Murder in mayfair, p.26
Murder In Mayfair, page 26
Still, headache or no, I felt compelled to think the matter through, so ignoring my throbbing head, I continued on.
At some point, and for whatever reason, Mr. Chalmers had revealed the details of his wild scheme to Marianne’s father, Sir Prescott, and he had also come to believe in the validity of the treasure map and had also wanted to accompany Mr. Chalmers on the treasure-hunting expedition, but . . . a problem lay in his path. What to do with his young daughter whilst he and Mr. Chalmers chased down the hidden treasure trove? Plus, how to ensure that once they uncovered it, Mr. Chalmers did not snatch the prize for himself and run, taking everything with him, thus cutting Sir Prescott out of his share?
Nodding thoughtfully to myself, I chewed on my lower lip. It was at this juncture, I speculated, that the older man hatched his scheme for Mr. Chalmers to marry his daughter. That way, the three of them, traveling together, would not raise eyebrows, and furthermore, if something untoward happened to him, his daughter, now wed to the map-holder, would have a legitimate claim to the fortune. But . . . although Mr. Chalmers seemed to fall in with the plan, did he truly intend going along with it? Or, did he instead mean to simply avail himself of Sir Prescott’s funds in order to travel to the, as yet, undisclosed location, in the company of his true love, Cathleen Haworth, thereby cutting his child-bride and her father, Sir Prescott, out of any and all claim to the treasure?
I sucked in another long breath. It was a convoluted plan, to be sure, but then a great many plans do not look feasible to an outsider. And, in this case, a scheme that indeed appeared ridiculous to someone like myself, who was not gullible enough to believe in anything so far-flung as a treasure map, it appeared quite ridiculous indeed.
Yet, continuing to think further in the same vein, I next wondered if, perhaps, Mr. Chalmers had had anything to do with Sir Prescott’s death? Marianne had said her father died suddenly from a horrid stomach ailment, as if he were poisoned. Had Mr. Chalmers perhaps poisoned his father-in-law in order to acquire the necessary funds in which to travel? Or, could Marianne, who had begun to hatch her own secret scheme to abscond with the treasure, have poisoned her own father? And, then . . . did Marianne also kill her husband so that she and her true love, Mr. Northwood, could run away together with the walking stick that held the valuable treasure map?
If that were the case then, perhaps she and Mr. Northwood were not now headed for Gretna Green after all. Perhaps they were already, even now, aboard, perhaps, a cargo ship sailing out to sea for parts unknown. The more I mulled the outlandish scheme over, the more I came to believe that it was, indeed, the way of things. Marianne and Mr. Northwood could be married anywhere along the route to the treasure, there was no need to hie themselves off to Gretna Green in order to repeat their vows before they left the country. Had I not once heard, or read, that the captain of a ship could marry couples who wished to be wed mid-way to their destination, but whilst still out to sea?
Despite a rational part of myself telling me this was a decidedly far-fetched scheme, the more I continued to think on it, the more I came to believe in the truth of it. In addition, the more I came to believe that Mr. O’Reilly, the original owner of the coveted walking stick, who now knew who was currently in possession of it, is precisely why Marianne and Mr. Northwood felt compelled to vanish from London as soon as possible, before daybreak this very morning!
The couple had not meant to leave so quickly, but they could not take the chance that Mr. O’Reilly would run Northwood to ground and steal the stick from him before they had the chance to track down the treasure, so they hatched a quick scheme to escape.
Mulling the elaborate plan over in my mind, I could clearly see the reasoning behind Marianne and Mr. Northwood’s rash action and began to nod in agreement. More and more I came to believe that my wild speculations were square on the mark.
But, since the cunning culprits had now absconded with the walking stick, how was I to prove my theory?
When another thought struck, my eyes narrowed. Oh, I could prove it all right. There was still one guaranteed way in which to prove that the devious scheme I had unwittingly uncovered was indeed the whole truth.
CHAPTER 26
Miss Haworth Attends The Auction
I HAD NOT INVITED CATHLEEN Haworth to attend the auction but I felt certain she would put in an appearance in the ballroom . . . this very afternoon.
I was not wrong.
Once again, during a lull in the proceedings, I turned in my chair to glance toward the rear door, a part of me still hoping to catch sight of Mr. Talbot. Instead, I immediately spotted Mr. Phelps’ henchmen standing guard, but also there, to one side of them, huddled beneath a long cloak, her long-billed Poke bonnet all but hiding her face from view, stood Miss Cathleen Haworth.
Springing from my chair, I hastened that direction.
Spying me, she tilted up her chin and defiantly held my gaze as I approached.
“Miss Haworth,” I murmured with the briefest of nods.
“Miss Abbott. I suppose you intend ordering me from the premises.”
I pasted an insincere smile upon my face. “Not at all. You are welcome to bid on anything you like.”
Her lips firmed as she thrust her chin up another notch. “As it happens, I would like to bid on something that . . . belonged to him.” Her gaze dropped for an instant as apparently a rush of emotion threatened to dissolve her rigid composure. “Something small . . . to remember him by.”
I resisted the urge to remind her that she was already in possession of something small to remember him by and if all went well, that small something would provide her with a vivid reminder of her lover for a long time to come. But, realizing that would be a cruel thing to say, I bit back the retort and instead asked, “Was there something in particular of Mr. Chalmers’ that you would like to have?” Not waiting for a reply, I asked, “His walking stick, perhaps?”
Her head jerked up so fast I feared she may have injured her neck. Yet, she merely said, “T-That would serve. Mr. Chalmers quite fancied his walking stick. It is small and . . . and should not be too very costly. As you know, my . . . funds are . . . limited.”
I smiled inwardly. “Ah, but to be in possession of Mr. Chalmers’ walking stick would remedy that situation quite nicely, would it not?”
Her quick intake of breath did not escape my notice. Nor did the flare of her nostrils mere seconds before her shoulders drooped and she ducked her head. “How did you know?” Her voice was so soft I had to lean closer in order to hear. “Did Mrs. Chalmers confide in you, or . . . or did you sort it out for yourself? You always were . . . quite clever.”
“As it happens, Mrs. Chalmers presented her late husband’s walking stick to her lover. I believe the pair of them sorted it out, and are even now on their way to . . .”
Her bonneted head jerked up. “They are gone? That disgusting little tramp absconded with Alistair’s walking stick and they have gone in search of . . .” Her voice trailed off before she uttered the final word that would indeed prove my theory.
“The . . . what, Cathleen? They have gone in search of what? The treasure?”
Through gritted teeth, she spat out, “He never meant to take her with him. He married her only to get his hands on her father’s money. Which he meant to . . . but I take it you know the rest. And, now he is dead.” Her voice nearly broke. “She killed him. I am certain of it!”
I said nothing. At length, Miss Haworth regained herself and once more turned to gaze defiantly at me. “So, what is to become of you now that your employer has fled? Poor Juliette. It appears your cleverness has once again left you without a home or a living.”
I could not resist smiling as I replied, “But, look where your cleverness has got you.”
Her lips firmed. “My only crime was to fall in love with a dear, kind, thoughtful man who wished only to . . .” She nearly choked. “T-To care for me, and his . . . and he would have, too, if not for her!”
Suddenly, an unexpected rush of sympathy for my former friend washed over me. Sill, I resisted the urge to touch her arm or yes, even to draw her into my arms. But my tone was far less accusing when I said, “It is unfortunate Mr. Chalmers felt compelled to confide his plan to the father of one of his language students. It is even more unfortunate that Mr. Chalmers’ scheme to obtain the necessary funds to follow his dream, instead, cost him his life. But, perhaps the lure of great wealth does that to one.” I paused. “I truly am sorry for the outcome of Mr. Chalmers’ actions, Cathleen. I am certain he would have married you and taken you with him on what could only have been the adventure of a lifetime. Whether or not the treasure actually exists,” I could not help adding. “I know you loved him, and I believe he loved you. I truly am sorry for your loss, and for the . . . predicament you now find yourself in.”
I watched as tears gathered in her eyes but saying nothing further, she instead gathered the long folds of her cape about her swollen body and slipped through the rear door of the ballroom. I heard the click of her boots on the stairs as she carefully made her way to the ground floor. To see her so sad and defeated truly did tug at my heart.
THAT EVENING, I ATE my solitary dinner alone at the little table in the far corner of the sitting room, my own body weary following the overlong day, yet my thoughts still in a tangle and my heart heavy.
Mere minutes after the last of the purchased artifacts had been removed from the ballroom today and Mr. Phelps had bid me good day, a message arrived from Mr. Talbot telling me that soon after he left here, he had been unexpectedly called back to Morland Manor. An emergency, he said, had arisen in one of Sir Morland’s manufactories and he was obliged to return at once. He apologized for not making good on his word to attend the auction and hoped that all went well. He also said he hoped the ruffian had not returned to Brook Street to harass me. Once again to my dismay, he did not say he would write, nor did he ask me to correspond with him. He concluded by saying how pleased he was to have seen me again and that he hoped we might meet again one day.
The finality of those words brought a rush of hot tears to my eyes, but after wallowing in self-pity for only a short while, I dried my tears and squared my shoulders. I had managed to live thus far without a gentleman to lean upon; no doubt, I would continue to do so. At present, I was not entirely certain how I might accomplish the feat but I knew I would. After all, I had no choice but to carry on alone.
Later, after I retired to my bed, I felt some measure of relief over having sorted out the puzzle, or at least the bulk of it. I finally knew why Mr. Chalmers had been killed. I was still uncertain who had killed him, but I did rather expect the guilt for the awful crime lay squarely at the feet of both Mr. Chalmers’ child-bride Marianne and her gentleman friend Mr. Evan Northwood.
Although I suspected it was Marianne who set the entire devious scheme in motion, still I firmly doubted that she was strong enough to have hefted the heavy bronze candlestick high above her head, then bring it crashing down onto the head of her husband with sufficient force to kill the unsuspecting man who sat at his desk unaware he was near to drawing his final breath. No, I rather expect it was Mr. Northwood who delivered the fatal blow. He had no doubt called at the house, having likely entered by the rear door, (since Miss Goodman across the way had not mentioned seeing a gentleman arrive at the house that day) and Marianne had shown him into the study herself. Whether it was the first time Mr. Northwood had called, or not, was a moot point. But, it did indicate that he and Marianne were in collusion as far as planning and committing the awful crime.
Since it was no secret that nearly every afternoon she left the house in her father’s carriage, to have met up with Mr. Northwood at any time previous to the fateful day would have been easy enough. At any rate, on that particular day, having presented her ‘family friend’ to her husband, in all probability the three of them fell into conversation and at some point, Northwood managed to strike and kill Mr. Chalmers. Then, to avoid detection, he more than likely hastily fled the house the same way he had come in, by the servants’ entrance. Why the window behind the desk stood open, I did not know. Perhaps Mr. Chalmers had an affinity for fresh air.
After the two committed the crime, I expect Marianne calmly walked back up the stairs to her bedchamber to wait. Or, perhaps they both set out together afterward, to gloat; Mr. Northwood now in possession of the precious walking stick. Perhaps they took tea at Gunter’s or some-such place to revel in the success of their deadly escapade. Then, whilst away from the house, Cathleen arrived. She let herself into the house, the same as I did later, only to find Mr. Chalmers lying dead on the floor. Cathleen, however, growing frightened, hurriedly shoved aside a few books in search of her letters, then upon not finding them, stole a key from her dead lover’s pocket, or perhaps spotted it lying on the desk, or within a drawer, intending to return later to resume her search for her letters; then she, too, fearing detection, frantically fled the house. Although, probably not through the opened window.
Some minutes later, I appeared at the door, perhaps very near to the selfsame moment that Marianne reentered the house by the rear door, or if she were still at home, perhaps she merely walked down the stairs intent upon confronting and accusing, whoever had unwittingly entered the house. At any rate, to accuse me, an unknown young lady whom she happened upon standing over the dead body of her husband, the bloody candlestick in hand, was far too convenient a circumstance to pass up.
And now, today, the guilty pair had fled to parts unknown and I . . . was left to wonder what lay ahead for me? I am certain the Gants, and Tim, were equally as anxious about their futures as well. Following our shared fright before dawn this morning, very little had been said between us the remainder of the day, and not a one of us had speculated upon whether or not Marianne and her new husband, Mr. Northwood, would return here, or even if they would return.
I had revealed nothing to the Gants regarding my suspicions about the murder, or about the treasure map rolled up inside the walking stick. About our respective futures, not a one of us knew a thing. Mr. Gant had, however, delightedly reported to me that the carriage was still shut up in the mews, as were the horses, which told me Northwood had arrived to collect Marianne in a hired coach. Which further indicated to me that they had boarded a ship and sailed away. There was sufficient wind today for a vessel to put out to sea; plus Mr. Northwood was the sort of man who could negotiate passage on any sort of ship leaving the harbor, and now being in possession of the funds from the metal box in the wardrobe could hand over any price demanded of him.
Thinking further, I wondered if perhaps earlier this week, or even last week, Marianne and Mr. Northwood had withdrawn the funds left on deposit with the Bank of England. That Marianne would leave the remainder of her father’s fortune behind hardly seemed likely. On the other hand, it was possible the money might still be there. After all, the pair’s decision to leave London was apparently hatched of a sudden, following the unexpected dust-up with Mr. O’Reilly yesterday in the ballroom. To my knowledge Marianne had not left the house the remainder of the afternoon yesterday, so unless the funds were withdrawn prior to that time, the money might still be there.
Which, so far as I could see, provided the only faint hope on the horizon that the Gants, and Tim, and I might not starve, at least not in the very near future.
CHAPTER 27
Another Unexpected Caller . . .
A FORTNIGHT LATER, March 1821
In the past fortnight, I had been unable to draw a single breath free of anxiety and had also not yet gathered sufficient courage to boldly enter the Bank of England in order to inquire if any funds remained on deposit in the late Sir Oliver Prescott’s account. For all I knew, even if the money were still there, Marianne might have taken the precaution of warning the Governor of the bank that regardless of her prior statement, and my signature, Miss Juliette Abbott was not, in fact, her elder sister. If I, the imposter, were to brazenly appear and demand the money be handed over to me, they must call the authorities at once and have me arrested for theft. Of course, I realized that any such action to that effect on my part could very well be considered theft, therefore unless it proved absolutely necessary, I would do all in my power to refrain from taking such action.
Since returning to London, I had already been accused of murder and brought before a Bow Street magistrate, therefore I did not relish also being brought up on charges of theft were I to attempt to withdraw funds that were clearly not my own. I might be guilty of fabricating a small falsehood on occasion, but I was not a thief. Or, a murderer.
Therefore, since the day that we four, the Gants, Timothy and I, had been abandoned by our mistress, I had made the decision that we must, instead, become even more frugal with the amount, albeit generous, I had received after Mr. Phelps tallied up the proceeds from the auction. That money, or at least a portion of it, I did believe I had earned and therefore had a right to use for our collective survival. The Gants and Timothy were also due wages, so I did not feel as if any one of us were overstepping the bounds by continuing to remain in the Brook Street house and also to eat. At this juncture, there was no saying what might transpire from one day to the next. Would Mrs. Chalmers (or perhaps she was now Mrs. Northwood) return to London, or would she not? Not a one of us knew the answer to that question.
However, one day in late March, a somewhat tattered missive was delivered to our door, which Mr. Gant brought up to me at once.
