Her Saving Grace (3 page)

Nathaniel
had met Mr Howard a few times, but he could not recall meeting his daughter.

“Shall we have a look?” he asked Worthington.

“I thought you’d never ask,” the Doctor smiled.

The skin blemishes the letter writer had pointed out were useless, as so little skin had been left but the right leg did indeed show signs of a
healed break. The bone was slightly thicker where it had mended and no longer straight, but very slightly angled outwards below the break.

“Looks to me like he used his leg before it healed,” Worthing
ton explained. “The pain would have caused him to walk with an uneven gait, perhaps like this.” He demonstrated, walking a few paces while holding his right leg to the side. “Under the constant pressure of walking, even with a splint, the healing bone was pushed outwards and finally healed that way. No wonder he suffered pain.”

“So you believe this is Charles Howard then?”

“I would like another piece of evidence before declaring that but yes, I think it’s highly likely that this is he.”

Nathaniel
picked up the wedding band. “Smyth is collecting all the marriage records from 1794 and if Mr Howard is among them, I think that we can safely say that we have identified him.”

Worthington nodded. “Now I need to bleach the bones in order to properly examine them under a magnifying glass.”

“How long will that take?”

“Oh, a few hours, I’ll leave them to soak while I see my patients. If you come around this afternoon, I should know more.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

***

Nathaniel unlocked Smyth’s office at the town hall, and quickly found the missing person reports. The women who had been reported missing had already been removed from the pile and Charles Howard wasn’t among the remaining five men.

Instead Nathaniel
went to the filing cabinets, hoping to find a file on Charles Howard. The records weren’t kept alphabetically however, but according to the date that a crime was reported.

Nathaniel
pulled the letter from his pocket and as he thought, the writer had given the date of her father’s disappearance; April 1814.

He quickly discovered the d
rawer for 1814 and after a little hunting, found a file marked ‘C Howard’. He pulled it out and sat at Smyth’s desk to peruse its contents.

There was hardly anything in the file. The first page was the report, made by the wife and daughter. It contained few details but it did say that the last time the family had seen Mr Howard, was when he ventured to London on
horseback for business. When he did not return at the end of the week, they became worried.

The next page revealed that
Smyth had searched Howard’s study, and found a ticket receipt for a journey booked on a cargo ship to the Americas; the receipt was included in the file. The next item was a letter from the ship’s owner, dated thirteen months after Mr Howard had gone missing.

The owner seemed to be replying to Smyth and informed him that after speaking with the captain, he could confirm that a gentleman by the name of Charles Howard had indeed sailed on their cargo ship.

Given that he was fairly sure that the body they had found was Mr Howard, he would be willing to bet that whoever sailed to the Americas gave a false name. Smyth should have looked deeper; at least got a description of the person who sailed, if nothing else.

Nathaniel
closed the file and paced the length of the office as he waited for Smyth to return with the marriage records, pondering the case.

If Charles was last seen journeying to London, then how did he end up buried in
Lanford? Either he never made it to London, or was waylaid on his journey back. Nathaniel would contact his employers in London to discover which was the case, and it irked him that Smyth hadn’t already done so.

London was only twenty or so miles south,
a two hour ride on one of his faster horses, so he could probably be back by nightfall.

Then again, Smyth could be hours checking the records
and he needed to confirm that this was Charles Howard before he went dashing off to London. Turning back to the file, he noted Mr Howard’s address and made his way there.

***

Mr Howard had a large townhouse near the centre of Lanford but it was far from the largest. Obviously he was well to do but not rich. He knocked on the front door and it was opened by the elderly gentleman who had delivered the letter that morning.

“Can I help you, Sir?”

“I’m Lord Copley, and I’m looking for Mrs Howard or Lady Wellesley.”

“
Mrs Howard now resides with her eldest son in France, Sir, but Lady Wellesley is in residence.”

“Might I see her?”

The butler opened the door further and Nathaniel stepped inside.

“Wait here, Sir.”

He shuffled off up the stairs and Nathaniel took the chance to look around.

The house was well cared for but it appeared that it was not very well lived in. No coats hung on the rack, no calling cards lay on the tray, no flowers graced any surface and the sounds of life that one would expect in a house of this size, were absent.

The man appeared at the top if the stairs but out of respect for his age, Nathaniel held his hand up to stop him. “I’ll come to you,” he said, making his way up the stairs.

The butler nodded and once he had reached the landing, led
Nathaniel into a parlour.

“Lord Copley
, the Marquess of Lanford, Ma’am,” he announced to the room’s occupant.

Nathaniel
hadn’t realised that the butler knew who he was but being recognised wasn’t unexpected.

As he entered the room, the most beautiful young lady he had ever seen got to her feet and curtseyed to him. “Lord Copley, I'm very pleased to meet you.”

She had hair as black as coal and despite the severe bun that she had pulled it into, strands had escaped around her face, softening her look and framing her face. Her skin was almost porcelain white and she might have looked unhealthy, were it not for the rosy hue of her cheeks.

Her
cerulean blue eyes were also framed by thick black lashes, highlighting their loveliness, and her full lips were a healthy shade of pink, slightly darker than her cheeks.

“And I you, Lady Wellesley.” He bowed.

“Please, sit down.” She gestured to an armchair opposite her own and he sat down, facing her.

“Would you like some tea, Ma’am,” the butler asked.

“Thank you, but don’t put Mrs Higgins out on our account.”

“Very good
.” He bowed and left.

Nathaniel
thought that it was odd that she hadn’t asked him if he wanted refreshments.

“My apologies, but there are only two members of staff in this house
at present, Sir, and I try not to put them out too much.”

“No one lives
here?”

“Only the housekeeper and caretaker.”

“That seems an unusual arrangement.”

“Well, it was my parent’s house and without my father around, my mother didn’t wish to live her
e any longer.”

“Why haven’t your brothers sold it?”

“Because they haven’t inherited it.”

He realised that with Charl
es Howard thought to be missing rather than dead, the estate would be in limbo.

“So your brothers keep a caretaker on staff to care for the property?”

“No, I do.”

He seemed taken aback by that.

“My eldest brother married a French woman and lives there, my mother with them. My youngest brother studied medicine at the Royal College of Physicians in Edinburgh, and has remained there. Neither boy was very close to our father.”

“But you were?”

She gave him a tight smile. “Forgive me, Lord Copley, but you are hardly here for my family history. How can I help you?”

“I
would like to ask you a few questions, if I may.”

“Very well.”
She appeared curious and perhaps slightly amused.

“
You are Damaris Wellesley and the daughter of Charles Howard, correct?”

“I am.”

“I was wondering, what year were your parents married?”

“1794.”

He nodded sadly. “Then I’m afraid that I have some very troubling news for you, Lady Wellesley.”

“You’
re here because the body recently discovered is my father, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Ma’am, I'm afraid
that it is.”

She sighed but didn’t
reply; her gaze turned towards a portrait above the fireplace, of a couple and three children. The smallest child looked remarkably like Damaris and he realised that it was a family portrait.

“This m
ust be very distressing for you,” he tried to sympathise.

“Actually, it’
s almost a relief.”

He frowned. “Excuse me?”

She turned to look at him. “For years I have been trying to convince the local constable that my father met with foul play, but he insisted that he had simply run away and abandoned his family. Now at least, I might find some answers.”

“Might I ask you some questions about your father?”

Now she frowned slightly. “Forgive me, Lord Copley, but what exactly is your interest in my father’s murder?”

“I am the Justice of the Peace in these parts.”

“I see, but isn’t your job to bind criminals over for trial, not to investigate the crimes.”

“That is true but as you have no doubt concluded
for yourself, Constable Smyth is not always proficient at his job.”

“Then why don’t you appoint someone else?”

“Because he is getting on in years and while not an ideal candidate for a constable, serious crimes are quite rare in these parts, and he is able to handle the day to day matters.”

“If that were so, he would have investigated my father’s disappearance years ago. Now, thanks to his dereliction of duty, it could prove a great deal harder to discover what happened. People forget things
so easily, and some witnesses may even have died since then.”

“You sound as if you speak from experience.”

Her features took on a haunted air. “Perhaps I do.”

She didn’t seem willing to go into further details so he didn’t press the matter.
He got a small notebook and pencil out.

“I read the let
ter that you sent to the doctor; thank you for taking the time and trouble.”

“It wa
s no trouble,” she assured him.

“I was hoping that you could provide me with details of your father’s job in London; his employers and the
address of his offices, perhaps?”

“I know what you’re thinking,” she answered. “He left home on
Sunday the 10
th
of April, but he never made it to London.”

“How can you know that?”

“I wrote to his friends and colleagues at the War Office; they told me. He kept rooms in London at his club but although they were expecting him, he never arrived that evening. Somewhere between here and London, he was waylaid although now, it would seem that he didn’t make it very far from home at all.”

“Might I have the address of his workplace and
the names of the friends you wrote to?”

“You don’t trust my
information?” she asked, her voice cool.

“Not at all, I simply want to make sure that I have everything correct.”

“Then tell me, Lord Copley, how did my father die?”

“He was struck on the head.”

She regarded him with a cool eye for a moment and he wondered exactly what he had said that had upset her, then she abruptly got to her feet and went to a small, leather bound trunk, which was sitting on an ornamental table. She unlocked it and rifled the contents for a moment, until she returned with a list, which she handed to him before she sat down.

He looked it over and it quickly became apparent that it was a list of names. Most names had a tick beside them but a few didn’t.

“Who are these people?”

“My father’s friends, colleagues and acquaintances. Those with a tick
are ones I have been able to talk to or correspond with. Those without, I have been unable to contact.”

“Might I see the letters
that they sent you?”

She regarded him again for a moment
and he wondered at her aloof attitude.

“I think not.”

“Might I ask why?”

“Because I don’t believe
that you will pay attention to their content; you will think that they lied to me to appease my anxieties, or because they don’t believe that a woman can handle certain information. At the moment, I am far from certain that you are any more efficient than Constable Smyth and until I can be sure of you, I believe it might be better to leave you to draw your own conclusions.”