Page 49 of Ambition (The Chaplain’s Legacy #6)
S andy and Neate were the first to return from their quest in the brothels of Scarborough.
“That was the most amazing fun!” Sandy said, with a boyish grin.
“Really, Sandy!” Luce said, in her severest tone.
“No need to worry, Luce. We didnae take advantage of the facilities, so to speak, but there’s nae harm in looking, is there?”
Michael only laughed. “Let the lad be, Luce. He could hardly be blamed if he had a bit of passing fun. I liked a bit of passing fun well enough myself, until I met you.”
“Not brothel women, though, Michael.”
“No, but there were plenty of married women looking for amusement, and one must always oblige a lady.”
Luce raised her eyebrows speakingly, and shook her head.
“Well, I didnae have any fun that ye need worry about, Luce. Mind you, I cannae speak for Neate.”
“My lips are sealed,” Neate said, pasting an angelic smile on his face.
“You would not believe how many brothels there are in one small seaside resort. However, we found Mrs Mayberry and her merry band of nieces eventually, hidden away in a discreet side street. Seven nieces, now, so the family is expanding, and very exclusive they are. We had to grease a lot of palms to gain access.”
“Did you talk to Mrs Mayberry, and ask her why she lied to us?”
“No mystery about that, is there?” Neate said.
“Nicholson wanted to keep his involvement secret. Once she realised we knew everything about the Pickering house, she confessed the whole. Very talkative she became, with enough coins in her hand. She was afraid to cross Nicholson, but now that he’s dead, she’s more cooperative. ”
“And ye’ll never guess, Michael!” Sandy burst out excitedly. “Eustace’s light-skirt isnae there anymore.”
“Ah,” Michael said, smiling. “Did you find out why?”
“She has a protector,” Sandy said. “She’s some man’s mistress, and we can guess whose — Mr Eustace Atherton.”
“Did Mrs Mayberry tell you that explicitly?” Michael said sharply.
“No,” Sandy said sadly. “Even Neate wasnae able to winkle a name from anyone. But it must be, wouldn’t ye say?”
“Possibly,” Michael said, frowning. “But… that would be an odd coincidence. His lightskirt from the brothel becomes his mistress, and at the same time he betroths himself to a baronet’s daughter, who is not above warming his bed for him.”
“So are you suggesting that they are one and the same?” Luce said. “That Miss Rosamunde Wilkes became Miss Rochester?”
“It is certainly possible,” Neate said. “While Sandy was enjoying himself in the brothels, I ingratiated myself with the manservant from Miss Wilkes’ aunt.
Apparently all the Wilkes daughters spent time with the aunt as they grew up, a month or so every summer, but the other two married so it was only Rosamunde for a while.
Then came the falling out with the girl’s father, and she arrived in a big rush one November, stayed for a few months and then vanished. ”
“To a brothel in Pickering?” Michael said, frowning. “That seems quite a stretch.”
“Not at all,” Neate said. “Suppose that the lady had an eye for the gentlemen. Her father sent her away when he found out, but she turned out to have a little reminder of her dalliance, so the aunt threw her out when it became too obvious to hide, and the breach became permanent. What happens to a woman in that situation, Michael? Desperate, and with no other option, I suggest she joined Mrs Mayberry’s little enterprise, where she met our friend Mr Eustace.
He’s using her respectable family to bamboozle us into believing he’s going to marry her. ”
“Very possible,” Michael said. “If Pettigrew comes back from Northumberland with a description that matches, then I shall accept your theory, Sandy.”
Pettigrew Willerton-Forbes returned with a smug smile on his lips.
“Description? I can do better than that. I spoke to Sir Reginald Wilkes, and he has no portrait of Miss Rosamunde, having had her painted out of the family gathering hanging over the drawing room fire. However, the other daughters drew and painted numerous portraits of her and he very kindly allowed me to take one of them. There,” he said, producing it with a flourish. “Is that not the image of the lady?”
“Did you mention Eustace to Sir Reginald?” Michael said.
“I did not feel it was my place to do so,” Pettigrew said. “It is for Mr Eustace or the lady herself to approach her father… or not, as they feel best. Sir Reginald thinks she has gone abroad with her lover, and it is not for us to disabuse him of that notion.”
“Very true,” Michael said.
“Besides, it hardly matters who she is,” Pettigrew said.
“She is Mr Eustace’s alibi, but not his sole alibi, after all.
His entire household swears he never left his house that night, and even if Miss Wilkes is lying, I believe that the household servants and grooms are telling the truth. It is an unbreakable alibi.”
Michael laughed. “No alibi is unbreakable, Pettigrew. It is always possible for a man to sneak out of a house unobserved, if he is careful. The question in this case is why he would want to do so. That has always been the difficulty with this case.”
“So what’s next, Michael?” Sandy said. “Ye’ve a plan, I’m sure.”
But Michael sighed. “I seem to have run out of plans, my friend. I think we may have reached the end of this particular road.”
Silence fell. Even the irrepressible Sandy could not think of a single stone left unturned. The investigation was over.
But before the end of the day, an event occurred which wiped the murder of Arthur Nicholson from their minds. The Dowager Countess of Rennington, slowly declining over many months, finally breathed her last.
Corland Castle was immediately thrown into frenzied activity.
Quantities of black crêpe, bought months ago against this eventuality, were brought forth to drape about the deceased’s room and muffle the door knocker, and to fashion caps and armbands for the servants.
Clocks were stopped, the pianoforte was locked and the maids crept about in soft slippers.
It was unfortunate that Lady Alice Nicholson was the only member of the family still in residence.
Her brother, George, and her nephew, Mr Eustace, who both lived nearby, were sent for, but the rest of the family was scattered about the country.
Luce immediately offered her services to write the necessary letters to Lady Alice’s dictation, to be sent off by express to the far corners of the kingdom.
Lord Rennington and Lady Olivia were in Scotland.
Mr Walter was in London, and Mr Kent in Lancashire.
The two married daughters were in County Durham and Nottinghamshire.
Lady Alice’s daughter was in London. And in time, one by one, carriages drew up on the drive and black-clad figures crossed the bridge over the moat and were received into the castle.
The Dowager Countess was buried with all the ceremony due to the relict of an earl.
Afterwards, with Christmas so close, and the weather uncertain, and other entertainments forbidden so early in their bereavement, the family settled down with almost audible relief for a protracted stay, to catch up with all the news, as families always do when meeting after long absences.
There was much to celebrate, too, with so many marriages in the family, not the least of which was that of the earl and countess, reunited after a long separation, both by Scottish custom and, more solidly, by a bishop’s licence in Carlisle, and delighting in their status.
The gathering seemed likely to turn into quite a party.
Michael and his friends made themselves useful when they could, and otherwise kept out of the way. They took to eating dinner in the old schoolroom, not wishing to intrude on the family’s mourning. Yet even when the funeral was over, Michael made no move to leave. It was Luce who raised the issue.
“Is it not time for us to go?” she said. “The investigation is over, Michael. There is nothing else for us to do here… is there?”
Michael grinned. “Just one thing. Do you remember in the early days, how I tried every point of ingress to the castle, to see how the murderer might have gained access?”
“The drainpipe!” the others said in unison.
“And recall how we recreated the shooting of Bertram Atherton. We did exactly what the perpetrator must have done, and showed how long it took. Well, why should we not try recreating the murder of Nicholson? We have everyone here who was present on the night of the murder, after all. We might glean some new insight, or someone may remember something, some seemingly trivial point, long forgotten. It is worth a try, is it not?”
“Yes!” Sandy cried, jumping to his feet. “And we’ll be able to see how it happened!”
“Precisely! We can find out whether a figure fleeing down the main stairs would be visible to Kent Atherton passing the aperture above.”
“And the timing,” Neate said. “How long everything takes — that would be so useful to know.”
“Excellent plan,” Pettigrew said. “I commend you, Michael. But if this does not work —”
“Then I shall give it up. It will haunt me to my dying day, but six months is long enough. If we cannot resolve the matter with this one last attempt, then it will be over and I shall accept my failure.”
***
M ichael timed his request carefully. He suspected that if he simply approached the earl, he would be inclined to refuse on principle, but some of the younger men might be more amenable.
He waited one evening, therefore, until the ladies had withdrawn from the dining room and then made his request to speak to the remaining eight gentlemen.