Petteril's Wife, page 1
Petteril’s Wife
Lord Petteril Mysteries, Book 5
Mary Lancaster
Petteril’s Wife
All Rights Reserved © 2024 by Mary Lancaster
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Chapter One
“Cor,” said Piers Withan, Viscount Petteril.
It was hardly his usual expression of awe, but the sight of Lisbon from the River Tagus seemed to merit something special. A beautiful, white-washed city rose grandly up from the water’s edge, spilling over several hills into the distance. Elegant domes and spires reached up into a sky of unchanging blue. The sheer loveliness took his breath away.
Beside him at the ship rail, his assistant April nudged his elbow. “I believe you need to adjust your language, Mr. Whittey. Unless we are swapping places.”
“You are quite correct, Mrs. Whittey,” he replied, dragging his gaze from the city to her no less beautiful face. Her golden fair hair was elegantly pinned behind her head. A wide-brimmed straw hat with blue feathers and ribbons tipped forward over her face to shade her complexion from the hot sun and sea breezes. Her deep blue eyes, however, danced with mischief, making his lips twitch. “Although it might be fun.”
“Swapping places?” she asked with a hopeful glint. “Can we?”
“Not this time,” he said with some regret. “We have a serious task ahead of us.”
April turned back to face Lisbon. “Yes, but have you ever seen anywhere more beautiful?”
“I don’t believe I have.”
“You’ll change your mind quickly enough when we get ashore,” said their fellow passenger, Lieutenant Roberts, grinning with a hint of pity at their naivety. He, returning from England after medical treatment, had passed through Lisbon twice before.
“Never, sir,” April said fervently.
She carried off this masquerade as a lady perfectly. No one would have guessed from her confident posture that she had never worn such fine clothes before this voyage, or from her speech that she had grown up on the back streets of London docks and St. Giles. She had always been an excellent mimic and by now, since Piers made her keep the accent even when they were alone, she hardly ever slipped. The occasional word of thieves’ cant had popped out once or twice, but in refined tones and fortunately not in the presence of anyone who understood.
Piers was both amused and delighted. He did not allow himself to analyse that delight too closely, contenting himself with acknowledging its usefulness in their quest.
Lisbon only grew more beautiful the nearer they sailed.
“If I was Major Withan,” April whispered, “I’d lose myself here too and never leave.”
Piers didn’t put it past his hedonistic cousin Bertie, except that desertion from the army was both serious and dishonourable and Bertie rather needed the adulation of his peers. Piers wished he was here merely for pleasure, but perhaps there would be time later...
The harbour, where ships of war were tied up beside merchantmen and fishing vessels, was bustling with activity and colour. Cargoes were loaded and unloaded amidst multi-lingual shouting. Soldiers in reds and blues and greens flowed off ships into the organized chaos of the quay.
But it was not just the light and bright clothing that fascinated Piers. Under the blazing sun, with April’s hand in his arm, pinching and wriggling against his sleeve in excitement, he walked off the ship and up the steps onto dry land and into an enchantingly foreign country.
For once, he found the sea of faces greeting him more interesting than overwhelming. Besides, he had no need to recognize any of them. Instead, he could simply enjoy the sheer melting pot of races and cultures swarming around him.
“Senhor Whittey, Senhora, welcome to Portugal,” said the official, barely glancing at their passports. He was too used to British documents passing through his hands and a mere Mr. Whittey, a clerk, and his wife, were not important enough to stir any interest. Lord Petteril would no doubt have been a different matter—which was how he had acquired these alternative papers from an old friend in the Foreign Office, who perfectly understood the danger to Bertie and the need for secrecy.
Lieutenant Roberts, with whom they had made friends on board the ship during their ten day crossing from England, commandeered a rickety conveyance which he called to them to share.
“I’ll drop you at your hotel,” he offered, “on my way to report. Latour’s is pleasant enough and I’m sure the Envoy’s staff will direct you to decent accommodation of a more permanent variety.”
Even the air smelled different—humid and exotic. And, as they left the sea breezes of the docks behind, the scents became less pleasant.
Piers’s nostrils flared. “A bit whiffy, isn’t it?”
Roberts grinned. “Told you. And this is where the upper orders live. Best avoid the poorer areas—makes you gag. Stinks of garlic and rotting food, and the streets are like sewers—begging your pardon, ma’am.”
April, who was perfectly used to fetid back streets, didn’t look particularly interested. She was all but hanging out of the window to look at everything they passed and exclaiming in wonder. She looked so vital and charming that it was no wonder the lieutenant watched her, smiling a little. He was just a little in love with her, which made Piers uneasy.
It was not far to the hotel, where their modest luggage was quickly unloaded. April smiled prettily at Roberts and gave him her hand to bow over. Piers shook hands, thanking him for his help and wishing him good fortune.
As the conveyance drove off, an African young man in light trousers and a belted tunic helped them carry their luggage inside.
“You want to see the city, I take you,” he offered in English with a huge smile as Piers dropped a coin into his waiting hand. He then vanished, presumably before the hotel staff chased him.
A clerk was hardly paid enough to splash out on separate sleeping accommodation for his wife, so Piers had insisted merely on a decent room with a dressing closet. After nine nights spent in the same cabin as April, he was sure they would both relish the privacy. In fact, their dressing closet turned out to have a truckle bed made up, presumably, for a servant, which would be bliss after a bench with his legs dangling off the end. April had fought him over the bench, of course, shocked that the viscount should endure such hardship while she had all the comfort.
She fought him over the dressing room too.
“It ain’t right,” she said mutinously. “And it’s your turn for the comfy bed.”
“Ain’t?” he repeated, dropping his trunk onto the truckle bed to settle matters.
“Is not,” she muttered, glowering.
“Get changed, then,” he ordered. “We can have tea before I call at the Envoy’s residence.”
She brightened at once, all but gurgling with delight. She was like a little girl revelling in the joy of dressing up and playing at tea parties. It made his heart ache for the childhood she had never had.
Even now, she never lost herself completely. “I’ll see what I can find out here while you’re gone,” she murmured.
This was the hotel Bertie had stayed at when he landed in Lisbon, and he had apparently abandoned some of his things here, although they had been removed by the Envoy so that the room could be re-let.
“Good plan. Don’t go out without me.”
She, perfectly used to looking after herself, cast him a glance of tolerant scorn.
Receiving directions from the hotel staff, Piers crossed elegant streets and squares to the Envoy’s residence, seeking the shade of trees whenever he could, for the sun was relentless. Even so, he was sweating profusely by the time he arrived.
The Envoy’s office was unexpectedly busy. Men who would have fallen over themselves to serve Lord Petteril in any way they could, were quite happy to make Mr. Whittey, newly posted clerk, kick his heels indefinitely.
Eventually, a flustered but efficient man in his thirties called him to a desk and shook hands briefly. “Whittey, yes, we’ve been expecting you. I’m Jonathan Jeffery, secretary to His Excellency.”
Mr. Jeffery flapped his hand at the seat on the other side of the desk and accepted Piers’s letter of introduction with a quick frown. The frown only deepened as he read.
“Your primary task,” he said, raising his eyes to Piers’s face at last, “is to discover what you can about Major Albert Withan’s disappearance?”
“That is correct.”
“It’s not what we were told in the first place. And, forgive me, what do our lords and masters in London imagine you can discover that we who have been here for years cannot?”
“Who knows?” Piers said apologetically. He was used to polite contempt and had learned to use it. “My only advantage is that I can devote all my time to the matter, which is a luxury I doubt anyone else has.”
“I am happy to co-operate in any way I can,” Jeffery said, folding the letter and handing it back. “But in all fairness, I have to tell you that Major Withan is very probably dead and his body unlikely to be recovered. Lisbon is not like home, Whittey. Bad things happen all the time, especially in the back streets where it is criminally foolish to venture after dark. Or before, come to that.”
Piers forbore to mention that bad things happened in London’s warren of back streets too. “I do understand that , but his family is insisting on further investigation.”
Jeffery curled his lip. “A viscount in the family makes all the difference.”
“I’m afraid it does,” said the viscount sympathetically. “The news of his disappearance apparently hit the dowager viscountess, Major Withan’s aunt, very hard, and his lordship was most insistent we pursue the matter further. Could you tell me all you know about what happened?”
“Certainly, though it is very little. Withan landed on the first of June, reported to all the necessary authorities and stayed at Latour’s hotel while he waited for orders to join his brigade. He was given such orders and was due to leave for Cuidad Rodrigo on the morning of 7th June. But he never reached Cuidad Rodrigo or caught up with his brigade. It transpires that Captain Hood, who was to have been his chief traveling companion, assumed Withan was with some lightskirt and would catch up en route. So Hood left without him, taking the other soldiers and horses with him. It was more than a day after arriving at Cuidad Rodrigo before he reported Withan missing. Thought he was covering for his fellow-officer who was probably already dead.”
“So Withan never left Lisbon?”
“We don’t know with certainty whether he did or not. No one seems certain whether or not other horses were requisitioned. He had clearly taken most of his kit from his room, but not all—though what he left was packed into a small bag. The hotel manager tells us no one saw him leave and he never paid his shot, which is not uncommon among the entitled though Lord Wellington doesn’t approve. Nor does the Envoy, since we have to work with the Portuguese on all levels.”
“I believe you have what he left behind. May I see it?”
“You can have it,” Jeffery said. “Send it to his aunt Lady Petteril. Or the viscount himself.”
“Thank you,” said the viscount meekly. “According to my masters at the Foreign Office, there is some fear of a ransom demand.”
Jeffery shrugged. “It is possible, if someone kidnapped him, knowing who his family is. There are groups of bandits who keep reforming between Lisbon and military theatres in Spain. So, especially if he set out alone on the journey, he could have been taken. But we’ve received no ransom demand and we’re already well into July, so I would doubt it. On the other hand, they may have sent directly to Lord Petteril. Perhaps you should have checked before embarking.”
“I did and there was nothing, though that was ten days ago now.” Piers tugged thoughtfully at his lower lip. “I don’t suppose you know which lightskirt Captain Hood meant?”
Jeffery was amused in a sardonic kind of way. “My dear Whittey, bordellos are ten a penny in this city. I doubt Hood ever knew. Frankly, I doubt Withan did! Is there anything else I can tell you?” Jeffery began gathering up his papers. “I have an appointment with His Excellency.”
“Of course,” Piers said. “I would just ask if he has friends in the city I might call on? Either Portuguese or English?”
Jeffery scowled impatiently. “How should I know? I saw him at the opera once with the Condessa de Cartaxo. Oh.” Half out of his seat, Jeffery sat down again. “Between ourselves Whittey, I’ve been trying not to think about this, but the morning of the 7th, when Withan should have left Lisbon, the Conde de Cartaxo’s body was discovered in the street outside a brothel. He had been stabbed to death. The Portuguese never found his killer and are never likely to—these things happen every night though not generally to the nobility.”
Piers’s eyes widened. “You mean Withan fled after murdering this conde?”
“It has been suggested,” Jeffery muttered. “Don’t believe it myself. Whatever else, Withan was a gentleman. If he was responsible, it would have been a duel, though why either should chose to fight in such a location is beyond me.”
“They could have been drunk as wheelbarrows,” Piers allowed.
“Only explanation if it’s true. Personally, I’m not convinced it is. I’m pretty sure he’s dead, whether here in Lisbon or out of it. Look, Whittey, if you’re really going to pry into this, you should try to understand the underlying politics of the people concerned. I’ll send a man to you this evening with Withan’s effects, and he’ll explain further.”
Jeffery rose and there was nothing for Piers to do but rise with him and return to the hotel.
HE FOUND APRIL JUST outside Latour’s front door in conversation with another African youth—or it might have been the same one for he was certainly dressed similarly. Piers had a problem with faces. April obligingly solved this one for him.
“Mr. Whittey,” she said, greeting him with her usual sunny smile. “This is Dado—Eduardo—who so kindly helped with our bags earlier.”
Smiling, Dado tugged the brim of his hat. “I show you the city? Cathedral and castle? Opera?”
“Perhaps later. We’re expecting someone.”
“Dado was telling me about the English officer who vanished into thin air,” April said with manufactured horror.
“Pff!” said Dado throwing open his hands. “One night here, then gone. No one ever see him again.”
“Major Withan?” Piers said. “I heard about it at the Envoy’s office. A warning to us all. Did you know the major, then?”
“Yes, I show him Lisbon, I take him places he not know.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“The evening before he vanish.”
“On the 6th of June?”
“Sim. Yes.”
“What was he doing?” April asked, her expression one of avid awe, waiting to be thrilled and shocked.
“I don’t know. He go off to meet someone.”
“With his trunk?” Piers asked.
Dado grinned. “No. He meet a lady, I think—he buys flowers from the seller on the corner and put one here.” He touched an imaginary lapel.
“What time was this?” Piers asked.
“Evening,” Dado replied vaguely.
“Did you see him come back?” Piers asked.
“No. I go home before that. I don’t expect to see him again because he go to Spain next day. Then an English officer ask me about him, and I learn no one see him since I do.”
“Which officer?” Piers asked.
Dado thought, taking off his hat to scratch his head and putting it back on again. “Captain... Captain Everett.”
“I don’t suppose he is still in Lisbon?”
“I still see him on his crutches sometimes. Good fellow. He waves to me. I take you to see him?”
“Why not?” Piers said. “Can we walk?”
“Sure.”
Chapter Two
April was thoroughly enjoying herself. Even under such scorching sun, she loved wearing her soft new clothes, a plain gold ring on her finger and in the evenings, a necklace of beautiful pearls or the gold one with sapphires. In her previous life she had never dreamed of wearing such luxurious items, having only ever glimpsed them passing through the hands of thieves and fences.
Even more than the clothes, and the gentlemen bowing to her, she loved walking on Lord Petteril’s arm, eating meals with him, talking to him about everything. She had loved the intimacy of sharing a cabin with him on the ship, even though he had insisted she sleep on the bed as a real wife would, while he stretched out half-on, half-off the uncomfortable bench at the foot—although a real husband would not.
She had enjoyed falling asleep to the sound of his breathing, rising to the knowledge of his presence, and the sound of his voice. Though she tried not to, she sometimes pretended to herself that she really was his wife, a bittersweet pleasure, even if only for a few moments.
Always honest with herself, she didn’t much care if Major Withan was alive or dead. She didn’t like him. He had done his lordship many bad turns, and if she had been the major’s cousin, she would have left him to rot. His lordship, however, was of a more generous nature, and April was certainly intrigued by the mystery. And glad that if Major Withan had never done anything else useful, he had at least given April the opportunity to go abroad with Petteril.
She had been thrilled and flattered that he wanted her with him. And though she knew it was largely to help with his affliction about faces, it was also because she had helped him with previous mysteries. And because, somewhere both beneath and above the rules of the world, they were friends.
