The Twelfth Night Murder (8 page)

“I don’t suppose I could.”

“However, I suggest you try. You’ll never know what you might accomplish unless you try.”

That made her laugh again, giddy in the chilly morning. They arrived at the street, and Ramsay waved down a carriage for hire. It stopped, and the driver leapt from his seat to open the door. Ramsay and Suzanne climbed inside and sat. She ordered the driver to take them to Pall Mall, and sat back for the fairly long ride. Ramsay settled in next to her, and had the good grace to not take her hand in his. Instead he crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap. She likewise folded her hands in her own lap.

“It hasn’t escaped my notice that you are still here.”

He agreed cheerfully, took her hand from her lap, and kissed the back of it. “Aye. I’m most noticeable.”

“I can’t take you inside with me when we get there.”

“Assuming they let you inside and they don’t set the dogs on us.”

“Well, we’ll see what happens when we get there.”

“Aye. Won’t we, though?”

P
all Mall was the newest neighborhood in London, suddenly fashionable since the return of the king. Previously it had been a park where the ball game of that name had been a popular pastime among the upper classes, and now it was a scattering of brand-new and unfinished houses of bright brick and new-cut stone, each surrounded by newly dug gardens and sparse-grown lawns. One of those belonged to Daniel, and as they passed it Suzanne stared hard to see whether his wife was in. She wished she could hate Anne, but had found it impossible. Most likely, everyone found it impossible to dislike her, for she was beautiful, graceful, and treated everyone she met with respect. Sometimes Suzanne even thought Daniel didn’t deserve her.

Today there was no sign of Anne at Daniel’s house.

The house belonging to the Earl of Dandridge was by no means the most elaborate in the street, but inspired enough awe in Suzanne and Ramsay that they both had to gawk out the carriage window as they approached up the circle drive. Ramsay was the only one with a comment. He said, “Och.”

Suzanne agreed. The stone in this house was so new, the hewn corners so sharp, they appeared able to cut flesh. Daniel’s house had been built only six months ago, but even it wasn’t this precise.

When the carriage stopped, Suzanne stepped down from it. Ramsay followed, and offered his arm to Suzanne.

“No, Ramsay, I think you should stay here and wait for me.”

“I would much rather accompany you.”

“I think it would be better for me to go alone. You can be very intimidating to some.”

“And that is my best feature.”

“I thought your member was your best feature.”

“Oh, aye, it is. Should I draw it out and render them all speechless?”

She pretended to think on that a moment, then shook her head and said, “No. I’m here to get them to talk, so that would defeat my purpose, I’m afraid. Just stay here and make certain our driver doesn’t wander off or drink too much from his flask.”

Ramsay glanced over at the driver, then said, “Very well, my lady.”

“Stop calling me that. It impresses me only with your eagerness to flatter. It doesn’t help your case.”

“Then by all means I will stop calling you that, you yeasty whore.”

“That’s better. Now wish me luck.”

“Good luck, you unprincipled tart.”

Suzanne laughed. “Very well, you may call me a ‘lady’ if you must. But only when we’re alone.”

With a grin he said, “Alone? Something to look forward to.” He retreated to the relatively warm carriage and graced her with a handsome smile that made her smile in return. Then she faced the front door of the earl’s house, and wiped that smile from her face as a servant opened it to see who had just arrived. Suzanne approached in all seriousness, having arranged her face into a somber and sympathetic expression. She might be bringing bad news, and even if the murdered boy weren’t the earl’s son there were certain to be tense and upsetting moments during this meeting.

“Good day,” she said. “My name is Mistress Suzanne Thornton, working under the authority of Constable Samuel Pepper of Southwark. I have an urgent matter to discuss with the earl, if I may.”

The manservant gazed at her stupidly for a moment, then said, “Southwark?” It was as if he’d never heard of the place and would consider mention of it beneath him if he had.

“Yes. Is the earl available for a short interview? This shouldn’t take long at all.”

“The earl?” The man seemed dumbfounded anyone from Southwark would be so bold as to ask for an interview.

Suzanne’s voice took on an edge of impatience. “Yes, good man. It’s a matter of utmost urgency. It involves his son.” She didn’t know the name of the son, and wished she’d looked into it before coming here. This wasn’t her first time to wish she’d prepared more thoroughly before an interview, but there was nothing for it now but to forge ahead and hope for the best.

“His son?”

Exasperation rose. “Yes. His son.”

Finally something sunk into the man’s head, and he gestured that Suzanne should enter.

Inside the door was an entryway larger than any Suzanne had ever seen. Doors gave egress to either side, and a stairway with a curved banister led to an upper floor. The newel post at the bottom was intricately carved and highly polished, brand-new and with nary a mark of use on it. Her hand, of its own accord, reached out to lay a finger on it, just to know it was real and not some magical thing created by faeries. The servant bade her wait, and so she waited, still and silent.

The wait was long enough for her to understand her time was not particularly valued, but she remained still and listened to the various household noises. There were voices in a distant room, and a single shout that must have come from the kitchen, for it was accompanied by a banging of copper pots and a clatter of what may have been wooden utensils. The smell of sawdust still permeated, even though the house was warm, with hearths everywhere busily burning wood.

Eventually the servant returned, followed by a handsome peer in his thirties or early forties, distinguished though wigless and wearing a velvet lounging robe. The servant announced him, and introduced her, then disappeared so expertly and discreetly Suzanne only looked up from her curtsey to see he was no longer there. The earl peered at her, frowning.

“What’s this I’m told about a problem involving my son? You’re aware he’s in France?”

“That is what I was told, but something has arisen and I must inquire after him. May I ask, when was the last you heard from him?”

“Why, we had a message from him only a few days ago. He tells us all is well. Tell me what is the matter.” He seemed intensely concerned about his son.

“He’s near the age of twelve or thirteen?”

“He’s fourteen years old. Why do you want to know? What could the constable in Southwark have to do with him?”

“Could you describe him to me?” Fourteen years old was perhaps older than the boy she’d seen, but one could never tell for a certainty with children.

The earl’s temper began to unravel. “Now hear me, good woman, I demand to know what the matter is you’ve come about. What of my son?”

“I’m sorry, but there’s been a murder, and we’re afraid the victim may be one of the nobility. If you could tell me what your son looks like, then perhaps we can rule him out and your worry will be over.”

Without hesitation, the earl said, “He’s got bright red hair, like his mother. Tall for his age, and somewhat hefty as well. His nose is covered with freckles, and his eyes are a light hazel color.” An edge of panic came into his voice. “Tell me, does your victim fit that description?”

Suzanne sighed, both relieved and dismayed. “He does not. This boy had dark brown hair, and was quite thin.”

Tears rose to the earl’s eyes, and he placed a hand over his mouth. “Thank God. He’s all right, then?”

“He’s not the boy we found several days ago. I’m terribly sorry to have disturbed you, my lord.” She executed an especially deep curtsey to express her sincere regret.

“It’s quite all right, mistress.” Plainly the earl was relieved it was someone else’s child who had been murdered.

“I’ll leave you to your business, and again I am sorry to have given you a turn.”

The earl nodded, and gestured toward the door. “Good day to you, then. And I wish you success in your investigation.”

She thanked him and left. Now she had to do the same to the Duke of Cawthorne in Westminster.

While Pall Mall was London’s newest neighborhood, Westminster was one of its older ones outside of the ancient walled city. Orchard Street was named for orchards that once belonged to St. Peter’s Abbey near Westminster Hall, which trees had been taken down to make room for expensive houses. In addition to being an old neighborhood, it was stultifyingly wealthy. Ramsay hadn’t exaggerated much when he’d spoken of having dogs set upon them. As their carriage approached the house belonging to the Duke of Cawthorne, huge, old trees shaded the road. Other houses lined the street, in high style and quietly assured of their superiority. Suzanne found herself looking up and down the street as the carriage hurried along it, half afraid of having attracted the notice of those whose business it was to eject the riffraff from the area. Unlike the areas of London to the east, where people came and went at will and often anonymously, this place was impermeable. Unassailable. Inviolable.

The duke’s mansion was a stately gentleman of brown brick, smaller, perhaps, than the showier houses in Pall Mall. This neighborhood may have been the less fashionable this year, but it was well established by old families, particularly those who had come through the interregnum in the good graces of God and Oliver Cromwell. This house was bare of unnecessary ornamentation, and though the garden seemed adequate and might bloom up nicely in the spring, there was no statuary at all and no color to speak of anywhere other than black trees, brown grass, and white ice. The structure was impeccably maintained, but was entirely brown. The carriage stopped in the street directly in front of it. Its driver opened the carriage door for Suzanne.

She stepped up to the magnificently large and solid, though plain, brown-painted door and tapped with its knocker. The wait for someone to answer was interminable. She was on the verge of trying again when the door finally opened to reveal a manservant in black livery. More plain than plain, with not even a white collar or sleeves to relieve the severity of the costume.

The footman said, “Good morning,” and gazed expectantly, as if he’d asked a question and expected a pertinent reply.

“Good morning. My name is Mistress Suzanne Thornton. I wonder if I might have a word with his grace the duke.” The footman’s eyes glazed over and a hard line came to his mouth, so that Suzanne could see she wasn’t going to get anywhere with him. So she added quickly, “It’s regarding his son. I’m afraid I have some very bad news.” She wasn’t certain of it, but let this man believe she was, so that he would take her seriously and let her in.

It brought raised eyebrows, but the manservant yet hesitated. Suzanne needed to be better convincing. She continued, “I am here at the behest of Constable Samuel Pepper, who is investigating a murder.”

“Whose murder?”

“I cannot say. I must speak directly to his grace, if you please.” Her tone suggested she would speak to his grace even if the footman did not please. And she certainly wasn’t going to tell him that the reason she couldn’t say who had been murdered was that nobody knew his name.

The footman thought about that for a moment, then gave a slight nod of his head in lieu of a bow, said, “Wait here,” then retreated to the house and closed the door.

Suzanne looked back at Ramsay, who stood by the carriage while the driver tended to his horses in the cold. A light sprinkling of snow was in the wind, and white flakes danced like faeries around him.

Again, the wait was interminable. Cold made inroads into Suzanne’s clothing, and she shifted her weight back and forth to keep the blood moving in her feet. Her teeth began to chatter, though she struggled to make them stop.

Finally the door opened again. She might have sworn the footman appeared disappointed to find her still there, but he recovered quickly and swung the door wide for her to enter. She stepped inside and began blowing on her fingers to warm them.

The inside of the house was quite toasty. A short entry hall led to a large parlor in which a good-sized hearth held a merrily burning log. A stack of similar logs stood by, ready to feed the fire. The footman told her to wait, and he disappeared through a door at the end of the room. Suzanne immediately thrust her hands toward the fire to warm them. Slowly feeling returned to her fingers.

She looked around the room. Everything about this place spoke to her of security and established authority. People who had been wealthy, and secure in their wealth, for generations. Portraits on the walls honored family members past and present with the work of highly skilled and highly paid artists, and that work had been set in costly frames carved in rich woods or layered in gold. The furniture was perfectly kept and gently used, impeccably clean, and though old was not worn. A vase of hothouse flowers stood on a deeply polished wooden table, and the spring scent mixed oddly with the winter smell of burning wood.

The portraits covered the walls from ceiling to chair rail, seemingly random because of size, but she could see they were arranged somewhat chronologically. The south wall appeared to contain subjects dressed in Elizabethan costume, and the next had more modern, Puritan attire. She turned, looking for the most recent family members. They were behind her.

The largest of these paintings appeared to be of the duke, though she supposed it could have been an old picture of his father. The Puritan fashion of dress was so plain it was difficult to tell how old the clothing was. This face was stern, frowning. It was the portrait of someone whose main concern was the authority he held over others in the world. She’d found in the past that most of the peerage were overly concerned with controlling others. It was what gave their lives meaning, and very often was more important to them than the wealth that usually accompanied the power. She would need to tread carefully with this fellow, lest she find herself in trouble with the crown over a minor slip in protocol.