As Death Draws Near (9 page)

“Corcoran, what's this I hear about you abandonin' the
inquiry.” The man in question didn't even bother to let the cadet finish his sentence, but barged through the door past him. His steps came up short at the sight of me and Gage.

Mr. LaTouche was a tall and imposing man, made all the more so by the expert fit of his clothing, clearly London-tailored. In fact, his appearance rivaled Gage's for sophistication, though the fact that Gage wore his attire so effortlessly only made LaTouche look as if he was trying too hard. I supposed the ladies would describe him as dashing, but any appreciation I might have felt was soured by his resemblance to Gage's father. However, where Lord Gage was light, LaTouche was dark, with raven black hair just beginning to turn to gray at the temples, except for a pair of piercing Irish blue eyes. These he turned to me with what I suspected was normally a devastating effect on the women of his acquaintance. Or so his arrogant smile seemed to say.

Corcoran, I noticed, had risen to his feet, but I elected to use my prerogative as a lady to remain seated. It irked me somehow to see how everyone seemed to cater to this Mr. LaTouche, though it was only to be expected. He was evidently a man of some importance here in Rathfarnham. People in every village in Britain acted the same way toward men of higher rank or consequence. Why should this one instance bother me?

Ah, but I knew the answer to that, and it was no fault of the man himself. I tried to push Lord Gage from my thoughts and listen as Corcoran performed the introductions and explained our presence.

Mr. LaTouche owned a sizable estate a short distance south of the Priory, where we were staying. It was what would be termed a gentleman's country residence, the place where he and his family would retire to from the overcrowding and stench of the city of Dublin. I gathered he was not the typical land-holding member of the gentry, for he owned two of the local mills, as well as several shipping ventures.

“Lady Darby,” he murmured, bowing over the hand I offered him. “I'm enchanted.”

“Please, call me Mrs. Gage,” I replied, ignoring the flattery.

To his credit, he didn't even blink at my request. “But, of course.” He stood tall again, taking us all in. “As I'm sure you've gathered, I'm here to find out what's bein' done about dat girl's death. But now dat I see you are here, well, I suppose dat's answer enough.”

I smiled tightly, wondering just how much of our reputations had preceded us, and how much he was reacting to Corcoran's proclamation that Wellington himself had sent us.

“You
are
here to investigate the death of Miss Lennox, are ye not?” he pressed, clearly angling for information. “Not some other matter wit which I'm unfamiliar?”

Somehow I doubted this man was unfamiliar with much that mattered in this community.

“Yes, we're making inquiries into her death on behalf of the family,” Gage replied, crossing one ankle behind the other to lean more casually against the back of my chair. “Were you acquainted with Miss Lennox?”

“Wit the family? Certainly. Hard not to be in a town as small as Dublin.” By which he meant the good society of the Protestant Ascendancy, not the city itself; that was clear. “'Twas unexpected enough to hear of her conversion to Catholicism, but den to hear of her murder. Well, ye can imagine the shock. Such a ting simply cannot be allowed to happen. Even to a Catholic girl.”

I frowned. It seemed I was to be perpetually caught off guard by the way these people thought of and chose to speak about Catholics. It was something I imagined I'd hardly noticed when people referred to them in the past, but now that the matter was forefront in my mind, I couldn't help but feel unsettled. This dislike and distrust was something British Catholics dealt with from the cradle, and yet I'd almost taken no note. It's never easy to discover you've been willfully ignorant of the struggles of others when you've experienced struggles of your own.

“Yes. They are, after all, still human,” Gage drawled.

“Precisely,” Mr. LaTouche declared, either unaware of his
sarcasm or choosing to ignore it. “Whether one believes in the wages of sin or not, such a murder is unacceptable.”

I stiffened.

He flicked a glance at Corcoran. “If, in fact, it was murder.”

It appeared he was almost as well acquainted with this inquiry as we were.

“Well.” He smiled disarmingly at us. “I feel much better knowin' Wellington has sent his best people to handle this investigation.”

I forced an answering smile to my face, though I now felt certain he was aware of exactly who we were, and was familiar with my scandalous reputation. It was there in the speculative gleam in his eyes, the avid scouring of my figure, as if he would find some clue written there. An extra limb perhaps? Or a forked tail?

I changed my mind about my earlier assessment. I still disliked him, but not because of his resemblance to Lord Gage. No, he had earned my enmity all on his own.

But I had learned from Gage when it was best to play nice. That you caught more flies with honey than vinegar. People most often let their secrets slip when they were least vigilant.

So we genially took our leave of Mr. LaTouche and Chief Constable Corcoran. Though, truth be told, I let Gage do most of the talking. I was afraid my tone of voice would reveal more than I wished.

Gage was quiet as we strolled down the hall toward the front of the building, ignoring the curious looks sent our way. He waited until we reached the door, which I noticed no longer boasted guards, before he spoke, mumbling almost under his breath, “The wages of sin. Now where have I heard that before?”

“It's from the Bible,” I replied hollowly. “In Romans, I believe. ‘For the wages of sin is death.'”

I felt his eyes on my face, perhaps better understanding my reaction now when Mr. LaTouche had quoted it. Then he surprised me. “‘But the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.'”

I turned to meet his gaze, blinking against the brightness of the sun.

His mouth quirked in chagrin. “My grandfather rather strictly encouraged the memorization of Bible verses.”

From the little he'd told me of his maternal grandfather, this did not shock me.

“Yes, well, I suspect Mr. LaTouche forgot that was the rest of the verse,” I muttered.

His brow furrowed. “I suspect a lot of people do.”

T
he phaeton still stood where we had left it, with Anderley holding the reins to the matching pair of Friesians. His mouth creased in the momentary flicker of a smile at something Bree had said while she absently stroked the shiny dark coat of the steed on the right. I'd not realized she was so comfortable with horses, but then again, I'd had little opportunity to view her in such a setting. I was starting to think there was a great deal I didn't know about my maid.

They both looked up as we approached, and something of my vexation must have been evident for Bree's freckled complexion blanched. “Did they no' wish yer help?”

“No. They were actually quite receptive,” Gage replied, and then sighed. “If not predictably intolerant.” He turned to his valet then, asking an unspoken question which Anderley seemed to understand, for he nodded down the street toward the river.

“They strolled that way, sir. The rude, towheaded one dipped into that gate, while the other continued down the street and crossed to the other side before making his way back toward town. Making his rounds, I suppose.”

The gate in question led into the graveyard, of which we'd had a decent view through Chief Constable Corcoran's window. Given the lively and illegal body-snatching trade still
occurring throughout Britain, I supposed it was common for the police to patrol cemeteries and other secluded places looking for possible disturbances or the presence of undesirables, but we had never seen Casey pass by. If his task had been to search the churchyard, he'd done a rather poor job of it.

Or had he slipped into the graveyard for another reason? Maybe to stand next to his superior's open window to hear what was said?

I could tell by Gage's lowered brow that he'd had a similar thought.

“Did you see him leave again?”

Anderley shook his head and Gage turned to stare at the ornamental gate some thirty feet away. I wondered if he was considering entering the graveyard himself, perhaps to confront Casey, but then he seemed to discard the idea, ushering me toward the carriage.

I waited until we passed the rows of shops before raising my voice to be heard above the clattering of the wheels. “Is that why you squeezed my shoulder to stop me from asking more questions about Casey? Did you know he was outside the window?”

His eyes flicked toward me before focusing on the horses once again. “No. But I was worried Corcoran might ask Casey about Miss Lennox himself, and then by the time we had a chance to question him, he would have his answer prepared.”

Bree made a sound behind us like a hiccup, and I pivoted to look over my shoulder at her, but her gaze was trained on the side of the road. She raised her hand to a child standing there who appeared to be waving to us in greeting, and I did likewise. “I hadn't thought of that,” I admitted. “He seemed so happy to pass the investigation on to us.”

“Yes. But that doesn't mean he would be best pleased to hear secondhand how one of his own men could be a suspect. He might think it better to be diligent enough to see that doesn't happen.”

I frowned. “Then I may have spoiled our chances of seeing his honest reaction.”

Gage smiled. “Maybe. But I suspect there's more than one way to rile Constable Casey. If he thinks we're interested in him, he might save us the trouble and come to us.”

•   •   •

I
t was plain to see that the gardens and grounds of the abbey were the true jewel of the property. I had yet to explore beyond the front hall and parlor inside, but I had a difficult time believing anything inside could rival the parklands, even knowing the house was formerly a gentleman's manor. A wide central walk lined with tall chestnut trees led down through the gardens, with narrower paths leading off in several different directions. There was the expected herb garden, and a rather large vegetable patch, but also a beautiful flower garden, bursting with blooms. I caught sight of a pond in the distance, with the pale white blur of Miss Lennox's swans floating across the surface. At the end of the walk stood a summerhouse overlooking a tiny stream, which trickled merrily over a small cascade of rocks as it made its way toward the pond.

We turned left just before the summerhouse, following the course of the stream for several more yards before it veered away. I suspected it joined the larger pond beyond the abbey property—the one Miss Lennox had claimed she was visiting when she was caught outside the walls—with the abbey pond. Mother Paul guided me and Gage through an arch shaped from twisted vines, carefully pruned and overgrown with brambles, their berries plump and ripe, ready to be picked.

Which, in fact, was exactly what a young man with a coppery head full of shaggy hair was doing. He'd propped a large basket against his hip to catch the berries he reached up to pluck with dexterous fingers. He glanced up as we passed, giving us a glimpse of his ruddy, freckled complexion and whiskey brown eyes, which widened at the sight of us. He was broad of shoulder, tall, and whipcord lean, making him appear at least as old as I was. Until his hand slipped and clamped down, bursting one of the blackberries.
He thoughtlessly swiped it down the side of his linen trousers like a little boy with fingers sticky from jam, and I began to suspect he might actually be a few years younger.

Mother Paul continued into the orchard with us trailing after her as we wove through the trees planted in uniform straight lines toward the far wall. The air was sweet with growing fruit—apples and pears and figs—and buzzing with the activity of bees, which zipped from branch to branch. High in the branches of one mulberry tree, a blackbird perched singing, her sharp tweets overloud in the peace and stillness. This truly was a quiet corner of the abbey, far from the house and the more populated gardens. The summer-full trees shielded you from sight, and the dense leaves absorbed much of the sound.

It was no wonder no one had heard cries of distress or witnessed a confrontation. Even if Miss Lennox had been found inside the abbey walls, she would still have been as far from the manor as possible. Which made me wonder if the first time she'd been caught outside the abbey walls had truly been the first time she'd ventured there. It also called into question her excuse that she'd been watching the flight of a gray heron and unthinking clambered through the wall. The missing portion of the wall was too far out of the way, too well hidden for someone to stumble upon. She had to have known it was there and deliberately set out for it.

When we finally reached the wall, I could better understand what the reverend mother had been trying to explain. It was a very old construction of mud and stone, and it was clear that at some point the ground around it had been flooded, loosening the joints and causing a two-foot-wide section to collapse. Some of the stones had been moved since then, and stacked neatly to the side, while others had been left to lie where they had fallen.

Through the gap I could see that the ground sloped upward and then leveled out into the soft green expanse of a field scattered with wildflowers. A small flock of sheep
dotted the horizon just beyond the blue-green water of the pond Miss Lennox had supposedly gone to visit. At the right edge of the pond stood a beech tree, which towered over the open landscape, the tallest point in sight.

Mother Paul stood aside as Gage and I climbed through the rough opening of crumbled masonry into the field beyond. Here, more stones littered the ground, though most of them were clustered close to the wall.

“Has anyone moved these since Miss Lennox was found?” Gage swiveled to ask her as she leaned out through the wall, watching our search.

She glanced to the left and to the right. “Not that I'm aware of. But then the constables are free to come and go from the land outside the wall. They might have been here shifting things later. But . . .” she paused, scouring the grass again “. . . no. I don't think so.”

Gage nodded and paced farther out into the field, the tall grass swishing against his leather boots. I hovered near the wall, watching him, fairly certain if there'd been anything to find, they would have uncovered it the evening Miss Lennox died. If not, it must have been dropped or thrown far from the abbey wall, and there was little chance of us locating it now in the tangle of this overgrown field.

I pressed closer to the cool stone of the wall, trying to escape the warm rays of the sun high overhead. My sapphire blue redingote with gigot sleeves had been quite comfortable in the chill of morning, but now I could feel the heat gathering beneath my stays. I couldn't imagine how warm the sisters must feel in their heavy black serge and crape veil, not to mention all the other intricate pieces of their attire—the petticoats, caps, tippets, and girdles. It was no wonder they began cutting their hair close to the head the moment they were clothed in their habit. How else could they bear it?

Mother Paul and I both turned at the approach of footsteps, watching as the dark shapes of two nuns emerged from behind the trees. The first sister was quite tall, her high
stature aided by the fact that she seemed to glide across the ground, her feet barely touching the earth hidden beneath her habit. Her complexion was smooth as alabaster, and her expression serene and calm. It was a countenance to rival any of the saints I had seen painted on murals and triptychs.

In marked contrast, the other nun was short and slight, her fingers fidgeting with the ebony beads hanging at her side. She tried to feign a tranquil demeanor, but her dark eyebrows gave her away, shifting up and down, quivering as her forehead flexed. She was some years younger than the sister beside her, some years younger than even my twenty-six years, which might have accounted for her restlessness.

Mother Paul swiftly made the introductions as Gage joined us. My interest heightened as we learned that Mother Mary Fidelis, Miss Lennox's advisor, was this tall, serene nun, and Sister Mary Maxentia was the anxious younger one. Sister Maxentia was also still a novice.

From quizzing Bree earlier, I had learned that this was the second stage of becoming a nun. First, one became a postulant for about a year. After that, one could apply to become a novice, being clothed in the habit and given a new name. This stage lasted for about two to three years, before one finally made their profession, taking their vows and becoming fully a bride of Christ. But even that wasn't so simple. There were levels of vows—temporary, simple, solemn, perpetual—and the level of the vow you had taken, as well as the consideration of whether you had brought a dowry with you to be given to the convent, determined whether you were titled Sister or Mother. It was somewhat confusing for someone who had never reflected on the lives of nuns until a few days prior.

“Ye wish to know where we found Miss Lennox dat night?” Mother Fidelis asked softly.

“Yes,” Gage replied carefully. “But if I may, can I ask how you came to look here in the first place?”

“Because Reverend Mother asked us to search the grounds for her, and I knew she'd gone dis way before.” Mother Fidelis's voice was easy, almost emotionless, and yet not cold.

“And what did you find when you reached the wall?”

“'Twas nearly dark, so 'twas difficult to see much at a distance. I'd brought a lantern, but kept it shuttered, as at dat hour 'twas more of a hindrance yet than a help. We'd been callin' her name as we approached, but not heard a word in response.” At this, she glanced sideways at Sister Maxentia, who nodded briskly, content for Mother Fidelis to do the talking.

“We paused at the wall—much as we're standin' now—and tried to peer out through the gloom. Reverend Mother hadn't given us permission to search beyond the abbey grounds, so I was hesitant to go much further. But den I thought I heard somethin'. A sort of whimper.”

“Miss Lennox was alive when you reached her?” I gasped in surprise, not having expected this.

Mother Fidelis shook her head. “No. So perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps what I heard was merely the sound of a small animal, or the wind.” A small furrow formed between her eyes, the first indication of any uncertainty I'd seen in her, before being smoothed away. “But whatever the case, it made me decide a search outside the wall was warranted. Once I'd moved a few steps toward the pond, I could see her lyin' in the grass just there.” She pointed behind us, and Gage crossed the space.

“Here?”

“A few steps more. Aye, dat's it.”

Gage slowly turned, making a precursory examination of the area before dropping to his haunches to stare more closely into the patch of wild thyme. It seemed evident now. I could see how trampled the grass was in that expanse. But after nearly two weeks' growth, rain, and the footsteps of both the helpful and the curious, it would have been difficult to figure out exactly where in the trodden grass she'd rested.

“How was her body positioned?” I asked, trying to picture it.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see that Sister Maxentia had turned away, as if Miss Lennox were still lying out
in the field. Mother Paul reached out to press a comforting hand to her shoulder.