime, and anybody who’d do him a mischief isn’t right in the brainbox.”

“Tamerlane, for the love of all that is discreet, you will not bruit it about that mischief of any sort has befallen your family. The sweeps missed one chimney, a bit of smoke and mess resulted, all’s well, if you must mention the incident at all.”

“Right.” He tapped his hat down and tilted it a half inch to the right. “I can be discreet, but my warning stands. Be careful.”

His admonition was offered with odd gravity, and then he was off down the steps, his walking stick propped jauntily over his shoulder.

I surprised myself by repeating Dicky’s feat of stamina two days after having arrived in London. The Dalhousie mounts—kept in readiness for the marquess himself—were first-quality riding stock and up to my weight. The weather was chilly but reasonably obliging, meaning the roads were dryish.

Winter was on the run, though the farther I rode from London, the less evidence of spring I saw. In the shires, the occasional lambing snow might yet fall, but plowing had begun, and planting would soon follow.

Where was Arthur? Was he idling about on some Greek island, delighting in milder climes, or was he dreading the prospect of a return to the Hall?

“You’re back,” Atticus said, taking the reins of my tired chestnut gelding when he came to a halt in the stable yard. “Miss West said you wouldn’t tarry in Town.”

The boy had fretted that I would abandon him, of course. Only time and unfailing reliability on my part would ease that anxiety.

“I am back. Tamerlane will follow at a more leisurely pace, just as soon as he’s tithed to his bootmaker, tailor, glovemaker, half the clubs in St. James’s, and a few addresses a gentleman doesn’t name in mixed company. Atlas is well?”

Atticus patted the chestnut’s neck. “That Dicky fellow said Atlas were a fine specimen in fine condition. He left yesterday. Showed me how to pull a horseshoe so I don’t tear off any hoof.”

“A vital skill, and not enough grooms take the time to learn it. What of Shakespeare, my boy?”

Atticus busied himself loosening the horse’s girth. “Why does everybody say he writes comedies? What he thinks is funny is mostly people insulting each other. Poor people making fun of rich people, men making fun of women, smart people putting down the simpler folk. The simple folk putting down the queen. I don’t care for it.”

“His audiences weren’t allowed to put down much of anybody, so they enjoyed his humor, but you make an interesting point. Anything else to report?”

“All quiet. Too quiet. Everybody knows Dicky came out from Town hotfoot. Then you and Tam tore into Town hotfoot, while the marquess swans about like the King of Palmyra, not a care in the world.”

“Beginning to wish you’d stayed at the Hall?” I could certainly admit to that sentiment.

“Not on your life, guv. I wrote to Leander and Her Grace. Miss West checked my spelling.”

I was overdue to report to the duchess, and she would certainly get word that I’d been spotted in Town.

“Keep your ears open, Atticus. The problem in London was arson, a fire set deliberately in the marquess’s very apartment.”

“That’s serious, that is. Londoners hate fires.”

“With good reason. Somebody willing to go to such lengths is not to be underestimated.” In its way, arson was worse than firing a bullet at a human target. The bullet might kill the man, but fire—fire in Town—could rage for days, end countless lives, and destroy structures that would take years to replace. The Great Fire had changed London forever and left an indelible stamp on Londoners too.

“Julian.”

At the edge of the stable yard, Hyperia stood swathed in a plain brown cloak and simple straw hat, looking like an unprepossessing gentry miss out for a bit of sketching. She preferred subdued colors—they drew less notice—though I was becoming aware of how subtly she managed Society’s impression of her.

“Dearest lady.” I bowed. “I have a report, and the news is interesting. Atticus, I’ll see you after supper. Don’t wait up for me if I’m late.”

He waved and led the horse away, and abruptly, I felt every mile of the journey I’d made.

“You’ve overtaxed yourself, haven’t you?” Hyperia slipped her arm through mine and gently marched me to a bench bathed in the weak afternoon sunshine. “Rode out from Town in a single day. Julian, you know better.”

“Fatigue makes me irritable. I know. I will nap before supper.” I handed her onto the bench and came down beside her, the wood surprisingly warm against my backside. “Arson, Perry. Arson plain as day and in the marquess’s private sitting room. Somebody stuffed the chimney full of tinder, and the first time a fire was lit in the hearth, disaster came calling, or nearly so.”

“A stuffed chimney doesn’t draw, does it?”

Straight to the heart of the riddle, of course. “I interrogated the head sweep on that very point, and he said it depends. If the packing is done just so, the chimney is essentially narrowed, the speed of the updraft is increased, and the packing is set ablaze faster and hotter.”

“And yet, we are told a dirty flue won’t draw as well.”

“A chimney all but obstructed with dirt and ash won’t draw, which is the other side of a coin. The head sweep’s example was a bird’s nest. Most chimneys are capped, but if the cap rusts or comes loose, and birds begin nesting, they can quickly accumulate several feet of thickly packed twigs, straw, and feathers at the top of the chimney. They keep adding to the pile until the chimney is so full, the nest is stable.”

“And then, the chimney doesn’t draw at all, or—depending—it can ignite with a spectacular explosion that spreads to the whole house, all because a pair of robins needed a home. Dalhousie was lucky, then. Very lucky.”

“He was lucky in more ways than one, Perry.” I wanted to take her hand, and it occurred to me that I could . We were engaged to be married. I slipped my fingers through hers, and she allowed it. “The footman who discovered the fire was fairly new to Town. He had both the country lad’s keen nose and the terror of fire impressed upon all who go into service in London. He’d laid that fire himself and thus felt responsible for keeping an eye on it.”

“Or a nose, but if the marquess wasn’t expected in Town, why light that fire at all, Jules?”

“I needed a day’s pondering before I put that question to Dalhousie’s housekeeper. She said the marchioness had notified her to prepare the house for the family’s arrival. The day and hour had not yet been chosen, but the fire was lit because an army of maids would be dusting and polishing the entire suite. Beeswax polish apparently works better when the chill is off the air.”

“True enough. I wonder if Dalhousie knew of his mother’s instructions.”

Another excellent question. “How are they getting on?”

Hyperia withdrew her hand. “Have you noticed, Julian, that nobody in this family really talks to anybody else?”

Whatever was she getting at? “I haven’t noticed any such thing, Perry, though I grant you, the lot of them avoid needlessly confronting the marchioness. At meals, the conversation flows easily. These people have the gift of chat, of pleasant conversation. I envy them that. They laugh together, tease one another, poke fun at the neighbors and the Regent and everybody in between. The marchioness tries to cast a pall over the meal, but seldom succeeds.”

“Because she doesn’t chat ,” Hyperia said, rising unassisted. “Let’s get you to the house. You have to be famished and weary.”

She was unhappy with me. What had I said or failed to say? I tried to mentally review our dialogue, but found to my horror that I was a bit unsteady on my pins.

Hyperia laced her arm through mine, her grip on me stout and supportive. “I will make your excuses at supper, Julian. You will rest. You will take a tray and eat every bite. If you’d like a bath, I can have one sent up as well, but you are not to fall asleep in the bathwater.”

“A bath sounds divine.” And having Hyperia fuss over me was divine as well, but the edge of annoyance in her tone troubled me. “I have time to bathe and nap before supper. How is Godmama managing?”

“You should ask her. She has bought out the village shops, she spent two hours wandering around the local market yesterday, and she is already on friendly terms with half the goodwives in the churchyard. Susanna took us to call on Cressy Northby, and an endless game of do-you-recall and whatever-became-of ensued.”

“Sizing each other up?” When had the Manor moved five miles from the stable?

“Or genuinely enjoying their reminiscing. Susanna and I sipped tea and ate biscuits. Nobody is discussing the marquess’s problems, and everybody is aware of them.”

“Atticus said the same thing. Too quiet, belowstairs and in the stable.” Life in a military camp had had some of the same quality. We might have been crossing half of Spain to confront the French army and face death itself, but we played cards, groused about rations, and traded newspapers weeks out of date, all without a word regarding what loomed ahead.

“What are you thinking, Jules?”

I had been thinking about campaigns that ended in death. “If the marquess had been asleep in his London bed, Perry, then the smoke itself might have overcome him without waking him. The sweep swore noxious gases claimed as many lives as flames when it came to house fires.”

My observation was greeted with another fulminating silence from the lady on my arm. I was on the point of asking what she was thinking when a man’s raised voice cut across the deserted back garden.

“That’s Dalhousie,” Hyperia said. “He never loses his temper.”

“Somebody must be with him in the study.” Somebody who had provoked him to shouting.

“… and that, madam, is my final word!”

“He’s not chatting,” Hyperia said, moving more quickly. “I suspect the marchioness is with him. Jules, do come along. They likely don’t know you’re back yet, and you have news to impart.”

I’d sent an express to Dalhousie with only a few particulars. Domicile secure, nuisance property damage only, more news to follow. Messengers could have mishaps, and thus I’d avoided any mention of arson, mischief, personal animosity, or luck.

We slipped into the house through the door to the back terrace and headed for the marquess’s study. Lady Dalhousie herself emerged, the study door closing stoutly behind her. She whisked past us, then stopped and turned.

“This is your fault, Lord Julian. I knew you were trouble, and now Dalhousie refuses to go to Town. I blame you, and I demand to know what you intend to do about it.”

I bowed to the proper depth. “I intend to applaud the marquess’s sound judgment. Had he been in London a week ago, he might well be dead by now. Good day.”

Her eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline. “What on earth do you mean?”

“I report to your son, my lady, not to you. If Dalhousie wants you apprised of the latest threat to his life, he will do so himself.”

“That wretched boy never tells me anything!”

He’s not a boy. Fortunately for my self-respect, Hyperia’s hand on my arm stayed me from flinging those words at the marchioness. How many years had my mother and I struggled to exchange anything other than civilities, and how painful had those years been for all concerned?

“Come with us,” I said, extending a hand to her ladyship. “I must inform Dalhousie of the situation in London. He might be surprised to hear that you have ordered the town house put in readiness for the family’s arrival. You can explain your reasoning to him in person.”

“I do not explain myself to my own offspring.”

The door to the study opened, and Dalhousie stepped into the corridor. “My lord, Miss West. Won’t you join me?”

The look that passed between mother and son was arctic on both ends. Hyperia decided the moment by proceeding past the marquess and into his study. I bowed to the marchioness again, and Dalhousie did likewise.

After another fraught moment, the marquess closed the door not quite in his mother’s face, but as near as made no difference.