Kiss in the Mist by Elizabeth Brady (7)

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The coach arrived at Number Sixteen, rolling to a stop just as Great-Aunt Celia opened her eyes. “Home again, home again,” she mumbled, a little cottony, as if waking from a dream. Amanda thrust out an arm as she stumbled while alighting the carriage.

“Don’t fash yourself, girl,” she said, but Amanda noticed she leaned a bit more heavily on her cane than she had before.

Amanda watched her climb the steps, trailing at a discreet distance. “I’m not about to topple to my doom, child. Now, good night,” she said, waving her hand in the air. “Get some rest. We’ve your first ball tomorrow eve and it won’t do at all for you to have plumbs under your eyes. Especially with that sallow complexion of yours.” As soon as her Great-Aunt toddled to bed, Amanda dutifully returned to her own room.

Where Geoffrey sat on the trunk at the foot of her bed.

Shelby paced the bare floor in front of him.

Amanda felt the reticule slip from her hand and hit the floor with a thud.

“What now?” she whispered. The door clicked shut behind her as she collapsed against the cool wood.

She examined Geoffrey’s face for any appearance of contrition, but it was Shelby’s agitation which drew attention.

“Oh, miss…” But she didn’t continue.

A cold ball of dread settled in her stomach. “What has happened? Did you hear word about Daniel?”

“Nothing like that!” Geoffrey said, quickly. His denial did nothing to quell the growing dread. She felt like a rolling snowball in an avalanche. “Tell her, Shelby,” he said with an encouraging nod. “It’s so much worse when you don’t tell her.”

“Oh, miss,” Shelby said. She walked to one end of the bed, then the other, turning to look at Amanda. She stopped, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let out in a whoosh, “I lied to you, miss… well, not a real lie, I didn’t tell you everything, which isn’t exactly a lie—it’s just like the story I told the runner… A little bit of the truth…”

“Runner?”

“…but you’ve had such a bad run of it and you looked so nice and I thought you could have just one evening without having to worry over anything else—especially with a murderer running about…”

“Murderer?!”

“…and considering the twisted yarns about me mum and that everyone knows your father’s history and the sad story of your uncle…”

“Oh no…”

“…I just didn’t want to tell you…”

“Shelby.” Amanda couldn’t feel her knees. The only thing keeping her standing was the solid door behind her.

“The body in the library was murdered and the man investigating is a Bow Street Runner.”

“Oh, Heavens.”

Geoffrey jumped off the trunk and came towards her. “It might be better if you sat down for this.” He led her back to the trunk and they sat down together.

“There’s more?” Of course there was more. Why wouldn’t there be more?

“Well, miss. I grabbed a boy on the street to call a constable—and if one had arrived he’d have taken the body and that’s that. But it was a runner who came, John Lowe. He said the man was murdered. Which means that he’ll be asking further questions. Which means, sure as the sun rises, he’ll nose out a few juicy tidbits. Someone’ll be sure to slip him the tale that my brother stabbed a man in a bar fight, me mum poisoned her husbands, and it’ll never escape his ears that your father killed his brother.”

Amanda let out a shocked laugh. What exactly did one say in response to learning that one’s servants knew the family’s best-kept secret? Or to hearing theirs in turn?

Realization dawned. She couldn’t swallow. Her mouth had gone dry. “And with the body discovered out our back garden, conveniently beside a house full of rumored murderers, he will focus on us.”

Shelby nodded.

Amanda dropped her arms to her knees and collapsed her head atop.

Geoffrey had convinced her to move the body because of their father’s fragile social position. Their uncle had impoverished both himself and the estate, selling whatever wasn’t entailed (only after borrowing against it). The ensuing debt had left the brothers a surplus of arguments—which they fought often and vehemently. A blow or two—or an outright brawl in the drive as the neighbors were coming for tea—had been exchanged. After he died, any subsequent rumors regarding her uncle’s “sticky end” had been squelched with equal rigor.

But her father wasn’t here to stop more rumors.

He was leagues away. A continent apart.

“Our uncle died in a riding accident,” she said, lamely.

“Rory’s da died of influenza. My father died at sea. And Rory never killed a soul. He drew the cork of a drunkard who’d threatened to pink him with a knife. The truth matters little in gossip, miss. It’s however good a yarn they can weave.”

Amanda nodded and sighed. Geoffrey placed a comforting hand on her back. Sophie’s words came back to her: “I don’t believe all I hear, but I make certain I’m fully informed about what they’re saying.”

At the moment, Amanda wished she had paid more attention to gossip.

Well, certain things now became clearer. Shelby’s more than occasional slip into cant, her brother’s work on the docks (and the fact that neither of them batted an eye at moving a body), the family’s determination to stick together, and the fact that they were willing to work for whatever Father managed to pay them… It wasn’t only that they wanted their family to stay together. Shelby’s family knew the stigma of rumor and lies. No other employer would likely have them. (Reputable, at least.) It would be difficult to hire them individually. They were ostracized, just as Father had determined would not happen to the Pruetts.

“We should tell this runner the truth,” Geoffrey said in a small voice.

“Geoffrey!”

At the same time Shelby cried, “Lud no, young master!”

Geoffrey sputtered, “It always comes out in the end! And you berate me something fierce when I withhold from you.”

Amanda could hardly deny it, but now was not the time to debate ethics. “Imagine if we approach this Mr. Lowe with our tale. A dead body discovered in our library, under the roof of a household with sullied reputations, who just so happen to move the body for their own expedience, then lie to the authorities, then reveal a story—again for their own benefit—which is utterly implausible? It’s barely believable to us and we’ve lived through it!”

“So what’s to be done?” Geoffrey asked.

Amanda rubbed her temples. The headache which had disappeared threatened a violent resurgence.

What to do, what to do?

“Simple. We must find his murderer first.”

 

Amanda, Shelby, and Geoffrey sat huddled atop her (unfeathered) mattress well-into the small hours of the morning. In between muffled mouthfuls of Cook’s biscuits (Amanda kept a stash hidden in her nightstand), they examined how exactly it would be possible to discover the murderer—moreover how to do so before the man who was especially trained to track down criminals.

After each talked over the other with multiple uses of the confusing pronoun he, everyone agreed for point of clarity to use bynames: the body would now be referred to as Victor (a euphemism for victim without making them shudder), the man in the cemetery would be Mr. Diggs (with similar reasoning), and the murderer was now called Sir Sinister (mostly for alliteration).

Everyone also agreed (though Geoffrey still maintained they should come clean to the runner), that Sir Sinister must be found—or at least a solid suspect—before Mr. Lowe, like a hound, discovered their pungent scent and lunged for the jugular. Unsurprisingly (as it had been in the forefront of their thoughts all day), each had a viable possibility for such a vicious perpetrator.

Amanda started. “I think,” as much as the idea discomfited her (and as if she looked a gift horse past his teeth and down his throat), “that the most likely culprit is Mr. Diggs.”

Geoffrey immediately shook his head.

The part of Amanda which had snuggled in the man’s arms and nuzzled against his chest shook its head.

But practical Amanda continued. “He was digging a grave! What fits in graves nicely? Bodies, that’s what. Hear me out, Geoffrey.” She enumerated on her fingers, “He knew the location of our house, was well-aware of the ongoing distraction—of his own creation!—and could have easily carried the body… Victor into the library!” As he’d already demonstrated when he picked her up like a… Amanda shook her thoughts. She was not an ox. Like she were a… a… Bah! Beside the point. He’d lifted her easily. “Because of the rain, you and I were the only other people foolish enough to be outside. Add these facts: both Victor and Mr. Diggs held items upon their person inscribed with the same initials—a damning coincidence!”

Geoffrey still shook his head. “It was not Mr. Diggs.”

“What makes you so certain, Master Geoffrey?”

Amanda sent her brother a warning look. To explain the origin of the embroidered handkerchief (and as an obvious suspect), they had to tell Shelby about the man in the grave. But they’d minimized the role he’d played. Only Geoffrey knew that Mr. Diggs was the one who carried her home. Amanda intended to keep that secret, at least.

Geoffrey sat up a little straighter as he gave his defense. “Everything in his bearing and speech indicated he was a gentleman. Not just in word, but deed.”

Amanda scoffed. “Are you suggesting a gentleman incapable of murder?”

“I readily admit a man of rank is capable of any sort of crime. A gentleman, however, is not. It is not Mr. Diggs,” he said, adamant. “You should have heard his sound admonishment of me in my lack of duty! Such a man could not have done this. Besides, Mr. Diggs’ demeanor was perfectly reasonable, not crazed as Sir Sinister must have been.”

To which Amanda pointed out, placing a body in their library would be a cold, calm, and calculated maneuver.

Geoffrey replied with a sniff.

“What do you think, Shelby?” Amanda asked.

The maid put her hands upon her knees and leaned forward. The shift in weight dipped the mattress so that they all moved in together.

 

“A sneaking badger,” she said, nodding.

Amanda blinked.

Geoffrey asked. “A… what?”

“Badgers! Thieves! They’ll kill a man and toss him in the Thames.” Her colloquial turn of phrase was drawn out by stress, liquor, and fatigue apparently. “Any river’ll do. And there’s that little spit of water going under the cemetery. He might not have been able to trudge through the mud carrying such a load, so he stuffed him in the library. I reckon it was that or a street gang. Victor had nothing of value upon him—excepting the watch, of course. And the sixpence might have been overlooked in haste. Cutpurses are a skittish bunch. If Sir Sinister heard Mr. Diggs or heard you callin’ for Master Geoffrey, he might have neglected thieving to save his own skin.”

Amanda nodded. It wasn’t a well-kept secret that Number Sixteen was understaffed. If Sir Sinister caught sight of the hubbub that night, he’d found a perfect hiding spot—the small, distracted staff wouldn’t find the body until morning and it would be hidden from the night watchman, providing plenty of time to escape.

“If I were to murder someone,” Geoffrey began, “which I’m not,” he assured them, “it would be someone I knew. But since we know nothing about the man, where he comes from, nor who his acquaintances may be, discovering anything seems an impossibility. It’s such a puzzle! How did the man die? How did he get inside? How was it done and how will we find out when there’s so little to go on?” Much like his obsession with ghosts, Geoffrey was now curious. Each question seemed to energize him more.

Amanda shared a troubled look with Shelby. Shelby shook her head. Neither woman was inclined to allow Geoffrey any part in an investigation. Both had disliked even having him involved in the conversation, but since he’d been there for every important aspect of the crime so far, there was little other option.

And, unfortunately pivotal for Amanda’s theory, Geoffrey was the only witness who could recognize Mr. Diggs.

But Geoffrey kept trying.

“I could…”

“No.”

“Or even…”

“No.”

“You must need—”

“No!” Amanda’s quelling glance hushed her brother’s further protestations. She sighed. “Nevertheless, I think Geoffrey is correct in that it might be beneficial to review everything we do know about Victor.”

Silence. (Though Geoffrey did stop pouting.)

“Well, what about obvious things? His features, his clothes?” Amanda asked. She forced herself to recall details from when she touched the man’s pant leg. “His boots and the cuff of his trousers were caked in muck, so he must have walked.”

“True miss, but his clothes were dry as a bone—the wool didn’t even smell. He must have come outside after the rain stopped,” Shelby said.

“So he came from somewhere nearby?” Amanda said.

“Oh, he’s not from around here. Rory or I’d’ve recognize him. Besides, though his clothes were not expensive, they were still quality but from no tailor I’ve seen and I’ve laundered quite a few. And he was a little neglectful, I’d say. Poor jacket had a nasty tear under the arm, just so,” she raised her right arm and wiggled her finger along her ribs. “Hidden when he lowered his arm, but still. No wife or no money to repair it? Or no tailors nearby? He might be from the country.”

“He carried an expensive watch,” Amanda pointed out.

Geoffrey shrugged, “Which might not be his. He could be a thief. He had otherwise empty pockets. Unless something burned to bits when…”

They all paused, uncomfortably. No one wished to directly discuss the incident involving Victor’s spirit—or spontaneously combustible internal organs.

Geoffrey stared at the ceiling, thinking. “If he’s not local, he might have been dropped off by a carriage,” he surmised. “It would explain his clothes being dry and his boots muddy. Though there aren’t many muddy areas to walk through besides the cemetery, someone’s garden, or the dairy yard. But what puzzles me is how Mr. Lowe could tell upon sight that it was murder? If he were stabbed or shot, there should have been a pool of blood and I saw nothing to indicate such. How was he killed?”

“He did have that nasty bruise upon his head.” Shelby touched along the side of her cheek. “I still say it’s badgers. The bruise could be from a cosh or cudgel. Someone bashed ’is head in.”

Amanda nodded. “A strong possibility. It seemed the most reasonable explanation when you pointed it out this morning. Though at that time we’d believed it to be misfortune, not murder.” Another thought occurred to her. “His face also had a blue tinge. It couldn’t have been from strangulation as I saw his neck quite clearly, but I heard that could also be an effect of poison?”

Shelby pursed her lips. Geoffrey shook his head, slowly. Neither looked fully-supportive of this suggestion, but they also couldn’t discount it.

“So, he might have been from the country and was probably struck over the head by person or persons unknown. Is this all we know?” Amanda sighed. “This… murder detectoring is more difficult than I imagined. We truly know nothing and we’ve been rattling ideas for hours.”

Two and a half, to be exact.

Amanda’s lower extremities were numb from sitting in one position for so long. Her back ached. Her weary body was still weak from yesterday’s fall and after the day’s exertions she craved rest. After two and a half hours reaching no conclusions, she felt exhausted and a little disheartened. The bed beneath her lured with its soft comfort.

“How do you suppose we should examine our theories?”

“Yours and mine more easily, miss. They seem to fall right down our alleys,” Shelby said. She stifled a yawn.

“What do you mean?” Geoffrey asked.

“Well, Master Geoffrey,” she must have been very tired, her lapses into cant made it difficult to follow, “Miss Amanda thinks Mr. Diggs done Victor in and you say Mr. Diggs is a bang up cove and all around gentleman. So, Miss Amanda can search for Mr. Diggs at all the fancy to-dos. Given that I think some cadger badger done it, it’d be a right thing for me to ask questions about the street.”

“I do not like that idea at all, Shelby.” Amanda shook her head vehemently. (Regretting it as her head began to ache.) “You’d be putting yourself at a great deal of risk.”

“Not at all, miss,” she said, though she didn’t look convincingly comfortable. “I can pump for secrets without coming up dry. There are so many people on the whisper, my nosing won’t go noticed.”

Hmph.

“An’ we’ve no better plan.”

Aye, that was the clincher.

“No, no we don’t.”

So Amanda agreed. Shelby would ask some discreet questions upon the streets, Amanda would search the ballrooms and salons, and Geoffrey…

Geoffrey would remain home.

To his utter dismay.

He tried reason and argument. When that failed, he huffed and puffed (which, after an evening of Lord Denbigh’s display, had much less than its desired effect). By the time he hopped off the bed to head to his own, he was so upset he even took the last cinnamon biscuit.

“Would you like me to turn down the bed, miss?” Shelby asked, plucking the pins from her hair. Amanda moved through the motions in a sleepy daze.

“No, thank you, Shelby.” She waved her hand. “I can manage from here. Go and get some sleep. But…” She hesitated. “I’m concerned about your investigating…”

“Don’t you worry, miss. I’ll take care.” Shelby smiled, gave a pert nod of her head, and exited the room.

The door shut leaving Amanda alone.

With her thoughts.

What a night. What a day!

If she could sleep for a week, that might not be long enough. Though Amanda knew she was at the point of exhaustion that sleep would be nearly impossible. Her mind raced in a mixture of wonderful and horrible thoughts. The day had brought with it such contrasting events and emotions, sleep’s only hope was to put them from her head entirely.

She attempted to occupy herself with the mundane tasks of a normal evening. She sat at the dressing table and brushed and braided her hair while mindlessly imagining the wall was the mirror in her old room.

In her imaginary mirror tonight, however, the scene reflected back wasn’t her old bedroom with its plush mattress and brocade curtains. It wasn’t the plain bedroom behind her, either. It was a grand ballroom, she was wearing a grey dress, and a handsome gentleman stood with his hand outreached to lead her to the dance floor.

If she’d felt a little more foolish, she might have accepted the offer and waltzed around her room.

Instead, she put down the brush, picked up the book on her bed stand, and crawled into bed.

A few pages into the first tale of Fantasmagoriana, Amanda snapped the covers closed and practically threw it aside. No wonder Geoffrey had had visions of ghosts! Spectral barbers! Haunted castles!

He was much safer with Homer. Amanda doubted her brother had aspirations to turn into a bird like Minerva. She’d only worry if she caught him in the attic constructing a pair of wings.

She slid the book back onto the table. Her hand hit linen. The handkerchief. She brought it to her nose with a fanciful expectation, but the only scent wafting from the plain white square was that of fresh soap. It no longer held the heady aroma of the man who’d carried her home. Her thumb traced the embroidery.

She fell asleep with it clutched in her hand.

Throughout the night, she tossed and turned. Her dreams were filled with mist. Tombstones.

Then strong arms and cinnamon.

“Up! Wake up, child, we have company!”

Amanda awoke with a start. She’d been in the kind of deep slumber that penetrated one’s body and made all movement sluggish. Her limbs felt heavy. She blinked, suddenly ripped from the realm of fantasy into the real world. She could still smell cinnamon.

She barely wiped the sleep from her eyes as Great-Aunt Celia bounded across the room. Amanda saw nothing but a streak of red dress. “We have company!” she repeated, “Callers! Plural! More than one! Up, child, up! Dress in something pretty!” Then she made an equally unexpected exit.

What yesterday’s twenty-minute nap had done for the woman, last night’s full rest reinvigorated her fifty times over.

Amanda envied her both the sleep and the energy.

She’d stumbled halfway to the closet before she realized she still clenched the handkerchief. Heat flooded her cheeks and she shoved the offending fabric under her pillow.

A sharp rap at the door came before Shelby (looking equally exhausted) was practically towed inside by Maria (awake and effervescent). With coos and bubbling chatter, Maria demonstrated how to do Amanda’s hair in the “Miss Heatly fashion.” The non-stop instruction (more especially, the yank of hair to and fro across Amanda’s head) did a great deal to snap her from her daze.

“Now, what to wear, miss?” Maria asked, as they examined Amanda’s wardrobe. All the white gowns had been removed (upon Great-Aunt Celia’s instruction).

Hmm.

“Brown.” The single word was all she could yet manage.

Even in her lethargic state, Amanda decided the best course of action would be an attempt to mimic last night’s lauded ensemble. She pointed to a dull morning gown and chose the most vibrant clashing colors of ribbon for trim. Maria stayed long enough to cinch her up, then skipped back to the kitchens leaving Shelby and Amanda to await Great-Aunt Celia’s approval.

“I could use some coffee, Shelby.”

“Lud, miss. I’d chew the coffee bean raw if I thought it would help.”

The door opened. Amanda and Shelby both looked towards the sound, half-expecting a miraculous offering of steaming, dark brew.

Great-Aunt Celia, however, returned without gifts (though she now sported a jaunty red turban). She took one look at Amanda’s brown ensemble and simply shook her head, “Oh, no no no! Pft. Heavens no! The plum,” she pointed her cane towards a very pretty muslin and promptly disappeared again.

Amanda huffed.

Apparently, she hadn’t the ability to dress herself!

How, then, did she expect to discover a murderer?

Lack of sleep did not suit an optimistic mood. Decidedly grumpy, she stifled a yawn. It was difficult to yawn, in any case, when one was being cinched into a morning gown.

“Too tight!” Amanda gasped. Her gasp came at the same time as another stifled yawn, so it came out in a horrible hiccough.

“Oh, I’m sorry, miss,” Shelby yawned, too, but kept tugging. “But there’s…” tug “…little space left.” Amanda let the comment slide. Due to economy, they had repurposed as many articles as possible. This particular dress was an older gown and her body had changed considerably since she last wore it, thus it was a trifle snug. It had nothing to do with Cook’s biscuits.

“Do you know the names of our illustrious visitors?”

Shelby shook her head. “Mr. Badcock led them straight into the drawing room.”

“Which is where I expected you,” Great-Aunt Celia said, breezing back into the room. “Ten minutes ago. Chop-chop!” she clapped her hands.

Amanda blinked. Her maid dropped cant like a thief, her footman worked the docks, and now her Great-Aunt Celia spoke like a sailor. Chop-chop. Aye, theirs was a reputable household. Next, she’d discover Badcock had been a prizefighter in his day.

Sweet Heavens, if that were true…

Now, working through little sleep and bleary eyes she was expected to entertain in a house with only two almost complete rooms.

How would they ever maintain the illusion of a reputable household? Reputable households had well-spoken maids and butlers who buttled. Reputable households had furniture.

She glanced around at the scant sticks around her room. The bed, a night stand, dressing table, a chair. More luxurious than Father’s study (sporting a desk and chair) or the morning room (with a gargantuan sideboard no one dared nudge). “You made certain all the rooms were closed before they entered the house?”

“Of course, miss.”

“Of course not!” Great-Aunt Celia said. “Oh, my dear girl, you cannot hide the house away! If you do, they will wonder what secrets lie behind locked doors.” She pulled a strand of Amanda’s hair loose from its bun. It fell in a soft curl against her cheek. “Instead, throw open the doors and give a tour! When you come across an empty room, it’s not an empty room. No! You say, ‘Welcome to the library, future home of Lord Edgbaston’s collection.’” She gave a dramatic flourish with her hand. “Presentation, my girl, it’s all in the presentation.”

That startled a laugh. “There’s certainly plenty of cleared shelf space! Papa sold most of his books.”

“It will grow. It’s a work in progress. As are you, apparently…” Great-Aunt Celia tapped her cane until Shelby finished her final tug.

“All done, miss.”

“Well, now that we are past the acceptable fashionability of ‘tardy’ and nearly into gross negligence of our guests, might we think about graciously descending to entertain the three gentlemen awaiting your company? I know that it’s all the thing for young people to let their admirers dangle, but I assure you while under my wing, we shall treat guests with punctuality. Appropriate punctuality, of course. No more than twenty-two minutes late.” She glanced at the mantelpiece clock. “We are currently nineteen.”

“Wish me luck,” Amanda groaned.

“Here as well, miss.” Shelby whispered, “I am off to seek Sir Sinister through the streets and alleys of London.”

Amanda opened her mouth, an offer to join in the search formed on the tip of her tongue, but Great-Aunt Celia herded her out the door with a swish of skirt and threatening flick of cane.

“Paste a smile on your face and remember: presentation.”