Chapter 4

“You’ve been exceedingly quiet,” James said to his wife.

They had been in their carriage driving north for two hours. They would stop soon for a change of horses and postillions and to walk about a bit. Since leaving London behind for open roads, Cecilia had remained quiet, just swaying with the motion of the carriage and staring out the carriage window.

The new carriage he’d ordered after the first of the year, beautifully appointed on the inside with blue velvet that matched his wife’s eyes, also had the newest in metal springs and rode far more comfortably than their old carriage. It should make the long journey bearable.

“Are you feeling well?” he asked.

Cecilia turned toward him. A small, rueful smile graced her lips. “Yes, my love. While I own, I am not yet up to my past energy levels, I can sense a shift in feelings. As the coughing spells ease, the cloud that has hung over me is not so oppressive,” she said, her smile widening.

“Then why that pensive, sad look I’ve been observing on your lovely face?” he asked.

She sighed and leaned back to nestle against him. He put his arm around her. “I’ve been thinking about Soothcoor and Mrs. Montgomery,” she said. “—More so about Mrs. Montgomery and her marriage to Mr. Montgomery. By my reckoning, they lived together for sixteen years before he went into a sanatorium. What were those years like and did anyone else know about his peculiar affliction of the mind?”

“He might have been good at keeping those ‘others’—I don’t know what else we should call them—suppressed,” James offered.

“Hmm. Yes. And if that was the case, what changed?”

“What do you mean?”

“I am thinking about cause and effect,” she said. “My melancholy, we know, came from my long illness, and that it has been difficult for me—and you by extension, I am aware. I wonder if the issues he began to have with these ‘others’ didn’t have a cause? I didn’t think to ask Mrs. Montgomery anything of this nature.”

“You mean you wonder what was going on in their lives that might have caused him to no longer control these ‘others’?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. “You may be correct. But what would that have to do with him being murdered now?”

She shook her head. “I do not know. Probably nothing,” she admitted with a drawn-out sigh. “Do you think Soothcoor has worn the green willow for Mrs. Montgomery all this time?”

James cocked his head as he considered her question. “He has never fallen into the parson’s trap with any woman, nor has he shown an interest in any of the ladies who regularly make an appearance in society.”

“Except for Mrs. Montgomery,” Cecilia said.

“Except for Mrs. Montgomery,” he concurred. “He has been called ‘the Dour Earl’ for as long as I have known him. Though he might smile and laugh, the light of laughter never reaches his eyes. Gossip, as it is in society, decided he’d suffered a disappointment of the heart.”

“Which, we can now be confident, he had,” said Cecilia.

“I assume so with the rapidity of his association with Mrs. Montgomery and her tale of their shared past.”

“If she makes his smile reach his eyes, she has my gratitude. We will do whatever is needed to see him freed,” she declared.

“That we will,” concurred her husband. “That we will.”

Their carriage rolled into the yard of the Taurus Stagecoach Inn and Tavern late that night—close to eight o’clock, due to the steady rain that began in the mid-afternoon. It made for sloppy roads and slow going. Thankfully, the booking request James had sent ahead had been received, and they had a bedroom reserved. Mr. Drupple, the innkeeper, wringing his callused hands against his dark blue waistcoat, asked if they wouldn’t mind sharing the private parlor with a young man who’d suffered a carriage mishap. Said he was on his way to Stamford, as he understood they were.

James frowned. Cecilia laid a gentle hand on his arm. “What happened?” she asked the innkeeper. “Has he suffered any injury?”

“Sprained his wrist trying to ketch hisself when the carriage tipped. The missus wrapped it tight. Be jolly good again in a day or two. But wurst were to the gen’lman’s valise. Tumbled out it did, popped open. All his clothes landed in a muddy puddle. Got ’im wrapped in an ol’ banyan sum gent left ’ere, sittin’ by the fire in the parlor.”

“The private parlor we reserved,” James clarified.

The innkeeper had the grace to look down. “Yes, sir.” He looked up again. “But I’ll get his room warmed up good and move him there. Not to worry. Done in a tick.”

“Has he had his dinner yet?” Cecilia asked.

“No, my lady. Not rite yet.”

“Then he may eat with us while you prepare his room.”

“Cecilia!” protested her husband.

“I want to know who he is, and why he is in such a hurry to get to Stamford that he should risk a carriage accident in the rain.”

James laughed shortly. “Your impulsive curiosity has served us well in the past.”

“Precisely.” Cecilia turned to the innkeeper. “Please conduct us to the parlor.”

“Yes, my lady, right this way.” He turned to climb an inside stairway to the first floor. He knocked at a door at the back of the tavern, then pushed it open.

Inside, a young man with disheveled brown hair and round wire spectacles wearing a several-sizes-too-large tobacco-brown-edged-with-gold-braid banyan, sat slouched on a bench near the fireplace where a coal fire burned hot. He straightened and shot to his feet when he saw the innkeeper was not alone.

“These be the folks as reserved the parlor,” the innkeeper told him as he escorted the Branstokes into the room.

“Oh! Yes—then I should go…,” said the young man, trailing off uncertainly. “Where should I go?” he asked the innkeeper as he took a step toward the door.

“Nowhere,” Cecilia put in. “We shall share the room with you through dinner,” she declared. “Sit. We are the Branstokes. Sir James and Lady Branstoke.”

The young man looked startled. He blinked owlishly behind his glasses. “Aileen said her mother would write to you.”

“Miss Aileen Montgomery?” James asked.

“Yes, my fiancée.”

“And you are Mr. Stackpoole?” James confirmed.

“Yes, Benjamin Stackpoole, at your service, sir,” the young man said, bowing.

James laughed. He looked down at his wife. “You were correct in your impulses, quite again.”

She smiled cheekily up at him.

“I’ll send the barmaid up to you directly,” the innkeeper said as he sidled toward the door, looking bemused at the exchange between his guests.

“Just have her bring up a pitcher of your ale and mugs for all,” James instructed.

“As you wish, sar. Your dinner will be ready in a thrice as well, that I promise,” the innkeeper said. “And thank you, sar, fer yur understanding.”

“I don’t know many innkeepers who would cater to a young man who has met with an accident as you have. You are to be commended.”

“Well, we’ve knowed Master Stackpoole since he were a tyke in short pants,” the man said with a small laugh as he backed to the door. He bowed to them and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

“You are local?” Cecilia asked as she untied the ribbons at the neck of her traveling cloak. James slid it from her shoulders. Cecilia murmured her thanks as she took the heavy, damp cloak from him.

“Yes,” the young man said. “The Stackpooles have been in this area for three hundred years.”

“So why did you come here and not to your family home?”

“It’s complicated,” he said, his shoulders slumping.

Cecilia sat down in a wing chair at right angles to his bench. “I understand from Mrs. Montgomery that your father wished you to call off your engagement,” she gently said.

“Yes. But I will not,” he said emphatically. “I love Aileen. She is the sweetest woman of my acquaintance and is not troubled by my poor eyesight or my desire to enter the diplomatic corps—which my father emphatically opposes.”

“Why is that? Does he wish you to pay more attention to your patrimony?”

“No, he is one of those that believes England should only cater to England and not to other countries.” He shook his head. “To hear him talk today, you’d not believe he made the grand tour in his youth. Visited places like Athens, Constantinople, and Medina, places I’d love to go to! And so would Aileen.”

“She wishes to travel?”

“Oh, yes. Her grandfather traveled in his youth and used to tell her all manner of stories of exotic places. Not at all like my father who never talks about his travels and frowns on everyone and anything foreign.”

“Did something happen on his travels that caused him to develop his dislike of foreigners?”

“I don’t know, precisely. Something about a sweet he was given in Damascus that made him violently ill. He won’t explain. I doubt he ever told my mother the details, either. Supposedly he was given something as a joke, but it made him violently ill. I don’t know if that is what caused his attitude toward foreign countries or if it might have just been a contributor. He is anti any foreign investment or dealings. He was opposed to England going to war with Napoleon, certain he would never invade England. And he argued the country was raising taxes and wasting money by going to fight in other countries. Very insular is my father. Very loyal in his way, though insular.”

He frowned, a petulant pout, which made him look younger. “He was against Aileen as my choice for my wife as she is from Scotland,” he admitted.

“He doesn’t believe Scotland should be part of England?” James asked.

“Correct. But his disapproval of my wonderful Aileen did not become a major issue until he learned where her father was.”

“That he was in a sanatorium?”

He snorted. “More than that, it was that he was in the Camden House Sanatorium.”

“Why was that an issue?” Cecilia asked. “Did he know something about the institution?”

“In a way, yes. You see, that is where he has had my mother committed.”

Cecilia and James exchanged glances. “Your mother!” Cecilia exclaimed.

“Yes, off and on since I was seventeen years old.”

“Off and on?”

He sighed. “My poor mother suffers from excessive nerves. She does not handle disruption well, and my father is nothing but a disruptive man. Theirs was an arranged marriage and as such, to my mind, is a major argument against that societal marriage arrangement. At the sanatorium, my mother is calmer and happier. She only returns to our estate around the holidays, as that is her favorite time of year. She loves to decorate the old house with pine garlands, wreaths and mistletoe. She is happy, she laughs and is relaxed. Then, after twelfth night, she once again sinks to a mere shadow of herself, crying all the time, begging my father to let her return to Camden. And he does readily. Neither of them enjoys the other’s company, and her residing at the sanatorium allows them to live apart without scandal.”

“But what a life!” Cecilia exclaimed. “Locked in an asylum!”

“Camden House is not like most sanatoriums. Certainly not like Bedlam,” the young man hastened to assure her. “It looks more austere than it is, being a large gray-stone-and-brick former monastery situated on the edge of fens with marshy swamps around it.”

“That does not sound appealing.”

“It’s built on a small knoll with the drainage canals surrounding it, there is only one approach to the property.”

“Rather like a moat, I would imagine,” James said.

Stackpoole laughed. “Almost! Inside there are private rooms for those with the funds to pay for private accommodation. For others, there are small dormitories. The men and women are kept in separate parts of the main building. There are some common areas allowed for those deemed not a danger to others: a dining room, a large, combined library and card room, and an outdoor area—all properly chaperoned, of course.”

“It sounds like you are quite familiar with the sanatorium.”

He nodded. “I try to visit my mother quarterly. There is an inn close by where I can stay. It caters to the families of those in the sanatorium.”

“The New Bell Inn?” James asked.

“Yes.”

“That is, fortuitously, where we have booked accommodations,” James said. “Can you tell us more about the sanatorium over all?”

“Like what?”

“The staff, the atmosphere, how available it is for visitors, that sort of things.”

Mr. Stackpoole blinked rapidly as he thought. It gave him an owl appearance. “The sanatorium is owned by Dr. Thaddeus Worcham, and he does live on the property with his wife. He generally has young doctors from medical schools on visitation for six months to a year at a time, those that wish to learn more about afflictions of the mind.” He frowned. “And about eight months ago, he hired a superintendent to assist with the functional aspects of the sanatorium.”

“I take it you do not like him,” James observed.

Mr. Stackpoole’s mouth twisted as he considered his feelings. “I don’t know if I do or don’t. He strikes me as not as affable as he appears to visitors, and from the few things my mother has let drop when I visit, I gather it is a carefully crafted fa?ade. In truth, I have been wondering if I should investigate other accommodations for my mother.”

“Interesting,” James murmured, exchanging a glance with Cecilia.

“It is easy to gain entrance to the building, though a staff member must unlock a broad set of double doors to get beyond the entrance hall. Most of the time, they have been ready to do so without questions.”

“Would you say their intent is to keep the patients in, not keep others out?”

“Yes. Especially after the accident last year.”

“Accident?”

He nodded. “Tragic story. One of the young female patients,” his brow furrowed, “at least I believe she was a patient—in truth, I cannot say if she was or wasn’t—wandered out at night. She was found the next morning drowned in the canal in front of the manor. That is what made Dr. Worcham decide he needed a superintendent to take care of the facilities and to put policies in place to prevent anything like that from happening again. My mother told me the doctor was quite distraught over the young woman’s death.”

“Do you know the identity of the woman who drowned?”

“No, I’m sorry I don’t. I’m afraid I didn’t think to ask my mother her name. I do know she hadn’t been there long. Leastwise, that is what my mother told me at the time. I assume she was a patient, but now that I think about it, Mother didn’t say that directly, either. The woman’s death so upset her that she briefly thought of returning home! That is what we talked about the most, the possibility of her coming home again.”

“If I might, I’d like to return to your father. You said his disapproval of your fiancée increased when he learned Miss Montgomery’s father was in the sanatorium. Why?”

“He feared she could become unstable in the future.”

“Some inheritance from her father?”

“Exactly. I told him that was nonsense, but he was adamant. So adamant he did something I have not known him to do in all the years mother has resided at Camden House. He went up there to visit and to find out for himself about Aileen’s father.”

“When did he do this?”

“About the same time as Lord Soothcoor went up north to visit Mr. Montgomery—I can’t see Lord Soothcoor as killing Mr. Montgomery, no matter what others believe,” the young man said earnestly.

“Neither can we, which is why we are going up to the sanatorium to investigate.”

“Might I accompany you as my carriage is a loss? I am only an indifferent rider, so I don’t wish to ride there. Mayhap I can assist you!” he said earnestly.

“Maybe you can,” Cecilia said, cocking her head to the side as she considered him.

“Cecilia, I can see you are planning something,” her husband said.

“Perhaps. I need to think about it more before we discuss it.”

“But we will discuss it,” James said forcefully.

Her laughter brightened the room. “Of a certainty, my love.”

Mr. Stackpoole frowned as he looked from the husband to the wife.

James and Cecilia looked at each other and grinned.

A knock on the parlor door brought with it the fragrant smell of an enticing roast. By the appearance of the number of platters, the inn staff brought in a hearty dinner.

Cecilia clapped her hands together. “Wonderful! I vow I am famished.”

“Best you pile your plate high, Mr. Stackpoole,” warned James. “Lady Branstoke has a hearty appetite for all her small stature. You won’t get a chance for second helpings,” he warned.

Cecilia playfully glared at him.

An hour later, the maid came to the parlor to remove the remains—such as were left—of the hearty repast. She was followed by the innkeeper.

“Mrs. Drupple has most of yur clothes cleaned and dried now, Mr. Stackpoole. They be in yur room,” the innkeeper said as he glanced about the room.

“Thank you, Mr. Drupple.” Mr. Stackpoole turned to the Branstokes. “So, might I accompany you in the morning?” he asked, his expression open and earnest below the straggly waves of brown hair that lay over the edges of his glasses.

James nodded. “Yes. I hope to leave by eight.” He looked at the innkeeper. “Might we have breakfast before then?”

“Yes, sar. I’ll tell the missus to plan fer seven.”

“Excellent. Until the morning, Mr. Stackpoole,” James said, inclining his head, dismissing the young man. He turned to their innkeeper. “Mr. Drupple, if I might have a brandy before bed?”

“Yes, sar, immediately.” He scurried away.

James gathered Cecilia into his arms and pulled her onto his lap as he sat in the corner of a tall-backed settle near the hearth.

She snuggled against him.

“Now about this plan you have…”