The Constant Companion (16 page)

His grief was aggravated by a persistent feeling that Constance was not dead—that somewhere among all these dark and twisting and fogbound streets, he would find her. Perhaps around the next corner, his mind would torment him.

One night, he wearily returned from one of these long walks and climbed slowly to his room. He was suddenly obsessed with the idea that Constance might have left some clue, some message for him. He had ordered her rooms to be left untouched and, since Bouchard, the lady’s maid, had left shortly after Constance’s disappearance, no one had been near them.

He walked along the corridor and pushed open the door. All was just as she had left it. Lying on the bed, he saw the frivolous dress and bonnet he had taken objection to. If only she were alive and well, she could wear any damn bonnet in the whole of the world! Overcome with sadness and weariness and loss, he picked up her dress and buried his face in the soft folds. He drew back and stared at the dress with a puzzled frown on his face. Instead of Constance’s faint perfume, there was a stale, rank smell of sweat from the dress. Well, it had been a hot day. Still, he frowned, picking up the bonnet and turning it over in his long fingers. Sticking to the inside of the gauze was one reddish brown hair.

He sat down on the bed and stared at it. Constance’s hair was midnight black. But where had he seen that color of hair before? And then he remembered the lady’s maid, Bouchard. He rang for Masters.

No, Masters could not recall the mamselle saying she had found new employ. She had just packed her bags and left, which had seemed natural as her job was redundant.…

Lord Philip looked thoughtfully at the butler.

“Where did we find Bouchard?” he asked. “Did you employ her?”

Masters thought for a long moment. “No, my lord. As I recall, it was Mr. Evans who employed her. If you remember, my lord, the day before your lordship’s wedding, you said as how my lady would need a maid. I could not promise to find anyone suitable at such short notice, and your lordship said you would ask Mr. Evans to engage someone.”

Lord Philip pulled out his watch. Past midnight. He could not go calling at this late hour. He would just have to wait until the morning.

“Tell me, Masters,” he said. “On the day my wife disappeared, you said she returned to the house.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Masters surprised. “I told…”

“Did you see her face?” demanded Philip harshly.

“Well, no, my lord,” said Masters. “That bonnet you’re holding concealed her face.”

“Go rouse the coachman,” said Philip, “and bring the groom who was on the back strap that day.”

He waited impatiently while the servants were ushered in.

The coachman and groom could not remember whether they had seen my lady’s face or not. “But you heard her speak?” demanded Philip in exasperation, “after she left my sister’s house, that is.”

The coachman’s great brow was furrowed in thought. Philip felt like shaking him. But it was the groom who answered, a sharp-eyed Cockney.

“My lady didn’t say nuffink,” he said (“my lord,” prompted Masters in a scandalized whisper). “It was that there Mr. Evans who told us for to take my lady home… me lord,” said the groom, “being as how she was feeling poorly.”

Philip took a deep breath. “Now I want all of you to think hard,” he said. “Could the female you took home have been Bouchard
masquerading
as my lady?”

A shocked silence greeted this. The groom again spoke first. “I dunno,” he said. “But there was something, not much…”

“Yes?” said Philip impatiently.

“I didn’t like ’er,” said the groom. “I felt I didn’t like that there lady in the carriage. I thought the ’eat must’ve got to me brain ’cos I like ’er ladyship but that there lady… I dunno… Course I thought it was the ’eat, like, cos I never thought for a moment it wasn’t my lady, ’er with that there bonnet and all.”

“I will call on Mr. Evans in the morning,” said Lord Philip grimly. “Not a word of this to anyone.”

Lady Eleanor seemed startled at her brother’s urgent request the next day to speak to Mr. Evans. The secretary was out, somewhere in the City, with Mr. Rider. Both would be returning in time for her
musicale
that afternoon.

Philip went in search of Peter to tell his friend of the latest developments. He finally found Peter just as that gentleman was emerging from the elegant portals of White’s in St. James’s Street. Peter was looking exceedingly fine in a double-breasted redingote with a satin collar. A curly-brimmed beaver sat at a rakish angle on his thick fair hair, and his hussar leather boots gleamed like twin mirrors. The day was raw and chilly, and Peter had his hands thrust into an enormous sealskin muff.

They elected to go to the Wanderers Club, a new and not so fashionable establishment on the fringe of St. James’s. They settled themselves in the chart room, confident that they would not be disturbed. The rest of the club was empty with the exception of a bunch of Cits playing a tepid game of hazard in the card room.

“Evans!” exclaimed Peter. “It can’t be Evans. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“I agree,” said Philip, “but he could be easily tricked. Anyway, my sister’s house is the last place Constance was seen. Before I tackle Evans, I want you to keep him in conversation while I search through his rooms. You know, Peter, I’m so sick and worried and the whole trouble is that I can’t believe she’s dead. Sometimes I think I’m losing my mind. I
am
losing my mind. There’s two green eyes staring at me out of your muff.”

Peter had placed his muff on a small adjoining table. As both men watched, the muff appeared to take on a life of its own and rolled slowly over.

Peter picked it up and shook it. A large tabby cat rolled out, stretched itself, and then proceeded to wash with aristocratic indifference.

“The kitchen cat,” said Peter in disgust. “It gets everywhere.”

“Do you mean you’ve been carrying that great mangy thing around in your muff and didn’t
know
it?” said Philip.

“Well, it’s odd now you mention it,” said Peter looking thoughtfully at the cat. “I thought it felt unusually soft and warm and heavy. It must have been sleeping the whole time. By Jove, I remember thinking, these muffs are so cunning you would almost think they were breathing. And then, of course at White’s, I didn’t take off my hat or gloves or anything because it’s not the thing to do unless you’re staying longer than ten minutes, which I wasn’t. Amazingly clever brute that. I had better go home and change for your sister’s
musicale
. At least it ain’t a rout. Never
can
see anyone at routs. All push and shove on the stairs to get in, and push and shove to get out and the hostess doesn’t feel it’s been a success unless several people have fainted in the crush, and some poor fellow’s carriage has got shattered in the traffic outside.”

“I shall drop you at your lodgings and then call for you in a couple of hours,” said Lord Philip. “What shall we do with the cat?”

“Leave it here,” said Peter indifferently. “I don’t want it. Do you?”

As Lord Philip left his friend at his lodgings and watched Peter climbing up the stairs, he noticed that the cat was clinging for dear life to the back of Peter’s redingote. He made a movement as if to call after Peter and tell him about the animal, and then changed his mind. Peter would no doubt digress forever on the iniquities of the cat and would probably forget to change his clothes.

The
musicale
had already begun when Peter and Philip walked into Lady Eleanor’s mansion. Mr. Evans and her husband had not yet returned, she said somewhat crossly. Lady Eleanor had hired a full orchestra for the occasion, and had invited the cream of Society to the event. Lady Amelia was not among the guests. Peter sat himself near the door where he could look into the hall and note when Mr. Evans arrived home.

Lord Philip moved quietly up the stairs. He slipped a footman a guinea and asked him to direct him to Mr. Evans’s private chambers.

The footman led the way to the top of the house. Mr. Evans’s quarters were comprised of only a small sitting room which led to a sparse cupboard of a bedroom. Lord Philip began to feel ashamed of his suspicions of the meek secretary. Everything in the rooms breathed of respectably straitened circumstances. There were no incriminating letters or papers of any kind. The names of Godwin, Wolstonecraft, Holcroft and Thelwall on the bookshelves showed that the secretary had radical tastes, but that was all. Lord Philip was just about to leave when he noticed the edge of a tin trunk sticking out from under the bed. He felt suddenly grubby, but driven by that recurring nagging feeling that Constance was somehow alive, he pulled it out and opened the lid.

He found himself looking down at a full-dress court outfit which rivalled his own in richness and elegance. Wonderingly, he drew it out. There was a violet satin frock coat with white satin lining, waistcoat and breeches embroidered in gold and green, a set of jeweled buttons, a fine lingerie shirt with cravat and collar points, white silk stockings, black pumps with gold buckles, a black felt bicorne with a white frill, and lastly a dress sword hanging on a broad lilac silk ribbon. Mr. Evans had no call to wear court dress. It could not have belonged to, say, a more affluent relative, for it was brand-new and obviously tailored to fit Mr. Evans’s slim form. Lord Philip felt his eyes drawn to a long looking glass on the other side of the bedroom. He had a sudden vision of Mr. Evans parading in the privacy of his bedroom in full court dress. With a frown he turned again to the jeweled buttons. They were ornamented with tiny diamonds of the first water and deep dark rubies. How on earth could a mere secretary afford such splendor?

I shall go and ask him, thought Lord Philip. Enough of this sneaking about.

He placed the clothes carefully back in the trunk and made his way downstairs.

Mr. Evans was just entering the hall with Mr. Rider as he reached the bottom step. Philip moved quickly forward. “A word with you, Mr. Evans,” he said. Did the man turn pale—or was that his imagination?

Mr. Evans mutely led the way to the small book-lined study at the back of the house.

“Sit down,” commanded Lord Philip. Mr. Evans took the chair behind a rococo pedestal desk and stared apprehensively at his visitor. But then, Mr. Evans always looked apprehensive.

In a flat emotionless voice, Lord Philip outlined his suspicions of Bouchard, told Mr. Evans exactly how the comte had died, and then went on to explain how and why he had searched the secretary’s rooms. “I have no apology to give, other than the fact that I have a feeling my wife is not dead.” He held up his hand as Mr. Evans gave a stifled exclamation. “I did, however, come across an exceedingly fine suit of court clothes. Do you intend being presented, Mr. Evans?”

Mr. Evans flushed a dull red, and to Lord Philip’s acute embarrassment, the secretary’s weak eyes filled with tears. “You had
no right
, no right whatsoever, my lord, to go to my rooms without my permission,” said Mr. Evans. “But I shall tell you how I came by that dress. I went to Newmarket last year, if you will recall, with Mr. Rider. I had just received my yearly salary. I was overcome with a strange madness and put it all on Small Beer.”

“I remember Small Beer was a hundred to one,” nodded Lord Philip.

“Exactly. So I had a small fortune. The madness was still on me. I knew I would never be presented at court, never wear it, but I wanted a court dress. I wear it when… when I am alone,” finished Evans in a low voice.

It was all so pathetic, thought Lord Philip getting to his feet and walking edgily about the room. But Evans had been alone in the house on the day his wife had disappeared. Therefore Evans had been the last to see her—that is, if Bouchard had masqueraded as her. Therefore, Evans had still a few questions to answer. Lord Philip turned his eyes away from the other man’s miserable face and stood looking at a George I bureau cabinet. He idly opened down the writing flap, and then closed it again before turning to ask his next question.

Then he slowly turned back, opened the writing flap, lifted it gently down and stared at one of the pigeonholes at the back of the cabinet.

He leaned forward and took out a fan and spread it open, staring at the pretty painted picture of two peacocks promenading on an emerald green lawn. He was transported back to that evening in the library when Constance had fluttered a fan in front of her face. Then he remembered Peter sitting among the refreshments at Almack’s, idly fanning himself and then explaining it was Constance’s fan.

Lord Philip’s eyes began to burn with a murderous light as he turned about and held the fan open in front of the secretary’s terrified eyes.

“My wife,” he said grimly. “What have you done with my wife?”

“
Nothing!
” screamed Mr. Evans over the sound of the cascading woodwinds of “La cambiale di matrimonio” from the
musicale
.

It would be a long time before Lord Philip Cautry could listen to Rossini without a shudder.

Joe Puddleton took a great swig at his tankard of shrub and looked hopefully round the tap. But he was no longer the focus of attention. The villagers of Upper Comley had lost interest in the poor madwoman in his care, and no one seemed prepared to buy him a drink in order to receive the latest bulletin.

And on this blustery cold day, Joe would have loved to talk, not to be the center of attention, but to ease a little feeling of anxiety that was beginning to surface in the primeval bog inside his head which passed for a brain. In his slow countryman’s way, he mulled over the facts.

The gentleman from London had said his missus was deranged, and deranged she looked with her hair all anyhow and screaming and pleading. She was to be kept fast in Lumley’s old cottage down by the river, and no one was to be allowed to come nigh.

Joe had been warned that the poor mad creature was under the impression she was a titled lady with a lord for a husband. He was to take meals to her daily, and check that the bars on the windows and the locks on the doors were secure. On fine days, she was to be allowed out into the small garden at the back of the cottage for a short airing. Several times she had tried to escape only to be foiled by himself, a fact of which he had been very proud, and for which the London gentleman had paid him a bonus.