Page 3 of A Lady’s Guide to Murder
CHAPTER 2
Mourning at Twilight
As the sixth child and only daughter of the Marchioness of Lockington, Henrietta had been raised by a great lady, to be a great lady, capable of navigating life with grace and composure; moreover, one didn’t grow up with five elder brothers and not learn how to hold one’s own. Therefore, the second she realised she was the one screaming, she fell silent, though her emotions raced frantic and afraid.
After a moment, she regained the ability to think. ‘The doctor,’ she said to Thomas, hoping above all else that Edmund yet lived. ‘At once, for heaven’s sake. At once! ’
She pressed her ear to her husband’s chest, listening for a heartbeat. She touched his wrist, feeling for a pulse. When these measures produced nothing, she shook him in her desperation, her eyes stinging and her voice breaking as she repeated, ‘Breathe, Edmund, breathe.’
The butler, Wallington, approached, placed a silver spoon under Edmund’s nose and then gently removed Henrietta’s clinging hands from her husband’s coat. ‘His Grace is gone, Your Grace.’
Henrietta sat back on her heels, absorbing the enormity of Wallington’s declaration. Her husband was dead and this abrupt cessation to his existence – as quick as a snip of a thread – also extinguished her own identity. Her purpose in life, even. At eight-and-twenty, she was a widow. A childless , widowed duchess, which was an unenviable condition amongst the nobility, as it meant her status was expensive and necessary to uphold for the sake of appearances, but useful to no one. Her youth was a drain, not an asset. Furthermore, she was a childless widowed duchess who, without Edmund’s steadfast support, reeked of scandal. And unless he’d provided for her in his will, she was all that and poor to boot, dependent upon a man she’d just been cautioned against.
She descended into a nightmarish realm of muted sound and blurred movement, her thoughts creeping like a snail through a fog while she knelt at her husband’s side, holding his dead hand in hers, stroking it as if she could still comfort him.
In time, Dr Davies arrived and conducted the same pulse checks she’d performed earlier. ‘Were you present at the time of his passing, Your Grace?’
‘Yes,’ she answered flatly, still utterly unable to absorb the enormity of what had happened.
The doctor peered from beneath prominent steel-grey eyebrows. ‘Anyone else in the room? A servant, perhaps?’
She shook her head. ‘We were reading together.’
Dr Davies’ gaze lingered on Edmund’s eyes. ‘What was the last substance His Grace ingested, ma’am?’
‘A glass of wine.’
He inspected the toffee-coloured vomit on the rug, then dipped a finger into the substance, sniffed, and muttered. ‘Makes no sense.’
His comment was so odd it sparked a curiosity that overpowered Henrietta’s dullness. ‘What makes no sense, Doctor?’ she asked, leaning over Edmund’s body in order to observe the vomit herself.
‘It ought to have colour.’ The medical man mused more to himself than to her.
The response was frustratingly unclear. ‘Do you mean the wine ought to have colour?’ she asked. ‘It was a fortified wine. Madeira, of an amber hue.’
Dr Davies didn’t reply on the matter. Instead, he pointed to the clawlike streaks upon Edmund’s jaw and neck. ‘And these marks?’
‘His cravat was too tight.’
Dr Davies’ gaze fell to her hands. He seemed to take special note of her long nails and then put a shaking hand to the knot of his own cravat. ‘I see,’ he said, and cleared his throat.
‘Was it a seizure?’ she asked. ‘He had a seizure once, in childhood.’
The doctor was still grimacing at her hands. ‘A seizure?’ He took a moment, blinked, and then examined Edmund’s eyes again. ‘A possibility, I suppose …’
She elaborated. ‘He was complaining of a headache—’
He whipped his head around, eyes blazing. ‘A headache? Well, and if His Grace complained of a headache, why did you not summon me, Your Grace?’
‘B-because he didn’t want me to.’ Henrietta’s throat tightened. Would Edmund still be alive if she’d defied his wishes and sent for Dr Davies? The notion was agonising and she pressed Edmund’s hand against her cheek. ‘Oh, how I wish I had.’
The doctor’s stern gaze softened slightly.
‘So it was a seizure?’ she asked again.
He grasped Edmund’s armchair, hoisting himself up with a grunt. ‘That I cannot ascertain, Your Grace. I must send for a colleague.’
He dispatched Thomas on the errand, then conferred with Wallington in a corner of the library, their gazes steady upon Henrietta and Edmund. Though uncomfortable under the scrutiny, she remained at her husband’s side. As long as his body lay in the library, she knew her place. Drawing in a deep breath to stave off tears, she leant forward to close his eyes.
‘Don’t, Your Grace!’ Dr Davies’ abrupt command startled her. ‘Do not touch the duke’s eyes.’
‘But I must close them before much longer.’ Her mother had taught her how to tend to the dead, for a lady showed that respect to her servants and to her tenants when her assistance was desired or required. ‘Within the first hour or the lids will stiffen.’
Dr Davies shook his head. ‘My colleague will close them in due course, but they must remain open now. Otherwise, Dr Grimsley may not be able to determine the cause of death. If it was, indeed, a seizure.’
Reluctantly, Henrietta acquiesced, although Edmund’s open-eyed gaze unsettled her. His eyes were too black and staring, as if he weren’t at peace. As if his spirit lingered in disquiet, unable to ascend to the eternal reward he deserved for a lifetime of faithful service to his country and countrymen.
Eventually, Dr Grimsley arrived, a tall and thin man with waxy skin and a cold manner. He steadfastly ignored Henrietta’s questions, as if she wasn’t present, but at least he closed Edmund’s eyes after his examination concluded. Wallington placed a gold guinea on each lid.
‘Call Pinkerton to assist me in cleaning and dressing the duke,’ Henrietta said to the butler. That, too, must be concluded before the body stiffened, or they’d have to wait for the resoftening.
He eyed her keenly. ‘His Grace’s valet is indisposed, Your Grace.’
Her frustration mounted. ‘Why are all the servants indisposed today?’
The men exchanged heavy looks before Wallington answered. ‘Your Grace, Mr Pinkerton is overwhelmed with grief.’
‘Which is quite understandable, under these violently abrupt circumstances,’ Dr Grimsley added, addressing Henrietta for the first time. His voice was hushed but scratchy, reminiscent of wind through reeds. ‘The duke was no doubt as kind a master as he was a temperate and considerate political leader. It’s natural for those close to him to express grief upon his passing.’
His implication took Henrietta aback. ‘I do not weep in the presence of others, Doctor.’ But he shrugged his thin shoulders in an insolent manner and she realised she’d receive no answers about Edmund’s death from the doctors, who both seemed intent on hostility. She needed allies. Male allies, for such was the way of her world. ‘Wallington, please send for my father and my eldest brother immediately.’ With Lord Lockington and Lord Deancombe present, the doctors would think twice about their disdain.
The butler set off to fulfil her orders, but, before her family arrived, three unfamiliar men entered: a portly specimen around sixty years of age with grey side whiskers, accompanied by two dark-suited individuals, who proceeded to stomp all over the library, jotting notes. When Henrietta enquired, the whiskered man introduced himself as Sir Robert Baker, Chief Metropolitan Magistrate of the Bow Street Magistrates’ Court.
‘And why have you invaded my home and my privacy, Sir Robert?’ she asked.
‘Never mind, daughter.’ Her father’s stately voice intervened from the doorway. ‘I shall handle matters now.’
As the distinguished, steel-haired marquess engaged in an animated discussion with the magistrate, Henrietta’s brother George awkwardly patted her shoulder. ‘A bad business, this,’ he replied when she asked what was happening.
She bristled at his non-response. So often, men she loved brushed off her questions. ‘Yes, but why has the magistrate come? Does he suspect a crime?’
George dismissed her concerns with a wave of his hand. ‘Nothing to trouble yourself about, old girl. Pater’ll set it to rights.’
Further queries were equally fruitless, but George’s prediction proved correct, for not ten minutes later, Sir Robert and his men withdrew to another room, offering her their apologies for the intrusion. The physicians followed and then Thomas draped Edmund with a sheet, leaving Henrietta desolate until her senses filled with her mother’s orange-blossom scent and she found herself embraced by the most comforting arms in all the world. ‘Oh, Mama, Mama.’ She sobbed into Lady Lockington’s shoulder. ‘Take me to my bedchamber, for I cannot bear to cry here.’
Her mother led her upstairs and undressed her while Henrietta wept, staring out of the window as the golds and reds of the sunset swirled like watercolours in the rain. When Mama offered a spoonful of laudanum, Henrietta swallowed the bitter tincture like a baby bird, hoping it would bring oblivion.
Her mother drew the drapes, extinguished the lights, and Henrietta slipped between her sheets clad in a nightgown of the softest fine cotton. Drowsiness washed over her until the moment she closed her eyes, when horrific visions of Edmund’s black pupils and protruding tongue caused her to sit up, clutching the sheets to her breast. ‘Mama, his face, his face!’
‘Shh, dearest girl.’ Lady Lockington cooed as she offered another spoonful of laudanum. ‘Rest now.’
With the second dose, sleep overtook Henrietta.
It was dusk when she awoke to the sound of mournful singing, but, judging by the heaviness of her head and limbs, she’d slept for hours, not minutes. Her mother stood at the window, parting the drapes to reveal a sliver of grey-blue twilight. She wore a black bombazine mourning gown.
Memories of Edmund’s death flooded back. Henrietta faltered, unsure if she could bear to confront her dreadful new reality, before summoning her courage with a steadying breath. ‘How long have I slept, Mama?’
Lady Lockington turned, her face weary and her eyes swollen. ‘Just over four-and-twenty hours.’ She let the drapes fall and approached the bedside. ‘How are you, dear child?’
‘I hardly know …’ As Henrietta sat up, her head throbbed from the effects of the laudanum. ‘Edmund had a headache,’ she said. ‘Was it a seizure?’
‘I’m not certain.’ Lady Lockington placed a cool hand to Henrietta’s forehead, giving some relief. ‘That odd physician, Dr Grimsley, refused to speak to your father. He converses only with … well, with the duke.’
‘The du—?’ Cold realisation hit Henrietta. ‘Why! Is Perceval here already?’
Mama twisted her hands, her gaze flickering towards the door connecting the duchess’s suite to that of the duke. ‘He arrived yesterday evening, while I assisted you to bed – but he slept in a guest chamber, not in Edmund’s rooms, dearest.’
Heir or not, it seemed presumptuous for a cousin to intrude on a widow’s grief before the body had grown cold. If the heir was a son, that would be one thing …
But the thought of a son – of the son who would now never be – filled Henrietta with such intense sorrow, she redirected her mind. ‘Why did Perceval not wait until after burial?’ she asked, worried Edmund’s predictions about his heir’s senselessness to duty might yet prove to be true. ‘Does he seem grieved, at least?’
‘In a way, I suppose … but he is not showing as much feeling towards you as one would wish.’ Lady Lockington extracted a handkerchief from under her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. ‘Oh, Henrietta – would but God had answered my prayers and given you a son.’
Short of a miracle, there was little God could’ve done about the matter, but there was no point now in explaining that which Henrietta had never discussed with her mother. So, with nothing to reply, she merely sighed, hoping that would sufficiently discourage a continuance of the topic.
But Lady Lockington burst into tears, her sobs mingling with the muted singing. ‘Forgive me, Henrietta. I shouldn’t have said such a thing. I know you did all you could to provide Edmund with an heir.’
‘Please let us not speak of that which will only bring more sorrow.’ Henrietta wanted to banish thoughts of the child she never bore. ‘However we might wish for matters to be different, Perceval is the duke now and I rely upon his generosity. The dower house at Highfield, perhaps, though Shropshire is so dreadfully distant. Or the townhouse in Bath; he mightn’t mind lending that. Bath isn’t as fashionable as it once was.’
Her mother frowned. ‘What a strange way to speak, Henrietta. You have a home with your father and me until you marry again.’
After years of being mistress of her own households, the idea of relinquishing her independence depressed Henrietta’s spirits even further. Besides, her parents already lived as sparingly as possible for a marquess and marchioness in order to replenish the family coffers and provide for their sons and grandchildren. They didn’t need the expense of supporting a widowed duchess daughter, as well.
‘Thank you, but hopefully Perceval will provide me a home of my own.’ Henrietta rose from her bed to stretch the heaviness from her limbs. The sudden elevation caused her head to spin, but she steadied herself on the bedpost. ‘What is that singing, Mama?’
‘A protest of sorts, I believe,’ her mother replied. ‘Perceval said they’ve marched from Westminster, but they’ve been outside Severn House for a half an hour at least. Go and see for yourself, if you wish.’ She offered Henrietta the black banyan she’d worn during national mourning for the king.
After she slid her arms into the dressing gown and fastened the buttons over her bosom, Henrietta gingerly pulled aside the drapes and peered down upon Park Lane. A few hundred people were gathered there. Some were poor and downtrodden, huddled in faded black clothes or the tattered uniforms of former soldiers left to fend for themselves after Waterloo. But a significant component appeared to be tradesmen and labourers, straight-backed, strong men, standing proudly as they sang, their deep voices resonating.
‘I don’t believe it’s a protest.’ Henrietta pressed her forehead to the cool glass, both for headache relief and to see the crowd more clearly. ‘They are mourning Edmund. Or, rather, mourning what they lose with his death – a voice in the Upper House advocating for parliamentary reform.’
‘Do you know the song they sing?’ her mother asked. ‘It’s unfamiliar to me.’
Henrietta tilted her head, uncertain until a familiar phrase caught her attention:
A treas’ry is our common land. United all we make our stand And join together hand in hand For ev’ry child and ev’ry man Corruption will not win the day With votes for all we’ll have our say …
‘It’s Eliza King’s song.’ She hadn’t recognised it immediately because the crowd sang it like a dirge, rather than a rousing march.
Mama recoiled. ‘Why would they sing that radical anthem for our dear duke?’
‘The song’s sentiments express a need for reform, not radicalism.’ Henrietta’s heart brimmed with love and pride. ‘Edmund was a symbol of hope for reformers. A nobleman who believed even the poorest people deserve a voice, a vote and proper representation.’
‘Well, Eliza King is a radical,’ Mama said, and Henrietta didn’t argue. Eliza King was rumoured to have been involved with the Cato Street conspiracy to assassinate the prime minister, although she’d never been caught nor formally charged – perhaps due to her popularity with the people.
When the song ended, a faction of mourners began to call out and point upwards, and Henrietta realised they’d spotted her. As more and more faces turned, she pressed her fingers to her lips, and then to the glass, silently conveying her gratitude for their singing.
A new song began and although Henrietta didn’t recognise the tune, she knew the lyrics.
‘Psalm Twenty-Three.’ Her breath misted the glass. ‘ Yea, though I walk through death’s dark vale, yet will I fear none ill. They want to comfort me.’ Moved by their kindness, she spoke over her shoulder. ‘Mama, I shall walk amongst them.’
Her mother was aghast. ‘ Henrietta. ’
But Henrietta was determined. She must find a new purpose now, mustn’t she? She was no longer Edmund’s wife, she wasn’t loved by the ton and she might be dependent upon Perceval’s charity forevermore … but she could serve as a reminder of Edmund, and, in so doing, keep hope alive for his devotees.
‘Call my lady’s maid to dress me in mourning,’ she said firmly.
‘If you insist upon this, I know better than to try to dissuade you – but I shall assist you myself.’ Lady Lockington walked towards Henrietta’s dressing room. ‘Many of the servants are indisposed.’
‘Illness?’ Henrietta asked, concerned that whatever ailment had incited Edmund’s seizure might be contagious in nature.
Her mother returned bearing a black silk gown. ‘Grief.’
‘Ah.’ Henrietta’s fingertips were still on the glass, her eyes fixed on the sea of upturned faces. ‘They all loved Edmund so.’