A Death by Arson (8 page)

‘That bounder!' exclaimed Bertram. ‘I'd not trust him further than I could throw him.' He looked me in the eye. ‘Not, I admit, that that would be very far. You are right that I am not exactly a man of action – thanks largely to my dicky heart – but I have my wits about me.'

‘Yes, you do,' I said more gently. ‘I suppose we must go and apprise Hans of our fears.'

Bertram pulled a face. ‘I suppose we must, but the way he and Richenda were going on …' He took a deep pull from his glass. ‘It was quite revolting. I can only imagine what they are…'

‘Let's not,' I said hastily. ‘Why do you not seek out Rory and ask him to stand guard by their rooms tonight?'

A sly smile spread over Bertram's face. ‘He's probably relaxing in the servants' hall; flirting with the maids.'

‘What is it with you two?' I asked. ‘You have the strangest master-servant relationship I have ever encountered.'

‘Pot. Kettle,' said Bertram. ‘We can reconvene after breakfast. I will meet you at the Mullers' room tomorrow at nine a.m. On second thoughts, let's make that ten a.m. I'll go set Rory to it.' So saying he rose, put down his glass and wandered off, whistling tunelessly. I watched this, wondering if he had drunk even more than I had thought. Could I really trust him to find Rory and set him to watch Richenda? To convince him that it was necessary, even? For one dreadful moment, I found myself deeply missing Fitzroy.

I made my way up to my room. To my surprise, I found it quite easily. The layout of the modern side of the castle was actually far simpler than I had thought. There were more floors, but they were generally smaller than those in the old section, and were connected with direct passageways and stairs.

When I arrived in my room, I was delighted to see that Enid had been in already to lay my fire. Although the castle had been wired for electricity, Enid had lit a number of candles around the room, which gave it a warm and homely glow. I was glad of this. The new lighting system made me uneasy, and I was not looking forward to having to deal with it daily at the Muller estate – whatever Hans had said about its safety.

I could have pulled the bell to ask for her help in undressing, but as I was quite adept at this myself – as I was in styling my own hair, a skill my mother had forbidden me from ever mentioning – I got myself ready for bed, climbed under the covers (which the efficient Enid had heated with a warming pan), and blew out my candle.

At once, I was overcome with a feeling of foreboding. The room seemed to expand in the darkness. I became aware of the wind howling outside my window. Even the crackle from the fire seemed filled with a venomous menace. Although my father had been a vicar, and I had strong feelings that the preternatural and supernatural should stay quite separate from my world, I had in my previous exploits succumbed more to a belief in superstition than I would have liked.

The light of the fire ensured the room was not completely dark: instead it sent shadows dancing across the walls. I found myself checking them to be sure that they did not conceal another person. I plumped up my pillows and told myself to be rational. I had no feeling that someone was in the room with me – and as this had happened before, that in itself was reassuring – but yet my fear would not leave me. Of course, the circumstances that awaited me tomorrow – and my all-too-close involvement with the Stapleford family – would make for an uneasy time, but did I really think Richard would commit murder just before his wedding? Were my instincts warning me that death was about to enter my life yet again? I comforted myself that Richard, however evil his intentions, was not a quick thinker, though he was cunning. He had the sense to plan rather than act rashly. I consoled myself there was likely to be no immediate threat. And yet the unease lingered.

Lucinda was a puzzle to me. That anyone should link their life willingly with Richard Stapleford's confused me, but she had appeared to be without guile. Either she was a consummate actress, or her fainting had been the result of her seeing for the first time the true nature of her husband-to-be. Were my instincts trying to tell me she was also in danger?

And Mary Hill – here? What if it was her? She had a fine mind, but she despised me. How could I draw her into my plans?

The thoughts went round and round in my head, but I could make no sense of them. I was on the verge of sleep when there was a sharp knock at my door. Instinctively, I grabbed at the nearest heavy object to hand – my unlit candlestick. I sat there, my heart beating furiously, waiting for whatever would happen next. There was another loud knock. Through my sleep-addled mind I realised that a would-be assailant would be unlikely to ask for entry. With a huge sigh, I threw back my warm and cosy covers. I could not have been lying there long as the fire still burned brightly. A third knock caused me to call out, ‘A moment!' while I struggled into my wrap and slipped shoes onto my feet. There was a very small part of me that wondered if it might be Rory; I own to both a slight disappointment as well as an unwelcome shock when I opened the door, and beheld the face flickering in the candlelight to be that of Mary Hill.

‘This is not my idea,' she said bluntly. ‘At least not wholly my idea, but it seems you are the only person who might be able to help me.'

‘Could not this discussion wait for daylight? Breakfast?' I asked wearily.

‘No, it could not. I only have Lucinda's word that she will wait for my return.'

I looked at her blankly. ‘She is threatening to run away into the night,' said Mary. ‘It appears something happened tonight in your presence that distressed her very much.'

‘I hardly spoke to her!' I objected.

‘No, no,' snapped Mary. ‘I am not suggesting
you
did anything. I understand it was Sir Richard's behaviour that was to blame. She is now saying she will not marry a monster. I need you to come and convince her that Sir Richard will make a good bridegroom.'

I swallowed. ‘I really do not think you have the right person,' I said.

‘I can hardly ask his sister. I believe it was their conflict that agitated the whole situation.'

‘I am surprised that you would urge a young woman into an arrangement she now regrets making. You are still a member of the Sisterhood, are you not?'

Even by the candlelight, I could see Mary's face darken. ‘Things are not always as simple as one would wish,' she said. ‘Will you come or not?'

I hesitated. ‘I cannot think that giving Lucinda my opinion of Sir Richard will help,' I said baldly.

‘Well, if you will not help I shall have to have Sir Richard's servants rouse him to attempt to make amends.'

‘Surely her parents can help? And forgive me, but what business is this of yours?'

‘Lucinda is my cousin on my mother's side. As for her parents, neither of them is in good health and I would rather not distress them.'

A great many retorts came to mind, but I only said, ‘I will come, but I am not sure my intervention will secure the outcome you wish.'

‘Her circumstances may make you change your mind,' said Mary cryptically. She then refused to answer further questions and I had no choice but to follow her bobbing candle light along the passage.

As I had been told, Lucinda's bedroom was on the same level as my own, so we managed to reach her room without the interference of any servants. At her door, Mary halted. ‘I want you, on your honour, to promise me you will not advise my cousin ill for your own purposes, and that you will tell her nothing but what you know to be true. I have seen before how you can fantasise the truth.'

Anger and shame boiled inside my chest. Reason told me that Mary had little reason to believe in me after I had wrongly accused her of murder but, likewise, she had no knowledge of the number of issues I had resolved correctly, especially those in the service of King and Country. ‘I promise,' I said through gritted teeth.

Mary waited a moment more, as if deciding if she could trust my word, and then opened the door. Lying in front of the fire, on the most beautiful Persian rug, was the violently sobbing figure of Lucinda. At our entrance, she sat up, tears streaming down her beautiful face, her blue eyes brimming with more – I noted that unlike Richenda, this was a female who could cry to advantage – and reached out a hand to me melodramatically.

‘At last,' she cried, ‘Someone who will tell me the truth.'

Chapter Twelve
Lucinda sees sense

I managed to get Lucinda to stop crying and sit in a chair, by dint of refusing to speak to her until she stopped her ‘dreadful noise.'
⁹

Lucinda was now hiccupping softly like a puppy that has gobbled down one too many biscuits. My initial impression that she was interested in little beyond the details of her wedding was confirmed at the sudden onslaught of tears when she suddenly said, ‘Now I will never wear my dress, and it suits me so well.'

I heard Mary sigh beside me and for once felt completely in sympathy. ‘What exactly is it that distresses you, Lucinda?' I asked.

‘Richard is a monster,' she said, her eyes widening. ‘You saw how his face became reddened and he roared. He looked positively inhuman.'

‘He was upset,' I said. ‘Stapleford Hall has long been a bitter bone of contention within his family.'

‘So he only wants me so he can own the Hall?' asked Lucinda.

My tongue tied itself into knots. Unexpectedly, Mary came to my rescue. ‘Lucy, you know full well that the purpose of marriage is to ensure heirs. If this is what you are now quailing at, can I remind you that your other options are at least equally unappealing.'

Lucinda nodded slowly. ‘And he does have a castle.' Her face puckered. ‘But so did the ogre in the tale of the golden goose.'

I turned to Mary. ‘Does your cousin believe Richard is literally inhuman and not as a metaphor?' I asked incredulously.

Mary shrugged. ‘Lucy has a lively imagination – but I cannot imagine that you believe the man to be a fairy tale monster!' she said, turning to her cousin. ‘That is beyond melodrama, even for you.'

‘Well, maybe not,' admitted Lucinda, sniffing. ‘But you have to agree, Euphemia, he did seem quite ferocious.'

‘He did,' I admitted, ‘but, as I have explained, his ire was not directed at you.' I paused, but could not help myself from asking, ‘Has he ever shown you this side of him before? I presume you have spent some degree of time in his company?'

‘Oh yes,' said Lucinda. ‘It was a full three weeks before he proposed. It normally takes gentlemen far less time.'

‘So you have other suitors?' I enquired. Mary threw me a warning look.

‘Oh yes, loads,' said Lucinda simply. ‘But Mummy and Daddy have only approved of one other alongside Sir Richard, and I could not marry him!' Her eyes filled with tears once more.

‘And why is this?' I asked, suppressing a yelp as Mary jabbed me in the ribs with her elbow.

‘He has whiskers growing out of his nose!'

‘Lucy is referring to my uncle's partner, Mr George Smythe. He is a family friend. He and my uncle were at school together.'

I digested this slowly. From the glimpse I had caught of them, Lucinda's parents had seemed at an advanced age to have such a young daughter. Mary met my eyes and nodded slightly. ‘Lucy is the youngest of eight children. None of the others survived infancy. She is quite the miracle for her parents.'

‘Not as important as Pa's business,' said Lucinda sadly. ‘It's all about the factories. Pa doesn't want his lifetime's work all broken up. He's afraid that any of the young men who have proposed might have some new-fangled idea of changing the way the business is run. He says it is his legacy.'

‘Mills,' said Mary shortly. ‘They could well do with improvement, but my uncle is a traditionalist.'

‘That's why he likes Richard. He has promised Pa he won't change the mills one bit, and he has already signed a document leaving them in their entirety to my first son.'

‘Unborn son,' corrected Mary.

‘You are…?'

‘No, of course she isn't,' snapped Mary. ‘I only meant to make it clear Lucy has not been previously married.'

I looked at her curiously. It seemed to me there was another story here that I was not being told. ‘Forgive me,' I said to Lucinda, ‘if your father's business is entailed on your son – if entailed is the right word – what does Sir Richard gain from marrying you?'

‘Me,' said Lucinda, her expression puzzled.

‘There is a significant amount of money in bonds and shares that her father is endowing to her,' said Mary.

‘There is?' asked Lucinda. ‘He has never mentioned it to me. Richard says he is in love with me.'

I struggled to imagine Richard Stapleford in any kind of lover-like situation. The effort made me shudder in revulsion.

‘You do not believe he was telling the truth?' Lucinda asked.

‘I have no idea,' I said.

‘But you do know,' interjected Mary, ‘that should Lucinda refuse to marry either Richard or Mr Smythe and run away into the night, it will not have a happy ending.'

‘Well, no. I could not advise that as a course of action. Unless perhaps there was an elopement planned?' Mary jabbed me in the ribs again.

‘Well, I suppose I could ask Mr Roper if he would elope with me. He owns the chemists in the High Street. He is tall and has magnificent hair.' She dropped her voice. ‘Mr Smythe has no hair upon his head at all!'

‘Has he proposed?' I asked.

‘Lucinda has had no proposals except those which her father has approved. She has been kept extremely sheltered due to her frailty.'

I looked at the vision of loveliness and health before me. ‘Remember her deceased siblings,' said Mary
sotto voce
. ‘Her parents have always feared for her. They are ageing and seek to have her well established and protected.'