Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Having never expected to assume the title of Viscount Plumpton, Ivo had not ever envisioned what his first day as Lord Crabb might look like. Had he thought to imagine it though, his mind certainly would not have conjured a morning as strange as this one.

Having digested the news, and a cup of tea, Ivo then dressed and followed Newman to the late Lord Crabb"s bedchamber, where Dr Bates was waiting.

"My lord," the doctor bowed his head as Ivo entered, and for a moment Ivo had been inclined to look over his shoulder to see just who it was that Dr Bates was addressing.

"My valet tells me that you suspect Lord Crabb was poisoned," Ivo replied, after he had gathered himself together.

"I do not suspect, I know," Dr Bates was firm, "Would you care to take a look?"

Viewing a corpse was never a pleasant experience, but especially so in Lord Crabb"s case. Ivo had witnessed death before, but Lord Crabb did not look at all restful as he lay in his eternal slumber, he looked positively agitated.

"Witness the rash," Dr Bates said, as he waved a hand at the body. Lord Crabb wore a nightshirt, which was open at the chest, where a red, mottled rash could be seen across his crepe-like skin.

"The scratches on the neck are presumably from Lord Crabb"s attempt to ease the swelling in his throat," Dr Bates continued, "The foam at the mouth is also consistent with poisoning by deadly nightshade, as are the bulging eyeballs—see how red they are."

Ivo did not wish to see, but he looked, nonetheless. His stomach churned with bile, and after a moment he was forced to look away.

Dr Bates drew the curtains on the four-poster bed, so that Lord Crabb"s body was shielded from view.

"You are most certain it is poisoning?" Ivo questioned once he was done, his words causing the good doctor to bristle with indignation.

"I attended to the corpses of three men murdered the same way, when I first began my practice," Dr Bates explained, in irritated tones, "I would bet my house on it being deadly nightshade, my lord."

"Very well," Ivo nodded, "Tell me, what are the next steps?"

Dr Bates raised his eyebrows in astonishment at having been asked such a question.

"I presume, my lord," he replied—very slowly, as though he thought Ivo somewhat lacking in brains, "That you will have to arrange a funeral."

"I meant, what should we do next about the poisoning?" Ivo answered, his temper rather frayed, "We must inform the local constable and begin an investigation."

To Ivo"s surprise, the doctor"s lips began to twitch under his moustache, as though he was suppressing the urge to laugh.

"Of course," he said hastily, as he spotted Ivo"s quelling glare, "I shall inform him at once. I will leave now, if that is acceptable to you, my lord; you are more in need of a gravedigger than a doctor at this point."

"Of course," Ivo nodded his head, and stepped aside so that the doctor could pass him.

Once Dr Bates had left, Ivo walked the perimeter of the bedchamber, on the lookout for anything suspicious. A most difficult task, when he had never set foot in the room.

"My lord?" Newman interrupted his search, his voice holding a tone of censure. "Might I ask what you are about? While I do not think you the murderer, it is still rather unseemly for you to be poking about in Lord Crabb"s things."

"I am looking to see if anything is out of place," Ivo grumbled in return, as he checked the sash windows to see if they were locked—which they were. The room was furnished in a spartan manner, containing only an old four-poster bed—its small size more suited to a lord of the middle ages—a washstand and basin, and a bedside table. Ivo sauntered over to the table and opened the drawer to see what was inside.

"Perhaps there is someone else more suited to that task?" Newman suggested, his tone pained as he watched Ivo rummage through Lord Crabb"s things. "Like Mr Harold, the viscount"s valet."

Ivo agreed, and Newman left to find Mr Harold, returning a few minutes later, with a stooped-back man of about ninety years.

"My lord," Mr Harold greeted Ivo with a slight bow—accompanied by the sound of cracking bones as he bent his spine.

"Mr Harold," Ivo, who had expected a much younger man, was forced to soften his tone—though he did have to raise his voice for the benefit of the valet"s aged ears.

"I wish to know if you noticed anything amiss, when you came to wake Lord Crabb this morning?"

Mr Harold shook his head, his rheumy eyes distant as he envisioned the scene that he had encountered that morning.

"No unusual plates of food?" Ivo pressed, but again the valet shook his head.

"What about these bottles?" Ivo pointed to the open drawer of the bedside table, where several empty amber-glass bottles were stored, "What are these?"

"Lord Crabb"s tonic, my lord," Mr Harold replied, "He drank half a bottle a night since he was a young man."

"Do you think it"s possible the bottle was contaminated?" Ivo mused aloud, but Mr Harold shook his head.

"No, my lord. For he drank the second half of the bottle last night, and if it was contaminated, he would surely have died the night before last?"

A dead end, Ivo thought, annoyed that his one avenue of investigation had been cut short so soon.

"Did you help his lordship dress for bed?" Ivo asked, as a sudden suspicion had overcome him. Allen had told the world that Ivo had been the last person to see Lord Crabb alive, but that might not be the case after all. Mr Harold had most likely dressed the late viscount for bed, and knew that he would be drinking the second half of his tonic—it was entirely possible that he had perpetrated the murder.

"Of course I did, my lord," the valet looked surprised to be asked such a question, "As I have done every night, for the past five and sixty years."

Though Mr Harold presented a rather pitiful figure—a man long past good health, let alone his prime—his closeness to Lord Crabb necessitated that Ivo regard him with suspicion.

"Had you any reason to wish Lord Crabb dead, Mr Harold?" Ivo questioned bluntly, eliciting a gasp from Newman.

"Wish his lordship dead?" Mr Harold"s lip wobbled, "I"ve been living in fear of him dying before me since 1795."

"That"s a rather exact date."

"It"s the year that I upset his lordship by accidentally ruining one of his wigs," Harold explained, with a slight catch in his voice, "He took away my pension as punishment, told me if I managed to redeem myself that he might reinstate it. He never did, and I have been living in hope, ever since, that the good Lord would call me before he called the viscount."

Behind Mr Harold, Ivo could see his own horror echoed in Newman"s expression. It was terrible to think that a man of such advanced years should be forced to work until his dying day—not to mention, incomprehensible. How on earth had Mr Harold kneeled down to take off Lord Crabb"s boots each evening, when his own knobbly knees in his uniform breeches, looked to be made half of dust?

"I know you have no need of me, my lord," Harold continued, "What with you already having Mr Newman there to dress you, but I beg you, please don"t cast me out. I can wash dishes, scrub pots and pans. I am not so old as to be completely useless."

Lord Crabb"s death had not touched Ivo in the slightest, apart from a momentary feeling of pity for the man. Mr Harold"s passioned plea, however, near brought tears to Ivo"s eyes—and had actually brought them to Newman"s, who wiped his cheeks discreetly with a handkerchief as Mr Harold finished speaking.

"I will not have you scrubbing pots and pans under my roof," Ivo assured the man, "I will see to it that you have your full pension, Mr Harold, and a house on the estate for you to live in."

For a moment, Ivo feared that his words had brought about an apoplectic fit in poor Mr Harold, for his face turned pale, and his mouth opened and closed repeatedly like a fish. After a moment, however, he righted himself.

"Thank you, my lord," the valet said, his knees wobbling precariously from the shock of it, "How can I thank you?"

"I need not be thanked," Ivo replied, "It is your due. Now, go and rest up, Mr Harold; you have had a trying morning."

Mr Harold shuffled slowly away, and as the door closed behind him, Ivo let out a weary sigh.

"If Lord Crabb had taken away his pension last week, Mr Harold would be suspect number one," Ivo commented to Newman.

"I think he"s too soft for murder, my lord," the valet replied with a wan smile, "Though, if the viscount took away Mr Harold"s pension on a whim, who"s to say he did not take away someone else"s more recently?"

"That"s true," Ivo was cheered by this idea, "Perhaps we should interrogate some of the staff?"

Newman"s silence—as well as his pained expression—spoke volumes. Ivo narrowed his eyes suspiciously, and the valet flushed.

"If I may, my lord," Newman said, before carrying on regardless, "You have inherited a house full of staff who think you murdered their previous master. I rather think you might handle them all with kid-gloves for a day or two, before you begin your—ah—inquisition."

"Wise words," Ivo agreed; while he was not overly concerned with being liked, he did not want to be feared by anyone. "What do you suggest?"

"Allen is gathering them all in the entrance hall," Newman replied, "To share the bad news. Perhaps you might offer them the morning off, so that they might have time to—ahem—mourn the passing of Lord Crabb."

"Capital idea," Ivo agreed, and he followed Newman from Lord Crabb"s bedchamber to the entrance hall.

There, he found his staff—a smaller number than he had expected for a house so large—gathered together by the doorway. A whisper went up as Ivo approached, and several maids glanced at him fearfully—though, an equal number of male servants offered him warm, almost congratulatory, smiles.

"Allen," Ivo addressed the butler, who was standing, stoop-shouldered, before his retinue of staff, "I believe you have shared the news of Lord Crabb"s unfortunate passing?"

The butler nodded that he had, and Ivo gave a tight smile.

"My thanks, for your assistance. I shall take over from here" he said to the butler, before turning his attention to the crowd, "I am certain that all of you are upset by the news of Lord Crabb"s demise. I urge you all to take the morning off to gather your thoughts and mourn him as you wish."

"If I"ve a morning off, I wish to spend it in the pub, not blubbering over that miserable sod," a voice whispered, though unluckily the muted aside echoed in the cavernous entrance hall.

Ivo feigned an acute case of deafness, though from the corner of his eye he made note of who had spoken, just in case. He then offered the gathered servants what he hoped to be a sympathetic smile before he continued.

"I want you all to be assured that nothing shall change regarding your employment here," he said, and one or two maids gave audible sighs of relief, "Off you go then; Mr Allen will let you know when you need to return."

"By five bells," the butler interjected, with a stern glance all round, "And not a moment later."

The staff all nodded to let him know that they had heard, before they fled, en masse, for the door. Though they were silent and outwardly respectful, there was an air of palpable excitement in their movement.

"That went well," Ivo sighed happily, though Allen gave him a dour glance in return.

"Yes," the butler sounded almost waspish, "You have sent your entire staff down to the village to let the locals know of Lord Crabb"s death before you have even informed his betrothed."

"Lud," Ivo thwacked his head; he had not thought of Miss Hughes once since he had learned of Lord Crabb"s death. She would have to be told—quickly and by Ivo himself.

"I will go and tell her at once," Ivo decided aloud, "In what direction does she live?"

"Hillside House; take the road to Bath, and just after you pass the Church of St Mary, there is a crossroads. Take the right and you will spot the gates of the house soon enough."

"Thank you, Allen," Ivo replied. He was just about to dash upstairs to fetch a coat, when something popped into his head. "Ah, I recall that Lord Crabb asked you to send a message to his solicitor to call today. If he arrives while I am out, please ask him to wait for me."

Allen blinked slowly, as though trying to recall the events of yesterday. Ivo did not blame him his forgetfulness; at his age—and given the shock of losing Lord Crabb, after decades of service to him—it was a wonder that the man was still standing.

"Of course, Mr Bon—I mean—my lord," Allen smiled thinly, "I shall inform him when he calls."

With that, Allen took off, at a remarkable speed for a man of his age, and Ivo raced up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, in a race to reach Miss Hughes before anyone else did.

Informing Miss Hughes of Lord Crabb"s passing had been far more difficult than Ivo had assumed it would be. Miss Hughes had been genuinely distraught to learn the news; her face had paled, her lip had shaken, and she had dissolved into a puddle of hysterical sobs on the floor of the drawing room of Hillside House.

It had, Ivo thought with slight shock, been a genuine show of emotion on Miss Hughes" part. Having been assured by Sir Charles that he would attend to "Prunie", as he so affectionately called her, Ivo had made the return journey to Plumpton Hall with a sense of guilt in his belly.

He had misjudged Miss Hughes, he thought, as he returned Midnight, his Arab hot-blood, to the comfort of the stables. He had thought that she was marrying Lord Crabb only for his title, and though he still thought this to be the case, it was obvious that she was not the unfeeling chit Ivo had initially thought her to be. Though not in passionate love, Miss Hughes had obviously been fond of Lord Crabb.

Ivo cleaned his boots on the wrought-iron boot scraper before entering Plumpton Hall. The door pushed open to reveal the entrance hall empty, save one lone figure pacing the floor by the empty fireplace.

"Ah," the man—whose diminutive stature was only emphasised by the cathedral height ceilings—looked up as he heard the door open, "You must be Mr Bonville?"

"Yes," Ivo began, but the man interrupted.

"Forgive me," he said, patting his hair—styled to conceal a bald pate—nervously, "I mean, the former Mr Bonville and current Lord Crabb. Most pleased to meet you, my lord, I am Mr Just."

"The solicitor?" Ivo clarified.

"Guilty," Mr Just tittered at his own wit, before clearing his throat to continue speaking, "I believe you wished to meet with me? I do not have the late viscount"s will with me—nor is it customary to read a will before the burial—but I gather you just wish to discuss matters, as they stand?"

"Yes," Ivo nodded, "Perhaps we can talk over a drink?"

"His Lordship kept a fine stock of brandy in his library," Mr Just answered, with a twinkle in his eye, "I have long admired them, but never had the chance to sample one..."

"Well, we must remedy that at once," Ivo grinned, "There is no greater sin in my mind, than a fine cognac left uncorked. Lead the way, Mr Just, for I have no idea in which direction the library lies."

Mr Just beamed with pleasure, his allegiance easily won, and led Ivo through the warren of corridors to Lord Crabb"s library. Like the rest of the house, the room was frightfully cold, but Ivo and Mr Just soon warmed up after sampling some of Lord Crabb"s collection of spirits.

Ivo began his questioning gently, enquiring if there was anything which needed his immediate attention—outstanding debts, unknown dependents, staff who might need paying.

"Lord Crabb was parsimonious to a fault," Mr Just replied, looking a little uncomfortable, "He did not spend enough to run up debts. I"m afraid, however, that when you meet with your estate manager, you might find the bills soon stacking up. There is much work to be done, to bring the lands up to modern standards."

"I am happy to spend it," Ivo assured the solicitor, who looked much relieved.

"The only thing which you might immediately consider," Mr Just continued, looking at the glass in his hands rather than at Ivo, "Is the expected expense of landscaping the gardens. The contract is not yet written or signed, and I do believe it was Miss Hughes, rather than his lordship, who was so insistent that the work be carried out..."

Mr Just trailed off, looking most uncomfortable. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket to mop his brow with a handkerchief, before he finally met Ivo"s gaze.

"The payment for the work and design is expected to run into the high hundreds—perhaps even more than a thousand—pounds," Mr Just finished, his cheeks pink, "I feel I must warn you, my lord, that the goodwill of your tenants will not last, if they hear that such an expense has been paid on mere gardens, when their own farms are in dire need of investment."

"I thank you for your honesty, Mr Just," Ivo raised his glass to the solicitor, "You might inform Mr Adonis that his services are no longer required, and I shall see that he is paid what he is owed."

"Very good, my lord," Mr Just looked most relieved to hear this.

With that matter settled, Ivo began to gently probe the solicitor on Lord Crabb"s treatment of his staff. He outlined the tale of poor Mr Harold—which Mr Just agreed was a "wretched" business—and wondered aloud if any other of the viscount"s staff had merited a similar punishment.

"In the old days, yes," Mr Just sighed, unhappily, "But in recent years Lord Crabb was more careful with his spite; good staff are hard to find, and harder to hold on to."

"So, he made no recent, dramatic changes to his will?" Ivo pressed, and the solicitor grinned, perfectly aware of what he was about.

"No," Mr Just shook his head, "Nobody was written out of Lord Crabb"s will of late. I am afraid, that if you are looking for a culprit, that you may have to look outside of Plumpton Hall."

"There are as many suspects outside these walls as inside, I am sure," Ivo sighed, his mind casting back to the previous night, and the angry Mr Bennett.

The two men discussed matters for a while longer, before Mr Just declared that he should take his leave.

"I am sure you are busy making arrangements for the funeral," the solicitor said, as he donned his gloves, "Mr Mifford is the obliging sort; he will offer you guidance if you need it."

"Mr Mifford?" Ivo stilled, as an image of Miss Mifford with her hair loose around her shoulders popped into his mind.

"The vicar," Mr Just smiled, "He has held the living here for nearly thirty years. Popular fellow..."

Mr Just"s coded warning to not attempt to bestow the living at Plumpton onto anyone else was clearly heard, though unnecessary, as Ivo had no intention of ousting Mr Mifford from his post. And not only because it might upset the lovely Miss Mifford...