Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

THE DOWAGER DUCHESS OF MALMSBY

" G randmother!" Gwinnie exclaimed when she came out of the music room to see what all the noise was about.

Lady Vivian Nowlton, the Dowager Countess of Malmsby, held out her arms to Gwinnie.

Gwinnie ran to her, hugging her tiny grandmother to her chest.

Until the feathers on her hat tickled her nose.

"Oof, I'm going to sneeze!" Gwinnie warned, as she took a couple steps backward. She jammed the handkerchief she kept up her dress sleeve over her nose and waited. The feeling subsided.

"That hat is a menace," Gwinnie told her grandmother.

Her grandmother patted the side of her head. "I think it gives me stature," she said regally. The Dowager Duchess of Malmsby was known for her playful nature. Her once red hair had given way to white hair with her years; however, her dark-brown eyes still had the sparkle and liveliness of youth.

Gwinnie gave a snort of laughter at her grandmother's affected air.

"Don't you think my hat gives me stature, Mr. Martin?" the Dowager Countess asked when she spied him at the end of the hall by the music room door.

"Certainly, Your Grace," Lewis said, walking up to her, smiling. He took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles as he bowed.

"Oh, enough of that, young man. But why are you here? And why were you in the music room with Gwinnie?" She wagged an eyebrow at him.

"I was requested to be her accompanist when the duke threw us together while he is in a meeting with another gentleman," Lewis said.

"Adhering to the niceties of society? So sad," she said, shaking her multi-plumed head.

"Oh, Grandmother," Gwinnie said, gently batting her arm.

Her grandmother pursed her lips impishly as she smiled at her.

"May I take your coat and hat, Your Grace?" said Mr. Harold, appearing suddenly at her side.

"Yes, I suppose that would be best," the duchess said, loosening the bonnet ribbons and lifting the hat off her head to hand it to the butler, then unbuttoning her coat. "Mrs. Morrison, where are you?" she sang out.

"Here, Your Grace," the duchess's companion said from over by the stairway. "I was speaking to Mrs. Hunnicutt about our rooms and the items you brought with you for your comfort."

"Well, meet us in the Lady Margaret Parlor when you are done," she called over her shoulder. She tucked her arms through each of Mr. Martin's and Gwinnie's and walked them to her parlor. "And you two will tell me what is going on. Something is, I know it. I sense it."

Gwinnie smiled wanly at her grandmother. "You are correct, Grandmother. We've had a troubling few days. Father has been receiving threats for his interest in inventions, and a dear associate of mine has been murdered."

"Murdered!— No, don't say anything more yet. Let's go into my favorite room. If I have to hear bad news, that is the room to be seated in to hear it… with a glass of sherry in my hand," the dowager duchess said firmly.

The Lady Margaret Parlor, across from the music room on the ground floor, had been designed by the dowager duchess's mother-in-law fifty years ago, yet had stood the test of time to be as bright and comfortable in 1817 as it had when first created. Pink, white, and gold ornamented the walls. All the furniture was upholstered in shades of pink, white, and green stripes or floral motifs. It suited the dowager duchess.

"It's cold in here!" the duchess complained as they walked into the room. "Harold!" she called out through the open door.

"Yes, Your Grace?"

"It's cold in here," the duchess complained. "And where is my sherry service?"

"Apologies, Your Grace, we weren't expecting you so early."

The duchess's frown disappeared, replaced by her impish smile. "We did make good time getting here, didn't we," she said gleefully.

The butler agreed and apologized again.

She waved his apology away. "We are early, but if we can get the fire lit to warm the room, we can wait on tea and sherry…"

Mr. Martin crossed to the fireplace with its coal stove and began to feed coal into it.

"What are you doing, Mr. Martin?" demanded the butler.

"Getting the fire going," he returned. He turned his head to look up at the man. "I just did so in the music room and performed this task many times at Versely Park," he assured him, reminding them all of the time he went undercover at the duchess's country home to discover who was threatening her.

The duchess laughed and clapped her hands together. "Thank you! You were the best footman I ever had."

"Are you suggesting I missed my calling, Your Grace?" he asked with a smile, as he stood up and wiped his hands on his handkerchief.

"You are a man of many talents. Perhaps that is why you make a good Bow Street agent," the duchess returned. "Let's sit down while the room heats up and we await fortification."

The duchess sat down on the pink-striped sofa. She took her shoes off and drew her feet up beside her. "Gwinnie, would you hand me the dark, rose-colored shawl?"

Gwinnie picked up the large shawl and helped her grandmother drape it over herself. "My feet are freezing. I did not wear the right footwear for the journey," the dowager duchess said. "But sit, sit! Why are you both still standing about?— Oh, Mr. Martin, please place one of the armchairs nearer to the fireplace along with that little table over there." The dowager duchess pointed to the pieces she wanted moved. "Those will be for Mrs. Morrison. She won't admit it; however, her arthritis has been paining her in this cold weather."

Harold returned with the sherry decanter and glasses and set them on the table next to the duchess.

"That was quick, have you been hiding the sherry in the entrance hall?"

"No, Your Grace. I took this sherry service from the music room across the hall."

"My sherry?" protested Gwinnie.

"My apologies, my lady, but it was the closest and quickest way to get Her Grace her sherry."

"And that was a smart idea," said the duchess. "I appreciate your quick return. Would you pour glasses for us?"

Harold did as the duchess requested and passed the glasses around.

"Pour another for Mrs. Morrison and leave it on the table by the fireplace," she instructed, then turned to Gwinnie. "What is going on?"

"What makes you think things are going on?" Gwinnie asked, sipping her sherry.

"The Norwalks did not return straight to Devon but came here. I thought that odd, as Helena discovered she is increasing while they were at the Ellinbourne estate for Ann's wedding to the duke. They decided to remain there a few weeks to lessen the chance of losing the babe, and now they are in London."

"I believe that was at Father's insistence. Mr. Martin could explain better," Gwinnie said.

Lewis looked at Gwinnie with a doubtful expression but did explain to the duchess about the threats the duke had received and— they had recently discovered— the Dowager Countess of Norwalk had as well.

"And you say the threats extended to their family members?" she asked, surprised.

"Yes, Your Grace."

"And the first casualty of these threats might have occurred," Gwinnie said sadly.

Mrs. Morrison came into the room, walking quietly to the chair by the fireplace.

"What do you mean?" Gwinnie's grandmother asked.

"Last night Mrs. Southerland was murdered while wearing my Austrian short cape."

"Mrs. Southerland from the charity house?"

"Yes. They— they slit her throat!"

"No!" said the duchess.

Glass broke against the hearth stone. "I'm so sorry," said Mrs. Morrison, going on her knees beside the hearth to pick up the glass pieces. Her hands shook.

"Mrs. Morrison— Josephine! Leave it!" the duchess said. "The maids will get it."

Gwinnie rose and went to Mrs. Morrison's side to encourage her to sit again. "Did you know Mrs. Southerland?" Gwinnie asked her softly.

"We come from the same village. We were friends. We've kept in touch over the years," Mrs. Morrison said. "Whenever the duchess came to town, Hilda and I would visit for an hour or two."

The duchess shook her head ruefully. "I didn't know Mrs. Southerland's first name, and I'd often heard you mention your friend Hilda. I never heard your friend's last name. I didn't connect them."

"What we don't know is if Mrs. Southerland was the intended target or a random target. And if she was an intended target, was the person going after her, or Lady Guinevere."

"But our Gwinnie is much taller!" protested the duchess.

"Yes, but Mrs. Southerland was standing on the stoop, which would have made her a little taller, and we don't know if the assailant would have had a good description of Lady Guinevere, if she was his true target," Mr. Martin said.

"You are saying, she might have been the intended victim, or Gwinnie might have been the intended victim. I can see where that would have my son tied up in knots," the duchess said. "Quite frankly, it is tying me in knots as I think of it! Mr. Martin, what are you doing to protect my granddaughter?" the duchess asked in a strong, demanding voice.

"Grandmother, please!" said Gwinnie.

"Please what?"

"I don't think I was the target. I don't know why Mrs. Southerland might be; however, I can't see anyone confusing us— even in the dark and it wasn't full dark when the attack occurred," she said.

"Near enough in the alley," Mr. Martin said.

Gwinnie scowled at him. "Consider, it would be difficult to grab someone taller, as I am likely to be."

"Difficult, perhaps. Not impossible. Your height cannot protect you. You need to get this past that beautiful, thick, red hair of yours and into your brain, and understand this point: Your height is not a protection," Mr. Martin said, leaning toward her. "And she was standing on the stoop which would make her a few inches taller."

"She was? I didn't—" Gwinnie stopped. She wasn't supposed to have gone outside to see her body. She bit her lower lip.

He looked at her with one of his sideways wry smiles. "I knew you would go to see her body even when I instructed you not to."

"I did keep anyone else from going outside," she said petulantly. She plucked at the folds of her dress, head down. She looked at him through the veil of her lashes as she tried to hide a slight smile.

Mr. Martin grinned at her.

The duchess looked from one to the other, her lips pursing. "I see," she said.

"I felt I owed it to her," Gwinnie defended, turning to face the duchess. For some reason, looking at Mr. Martin always made her smile. He had such an expressive face. They were having a serious conversation. She should not be smiling!

The duchess took in an audible deep breath. "We have determined— theoretically— Mrs. Southerland could have been confused with Gwinnie. We return to my question, Mr. Martin. What are you doing to protect my granddaughter?"

"Lady Guinevere is used to going about the city with just her maid, Rose. When she is dressed as Sarah Knolls, she would go out unaccompanied. In both guises she would walk."

"I like to walk," Gwinnie put in.

"Now when she is out, she is escorted by one of the duke's footmen. The only reason I was with her the other night is the duke had received another note that morning threatening the family. He requested I take over the escort responsibilities at least for that night. We are discussing hiring permanent guards."

"I didn't know that!" Gwinnie exclaimed.

"It is that serious?" the duchess asked.

Lewis nodded, his lips compressed for a moment. "We think so."

"Then he should stop messing with these newfangled machines and go back to his Arthurian studies," declared the duchess, flopping back against the cushions of the sofa.

Both Gwinnie and Mr. Martin laughed.

"That suggestion would fall on deaf ears," Gwinnie declared.

The duchess frowned and shifted on the sofa. "I know," she finally said. "Now where is my tea?"

"I'll ring," Gwinnie said. She started to get up when the door opened to admit Stephen with the tea tray.

"Ah, finally! Put it on that table," the duchess instructed, pointing to the table near Gwinnie's chair. "Granddaughter, would you pour, please?"

"I would be delighted to." She poured for her grandmother first. "Cook has provided some of his treats. Would you like one?" Gwinnie's hand hovered over the tarts, one of the sweets she knew her grandmother loved.

"Yes. The tart would be nice," the duchess said. "You know me too well," she said, with a warm smile for Gwinnie.

Gwinnie prepared the tea for Lewis and included a lemon bar.

"It appears you know Mr. Martin well, too," observed her grandmother.

Gwinnie instantly blushed. "As much as he has been here lately," she said sourly. "I'm surprised he doesn't have a room assigned to him!"

"Daniel is coming home tomorrow," Lewis said, speaking of his ward, Daniel Wrightson, the mudlark he'd taken in following the investigation with Sir James and Lady Branstoke into the kidnapping of Soothcoor's young nephew. He and his gang had been instrumental in saving young Christopher Sedgewick's life.

"Got himself sent down from school?" the duchess suggested with a smile.

"Not for bad behavior. A group of boys were running on the ice to get speed then trying to slide on the soles of their shoes. He hit a rut and down he went. Broke a couple of ribs and sprained his wrist."

The duchess chuckled and nodded.

"The doctor says he needs to rest and stay quiet. He is a natural leader and wants to be in the thick of activity. The school suggested he come home to rest as they can't keep him down. My man will watch him, but he'll have his challenges."

"That young man certainly had my Versely Park housekeeper wrapped around her finger."

"He won't wrap Lindsay around his finger— I hope," Lewis said, a brief frown creasing his brow.

Gwinnie and the duchess laughed.

The click of the latch on the parlor door had them all turning to see the duke enter.

"Hello, Mother," he said, crossing the room to kiss the duchess on her head and clasp her hand briefly. He looked over at Lewis and Gwinnie. "Sorry for the interruption. Mr. Edmunds is a bundle of nerves, worried someone will steal his ideas or blow up his prototype. And I'm not even certain the machine is worth investment."

"What did you tell him?" his mother asked.

"I told him truthfully that I do not think it is ready for investment yet. I also told him that was the best news I could give him at this point, as it will likely turn the would-be Luddite followers away from interest in him for a time."

"Does this new group have a name?" The dowager duchess swung her feet to the floor and gestured to the duke to sit next to her on the sofa. Gwinnie rang the servants' bell to have the teapot refreshed.

"No one has stepped forward to claim leadership. They are highly secretive," he said, sitting next to her.

"I do not like this, Arthur," she said severely. "Gwinnie and Mr. Martin have told me of what happened to Mrs. Southerland."

"I do not believe someone killed Mrs. Southerland mistaking her for Gwinnie," he said, waving a hand dismissively

"But you do not know that," his mother said archly.

"No," he sighed, "I do not."

"The family needs protection," the duchess declared.

The duke compressed his lips, obviously thinking.

"And I will not be able to be here tomorrow," Lewis reminded him. "However, I have arranged for Tom Cott to come here in my place. He is a veteran of the 88th Foot under Lieutenant-Colonel John Wallace, and now is involved with pugilism exhibitions."

The duke lifted his head. "Organizing, or as a fighter?" he asked.

"Fighter. Lately, he's been winning more than he loses. He's a big man, but has the demeanor of a mild-mannered person until the fight begins."

Gwinnie giggled. "And that's why he wins!" she suggested.

"You might consider him for a permanent guard position," Lewis said slowly, knowing the duke did not want a guard.

"You are that concerned for the rebellions against technology?" the duke asked.

"I am, Your Grace," Lewis said on a long exhale.

Mercy quietly brought in a new teapot during the discussion. Gwinnie prepared her father's tea and handed it to him.

Gwinnie watched her father closely as he frowned and thrust his lower lip forward almost like a pout. "I don't like to back down from ignorant ruffians," he said.

The duchess laid a hand on his arm. "They are frightened, Arthur," she reminded him. "They are frightened you will take their livelihoods away from them."

The duke relaxed. "I know. How can I prove to them it will not?"

"On your properties and in your factories, I know you will see that your people are protected because, as a duke, you consider those who work for you as a kind of extended family. It has been drilled into you as part of your heritage. Others do not have your conviction, and you know you can't keep what you invest in solely for your use. Others who make use of the technology will exploit people."

"So, what would you have me do?"

The dowager duchess, Gwinnie, and Lewis looked at each other. "I'd say," Gwinnie began slowly, "ask them for their suggestions and also tell them of all you have seen. What would they like to try? Tell them the goal is to increase yields, to make them more productive to benefit them and yourself."

Her father frowned. "I'd need to discuss this with Lady Norwalk," he said. "They are with the Galboroughs today. She and the Earl and Countess of Norwalk are intending to be here after services tomorrow."

"I will be sorry to miss them," said Lewis.

"I think we can convey your concerns to them," Gwinnie said.

Lewis approached The Thirsty Pig early that evening with curiosity and suspicion. He hadn't expected an invitation from Mr. Gedney to be waiting for him on his arrival at home after spending most of the day with the Duke of Malmsby and his family.

Mr. Gedney and he did not often cross professional paths, as Mr. Gedney dealt with death, and Lewis's Bow Street mandate was anything other than death that would pay Bow Street and himself. However, Lewis knew of him. The man did not have a good reputation for being a diligent investigator. If the perpetrator was not immediately obvious, he would accuse the nearest person who "might" have a cause, or simply declare the death "murder by misadventure" or something of that ilk.

Lewis had told him his knowledge of the events of that evening. What could he want to discuss with him before the inquest? To concoct matching stories? What was there to concoct? Someone killed Mrs. Southerland.

It did bother him to consider the murderer may have mistaken the victim, but he didn't believe in that story, even if it still warranted investigation. He did not want to consider Gwinnie as the intended victim. In his dreams— nightmares— following the discovery of Mrs. Southerland's body, it was Gwinnie's face he saw with a slit throat, her red hair fanned out around her beautiful face with its unseeing eyes.

He didn't like that he could bring up that vision so easily, either.

A good-sized crowd filled The Thirsty Pig when Lewis arrived. Inside, it was loud, hazy with smoke, and smelled of spilled ale.

Maude came by after delivering drinks. He stopped her. "Have you seen Mr. Reginald Gedney here tonight?"

She pointed to the far front corner of the taproom and scurried off. Lewis walked in that direction, twisting and turning through the crowd. He was halfway to the corner when he saw him at a small table by a front window. Lewis elbowed his way through more people to get to Gedney. He turned the chair opposite the man around and dropped into it, resting his arms on the chair's back.

"You wanted to meet?" Lewis asked, trying to talk loud enough to be heard over the din of the other patrons, but not so loud as to draw attention.

Gedney nodded. "What do you think happened to Mrs. Southerfield?"

Lewis frowned. "Southerland," he corrected. "I told you what I saw and heard."

Gedney waved his hand. "Yes, yes. I know what you said. I'm askin' what you think."

"Why?"

"You Bow Street types have a different way of perceivin' things."

Lewis stared at him, wondering what he was getting at. "We don't deal with death like you do," he acknowledged.

"I'm not talkin' about that," Gedney said gruffly. "Who do you think done it?"

Lewis shook his head. "I don't know," he said wearily, for suddenly he felt drained of life.

"Can I get you sumpthin'?" Maude asked from by his elbow.

"Another ale," Gedney said.

"Coffee," Lewis said.

"Coffee on a Saturday night?" Gedney asked with mock dismay.

"It's been a long day," Lewis admitted to Gedney.

"Well, I'll tell you what I think happened," Gedney said.

Lewis nodded, then dropped his chin on his folded hands as he listened.

"Friday's the day those women go shopping, and the housekeeper and cook come here. With the house empty or nearly empty it's a prime invitation for a robbery. You should know that, seein' as you're with Bow Street. I think someone was in the backyard when Mrs. Southerland came into the yard and they killed her," Gedney said. He downed the rest of the ale. "Where is that barmaid with our drinks?"

Lewis lifted his head. From what he'd known and heard of the man, this was his classic murder resolution. Simple, no work for him. Lewis frowned. "Why kill her? Why not just rob her?"

"Afraid she could identify them," Gedney replied promptly.

Lewis rubbed the sides of his face with his hands. He was tired. Too tired for Gedney's nonsense, but he had to hear him out for the sake of the inquest on Monday. "But he hadn't done anything other than be in her yard. Maybe he came just to shelter from the wind," Lewis suggested.

"And got startled and killed her," Mr. Gedney said, nodding. "Some of these street types, they are not right in the head. I find they are often the ones that commit the murders."

Lewis began to wonder how many of the damaged veterans Gedney accused of murder and saw hang. He had no proof this happened; however, the mere possibility it could, made him want to see Gedney out of his position with the coroner's office.

"If it wasn't for the murders they do, I'd have more compassion, but I seen too much," Gedney continued, as if he were trading professional tips, not noticing Lewis's frown.

"So, what are you going to advise Dr. Brogan as the cause of death for the death certificate?" Lewis asked, though he felt he knew.

Maude came back with Gedney's ale and Lewis's coffee. Lewis handed her some coins. Maude held her hand out to Gedney.

"What, you're not going to cover for me?" Gedney asked Lewis.

"No."

Gedney grumbled and reached into his waistcoat pocket for money. He slapped it into Maude's hand.

"What is your verdict?" Lewis repeated when Maude left.

"Death by misadventure by person or persons unknown."

Lewis picked up the cup. He could tell by the smell he may regret the coffee. "The Earl of Soothcoor will not like that verdict," he calmly told Gedney.

Gedney laughed. "Just because he funds the place doesn't mean he is interested in it. I doubt he'll even be at the inquest. I heard he's not in town."

Lewis sipped his coffee. It was weak. He wondered how many times they'd brewed these grinds. "The Duke of Malmsby sent him a letter informing him of what happened."

"What's he got to do with this case?"

Lewis set down the coffee mug. "What has your investigation revealed?"

"Nothing. No one saw anything. No one was around. Like I said, death by misadventure— This Miss Knolls who you took away before I arrived, will she be at the inquest?"

"Yes. I believe her father is intending to bring her. Will you continue investigating until the inquest on Monday?"

Gedney shrugged. "If something comes up, certainly— So, you don't support my verdict."

"No, but what does that matter?" Lewis asked. "I'll give my testimony. I doubt Dr. Brogan will ask for my opinion."

Gedney nodded, with a slight, self-satisfied smile. "True enough. Still, it would be good if you could see your way to my way of thinking."

Lewis set the coffee mug on the scarred table. "I'd have to talk to more people and turn over more rocks before I could do that." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "As it is, I don't think it was her being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Good luck to you," Lewis said, as he rose from his chair.

Gedney nodded and sipped his ale. Lewis thought he looked annoyed. He wondered why the man thought he would back him, and why he felt he needed the backing. Wasted meeting and deplorable coffee. He left The Thirsty Pig to find a hackney to take him to his home. He had more important things to think about right now.

Tomorrow Daniel would return. He'd need to figure out how to keep the lad quiet. That would be a challenge.