Page 4 of The Lady and the Secret Lord (The Duke’s Men #3)

M r. Wigmore, the Marchmont family solicitor, arrived promptly as anticipated. From the upstairs drawing room, Phoebe heard the little bustle in the entry, and unexpectedly other voices, and rapid footsteps bounding up the stairs. She had only a moment to prepare herself before her cousin Henry Marchmont burst in upon her and thrust a large bunch of vivid orange-gold dahlias her way.

“Hello, Phoebe. Mary and I come bearing gifts.” He grinned. “From Great-Aunt Serafina’s garden.”

“They’re lovely. Thank you.” Phoebe turned aside to lay the dahlias on the console table in front of the street-facing windows. In Charles Street below, she saw her great-aunt’s carriage, but no other. It seemed that her three guests had come together, which meant that Mr. Wigmore had called on Great-Aunt before coming to Phoebe. She turned to Henry. “When did you arrive in town? I didn’t expect to see you before November.”

“Yesterday. It was Great-Aunt’s idea to come back early, and you know, she never travels without our assistance. Town will be thin of company, but our consolation is that you’re here.”

Mary Marchmont, followed her brother into the room, taking Phoebe’s hands and giving them a squeeze. “We didn’t want you to face the dreadful anniversary alone.”

“Welcome.” Phoebe managed a smile. Her cousins’ thoughtfulness was kind, but somehow they always managed to remind her of the difficulty of the search. Now their return meant she would need her disguise more than ever for her meetings with Detective Inspector Jones. “Let me send for more refreshments.”

Henry crossed to the mantel and lifted the marble lid on a Roman cinerary vase, part of Phoebe’s father’s collection of antiquities. “How are your father’s dead Romans doing?” he asked.

“Henry,” his sister chided.

“Remind me, who they are, Phoebe.”

“Papa called them Marcus and Magnus.” Her father had insisted on naming them, saying that they were not mere artifacts, but persons.

“Just like the Romans to keep their dead relations hanging about the drawing room.” Henry gave a mock shudder and dropped into a terracotta velvet armchair in the center of the room.

“Really, Henry. Don’t be morbid. Don’t mind him, Phoebe. Your father’s vases suit the room.” Mary gave it a quick perusal. “I’ve always liked this room. The green of the walls, the terracotta of the chairs, and those wonderful botanical prints. Your friend did the drawings, right?”

“Thank you, Mary. Yes, Georgiana is the artist.”

“I suppose you don’t see those old school friends so often now that they are employed.”

“Only once in a while.” It was a small fib. She did not miss Mary’s sly reference to her friends’ employment. Maybe that attitude explained why Phoebe had turned to them rather than her cousins for help with the new search.

Mr. Trafford, Phoebe’s butler, appeared and announced the solicitor. Phoebe sent Trafford off for more tea and cakes and a vase for the dahlias, while she offered the solicitor a smile, and indicated the other velvet armchair. Next to her vivid cousins, Wigmore, a neat man, had a pinched, wizened look. His sparse hair was gray, and a tiny pair of glasses perched on his thin nose. He set his briefcase on the floor, and Phoebe and Mary sat on the Aubusson couch facing the gentlemen.

Henry winked at Phoebe. “Great-Aunt says you can ignore Wigs if he gets tedious, though he tells us in his sober, lawyerly fashion, that his business is quite serious.”

Phoebe made a little show of arranging her skirts. It was plain that Great-Aunt and her cousins already knew of Wigmore’s visit and perhaps what he meant to say. Wigmore was, first and foremost, the Marchmont solicitor, beholden to Great-Aunt Serafina for his position and his retainer. Phoebe was merely, as she had heard herself named, that woman’s daughter , not her great-aunt’s favorite.

Henry and Mary were the children of her father’s first cousin, Reginald Marchmont, a widower who kept to himself in the country, while his lively offspring preferred town life and lived most of the year with Great-Aunt Serafina. They were a handsome pair, a few years older than Phoebe. Mary was willowy, with a profusion of dark curls around a strong square face, while Henry was compact and sturdy. He had a fair, ruddy round face with an extra bit of chin, and a look of perpetual good humor. They had been Phoebe’s visitors on the afternoon of Andrew’s disappearance, and had given every assistance in the days that followed.

Mr. Trafford returned with the new footman, Thomas, who set down a tray of tea things on the low table at the center of the room. Phoebe began to pour.

“First,” said Mary, taking the cup Phoebe offered, “let me ask about what must be uppermost in your mind. Has Mr. Tanner found anything while we were away to give you hope for recovering Andrew?”

Phoebe shook her head. It might be unjust to her cousins after all the affectionate sympathy they offered, but she would not share the new search with them.

“Really?” said Henry. “I thought Tanner had some idea that your brother might be in Soho.”

“Nothing came of it.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” Mary glared at her brother and patted Phoebe’s hand. “It’s like chasing a ghost, isn’t it? You must be exhausted.”

“Should I call Tanner off?” Henry asked. “Is he wasting your blunt?”

“Thank you, no, Henry.” Phoebe handed Henry a cup of tea, and he popped a currant cake into his mouth.

Mr. Wigmore cleared his throat. “Perhaps I may begin, Lady Phoebe. Then you and your cousins can get on with a visit.” Wigmore opened his briefcase and removed a sheaf of papers.

“Oh, now we’re in for it,” Henry said.

“Whatever Mr. Wigmore has to say, Phoebe,” Mary added, “we are here for you.”

“Great-Aunt insisted we not leave you to face the might of the law alone,” Henry said.

Wigmore cast a quelling glance at Henry. “This is no time for levity.” He turned to Phoebe. “Lady Phoebe, we have come to a point where certain disagreeable facts must be faced. May I proceed?”

“Please, Mr. Wigmore.”

“First, as I mentioned in my recent letter, as a female who has not yet reached her majority, you have no legal standing to administer your late father’s estate. Your trustees have given you a great deal of latitude in the past year, but now other considerations weigh with them.”

“Ouch.” Henry took another cake.

Wigmore went on. “The Lords Committee on Privileges has sent a letter to Lord Cumberford, your principal trustee, reminding him that his duty is to the Marchmont estate. If your father’s title is to be preserved, there must be a legitimate living heir.”

“Andrew is my father’s heir.” Phoebe spoke as calmly as she could. There was no question of legitimacy, after all.

Wigmore continued as if she had not spoken. “As long as there was hope of finding your brother, this concern remained in the background. But as the search has yielded no evidence of a living heir, steps must be taken to preserve the title and ensure the proper management of the estate.”

Phoebe braced herself. “What steps, Mr. Wigmore?”

Wigmore leveled his gravest look at her over the rims of his glasses. “It is time to petition the court to have your brother declared dead.”

Beside Phoebe, Mary gasped.

“Wigmore, I say,” Henry sputtered, brushing crumbs from his knees. “Twist the knife, man.” He leapt up and came to Phoebe’s other side.

Phoebe should be glad of their support, but oddly, she felt trapped between them, conscious of being judged. Their readiness to help suggested that they had known what was coming. Wigmore would not propose such a step without her great-aunt’s authority. Perhaps Great-Aunt herself had suggested the petition. In either case, Henry and Mary had known what Wigmore would say.

As steadily as she could manage it, Phoebe put down her teacup. “I take it, Mr. Wigmore, that you can advise me in this process.”

“Of course, my lady.” Wigmore sounded relieved. “As the boy’s sibling, you will be the claimant in the case, but do not worry, I will guide you through filing an application, placing advertisements in the papers, and preparing for the hearing. We will make the process as painless as possible.”

Phoebe shook her head. “Sadly, Mr. Wigmore, the process cannot be otherwise than very painful.”

“Well, of course, if you feel you cannot act in this matter, another… relation with sufficient interest could do it for you.”

“Like Great-Aunt?” Phoebe asked.

Mr. Wigmore looked at the papers on his knees. “Well yes, as a near relation, Lady Marchmont could make a claim.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wigmore, for clarifying the situation.”

“Do you wish to proceed then, or shall I advise the dowager Lady Marchmont to act?”

“Neither. As a simple absence does not prove death, I do not wish my brother to be declared dead.”

Mr. Wigmore’s head came up with a little jerk. He straightened the glasses on his nose. “But a year with no sign.”

“Nearly a year. And, I might point out, no inquest.”

Wigmore clutched his papers. “An inquest? How can there be an inquest without a body?”

“It is my understanding that the coroner can conduct an inquest without a body in order to bring any suspicious circumstances to light.” Phoebe owed her friend Bree for that bit of legal procedure. If it came to that, an inquest would introduce evidence uncovered by Phoebe’s new search. She hoped Jones would prove a better investigator than Mr. Tanner had been.

“I think your work here is done, Wigs,” said Henry. “Shall I show him out, Phoebe?”

Phoebe offered Wigmore a steady look. “Thank you for your counsel, Mr. Wigmore, I will keep your advice in mind.”

Wigmore frowned at Phoebe and her two companions on the Aubusson couch. “Lady Phoebe, you must understand that this matter is pressing.”

“I understand perfectly, Mr. Wigmore, but I must act on my brother’s behalf. It has not yet been a full year, and Mr. Tanner is still at work.”

“Pack up your papers, Wigs,” said Henry, rising from the couch. “Off you go.”

Wigmore tried to restore his papers to his briefcase with dignity, but one of them slid away and fluttered down under the tea table. He was obliged to put the case aside and kneel to retrieve the paper. His face, when he rose again, had turned quite red. He gave Phoebe a stiff bow, and Henry ushered him out the door.

“ Brava , Phoebe,” said Mary, giving Phoebe’s shoulders a squeeze. “Don’t let them tell you how to manage your affairs.”

“No doubt Mr. Wigmore knows his business, but I must judge for myself.”

Mary shrugged. “Of course, you must. You will endure this.”

Henry returned grinning. “He’s gone. Don’t let him blue-devil you, cousin. Listen, what we really came for today was not some legal blather, but to invite you to the theater.”

“Yes,” said Mary. “There’s a play on at the Adelphi, and we have a box.”

“It’s a farce,” added Henry. “Just the thing to make you forget old bad news Wigs. And you may meet Mary’s new beau.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “I do not have a new beau, but do say that you’ll join us, Phoebe,” pleaded Mary. “You need society. You need to be seen and known and not let this disastrous year hold you back.”

“You know we always cheer you,” Henry added.

Phoebe looked into their earnest smiling faces. They did always cheer her in a temporary sort of way. They had each other. Their world was light and bright. A year of despair and hope had not worn them out. For all the help they had offered her, they did not feel Andrew’s absence as she did. To go to the farce with them would require a different disguise, not the black bombazine dress and the veil, but a face that concealed her true feelings and intentions. To keep Andrew safe, to keep the new search a secret, for a few hours she could wear a mask of happy indifference to her brother’s fate.

“Thank you. You’re right. I haven’t been to the theatre in… well, you know. It will be good to laugh. When shall I be ready?”

*

It was midafternoon before Robin returned to his desk. Lumley glanced up with the usual smirk on his face. “What did you do to piss off Mayne? Did he sic the dog-lady on you?”

“Something like that.”

“You can’t rely on those friends in high places. You’ll never make the detective force that way. You need to learn how to work Mayne, boy. Then maybe he’ll give you my lady’s missing jewels to hunt for.”

Robin studied the map. By Mrs. Kendall’s account, the first search had been a joke. Maybe the usual things were done to find Andrew, but John Boyle, the footman, the last person from the household to see the boy that day, had been ignored. Robin wanted to know why. Whether Andrew was separated from his family by accident or by design, Boyle was part of it.

Then there was the complication of the fire. The fire could not have been part of any plan against the boy, but it had swallowed up his trail as completely as it had consumed the old Houses of Parliament. Robin would go back to the beginning. Each of the four pins on the map might yield something overlooked earlier, starting with Marchmont House itself.

He grabbed his coat.

“Good luck finding your dog… napper,” Lumley called. “Let me know if you need the office to yourself.”

A short walk took Robin to Charles Street. From the east end of the street in front of a club for officers in the lower ranks of military service, he looked west toward St. James’s Square. Charles Street was neat, prosperous, respectable. The houses marched along side by side, three-windows wide and five-stories tall with brick or cement facades and architectural flourishes of pilasters and cast-iron balconies, tall pedimented windows, and black-painted doors with brass knockers, a lion’s head on one, a leaping fish on another. If the search were public, he would ask Mrs. Kendall’s neighbors what they knew of the occupants of Marchmont House. It occurred to him that with her youth and her polished speech, she might be the boy’s governess. He liked the idea. It made her less lofty. But as the search must remain private, he would only turn to those neighbors if other avenues failed. Certain facts of the case, including the late hour of the boy’s walk on that windy October afternoon meant that few neighbors would have seen the little party. Deliveries were unlikely at that time. Servants would have been occupied with preparations for dinners and evening entertainments. And in its aftermath, the fire so colored memories of that day, Robin doubted many people could recall the day’s earlier moments.

He turned and followed the boy’s route to the nearly empty park. The trees in their yellow leaf shook in the breeze, shedding leaves. A pair of earnest gentlemen charged head down into the wind. On the Pall Mall side of the park, he caught Mrs. Bell at her milk stall with its green wooden enclosure and its fluttering canvas awning. It was said that her stall went back to the days of some long-dead king when cattle had grazed freely in the park. The old woman made the most of the tradition. She was dressed to suit her occupation, a white apron over full, striped skirts, a lace shawl crossed over her ample bosom, and a wide-brimmed, black straw hat over her graying curls. Her brown cow was tied to one end of the stall.

“Just closing up, sir,” she told him. “No more milk today.”

He laid a coin on the counter nonetheless. “I’ve come with questions, Mrs. Bell,” Robin said.

“Questions?” Mrs. Bell snatched up the coin. “And who are you to ask questions, my lad?”

“A police matter,” he said. “What can you tell me about the day of the House of Lords fire?”

“That was a day, wasn’t it? It was all I could do to get Daisy not to run off. Folk dashing through the park. The smoke something terrible.” She gave the cow a friendly stroke on the head.

“Do you recall selling milk to a boy who went missing that day?”

“The young lord that was took, you mean? I was sad to hear it.”

“Took?” The definiteness of the statement suggested that Mrs. Bell knew something.

“That’s wot they say. Not that the officers asked me.”

“The constables didn’t question you?”

Mrs. Bell gave Robin a sharp look that said she doubted his intelligence. “Didn’t I just say?”

“I understood that there was an extensive search for the boy.”

“Oh, aye. After the fire. But that was days later. Couldn’t open my stall for near a week. Daisy wouldn’t go near the place. A big rough fellow came round, he was that full of himself, and passed out handbills with the boy’s face. I put one up on the post there. But nothing came of it. The nurses that come with their charges, they talked about the boy’s disappearance some. Made them worried for other little ones.”

“They thought he was taken?”

Mrs. Bell counted pewter cups as she put them in a box. “On account of the missing footman.”

“Can you recall this footman?”

“Oh, aye, thin and pale as paper, that one. Not like the one who used to come. Wore a red tie. Came regular with the lad. The boy paid me himself, and gave Daisy a pat. Mind you, the dog was more than the three of them could handle. I made that thin fellow hold him away from Daisy.”

“A red tie you say?” An odd choice of neckwear for a footman.

Mrs. Bell loaded her box of cups onto a handcart, pulled the cart out of the stall, and locked the wooden gate. The cow lowed and tossed its head. “What sort of serving man wears a red tie?” Mrs. Bell shook her head at the folly of it. “Come along, Daisy,” she said, untying the animal.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Mrs. Bell tapped Daisy with a stick, and the beast lumbered into motion, her mistress following. Robin stood for a moment in the fading light, his mind sifting the mistakes of the first search. Mrs. Kendall had questions to answer. About the business of the red tie, which she hadn’t mentioned, but about which perhaps she knew nothing. About who the previous footman was, and who took charge of the search in the beginning. A well-meaning family member could easily blunder. Giving away the footman’s possessions had been a mistake.

It might be that the gross mishandling of the search was the result of too many amateurs having a hand in it. Or someone, who wished the boy gone, had made a deliberate attempt to hide information. Either way, it was clear that evidence had been missed.

Robin had two more places to investigate. From the milk stall, he took the path Mrs. Kendall had indicated on the map. The lack of a ransom demand didn’t square with Mrs. Bell’s belief that the boy had been taken, unless whoever took the boy meant to do away with him. Robin stopped to consider the grim possibility. A footman, even one with the questionable credentials of this John Boyle, seemed unlikely to murder a small boy. Their fledgling detective division had quietly followed some murder cases. A bricklayer had murdered his wife to run off with another woman. A jilted lover had murdered his paramour after she stole from him. In each case, there had been violence and bitterness between the two parties over time. Nothing like that appeared in this case, nor was there a body. If the note Mrs. Kendall had received, was legitimate, the boy was not dead, but ironically, now in danger from those who searched for him.

Robin stopped where Nanny Fellows had been found. From there the path curved out of sight around Duck Island. If the boy and the footman had been chasing the dog, they would quickly have passed from the nurse’s sight. He followed the path until he reached the side of the park facing the Horse Guards Parade, where the dog’s collar and lead had been found.

Mrs. Kendall’s pin placed the items in a stand of trees and shrubs. It was another detail that didn’t quite fit the narrative. If the dog had slipped loose, then the boy or the footman would have retained the collar as they chased the animal. Yet, the collar and lead had been concealed. Robin wondered whether anything else had been concealed. He took up a fallen branch and began to poke and prod the ground at the base of the bushes where the fallen leaves were thickest. In the midst of the small grove, he turned over a damp clump of leaves and produced a muddied strip of red silk. He lifted it with the end of the stick. Like Mrs. Bell, Robin wondered why a footman wore an item that was no part of a footman’s usual attire. John Boyle would not have worn it in the household, but he had worn it to the park.

It made him noticeable, as Mrs. Bell had noticed him. The question was for whom had he worn it? A girl perhaps? The idea didn’t fit the key fact of the case. If the young footman had merely set out to do a bit a flirting with a fellow servant in the park away from prying eyes, there would be no lost boy.

Robin draped the muddied red tie over the bare branches of a bush. Several lines of inquiry came to mind. Had Boyle planned to meet an accomplice ? Had Boyle been someone’s tool, paid to take the boy to the park and hand him over?

What if Boyle and the person or persons with whom he met quarreled? There might have been a struggle. What if Boyle had come so far in a plan of mischief and changed his mind? It all depended on what Boyle’s intention had been when he wore the red tie to the park.

Robin looked south. From where he stood the flames rising out of the House of Lords must have been a towering spectacle. The fire had changed his life. He had rushed to help hold back the crowds and been called upon to assist in removing treasures from the path of the flames. They had toiled for hours in water up to their knees, smoke in their eyes and throats, while the flames roared, glass shattered, stones fell, and the pumps of the fire engines clanged. His work had earned him Mayne’s notice, and he had been chosen for the new detective branch.

It was possible, Robin thought, that Boyle, too, had changed his plans, and the fire had offered an escape, a way to disappear into the crowds and then into the city itself, unnoticed in the confusion. If he took the boy with him, where in the vast city would he go?

Robin took a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped up the soiled tie. To find the missing boy, he needed to find the missing footman.