A Very Vexing Murder, page 14
I open the second note – the one I liberated from Frank’s pocket. There are five words inked across it in an elegant script that looks distinctly French.
Your time is running out.
I think it’s time I paid a certain French barber a visit.
CHAPTER 14
Rule number fourteen: Sometimes, brute force gets you further than civilised conversation.
I’m wearing leather boots as I walk down Grope Lane for the second time. I didn’t have the luxury of Emma’s carriage today and, trust me, satin shoes and stagecoaches do not go together. But while my footwear has improved, the smell has not. If anything, the heat has made it worse. A swarm of flies crawls across something raw and rancid which I hope is a cut of meat stolen from the butcher’s shop by a stray dog, rather than anything more sinister. Either way, I’m careful not to look too closely as I pick my way down the alley, trying to avoid the rotting meat and suspicious puddles of yellowish liquid and—
I stifle a shriek as a rat the size of a small dog runs across my boot. I’m not habitually squeamish. Scorpions I can deal with. Curious cows that try to lick you to death? No problem. But I draw the line at rats, with their beady black eyes and wormlike tails. If I was properly awake, I would probably have done more than shriek, but I’ve been up most of the night contemplating my father’s new warning and his possible connection to Mrs Elton. Right now, though, I need to forget about my father. I need to get through that trapdoor and take a look inside and speak to Durand if he is the French ‘barber’, as I suspect. My best hope is to wait until one of his customers appears and then rush them before the trapdoor closes. I’ve tried opening it myself and it won’t budge. I even knocked a couple of times, but no joy. I suppose illicit French gambling dens don’t open their trapdoors to just anyone. My head is pounding with the heat of the midday sun and the sweat is trickling down my back with such startling regularity that I feel like I’m melting. But I’m not going anywhere.
As the trapdoor groans and rises, a cautious head pokes out. I brace myself, ready to charge at the emerging figure. The sunlight hits his startled face as I hurtle towards him. Those broad shoulders. The scar above his lip. The familiar sneer I’ve seen directed at me so often. I’ve picked up too much momentum to stop now and so I end up barrelling into him. He hits the ground with a loud thud and exhales a breath full of whisky and tobacco right in my face as I land on top of him.
‘Hello, Harriet.’
‘Denny,’ I say, trying not to gag at the stench.
‘I’m flattered, darling, but you’re really not my type.’
I roll off him and leap to my feet, brushing off my gown as if this will expunge all trace of my contact with him. ‘Trust me, you’re not mine, either.’
Denny hauls himself to his feet, takes a step backwards and rakes his fingers through his hair. The movement triggers a memory. An image of Denny in this same alleyway slipping something into his pocket. Something glistening and gold.
‘You had something in your pocket,’ I say.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘When we ambushed you here last time. You had something in your pocket. What was it?’
‘You hardly ambushed me,’ he says, voice hitching as his thumb twitches briefly against his redingote pocket. He probably doesn’t even realise he’s done it, but the movement tells me that whatever was in his pocket that day is still there.
I sigh, throwing up my hands in mock surrender as I turn away. ‘Fine, don’t tell me. I can’t imagine it’s anything significant.’ I’m a few paces away from Denny when I spin on my heel and charge at him. I catch him completely off guard – which was exactly the idea.
For the second time in the space of a few minutes, I knock him off his feet. This time, I’m not as quick to get up. I press my palm against his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat against my fingers as I hold him down. My other hand works its way into his redingote pocket as he writhes underneath me, trying to buck me off. My fingertips are slick with sweat as they wrap around something small, hard and metallic. I draw my hand out of his pocket and hold it up to the light. A dainty, heart-shaped gold locket engraved with forget-me-nots with turquoise stones at their centre. I slide my finger against the catch to reveal the lock of hair inside a hinged, glazed compartment. The hair belongs to Mr Churchill’s great-grandmother, I expect. Because there’s no doubt about it – this is the missing Churchill heirloom.
‘Care to explain this?’ I ask, still sitting astride Denny.
Denny shrugs. ‘Never seen it before in my life.’
I shift my weight, thighs digging into his hips. ‘You’re going to have to do better than that, I’m afraid.’
Denny sighs. ‘Will you stop mauling me if I tell you?’
I smile at him sweetly. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’
‘I won it. In a game of whist.’
‘From Frank Churchill?’ I demand.
‘Yes,’ Denny mumbles.
‘Down there?’ I say, gesturing towards the trapdoor.
‘Yes.’
‘So I was right. It is an illicit gambling den.’
‘He does hair too, though,’ Denny says, as if this makes his lie by omission less morally objectionable.
‘Why did you keep it? It’s worth a pretty penny.’
‘Well, I couldn’t exactly sell it on, could I? It’s rather distinctive, particularly with the old bat’s hair inside.’
‘You could have removed it,’ I reason.
‘Trust me, I tried. She won’t budge.’
Sounds like a Churchill.
‘Besides, it’s much more valuable to Frank than it would be to any jeweller. Thought I’d give him the opportunity to win it back.’ He grimaces and shuffles underneath me. ‘Look, will you let me up now? It feels as if there’s a walrus sitting on my stomach.’
‘Fine,’ I say, shifting my weight onto his chest to push myself up and off him. He winces, but doesn’t complain.
‘But you still have the locket,’ I say, dangling the chain in front of his face as he scrambles to his feet.
‘Yes, well, I haven’t seen him for a few days. Which is odd for Frank. Usually he’s here whenever he can escape from his tyrant of an aunt.’ His eyes follow the locket as it swings back and forth.
‘This gambling den. It’s run by a fellow called Durand? French, is he? Your French barber?’
‘How do you—’
‘I have my sources.’
‘The premises are his,’ Denny admits.
‘And does he lend out money to his patrons?’
Denny shakes his head. ‘I wouldn’t know about that.’
‘Denny,’ I say, leaning in so close that I can smell the sweat on his armpits, ‘don’t lie to me again. You knew I was looking for Frank. I asked you what you were doing down there and you didn’t tell me the full story. And now a girl is dead.’
Denny’s eyes widen. ‘I didn’t—’
‘Don’t make me beat it out of you. I’ll ask you again. Does Durand lend money to his patrons?’
Denny holds my gaze. ‘He makes a nice little sideline out of it. But you’d have to be desperate to borrow from him. He once loaned George Wickham a hundred pounds and, within a week, was demanding twice the amount in repayment. He didn’t ask very nicely, either. Wickham had to seduce some empty-headed heiress for it. And it’s a good thing he did, because I don’t think he would have stood a chance against the brute Durand sent to collect.’
If Denny hopes to get a rise out of me by mentioning his friend Wickham – an odious cockroach who thinks it’s perfectly acceptable to prey on semi-conscious women for money – he’ll be sorely disappointed.
‘Is Frank desperate?’ I ask.
‘Well, he’s been on a losing streak for a while now.’
‘Long enough to borrow from Durand?’
Long enough to consider poisoning his aunt to solve his problems?
If Frank is trying to win back Jane, and is in desperate financial straits as his correspondence with Durand suggests, he has two excellent motives for murder. If he gets rid of his aunt, Enscombe will be his and he’ll be free to pay off his debts and marry as he pleases.
‘Harriet.’ Denny grips my elbow. ‘Stay away from Durand. I wouldn’t wish him on my worst— Well, I wouldn’t even wish him on you.’
‘I’m sure I could handle him,’ I say, shaking off Denny’s fingers.
‘You need to leave it. Promise me.’
I pout at him.
‘Harriet.’
‘Fine. I promise.’ I’m certainly not giving up on Durand, but I’m not going to get very far today with Denny standing guard.
In an uncharacteristically friendly gesture, Denny grasps my hands in his and squeezes. I feel the necklace slipping through my fingers and hold on tight.
Denny shrugs with a lazy grin. ‘It was worth a try.’
There’s no way I’m letting him take back the Churchill locket. This is going straight to Mrs Churchill. I want my money. I need it.
‘Well, I’ll be seeing you, Denny.’
‘You will,’ he says, grasping my arm and steering me out of the alleyway and onto the main street. The heat hits the back of my throat, but the air is fresher out here, away from the rats and rotting meat. ‘I’m not leaving you there to attack the next poor sap who emerges from that trapdoor. Because he might be stupid enough to let you in.’
‘I could have got past you if I had really wanted to,’ I insist.
Denny laughs. ‘And that would have landed you in a world of trouble.’
‘What do you care?’
‘I don’t. But Robert would kill me if I left you to the mercy of Durand.’
‘I doubt he’d be much bothered by it at the moment,’ I mutter.
‘He would,’ Denny insists. ‘He adores you in his own strange way. Whatever it is you’re arguing about, he wouldn’t want you to put yourself in danger.’
Perhaps I’ve been a bit hard on Robert. I suppose I wouldn’t be thrilled if he started interfering in my love life.
Not that I have one any more.
‘Harriet?’ The smile drops from Denny’s lips. ‘Please don’t tell Robert. About the gambling. He thinks I’ve given up. I promised him I wouldn’t do it again.’
‘Then why are you?’
‘Well, look at what I have to compete with. Lord of the bloody manor.’
‘Mr Knightley?’
Denny rolls his eyes. ‘Give me some credit. I’m not blind. I know how Robert feels about him. He’s not exactly subtle.’
‘Then why don’t you walk away?’
His laugh sounds more like a sob. ‘If only I could. You should, though – from this. While you still can.’
He’s wrong. I can’t walk away either. I’m in as deep as he is.
As I wait at the coaching inn with a silent Denny by my side, I consider his warning about Durand. Denny keeps some rather dubious company, so if he says that Durand is dangerous, I’m inclined to believe him. It makes me wonder how long Frank has been in Durand’s debt. If Durand is responsible for poisoning poor Sophia and the attempted poisoning of Mrs Churchill, perhaps that’s not all he’s responsible for. What if I was right that the boating accident in Weymouth wasn’t an accident, but wrong about the culprit and the purpose of it? Because what if Durand’s target isn’t specifically Mrs Churchill, but anyone Frank cares about? If so, poisoning the lady’s maid will not have served his purpose. He’ll be looking to hit Frank where it hurts. Go after the person he cares about most in the world. And, if that’s the case, then Mr Dixon was right. Jane Fairfax is not safe in Highbury.
CHAPTER 15
Rule number fifteen: It’s easy enough to break into your neighbours’ houses. It’s getting out again that’s the problem.
There’s a dent in the front door of Abbey-Mill Farm, just underneath the doorknocker, in the shape of a horseshoe or a crescent moon, depending on the angle you view it from. I know this because I’ve been staring at it for the past five minutes. I haven’t spoken to Robert since he ejected me through this door ten days ago and the memory of it doesn’t make me eager to seek his help.
But it’s not as if I have many options right now and so I steel myself to reach for the doorknocker and—
‘Harriet?’
I whirl round, brandishing my father’s mahogany cane, ready to strike.
Robert is in his shirtsleeves, mud spattered across his face and hair plastered against his forehead.
‘What in heaven’s name has happened to you?’ I ask.
Robert runs his fingers through his hair, making it even worse. ‘Your little Welsh cow decided she didn’t want to be milked,’ he says. ‘Stubborn girl.’ I wait for the lopsided smirk that will soften his features. It doesn’t come. He pushes past me into the farmhouse, leaving the door wide open.
I suppose this is invitation enough.
Robert sits at the kitchen table, pulling off his muddy boots. I watch him struggle with them, not daring to help, lest he kicks me out again. Finally, he stops muttering to himself, the boots are off and we’re both left staring at the floor, wondering who’s going to break the silence. I lay down the cane and tap my fingers on the kitchen table, stopping abruptly as he slaps his palm against his knee. I sigh and sit down.
‘So, how’s the novel coming along?’ I was always going to be the one to give in first.
Robert snorts as he glances up at me. ‘Oh, you’re being serious?’
‘Yes, I’m being serious,’ I snap. ‘I would really like to know,’ I add, softening my tone.
I think he’s going to shrug it off, but then I detect the familiar curve of his lips and I know he won’t be able to resist.
‘I think George has made a breakthrough,’ he says in a hushed voice. ‘He’s found a bloodied handkerchief stuffed up the chimney breast and wrapped inside is. . .’ He pauses for dramatic effect.
I lean in towards him. ‘What?’ I urge.
‘Sir Reginald’s missing ear.’
‘No!’ I say, trying to conceal my ignorance of the fact that Sir Reginald has a missing ear.
‘Yes,’ he says gleefully. ‘And what else, do you think?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know,’ I declare with more enthusiasm than I feel.
‘A letter. From Rose Kent.’
I gasp, although I have no clue who Rose Kent might be. I’m trying to think of a better response than a mere gasp and Robert is clearly running out of steam too because he blurts out, ‘How’s the investigation going?’
Well, since I last saw you, I’ve been mobbed by Romani, stalked by my father, seduced by a potential poisoner and warned off the case by your lover, I want to say. I don’t, of course. Partly because Robert already thinks I’m insane to pursue a murderer and I don’t want to add fuel to the fire. And partly because if he realises what a desperate situation I’m in he’ll never agree to help me. And I don’t have a long list of potential assistants right now.
Robert is staring at me expectantly and I realise I still haven’t answered his question.
‘The investigation. Yes, it’s fine. Coming along nicely, thank you.’
I expect Robert to make some cutting remark, but he just nods politely and says, ‘Good, good,’ before resuming his awkward silence.
Really, I’d rather he was insulting me.
‘What’s that for?’ Robert asks, finally, gesturing towards the cane.
‘I need to take another look in Jane Fairfax’s bedroom,’ I blurt out. ‘And, this time, I’m taking precautions. I won’t let another scorpion get the better of me.’ It wasn’t what I’d meant to say. There was supposed to be some sort of apology first, but Robert hasn’t alluded to our argument and I don’t want to be the one to bring it up.
‘Why?’ Robert asks, scratching the back of his neck with his thumb. ‘You don’t think Jane’s the killer, do you?’
‘No. But I fear she might become his next victim if she’s not careful.’
‘His?’
‘Monsieur Durand,’ I clarify.
Robert frowns. ‘You found Durand?’
‘Yes. Turns out he is the French barber, as I suspected.’ I lower my eyes, hoping he’ll leave it at that so I don’t have to drop Denny in it.
‘And how did you make this discovery?’
‘I hung around in the alleyway and waited for one of his clients to emerge,’ I say. It’s as close as I can get to the truth without betraying Denny. I should tell Robert about Denny’s gambling habit, but the look on Denny’s face when he begged me to keep it quiet. . . In truth, I feel sorry for him. He doesn’t stand a chance against Mr Knightley and perhaps he deserves one. He has stayed by Robert’s side, despite Robert’s wandering eyes. That has to count for something.
‘And this client told you, just like that?’
I shrug. ‘I can be very persuasive when I want to be. From the sound of it, Durand’s a nasty fellow,’ I add, remembering Denny’s warning. ‘And I started to think, if he’s willing enough to threaten Mrs Churchill’s life, perhaps he’s after Jane as well.’
Robert clicks his fingers. ‘The boating accident. The scorpion. You think it could all be him?’
‘Exactly. So I need to search Jane’s room again. Make sure he hasn’t left her any more nasty surprises.’
‘And how do you propose to search Jane’s room?’ Robert asks, as if he knows exactly what I’m here for.
I hit him with my most winning smile. ‘That’s where you come in.’
‘Why do I get the feeling I won’t like this one bit?’
‘I don’t understand you, Robert. You’re perfectly happy to invent horrible murders, but when you’re offered the opportunity to aid in a real-life murder investigation—’
‘Yes, real life is the part I have a problem with. Just because I write about mutilated corpses doesn’t mean I want to become one.’
‘Well, it’s not as if you’ll be the one taking the risks. I just need you to play lookout. Jane and Miss Bates are taking tea with the Eltons today and Mrs Bates is over at Mrs Goddard’s. The apartment will be empty. All you need to do is keep an eye on Jane and Miss Bates and raise the alarm if they make their way home before I’ve finished my search.’
