Death in Hellfire Page 15

  “Don’t you have a cool outhouse somewhere?”

  “Nowhere’s very cool at this time of year.”

  “Well, there must be somewhere.”

  Eventually they decided on a small shed close to the icehouse and having placed the body therein, Sir Francis locked the door.

  “I need a drink,” he said heavily.

  John and Dominique followed the man into the red drawing room and accepted the brandy that he offered them.

  “What’s to be done?” he said, emptying his glass and pouring himself another one.

  John thought rapidly, wondering what it was about the death that made him feel that all was not well. It was quite plausible, surely, that Lord Arundel had risen in the night and gone for a walk in the grounds. Yet two things were against that idea. One was that the poor wretch was still wearing his nightshirt, the other that the weather had been so bad. Making a mental note to find out from someone at what time it had stopped raining, John sipped his drink.

  Lady Dashwood came into the room. “So it’s true?” she said to her husband.

  He sighed heavily. “I’m afraid so.”

  “I’ll get some women to lay him out. We can’t just leave him as he is.”

  “If you don’t mind, madam, I would like to have a final look at the body before you do so.”

  She stared at John in astonishment and Dashwood - who by now was on his third glass of brandy - said, “Turns out that O’Hare is an apothecary. Apparently the Irish train their younger sons to do things.”

  “But why should you want to look at poor Lord Arundel?”

  “To see there are no marks of foul play.”

  They stared at him in astonishment. “Foul play?” Sir Francis repeated, looking dazed.

  “I feel it is my duty to do so,” John answered pompously. “But who…?”

  “That, Sir Francis, would remain to be seen.”

  “But surely it might involve one of us.”

  “If I find anything, yes it would.”

  “Must you take this course of action?” This from Lady Dashwood.

  “I am afraid I must,” John said portentiously.

  Chapter Seventeen

  John let himself into the outhouse with a strange sense of inadequacy. For how to prove the actual cause of the Marquess of Arundel’s death? Steeling himself, John pulled back the covers and saw that the body had started to bloat, swelling up to twice its size after its time in the water. Despite this, the Apothecary set to, pulling up the nightshirt till Charles lay as good as naked.

  There were no marks of blows anywhere which could only lead John to think that the man had fallen in the lake quite naturally. Indeed, the only blemish anywhere was the chancre, which looked ghastly, swollen as it was, with its open wound on top. Again, John examined it but there was nothing to indicate any interference with the gash. There could be little doubt that death had been caused by drowning.

  And yet the same two questions nagged in the Apothecary’s brain. Why had Charles, feeling ill as he was, gone for a walk in the darkness dressed only in his sleeping clothes? And why, if it was pouring hard with rain, had he even ventured outdoors? There was no question that Lord Arundel had gone out in the dawning because that was when he - John - had ventured forth and there had been no sign of anyone else around. It was vital that he find out from somebody or other at precisely what time it had ceased to rain during the previous night.

  He finished his examination and covered the swollen body up decently. Then he made his way, deep in thought, to the house. As his knock was answered he saw that the Earl and Countess of Orpington were making their way downstairs. She was wrapped round him, literally, and had a sweet seraphic smile on her face. While he, stupid old fool, looked large and loving. Glancing at them, John felt certain that as yet they had not heard the news. But at that moment a door opened and Sir Francis Dashwood, fully dressed and wearing the most serious expression John had seen on him to date, came out.

  “Lord Orpington,” he said briefly. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Like the dead,” came the reply, and he ran his hand caressingly over his wife’s buttocks.

  “An unfortunate simile,” Sir Francis answered unsmilingly.

  “Why?” asked the older man, picking up something in the atmosphere.

  “Because I have grave news, sir. Lord Arundel died last night.”

  “What?” the Earl exclaimed, while his wife let out a scream then put a hand over her mouth.

  “True enough. He wandered out in the night and drowned in the lower lake, that narrow part of the River Wye below the cascade.”

  At this the Countess was suddenly overcome with hysterical weeping and Lord Orpington’s piggy eyes narrowed as he gazed at her.

  “What’s the matter, my dear? Surely you were barely acquainted with the man.”

  She tried to recover herself but could not help the tears pouring down her face. “Oh no, I hardly knew him. But it’s just so horrid to think of somebody dying like that.”

  “I see,” the Earl answered, looking decidedly as if he saw no such thing.

  Noticing the Apothecary, Sir Francis approached him. “Have you examined him?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir, I have.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing. There’s not a mark on him save for that slight injury he incurred last night.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “As he was being helped from the saddle a stirrup caught him and hurt him.”

  “Oh, yes. But surely that was merely a pinprick.”

  “In a way, yes.”

  The expression in the Apothecary’s eyes prevented Sir Francis from asking any further questions. Meanwhile the Countess of Orpington had gone pale and consequently been forced to sit down on an uncomfortable-looking chair. Her husband, instead of tending to her, was glaring at her with suspicion. Into this uncomfortable menage walked Georgiana, child of the dead man, hand in hand with her aunt, Fady Juliana, who seemed to have composed herself.

  “Your mama is out walking, dearest,” she was saying, but stopped short on seeing the assembled company.

  “Are you quite recovered, madam?” enquired Sir Francis pointedly.

  “As much as I can be in the circumstances,” she answered with a certain acidity.

  “Oh, merciful heaven,” sobbed Fady Orpington. “What a tragedy it is.”

  John, watching them all carefully, wondered just how much emotion was real and how much was purely pretence for the sake of the others. He went up to the weeping young woman.

  “Head between your knees,” he said cheerfully, “and take a good sniff of these.”

  He produced his salts from an inner pocket and thrust them beneath her nose. She sniffed suspiciously.

  “Ugh!” she said, eyeing him with a narrowed eye.

  “Mr O’Hare is an apothecary,” announced Sir Francis, looking as if he would countenance no trouble from anyone.

  “I see,” she answered meekly, and took another cautious sniff.

  Lady Dashwood appeared and said in her dreary voice, “Breakfast is served for those who would like it.”

  “Well I, for one, am going to have some,” responded her husband. “This sad business has made me extremely hungry.”

  “Me too,” said John.

  “I could eat a horse,” announced the Earl of Orpington. “Wife, you can sit and wail to your heart’s content. If you want me, I shall be in the breakfast room.”

  Georgiana piped up. “I know that Papa has been drowned but I still would like to eat something.”

  “And so you shall, dear heart,” her aunt answered, and led the way into the room in which the repast had been laid. John, walking behind her, thought her one of the most extraordinary women he had ever met. She had now transformed herself into a quiet, serious creature, loving of her niece and acting like a mother. Remembering her earlier, screaming abuse at poor Coralie, John could hardly believe it.

  The only person who did
not join them for the meal was Lady Orpington. John, feeling slightly guilty about her, stepped into the hall with a cup of tea to find that the woman in question had vanished, presumably to go upstairs and fling herself down on her bed, enjoying the luxury of an uninhibited cry. He was just about to return to the breakfast room when Coralie appeared, walking through a side door.

  “My dear,” he said, putting the cup down on a window sill, “how are you feeling?”

  She looked at him quite calmly. “I think we had better talk outside,” she answered.

  For the second time that morning John walked out of the east portico, only this time he was accompanied by the woman who for many years he had adored. Looking at her sideways he was struck, as if for the very first occasion, by the timelessness of her beauty.

  “You’re lovely,” he said.

  She cast him a look in the depths of which was just a hint of amusement. “I was once,” she answered.

  John decided to be utterly honest with her. “Coralie, your husband drowned, there can be no doubt about that. But two things puzzle me about his death.”

  “Which are?” Was there just the hint of a quaver in her voice?

  “Firstly, why did he go for a walk wearing only his nightshirt? And secondly, why did he go out in the pouring rain?”

  “How do you know that he did?”

  “Because I left the house at dawn, dressed roughly but for all that dressed. It wasn’t raining then but it looked as if it had only stopped about half an hour since.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “Because the lawn and trees were dripping wet.”

  Coralie smiled. “It stopped raining at half past four. I know because I woke up and looked at the clock and I heard the last of the downpour die away.”

  “I would say that he had been in the river at least an hour. So he must have gone out in the inclement weather.”

  “There’s one question that you haven’t asked, John,” she said quietly.

  “Oh? And what is that?”

  “Did somebody push him in?”

  “I see. Do you have any suspicions?”

  Coralie shook her head. “It could be anyone in this house. There are several people present who had cause to dislike if not hate him.” She gave a humourless smile. “Including me.” John gave her a deep look. “Did you force him into the river, Coralie?”

  “No. There is a small part of me that still loves him. I can’t think why.”

  As soon as she spoke, he wondered whether she was telling him the truth. If she had found out about the supposed abuse of her daughter. And yet he felt base for even suspecting her. John had a sudden longing to get back to the George and Dragon and discuss the entire matter with Samuel.

  They had been walking down the lawn while they spoke and now they saw Dominique coming towards them. As soon as he recognised Coralie he hurried up to her and kissed her hand.

  “Madam, may I offer you my profound condolences. I cannot tell you how sorry I feel.”

  Coralie nodded. “Thank you, Monsieur Jean. It is kind of you to say so.”

  “I mean it, madam. Now if you will excuse me I must get back to the stable block. I finish the last of my work today.”

  “I am sure you will be glad to return home,” said Coralie, keeping up a show of courtesy. She turned back to the house. “Forgive me, gentlemen, I will leave you. My daughter will be needing me I feel certain. Good day to you.”

  And she was gone, leaving the two men to stare after her retreating figure.

  “So how many suspects are there?” asked Samuel, eyes round as the full moon.

  “Many,” answered John, ticking them off on his fingers. “First of all there’s Sir Francis Dashwood.”

  “Motive?”

  “Unknown. But it could be some private business, particularly something connected to the Hellfire Club.”

  “What about Lady Dashwood?”

  “Again, unknown. But they are connected through that endless chain of relatives that the nobility seem to have. Maybe she secretly hates the man.”

  John leaned back comfortably. He was sitting in The Ram, a private snug contained within the George and Dragon, and was on his second pint of ale, despite the earliness of the hour. Samuel leaned forward. “Go on. Who else?”

  “There’s Coralie of course,” John answered somewhat reluctantly. “She has plenty of motive. Her husband had contracted syphilis several months ago. It’s all right,” he said to Samuel’s stricken expression. “She gave up sleeping with him before he became infected. But she could have killed him to protect her child who - according to Dominique Jean - was being molested by the man.”

  “Sounds as if the bastard deserved drowning and more,” Samuel stated robustly.

  “He did actually. This is one killer I can sympathise with, they appear to have done the world a good service. Then there comes that idiotic child, Arabella, Countess of Orpington. She is sixteen years old, thinks she’s clever but is actually as stupid as they make them. Either of those two could easily have committed the murder.”

  “And you’re quite sure it was murder.”

  “No, that’s the devil of it, Sam, I’m not. The only two clues are the ones I’ve already told you. Why did the man leave his sickbed and go wandering round in the middle of a terrible storm.”

  “That’s certainly odd, I must say.”

  “It’s more than odd. It’s highly suspicious. The feeling in my gut tells me that it was not by chance and that Arundel was deliberately killed.”

  “Are there any other suspects?”

  “Plenty. There’s his sister - a cold-faced bitch if ever I saw one - and, I suppose - though I am reluctant even to say it - his daughter.”

  “But she’s only a child.”

  “I have known children kill before,” said John, and sighed deeply.

  “Anyone else?”

  “Strangely enough, Dominique Jean. He is apparently owed £700 by the late Lord Arundel and feels particularly bitter about it.”

  “And that’s the entire crew?”

  “All of ‘em, unless the murder was done by somebody outside. All those people spent the night under Sir Francis’s roof. At least I presume they did. The Lady Juliana Bravo - Lord Arundel’s sister - went out and apparently came back late.”

  “And you?” Samuel asked. “What time did you go to bed?”

  “Early. I felt exhausted.”

  Samuel’s face underwent a change, an expression of boyish mischief taking over his features. “Tell me, John, what actually goes on at that Hellfire Club?”

  “A lot of sex, my friend. A lot of arrant fornication. That’s all everybody seems to do all the time.”

  “By Jove, I wish I’d been included.”

  “A happily married man like you, Samuel? Come, come! I find myself totally surprised.”

  The Goldsmith actually blushed. “I just meant for the experience. I would not have participated.”

  “Then more fool you.” And putting out his hand, John ruffled his friend’s hair.

  It was at that somewhat amusing moment that Dominique entered the snug. “”Elio, you two,” he called cheerily. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Well now you’ve found us. Come and have a drink.”

  “Gladly.” Dominique sat down and ordered a jug of ale. He looked at John over its rim. “How are you getting on, my friend?”

  John put down his tankard and assumed a serious face. “I am treating the death of Lord Arundel as one of murder,” he said.

  Dominique gulped noisily. “Oh, my goodness. Why?”

  “Because it strikes me that no one would have gone out on such a night wearing only his nightshirt.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  “No, there are others,” John answered mysteriously. Dominique took a deep swallow and said, “Tell me.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t reveal too much about my theories - Sir

  John Fielding’s orders and all that.�
� John waved an airy hand. “But you slept in the house last night, Dominique. Tell me, did you hear anything?”

  “Yes. I found it rather a noisy place, for despite the fact that I was tired out I still couldn’t get off to sleep. Round about midnight, give or take an hour, I heard someone walking along the corridor. I had just been dozing off but I awoke and listened.”

  “What happened?” asked Samuel, his eyes huge.

  “Well, I could have sworn that whoever it was went into Lord Arundel’s room -1 was sleeping almost directly opposite him and—“

  “I thought you were put in the servants” quarters,” John interrupted.

  “Yes, I was to have slept there but at the last moment Lady Dashwood remembered a little boxroom over the eaves and put me in it.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, I thought someone went in there and shortly afterwards there was a funny little noise, like a subdued scream, and I heard the feet coming out again, moving quite fast.”

  “Was it a man or a woman, could you tell?”

  Dominique shook his head. “I truly am not certain. All I know is that I heard the clatter of shoes on the wooden floor.”

  “And then?”

  “After that I must have dropped off to sleep because the next thing I knew it was three o’clock and there was another disturbance.”

  “What?”

  “Somebody else came shuffling along the corridor.”

  “Why do you use that word? Shuffling?”

  “Because that is what they were doing. I heard it quite distinctly.”

  “And you were sure it was three?”

  “Yes, I looked at the clock. Anyway, the sound ceased, almost abruptly, and after that I went back to sleep and was woken by the noises of people in the grounds below.”

  John nodded. “Yes, I remember you joining in the group.” Dominique nodded. “Who would have thought it, mon ami? Who could possibly have wanted Lord Arundel dead?”

  “Well,” said John, smiling broadly but watching Dominique intently, “you might have done for a start.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Frenchman’s eyebrows shot up and his jaw tightened but to his credit he maintained his equilibrium. He took a sip of ale and said, “Really? And what makes you say that?”