The Clockwork Wolf (7 page)

Her shoulders went rigid. “That is not your business.”

“None of this is,” I agreed. “But if your husband had a particular friend, I will have to know.”

She pressed her fingers to her mouth before she
dropped her hand. “My husband did not seek out such women. He regarded the vows of marriage as sacred, and when he felt need of conjugal intimacy, he came to me.” She caught my gaze in the mirror. “You may regard this as fantastic, Kittredge, but Terrance was an excellent man and a devoted husband.”

She said that in her president-of-the-Rumsen-Ladies'-Decency-Society tone, which told me two things: either the late Lord Bestly had been genuinely devoted to his wife, or he had shown his deference to her by being extremely discreet. Given that she had as much personal warmth as a mountaintop in December, I'd put my stakes on the latter.

“Very well, no particular friends.” I tucked a hairpin in place. “Can you recall what he did on the day before he died?”

“I can't say for the morning. I hadn't slept well so I rose rather late that day.” She cleared her throat. “I had luncheon with Terrance at one, and we discussed the weather and gardens. I was concerned about another frost harming the sweet pea vines. He directed Jarvis to speak to the groundsman and have him blanket the new blooms—it was all very normal, Kittredge. Nothing to indicate he entertained violent plans, or felt guilty or remorseful.”

“Why would he? He hadn't done anything yet.” I tucked some stray strands under the coil of her chignon. “After your luncheon, did he return to his study?”

“Yes. No. I believe he went direct to his dressing room to change. I spoke to him in the hall a little before three.” She frowned. “He left shortly after that, and he didn't return.”

I picked up a comb and came round to smooth out the front of her hair. “What did you say to him in the hall, exactly?”

“If you must know, I told him he looked deplorable.” Her jaw tightened. “My last words to my husband were to suggest he sack the valet. Such a warm memory to cherish, don't you think?”

“You weren't to know you'd never see him again. There.” I lowered the comb and stepped back. “I've done as much damage as I can.”

Lady Bestly examined her reflection. “This is good work. Somewhat simple but quite tolerable.” Her eyes narrowed. “You're very familiar with a maid's duties for someone who has never been in service.”

“I've played the part a time or two, most often for my mother. Mum loved having her hair brushed.” I let the comb fall onto the vanity table with a clatter. “I directed Annie to put together morning tea for you. She can't cook so you shouldn't expect anything hot. While you're downstairs I'll have a look at his lordship's rooms, with your permission.”

“Of course,” she said. “His bedchamber and dressing room are at the end of the hall. The study is at the back of the house, across from the dining room.”

“Thank you, milady.” I retrieved my case.

“Kittredge, any evidence you might locate must be brought to me directly, that I may examine it for myself,” Lady Bestly said. “Nothing you find is to leave the house, is that understood?”

She doled out insults much more deftly than she did compliments—and she was also frightened, maybe even terrified, of what I might find. “Absolutely, milady.”

•   •   •

I started my search in Lord Bestly's bedchamber, which appeared to have been tidied but smelled musty, as if no one had entered since the night of his death. I drew back the curtains only to confront the dark blue funeral blind that had been tacked to the frame. Removing it would only further scandalize her ladyship's neighbors, so I left it in place and instead lit the lamps.

The chamber could have belonged to any successful gentleman. Several carefully polished trophies marched along the marble mantel above the cold hearth; I read one engraved plaque that proclaimed a hunting victory some thirty years past. The others were of the same age and boasted of his lordship's prowess at shooting, archery, and tracking.

“Quite the sportsman in your youth.” Lady Bestly had likely put an end to all that after their wedding; an unfortunate clash with some native hunters twenty years ago had made outdoor sport uncongenial, and therefore unfashionable, among the tonners.

After taking the magnifying glass and some other tools from my case I looked through Lord Bestly's armoire, secretary, and boot cases, finding nothing but costly garments and ruthlessly polished leather. He'd dressed mainly in the dark, conservative style of his rank with some startling contradictions; he'd liked complicated cravats that must have bedeviled his valet, and had amassed an astonishing variety of bejeweled lapel pins. I also found a watch case containing a dozen pocket watches, all solid gold and set with diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and other precious stones.

If he'd left the house on the day of his death looking deplorable, as her ladyship had indicated, it hadn't been because of his wardrobe.

The stark cut and sober color of his clothing didn't fit with the flashiness of his neckties and personal adornments; pairing them would have made him resemble a magpie. Perhaps that was what his wife had found so objectionable. The garments were intended for wearing at home, definitely, but the pins and the watches . . .

When I went downstairs I'd have to ask her to explain what exactly about his garments had prompted her withering observation.

The silk coverlet on the bed appeared unwrinkled and spotless, and when I drew it back I found his linens in the same condition. Beneath the bed the necessary was bone dry and occupied by a small, deceased house spider, a dusty web, and a tiny broken egg sac, indicating the pot hadn't been used or cleaned for quite some time.

I bent over the bed and sniffed the linens, detecting a strong version of the musty odor. The bed hadn't been stripped or slept in for weeks, perhaps months. I lifted the mattress on either side to probe it with my ticking pick, but found no cache beneath the edges, and nothing stuffed or hidden in the ticking.

“The only thing really living in here was that poor spinner,” I muttered.

I went from the bedchamber to the dressing room, which I found in much the same state. The adjoining lavatory held a large bath, sink, and washstand that hadn't known water in months. An expensive assortment of pomades, colognes, and soaps filled the toiletry
cabinet, but most were dried up or showed the cracks of nonuse. His hairbrush held plenty of dust but not a single hair; his straight razor sported an edge of uneven rust, and lay resting beside a cake of shaving soap so desiccated it had shrunk from the edges of its porcelain dish.

I made a second sweep of both rooms, this time searching for any cashsafes or hidey-hole in which Lord Bestly might have stashed his secrets and warded with concealment magic. After running my echo across every wall and finding nothing, I stomped downstairs to the study.

The cold of the interior gave me pause on the threshold, and I took a moment to take it in. Here was a room that had been regularly occupied, unlike what I'd seen upstairs; signs of Lord Bestly's presence were everywhere. A copy of the
Rumsen Daily
lay partially unfolded on a table by the hearth-side armchair; a half-empty carafe of some dark amber liquor stood sparkling by several crystal tumblers. Neat stacks of correspondence sat on one side of the desk opposite a hefty book with a monogrammed brass marker poking out of its pages. A pair of riding boots, shining with a mirror finish, stood near a cloak stand hung with three different gentleman's coats.

Years of the master smoking cigars, handling paper, and sipping strong drink had permeated the study with the pungent but not unpleasant scent of all three. According to his wife, Lord Bestly had spent much of his time in his study. My impression was that his lordship had practically lived in here, although Rina had said lately he'd been entrenched at his club. Perhaps he'd divided his time between both. . . .

Because this was where I would likely find any real
evidence of what had happened to the gentleman, I moved into the room with slow, deliberate steps, turning my head from side to side to inspect everything. I studied the arrangement of the furnishings, read the titles of the books in the glass-fronted shelfairs, and eyed the measures of liquor left in each bottle standing on the libation trolley.

With the latter I saw something very wrong: three of the decanters had less than an inch of liquor in them. Tonners prided themselves on being able to offer their cronies a drink whenever they came to call; whenever a bottle ran low Lord Bestly would have ordered the butler to refill it.

The apple and pear brandies remained full, as did all of the smaller schnapps. Only one bottle had been completely emptied, and I picked it up and lifted the stopper to smell it. The strong odor of blue ruin still clung to the inside of the decanter. The selection of spirits made it plain that Bestly often drank at home, but why bother when he could freely indulge at his club? Unless he went there for other reasons. . . .

The door behind me opened. “Fancy a drink, miss?”

I turned round to see a younger man grinning at me. His livery identified him as the lingering footman and, judging by the badly wrinkled state of his sleeves, trousers, and jacket, he'd evidently slept in it. His bloodshot eyes were a light blue made disagreeably insipid by the darkness of his olive skin and the greasy gleam of his heavily pomaded black hair. The distinctive bridge of his nose suggested that at least one of his parents had been Talian.

“I don't drink spirits. They make my eyes red.” I replaced the gin bottle on the trolley. “And what is your name?”

“Roger Akins, at your service, miss.” He abstained from a bow and tramped toward me. “The pretty gels all call me Jolly. 'Cause I am, you see.”

The smell rolling toward me told me what fate Lord Bestly's blue ruin had met.

“Is this jolliness a perpetual state,” I asked, “or something you enjoy only after you help yourself to the master's liquor?”

“Posh talk for a shopgel,” he said with a sneer. “What you come here to sell her? Gloves? Hats? Sashes? Give it up, she can't wear nothing new.” He squinted at me. “Or are you one them what chases out unwholesome spirits? What they call them, exormages?”

“I am here to tidy up,” I agreed.

“Should have said.” Giving me more of a wary look he veered away and went to the trolley, where he filled a tumbler with whiskey. “Sure you don't want a sip? It's top notch, best quality. Still burns going down, but won't leave you with a raw gullet.”

“I never indulge, thank you.” I saw Lady Bestly appear in the doorway behind him. “It's also rather early to be drinking.”

“Bah.” He swatted at the air between us. “Herself's like you, don't take no spirits. Rest of household's run off in the night.” He leaned forward and added in a mock-whisper, “So if someone has a bit of a nightcap when the day's work's done, or even before it starts, who's to know, ay?”

“As you say, mate.” I kept my gaze on him. “What did you sample besides the drink?”

“Couple of them cigars.” He made a hideous face at the humidor. “Don't smoke easy like cigs. Couldn't hardly keep them lit.”

He hadn't been in the upstairs chambers or he'd have stuffed his pockets with his lordship's pins and watches. “Nicked anything good for yourself?”

“Stealing from a widow's a sin.” He drained his glass and belched. “I did see some of her good silver's gone. Bet it walked off with that Jarvis, the coin-grubber.” He nodded as if he'd just convinced himself of that fact before giving me a leer. “Want to give the brandy a taste, then? It's wretched sweet, but you might fancy it.”

I glanced past him. “I believe that's all, milady, but I recommend you have his cases checked before he leaves.”

“What? Who?” Akins spun round, staggering as he saw Lady Bestly and grabbing a chair to right himself. “Your ladyship, I—I—I found this shopgel in here, drinking up the master's gin—”

“Forgot to say,” I murmured to him. “Not a shopgel.”

Lady Bestly strode into the room. “You are dismissed for drunkenness and thievery, Mr. Akins. Collect your belongings and leave the house at once.”

“Blind me, I wouldn't steal from you, milady—”

“She heard everything you told me,” I advised him. “Dunce.”

“I'm owed wages, I am,” Akins whined. “It's the only reason I stayed long as I have.” He gave Lady Bestly an ugly look. “And I ain't leaving till I get what's due me.”

I coshed him smartly with the empty gin container and watched him pitch forward into a heap. “Is Mr. Akins due anything more, milady?”

“I should think that will suffice, Kittredge.” Lady Bestly gave the unconscious footman a final glance before ringing the bell. When Annie trotted in she ignored the scullery's wide-eyed gasp and said, “Hartley, please summon a patrolman to remove Akins and his belongings. Oh, and before he is taken away, do see that none of the family silver has fallen into his baggage.”

“Right away, milady.” Annie scurried off.

Lady Bestly regarded me. “If you would join me in the drawing room, Hartley has kindly prepared tea.”

“Thank you, milady.” I put the decanter back on the trolley. “I am a little thirsty.”

Once in the drawing room I accepted a dainty cup of the blackest tea I'd ever seen, and held it as I surveyed what appeared to be a feast for twenty crammed haphazardly on the serving table. I counted five loaves of bread, seven bowls of fruits and nuts, a quivering gold and pink tower of diced ham in aspic, and more crumpets, scones, and cakes than a busy bakery could sell on a morning before a holiday.

“You will need a cook, milady,” I said as I stared at one platter containing a cold roast of beef as big as my head that Annie had surrounded with a dozen unpeeled red apples. “Tonight at the very—is this
everything
in your cold panty?”