Chapter Eighteen
It was another morning of frustration for Max, who continued to make the rounds in London.
He dropped casual questions to many of his acquaintances, always careful to avoid implying his concern for his life. But that worry was there…how could it not be? “Sorry, Max. I really don’t have a clue if there are any grudges against you out there,” said Lord Michael Northfield. “You know there’s always been a nasty minded group of scum who believe all of us…” he waved his hand around the gentlemen’s club in which this conversation was taking place… “All of us in Society should be eliminated.”
“Sad, but true,” agreed Max.
“Agitators, protestors, small groups who are angry for so many reasons.” Lord Michael folded his hands over his bounteous stomach.
“They might have good reasons,” Max murmured. “Ah well, thank you anyway.”
“How’s that sister of yours?”
“Well, thank you sir. Visiting Mowbray House at the moment, as a matter of fact.”
“Give her my best? I heard her play once. A magical experience.” Lord Michael beamed as a waiter brought a tray with two papers neatly rolled and a goblet of brandy. “Ah. Breakfast.”
“Thank you, my Lord,” Max gave a slight bow. “I shall pass along your regards to Grace.” He acknowledged the farewell nod, and then left, many thoughts running through his head.
Northfield did have a point. There had been more than a few incidents of unpleasantness, fights, property damage and so on, caused by those unsatisfied with their lot. Social conditions in London weren’t perfect for everyone. And he could imagine the anger that might build in a man’s breast as he tried to earn enough to feed his family, while seeing the Ton parade by on a daily basis, spending more on their shoes than he made in a year.
But, in all fairness, sawing through the spokes of every member of Society who owned a carriage in the hopes that they’d be killed?
No. It just didn’t make sense.
He needed to find something a great deal more specific, something he still believed might well be aimed directly at him. After all, the one fact that haunted him incessantly was that it was his carriage. Why not the one before or the one after? His was quite new…an old one would have been far more likely to suffer a broken wheel, and fewer questions would have been asked.
All those logical assumptions pointed his thoughts toward a personal vendetta.
But from whom? That was the question he could not, as yet, answer.
He returned just after noon, hoping for lunch and some time with his sister. As he turned his horse toward Mowbray House, he spent some time considering the interaction between Grace and Kitty.
The veil was off. So Grace had felt comfortable enough to reveal what she considered to be her devastation. He’d tried to explain that what she saw was a great deal worse than what the rest of the world saw.
He knew the mark she bore reminded her every day of pain, violence and a grievous error on her part that had, in her own mind, ruined her life.
Everyone else just saw a nasty scar.
But Kitty had managed to put her at her ease upon first meeting. Once again, Max found himself surprised at the response to a woman that Grace should, by all rights, have shunned. And yet he’d found the two of them chatting comfortably, sharing both ideas and wit. It had confounded him for a moment, but then he wondered if he was failing to give Kitty enough credit.
She was intelligent, without a doubt. Most of the Ton would never consider a brain might lurk behind her attractive countenance, and perhaps he’d fallen into that trap. But not now, now that he was learning about her. Her beauty was undeniable, but also unique, since in repose she was no more than the average beautiful woman. It was when she was engaged in anything—conversation, actions, decisions—that’s when she lit up like a Roman candle and surpassed the ordinary, revealing a unique and breathtaking glory.
That chin, when raised, indicated that she was a Ridlington to the core; determined, proud, and steadfast in her opinions. Her father might have been a bastard of the first order, but he had left a legacy in his offspring. And it showed.
Mowbray House was upon him before he realized it, and Max slid from the saddle, cold and a little depressed that he’d failed to make progress in his investigation.
Deery welcomed him and took his coat. “The ladies are in the library, sir. They’ve requested a light lunch be served there. Will you join them or…”
Max nodded. “That will be fine, Deery. As long as there’s a good fire. There’s still no sign of spring and the air’s damn cold.”
“Indeed, sir.” Deery vanished with his usual efficiency.
Pausing at the door of the library, Max smiled at the sounds of a lively discussion coming from within. He caught the words “absurd” and “Wellington”, and realized this was no debate on gowns or the Season. His sister and his mistress were involved in dissecting Wellington’s campaign. Bemused, he entered the fray.
“Good afternoon, ladies.”
“Max. Perfect timing.” Grace turned to him. “Could you please inform Kitty that her opinion of the Duke’s strategies at the battle of Conaghul are incorrect?”
He blinked. “Er…what?”
Kitty sighed. “You are unfamiliar with the Anglo-Mysore Wars, then?”
“The what wars?”
“Good Lord, Max. It was not that long ago. Maybe ten years or so.” Grace frowned at him.
“Well that explains it, then. I was busy being a Corinthian.”
“Drinking and whoring?” Kitty’s expression was mildly curious.
“That too.” He sighed. “But if I might turn your obviously acrimonious discussion to the present…”
“If you must,” pouted Grace. “But I swear I’m right, Kitty.”
“We’ll agree to disagree then,” said Kitty equitably. “And I will thank you for a lively debate.”
They exchanged pleased glances as Deery entered with a footman bearing a large tray. “Lunch, sir, ladies.”
“Excellent.” Max moved to the fire, turned around and proceeded to toast his arse. “I’m chilled to the bone.”
“No luck in town, then?” asked Kitty, allowing Deery to move her chair slightly so that she could reach a plate.
“None at all,” frowned Max. “It’s not that I have no enemies, or people that wish me ill. It’s that I know who they are and none seem to have sufficient cause to do me harm. Everyone was a dead end.” He shook his head. “I did repay the ten guineas I owed Harry Chalmers, but I swear it was because I’d completely forgotten the matter. So had he, it turns out, so he had a better morning than I did, since he got something out of it.”
“Come and eat something. We’ve just begun to work on this, Max. Early days…” Grace motioned him to a seat.
They ate in silence for a while, and Max found himself quite comfortable with it.
Finally, he leaned back in his chair and sipped his tea with pleasure. “Well, it occurs to me that I shall have to order a new carriage.”
“You can certainly use mine, Max,” offered Grace.
“Thank you, and we will if we have to,” he acknowledged. “But that doesn’t change the fact that mine needs replacing. Pity,” he thought aloud. “I really liked the styling.”
“Surely the company can provide another?” Kitty glanced at him.
“I hope so, yes.”
“Max,” said Grace, putting down her teacup. “I’ve just thought of something.”
“I’m eager to hear,” encouraged her brother.
“Well, it may be nothing, but it seems that over the last couple of months, I’ve read of other carriage accidents.”
Max looked at her. “Really?”
She nodded. “Yes. As I told Kitty earlier, I read all the papers most every day. Being isolated, one does, you know.”
About to open his mouth and embark on a lecture about getting out and about more, Max thought better of it. He’d revisit that issue at another time. “And you think there have been other accidents?”
“I’m sure of it,” she asserted. “In fact, I think there was one less than two weeks ago.”
“Why haven’t we heard of them?” asked Kitty, a puzzled look on her face.
“If there were no fatalities, why would we?” Max answered. “Carriages break down routinely. It’s only when someone of import is injured or killed that it becomes news.”
“Well, front page news, at least,” added Grace. “The reports I read were small mentions quite far back in the papers.” She gave a rueful little grin. “When I say I read the newspapers, I really mean I read the newspapers.”
“Hmm.” Max’s mind whirled around this information. He jumped up and rang for Deery. “If we have some old papers, it’s worth taking a look, I believe.”
Deery appeared. “Sir?”
“Do we keep old newspapers, Deery? If so how far back?”
“Yes, sir. I do keep old papers. We usually have four weeks’ worth saved; they are very useful for a variety of purposes around the house.”
Kitty looked at him curiously. “Really?”
“Yes, miss,” answered Deery. “You can clean windows very effectively with an old sheet of newspaper.”
Kitty blinked in surprise. “Well, goodness. I never knew that.”
*~~*~~*
By late afternoon, a pile of scraps had grown to respectable proportions in the center of the Aubusson carpet.
All three had discovered small notices, mentions of possible problems and of course the accidents Grace had originally recalled. Those pieces had been cut out of the sheets, and the rest discarded into the central pile.
As the last paper joined its mates, Kitty leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms above her head. “Well, that’s the last of it.” Her back ached a little and her fingers were quite dirty from the newsprint.
Grace nodded in agreement, a smudge on her nose. “Thank goodness we only had four weeks to deal with.”
Max was already assembling the clippings into piles.
Kitty stood and came over to his side. “Sorting?”
He nodded, intent upon his task. “This pile mentions the name of the carriage owner. This pile does not.” He gestured to the piles. “I thought it might be useful to see if there is any link between those affected.”
“Good idea,” concurred Kitty. “Especially if it reveals any link to you, as well. Either directly or indirectly.”
“Let me take that pile, Max.” She held out her hand. “I don’t know your circle of intimates, but I can give it a preliminary review to see if any of the names jump out at me.”
Max smiled. “Given your proclivity for the news, Grace, you probably know more about who’s who in London than Kitty and I put together.”
“While Grace does that, I’ve had another idea I’d like to pursue. May I have that pile?” She indicated the one Grace wasn’t using. “I would like to flip through those notices.”
“Looking for something in particular?” Max slid her the pile and she moved her chair next to him.
“Yes.”
“Well, I’ll go and clean up I think. And order tea.”
Kitty barely heard him. She had found what she sought. Or at least one thing she was looking for. Now to see if others matched.
It didn’t take long for her to review the entire pile. A third of it was pushed aside, while the rest remained in front of her. Five mentions. Five places where similar information showed up.
“Grace, may I have your pile when you’re done?”
“I’m done,” sighed Grace. “I found nothing to connect anyone in these announcements.”
“Thank you.” Kitty took the clippings as Grace pushed them over the table. “Don’t be too disheartened. I might have come across something useful.”
Max returned at that moment, a tray in his hands, pushing into the room with his shoulder and kicking the door shut behind him. “Make a space please, ladies. I have tea and scones.”
“Oh lovely.” Grace eagerly rearranged the table top to make room. “Kitty’s found something, Max. Don’t touch her clippings just yet?”
Max laid out tea, cups and plates with a dexterity that would make Deery green with envy.
Kitty glanced up. “Is there possibly a period of servitude in your past, Max? You do that so well.”
“Be quiet.” He put a scone on a plate for her. “Here. What have you found?”
“Tea first please.” She noted his clenched teeth, and hid a chuckle. “Thank you.” It was good thing she didn’t take sugar in her tea. He might have choked her before she got her first sip.
“All right then.” She spread out the clippings around the china. “There is very little that is common to these announcements. But in these five here, and those two over there, there is one item that matches.” She leaned back. “The name of the carriage maker.”
Grace’s eyes widened and Max frowned in puzzlement.
He found his voice first. “The carriage-maker? Seven accidents to the same carriage maker?”
“Possibly eight,” answered Kitty. “Edmund finally ordered a carriage not long ago, so I learned a little bit about the business. Was yours ordered from Barker?”
“No,” he said.
“How about Rowley, Marshall and Cook?”
“My father had his made there, but no, I didn’t,” Max observed.
“Kanehall?”
He paused. “They’re new. Radical designs and some of them are outstanding. But there were rumours of pricing problems. So no, not them.”
Kitty nodded. “Could yours have come from Whetstone and Frank?”
“Yes.” Max sat down. “Yes. They’re a relatively new company. I liked what they offered and it was easy to turn it into something that was uniquely a Seton-Mowbray vehicle.” He paused, drumming his fingertips softly on the table. “Actually, it was Freddie Whitemarsh who recommended them. Said they were being quite innovative in the design of the body, and the interior was much more comfortable. Something to do with the springs…”
“Wait,” said Grace. “Isn’t Freddie Whitemarsh the son of Baron Stokingham?”
“Er, I think so…” Max looked at her. “I wouldn’t want to wager on it, but I’m pretty sure they’re connected.”
Grace nodded. “I thought so.” She looked at the clippings. “Stokingham’s carriage broke a wheel two weeks ago. The notice is here somewhere. Her ladyship got a few bruises. Showed them off at some ball or other, and accidentally revealed more of her leg than was seemly. Goodness…you can’t imagine the outrage.”
Max’s eyebrow lifted. “The present Lady Stokingham was once in the theater. So to speak. She is probably quite used to revealing her legs—and more, if memory serves me.”
Kitty laughed. “Oh dear. All the high and low points of London tend to connect at odd moments, don’t they?”
“All right then.” Max finished his tea, popped the last of his scone in his mouth, and stood.
“Here it comes,” whispered Kitty, glancing at Grace. “I think we’re about to hear the Master’s plan of action.”
Grace giggled, and sat up straight, folding her hands in her lap. Kitty did the same.
“Not amusing, ladies. This is momentous.” Max began to pace. “Let’s review this situation.” He held up his hand, fingers splayed. “We have a series of carriage accidents, seven to be precise. Possibly eight.” One finger was pressed down. “We’ve established that seven of them involved the same maker.” Another finger was pressed down. “Now mine was the first to involve a death, but it was being driven out of London onto much poorer roads.” Down went the third finger. He looked at both Kitty and Grace, his face betraying his excitement. “I believe we now have a focus for our investigations.”