A Brazen Curiosity, page 4
part #1 of Beatrice Hyde-Clare Series
And yet she couldn’t help but feel that the duke’s missing candlestick was an important piece of evidence that she should pursue further.
But how would one do that?
“You’re looking quite dreadful, Miss Hyde-Clare,” Kesgrave said with what appeared to be sincere concern. “You’re far too pale for my comfort. I fear you have been much more adversely affected by this incident than I’d originally supposed.”
Given that her spell of faintness was feigned, Beatrice perceived in this statement the duke’s true feelings about her appearance and knew that he would consider a lady with her meager attributes to be dreadful looking in even the most auspicious of circumstances. To everyone’s dismay, including her own, her skin was frightfully pale. The word Aunt Vera used was wan. “Do pinch your cheeks, dear, so you don’t look so wan,” she’d say. Or, “You were always such a wan child.”
Beatrice did not appreciate the description, as it implied not just a pallid complexion but a feeble character, which she didn’t believe was an entirely fair assessment. Being an orphan required her to depend on the generosity of others, a condition that hardly encouraged strong-minded behavior. When she complied with her relatives’ requests, she wasn’t being wan, she was being sensible. Too many opinions and she would have been sent to the village to work as a scullery maid for one of the families.
“I must insist you return to your room at once,” the duke continued. “As I said, I will handle matters from here. It will be very disagreeable, I assure you, and thoroughly unsuitable for someone with a delicate constitution like yours.”
She immediately agreed to his suggestion but stayed firmly rooted to the spot, her eyes focused on the grim sight of Mr. Otley’s wound. How did one create such a hole in another person’s skull? Could it be done with one single, forceful strike or did it require repeated blows?
Contemplating the effort made her knees weak.
And the blood! There was so much of it, coating the back of his head and soiling the rug. Speckles of it even dotted the wall.
Was that useful information? Bea wondered. If the blood had also spread to the assailant’s clothing, perhaps discovering who did it was as simple as locating his dirty laundry.
As reasonable as the idea was, she knew it would not be so easy, for she doubted the constable had the authority to search every wardrobe and closet in the manor. Lord Skeffington would have to grant it, and what host would allow his guests’ privacy to be invaded in such an intrusive manner? Even if his lordship did, men like Kesgrave and Nuneaton would not calmly accept the insult.
Poor Mr. Otley, she thought, forever denied justice because men were too arrogant to subject themselves to suspicion.
Beatrice wondered if it was very difficult to remove blood from one’s clothing, for she knew very little of the process. Indeed, all she really knew was that her own garments regularly returned to her without the marks and blemishes she’d caused with her clumsiness or inattention. Could washing out blood be as effortless as eliminating, for example, a mud stain?
While she silently pondered the problem of laundry, she considered the fact that Mr. Otley had been attacked from behind. That struck her as significant, for it indicated that he either did not fear his killer or didn’t realize he was present. Perhaps he’d arranged the meeting in advance. Perhaps he was discovered unsuspecting by the villain.
The fact that he was still sporting his evening clothes implied he’d yet to retire for the evening. The duke’s outfit suggested the same thing, but his cravat, which had been artfully arranged in a no-nonsense Mail Coach earlier, was gone, revealing the broad column of his neck. He, at least, had made an effort to relax—a sign, Beatrice thought, that supported his story about seeking reading material.
“Yes, I shall return to my room posthaste, for I’m utterly exhausted,” she said with an exaggerated yawn. Then she looked at Kesgrave. “You must be tired as well, as I know you gentlemen like to play your cards well into the night. Did the party break up only a little while ago?”
“I cannot say, Miss Hyde-Clare, as I did not make up one of its number,” he said stiffly. “Neither the company nor the game interested me so I returned to my chamber to read quietly. Even so, I’m not at all fatigued and can handle matters with the utmost competence—as I’ve observed several times now. As someone who has been on the verge of leaving for fifteen minutes, you seem remarkably inclined to linger. As that is the case, I must ask that you hurry along, if not for your sake then for my own. It would never do for someone to discover us here, dressed as we are. We would both be hopelessly compromised.”
His fear of being dragooned into marriage was so intense, she felt a perverse desire to dawdle indefinitely. It was only the body of poor Mr. Otley that prevented her from teasing him further, for the recently slain gentleman deserved more respect than to be a prop in her campaign to increase the Duke of Kesgrave’s discomfort.
“Your impatience is justified,” she easily admitted, “for I have been appallingly weak in my ability to handle this affair with composure. Every time I think my head has stopped spinning, it starts whirling again and I feel as though I’m about to faint. But you’re right. I must think of you, not myself. My presence here doesn’t aid you in any way, and I apologize for not making myself scarce in a more timely fashion. I will do so now. But first I must retrieve my candle. This wing of the house is far too dark for me to navigate without light.”
Although Beatrice knew her words would not put the duke to blush, she thought showing overblown concern for his concern for himself would at least make him cringe. But his egotism was far too entrenched for him to notice anything amiss. He expected self-effacement as his due.
Poor dead Mr. Otley undoubtedly deserved better, but if she’d had any foodstuff—a teacake, a piece of toast, a single raisin from a scone—in her hand at that moment, she would have hurled it at him with all the force in her body.
What an insufferable human being!
As appalled as she was with his attitude, she smiled sweetly and waited for him to fetch her candle. She hadn’t made the request outright, but a proper gentleman would eagerly offer. Seconds ticked by. After several dozen, the duke perceived the subtle hint and brushed past her to look for her candleholder. As soon as his back was turned, she jumped forward and leaned down to get a better view of the body. She was most interested in the soles of Mr. Otley’s boots, for she thought she’d noticed a clump of mud clustered there. If so, it would mean that prior to his death, he had been outside. Naturally, it was not unheard of for a man to step outside to smoke a cigar or even to finish a glass of port in the cool night air. But that was what terraces, balconies and patios were for. One did not go stomping among the roses for a moment of quiet repose.
Was that—
No, she thought, pressing closer. The dark spot near the heel of his boot was just a patch of black leather sewn in to hide a hole or an imperfection, not mud as she’d hoped.
“What are you doing?” Kesgrave asked, his tone an intimidating mix of shock, outrage and disapproval.
Damn. She’d assumed it would take him longer to find the candle. She wasn’t even sure where she’d left it.
Think quickly, she ordered herself, clutching the candlestick in her hand.
The candlestick!
Beatrice placed the instrument next to Mr. Otley’s hip and rose to her feet. “I thought it was best to leave the candlestick with the body, where the moonlight is bright, as much of the room is dark. I didn’t want you to lose track of it as you did your own.”
She’d meant to prick his ego with her remark and was delighted to see him stiffen at the criticism. She waited for him to explain in detail how the missing implement was not in fact missing, but instead he nodded in agreement. “Good thinking. It would never do for you to inadvertently bring it back to your room.”
The thought of sleeping with a bloody candlestick on her bedside table horrified her, and yet without the grisly instrument she felt oddly vulnerable. She still had to return to her room via the deserted corridors of Lakeview while a murderer wandered the halls. What easy prey she would be.
No, he’s gone, she told herself firmly. He’s gone and has no reason to return.
Kesgrave held out her candleholder, which he had kindly relit.
“Thank you,” she said, grasping it firmly with both hands. It had neither the size nor the heft of the candlestick used to snuff out the life of Mr. Otley, but it felt like some measure of protection, if only against the dark.
The duke nodded.
Beatrice still did not feel entirely right leaving Mr. Otley in Kesgrave’s care, which seemed indifferent at best, but she had run out of excuses to delay her departure and nothing more would happen until she was gone. Presumably, his grace would wait a short interval to ensure her removal, then wake up a footman, who would in turn rouse Lord Skeffington. She could only imagine the horror with which his lordship would greet the news that one of his guests had been viciously slain. He and his wife prided themselves on being consummate hosts and yet somehow they had fallen short on the requirements, for no house party that contained a murdered corpse could be described as a complete success. Indeed, it would properly be categorized as a failure.
She did not exactly feel bad for them, as the dead nabob deserved the lion’s share of her pity, but she knew well the sensation of having your plans not quite come to fruition as expected and sympathized with their pending disappointment.
Although Beatrice didn’t know what in particular the moment called for, she felt some salutation must be offered and after reviewing and rejecting several options, settled on bidding Kesgrave a good night. She wanted to arrange an interview for later in the afternoon to discuss how events unfolded in her absence, but she could not imagine the supercilious lord agreeing to hold a consultation with a female.
With reluctance, she left the library and returned to her room, a journey that took far less time now that she was confident of the route and somewhat terrified for her life. Once inside her chamber, she felt a curious light-headedness and she put down her candle as she sat on the edge of the bed. It was not fear that undermined her composure, but a growing understanding of the full horrors of the past hour. How brazen she had been, snuggling closer to look at the corpse, her mind calm as she examined the mark at the bottom of his boot and her nerves unruffled as she appraised the splatter of blood on the wall. And the way she had spoken to the duke, brashly and boldly, her thoughts clearly articulated without stammer or hesitation. She’d felt none of the intimidation, uncertainty or awe she usually experienced when in society.
A murder scene was hardly society, she scornfully reminded herself, but that just made her behavior all the more remarkable, for surely the former was more likely to overwhelm the equanimity of an awkward young lady.
But now that she was restored to the safety of her room, the recollection of her conduct frightened her, for she had no idea where the audacity came from. Her courage in inspecting the body or addressing the duke had no precedent, and it deserted her now that the moment had passed. The Beatrice Hyde-Clare who had stood in the darkened library seemed like an entirely different woman from her, a stranger with some of her mannerisms, and she could not imagine her ever returning. Indeed, she did not know if she wanted her to, for drawing that much attention to herself could only result in disaster.
And this thought, too, was part of her increasing dismay, for a man had been ruthlessly bashed over the head until he died and all she could think of was its effect on her. Poor Mr. Otley, relegated to the role of a secondary character in the drama of his own death.
It was insupportable, really, and ashamed at the monstrosity of her vanity, she thought again of Miss Otley in all her bright plumage. The beautiful girl would be inconsolable when she learned of the events of that evening, as would her mother.
Bea resolved to be a compassionate and reassuring presence in the morning.
Having decided on a course of action, she slid off her slippers and climbed into bed. Sleep, however, remained elusive, and rather than devote another three hours in useless pursuit, she relit her candle and submitted without complaint to The Vicar of Wakefield.
An hour later, just as Sophia was falling off her horse into a stream, her eyelids finally fluttered closed and she was asleep.
CHAPTER THREE
As Beatrice’s late-night sojourn to the library had to be kept secret to spare the Duke of Kesgrave’s blushes, neither her aunt nor her cousin had any patience with her exhaustion the following day. When she failed to appear at breakfast by half past eight, they both arrived at her door to challenge her lethargy and prod her awake.
They were, it turned out, eager to inform her of what had transpired in the library, for everyone else in the breakfast room had already been apprised of the situation.
“It’s a tragedy, of course,” Aunt Vera said, sitting at the foot of the bed, her eyes gleaming with impatience. She was not a gossip in the traditional sense, as she did not care to chronicle the comings and goings of well-known members of the ton, for she found it presumptuous to speculate about her betters, but like anyone in society, she relished a good story and this one, unfolding beneath her very nose, had an irresistible immediacy.
“A great tragedy,” Flora agreed, also settling herself comfortably on the bed.
Bea reluctantly crossed her legs to make space for the pair and marveled at her relatives’ morbid excitement. She judged neither of them harshly, for she herself had behaved in a similarly uncharacteristic fashion only hours before. Death was a particularly discombobulating addition to a house party and made people behave in unusual ways. She knew under the fascination her aunt was desperately sad for both Mr. Otley’s murder and Mrs. Otley’s loss.
“I can scarcely believe such a thing happened while I was tucked in my bed,” her aunt added, her tone laced now with grief and confusion, “entirely unaware of the very great tragedy transpiring while I slept dreamlessly.”
Flora reached out a comforting hand to her mother. “You mustn’t blame yourself. I’m sure there was little you could do. The die was cast long before we entered the picture.”
Being in full possession of the facts, Bea found these remarks to be both horrifying and humorous. Certainly, Aunt Vera was a determined matriarch who ruled Welldale House and the Hyde-Clares with frank austerity, but even she could not dissuade a murderer from his purpose. At best, she could harangue him with tips on how to more decorously comply with the demands of the guest-host relationship. For one thing, resist the impulse to sully thine host’s library with a corpse and blood.
Aunt Vera closed her eyes, sighed deeply and squeezed the proffered hand. “Thank you for saying that, my love. I know it’s true, and yet I must learn to live with the regret. My dear, dear friend does not deserve this and would that I could have spared her this pain.”
Flora, who expected nothing less from her mother, nodded her head sympathetically. “Yes, we all feel that way.”
As the two women consoled each other, postponing an explanation of what had actually occurred, Bea struggled to remain patient. Without the benefit of a proper night’s sleep—or even an improper one—she found herself still deeply unsettled by the murder and uneasy with her own response. If only she had been allowed more than a few hours of rest, she would have a firmer grasp on her emotions.
A cup of tea would help, she thought, casting a longing glance at the door. If they were at home, she would have put on a dressing gown, slipped out of the room and gone in search of a pot herself, but being a guest of the Skeffingtons required she don more proper attire before presenting herself in the breakfast room. And proper attire meant proper grooming and that required the assistance of a maid, which her aunt would inevitably notice. There would be no sneaking out of the room unseen and returning with the soothing hot beverage.
“If he’d just given us some indication of what lay ahead, we might have known enough to be alarmed,” Aunt Vera continued, her tone turning critical, as if irritated at the spice trader for not alerting her to his pending murder.
It was a spectacularly self-absorbed moment, even for Aunt Vera.
“Perhaps he himself did not know until it was too late,” Flora pointed out reasonably. “I believe suicide can often be an act of spontaneity.”
Perhaps he did not know? Bea thought with wry amusement. One did not write “submit to murder” on one’s calendar and then quietly watch the date approach. It simply happened while one was—
Wait a moment: Did Flora just say suicide?
Astonished, Bea stared at her cousin. “What?”
Sparing her daughter an irritated glance for unintentionally disclosing the development she herself had meant to reveal slowly for maximum effect, Aunt Vera nodded vigorously and rushed to share the remaining details. “Yes, Mr. Otley took his own life last night in the library. It’s quite the most shocking thing that’s ever happened.”
“Mr. Otley took his own life?” Bea repeated aghast and confused. She recalled the scene: the candlestick, the dented skull, the blood, the nose pressed against the rug. “But that’s impossible.”
“There, there, my dear,” Aunt Vera said, plainly delighted with her reaction. “We are all having a difficult time reconciling what happened. Why, just last night, he and I were saying how delightful it would be for the two families to visit Vauxhall Gardens together in the spring, and now he’s gone, taken from this world by his own hand.”
Even if one put aside the troubling question of how Mr. Otley could bash himself in the head hard enough to cause a fatal injury, there still was the matter of the candlestick being ten feet away from the body and down the adjacent aisle. No man, she didn’t care how skilled he was at tossing darts or lawn bowls, could throw an object around a bend. To believe it for even a second was pure madness. How could the constable concoct such an absurd story?
