A Poisoned Season

12

Thursday was Cécile's last day in London, and her impending departure had a deleterious effect on my household. Caesar and Brutus, who had become inexplicably fond of Berkeley Square, recoiled at the sight of their travel boxes and crawled beneath a large cabinet in the red drawing room from which they could not be coaxed, even with scraps from the previous evening's roast beef. Cook took this as a personal insult and stalked about belowstairs all morning in a state of high dudgeon. As a result, our luncheon was delayed, and I had no time at all to eat before leaving for the British Museum, where I hoped to meet my anonymous admirer.

As I walked towards Great Russell Street, it started to rain, but the drops amounted to little more than a mist that would do nothing to alleviate the claustrophobic humidity enveloping the city. I did not open my umbrella, using it instead as a walking stick, its metal point echoing the rhythm of my feet. My claim to Colin that I was near to unmasking my would-be innamorato had not been quite accurate. Other than placing the ad in the Times, I had done almost nothing to find him. Initially, I had thought I might ferret him out by baiting young gentlemen of my acquaintance, but that had been when I believed him to be nothing more than a creative suitor keen to take advantage of my interest in Greek. Now, however, knowing that he was responsible for the Marie Antoinette thefts, I believed it would take a great deal of persuasion to get him to reveal himself. My only real hope came from his romantic designs on me. Surely a gentleman in love would not wish to remain eternally incognito.

Once inside the museum, I left my umbrella in the hall and ducked through the rooms leading to the Southern Egyptian Gallery, which housed the Rosetta Stone. I meandered about, patiently reading the cards describing each object while I watched for any solitary gentlemen who lingered too long in front of the famous basalt tablet. No one came. I studied the sarcophagus of the queen of Amasis II, admired a statue of the god of the Nile, and pondered figures of the goddesses Bast and Sekhet. I watched a young man whisper something that made a young lady blush while her chaperone scrutinized an obelisk through spectacles that pinched her nose. I enjoyed a brief moment of anticipation when a well-dressed gentleman entered the room, pursued by a docent telling him that he must deposit his walking stick in the hall. He gave me a jaunty smile as he surrendered the stick, then left the room without so much as glancing at the Rosetta Stone.

The stone itself provided ample distraction for another quarter of an hour. After doing my best to read the Greek inscription on it, I turned my attention to the hieroglyphs and was entirely seduced by their elegant beauty. My fingers ached to try to draw them, and as I was longing for my sketchbook, a man approached me. My eyebrows shot up, then fell immediately as soon as I recognized him as the docent who had taken the gentleman's stick.

"Lady Ashton?" he asked. I nodded. "Forgive me for disturbing your reverie. This was left for you at the desk." He handed me a too-familiar envelope.

"Can you describe the gentleman who delivered it?"

"It was a young boy, madam, not a gentleman." I thanked him and crossed through the Central Egyptian Saloon to the Refreshment Room, notorious for its dreadful food, and sat down to a pot of tea no better than the café's reputation. The note, as I expected, began in Greek:

She is enrolled as my one goddess, whose beloved name I will mix and drink in unmixed wine. I could not help but smile. If nothing else, receiving these letters had done wonders for my sight-reading skills. He continued in English:

Do hope you will enjoy the champagne. Accept it along with my thanks for returning Marie Antoinette's pink. I don't imagine you really expected to meet me today — and you know I wouldn't dream of disappointing you, Kallista, darling. Fear not — you will see me soon enough.

His use of Kallista, Philip's name for me, was unnerving. Who was this presumptuous man? I considered the gentleman with the walking stick. Certainly it was odd for him to have come into the gallery and not look at the Rosetta Stone. Unless he had come only to see if I was there. I abandoned my tea and went to the main desk in the vestibule.

"Good afternoon, Lady Ashton. How may we help you today?"

"A docent just delivered a note that was left here for me. I was hoping that I could talk to him."

"A docent? Do you know who it was? I've been here all afternoon, and no one brought a note for you."

"I don't know his name. He was rather tall. Had bright blue eyes and a dark beard, very bushy."

"I'm so sorry, I've not the slightest idea who it could have been." He called over one of his colleagues who confirmed that no one had left anything for me at the desk but suggested that perhaps the envelope had been left elsewhere, and rushed off to inquire in the Reading Room, where the clerks knew nothing about a note addressed to me. I was weighing the merits of searching the museum for the docent when I noticed Colin standing next to a statue of Shakespeare near the entrance to the library. He tipped his hat and came to me.

"Are you spying on me?" I asked.

"Far from it. I read your advertisement in the Times and thought that, on the odd chance your admirer would show his face, I'd like to be here to personally confirm that I'd lost our bet."

"I never thought he would come."

"Is that so?" His dark eyes danced. "I think, Emily, that you harbored hopes that your multitudinous charms would lure the poor boy out of hiding. Admit it. You're not used to being disappointed."

"Remind me why it is that I'm so fond of you."

"I can't say that I have the slightest idea."

"I suppose that since you're here you may as well walk with me," I said, letting him take my arm and doing my best not to thrill at his touch. I was not particularly successful. For two hours we combed through every room in the museum looking for either the docent or the gentleman with the walking stick, but to no avail. Not only did we find neither man, we could not locate a single employee who recognized my description of the docent.

"It's very likely that one of them is the thief," Colin said, when at last we abandoned our search. "Whom do you suspect?"

"I hope it was the gentleman. I didn't like the docent's beard."

"Really?"

"Too scruffy."

"Is that so? I was thinking of growing one. It might look fashionable." He rubbed his smooth chin.

"Since when are you concerned with fashion?"

"A wife, Emily, might be able to influence matters concerning her husband's appearance. As it is, I have no one to answer to but myself. I'd look quite distinguished with a beard."

"I shan't dignify that with a response," I said. We had left the museum and were nearly halfway back to Berkeley Square when the rain began to fall in earnest, the wind blowing it in sheets parallel to the street. Despite our two umbrellas, we were well on our way to getting soaked, so Colin hailed the first available cab and sat next to me on its narrow bench. "I'm beginning to despise my no-kissing policy," he said, leaning so close to me that our heads nearly touched.

"Only beginning to despise it? I've deplored it from the moment you adopted it."

"You always did have a keen eye for the absurd."

Now I leaned closer to him and lifted his hand to my lips. "You could abandon the policy."

He almost did. Not taking his eyes off mine, he took my face in his hands and brought his lips near enough that I could feel his breath. But then he stopped. "The temptation is great, my dear, but I will remain strong. I think, however, that in the future, I shall avoid sharing hansom cabs with you."

The following day it became clear that I was not the only one lamenting the loss of Cécile, or, to be more precise, the loss of her maid. Davis saw to every detail of their trip personally, organizing their luggage, ensuring that the carriage was ready to take them to the station. He even directed Cook to prepare a picnic luncheon for the journey. And though he did all of this in his usual exacting manner, it was obvious to anyone who knew him well that he took no pleasure in any of it. His eyelids drooped ever so slightly, and he held his mouth more firmly than ever in a stiff, straight line. I even caught him starting to slouch when he thought no one was looking.

"I understand that Odette will be sorely missed by the staff," I said as we watched the coach pull away from the house.

"She is a most capable woman, madam, and provided a great deal of help in the aftermath of the robbery."

"Cécile is lucky to have her." We watched until the carriage had passed out of Berkeley Square. "I believe Odette is quite fond of walking around the Serpentine in Hyde Park."

"Yes."

I smiled. My own maid, Meg, never could resist keeping me on the qui vive when it came to gossip from the servants' quarters. Last month Davis had requested Wednesday rather than Sunday as his weekly day off. Odette always took Wednesdays, and from the time Davis altered his schedule, she never walked alone.

"Well, I do hope that you'll be able to rally your spirits. If not, I'll simply have to relocate the entire household to Paris. I cannot have a sullen butler." It gratified me no end to see that this made him smile. I bade him farewell and set off for Mr. Barber's studio, not eager in the least to go back into my own house, which was certain to feel empty without Cécile. I hoped that Mr. Barber would be able to offer me some insight into his friend David Francis.

The sculptor had just started chipping away at a large block of marble when I interrupted him. He insisted on making me a cup of tea, which I accepted gratefully.

"Mint," I said, as I took a sip from the rough ceramic mug. "Delicious."

"Wonderful, isn't it?" He poured some for himself and sat on the edge of the marble. "I've been taken with mint tea ever after I first had it in Constantinople."

"I should love to go there."

"But you have not come here to discuss my travels."

"No. Beatrice Francis has asked for my help, so I am trying to figure out who would have wanted her husband dead."

Mr. Barber frowned. "David was not the sort of man who collected enemies. He was very gracious, very...well, it might sound silly, but he was very noble."

"Nobility attracts as many enemies as it does friends."

"David wasn't close to many people, but he was thought of kindly by everyone he met. He was a perfect casual acquaintance. Only rarely did he open himself up enough to form true friendships."

"I am told that he did his best to help those in need."

"I am proof of that. I wouldn't have this studio if it weren't for him."

"And now that he is gone?"

"I'm fortunate. I've sold enough of my work to keep myself afloat for the next few months."

"And after that?"

"We'll see," he said, smiling. I did not want to cause him any embarrassment, so did not offer assistance but decided at once that I would purchase his statue of the woman gathering flowers from the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition.

"Why did Mr. Francis tell me that his wife was so shy?"

"David was always fiercely protective of Beatrice."

"She's a perfectly capable woman. Why did he hide her away in Richmond?"

"I can't say that I know. He liked to keep his life in London separate from his life at home."

"Did he spend much time in town?"

"Not a lot."

"So why the secrecy?"

"Well." He cleared his throat. "It's difficult to say."

"He had a mistress, didn't he?"

"Please, Lady Ashton, do not ask me to impugn the character of my friend."

"Had he a recent falling-out with this woman?"

"I don't know, but it's unlikely. She was distraught when she learned of his death."

"How do you know that?"

"I'm the one who told her what happened. It would have been awful for her to have seen it in the papers."

"Does Beatrice know?" I asked.

"No, no, of course not. David was discreet to a fault."

"What is this mistress like?"

"Liza? I don't know her well."

"Yet you are already familiar enough with her to use her Christian name?"

"Not at all. I apologize."

"Did he speak of her often?"

"No. He never mentioned her. I only learned of her existence after his death." He picked up his hammer and chisel and began working on the marble. "David gave me a letter years ago and asked me to promise not to read it unless he died. I laughed about it, because he was always a picture of health, but he assured me it concerned a matter of great importance."

"But he gave you no idea what it said?"

"None."

"And you never looked at the letter while he was alive?"

"Of course not. I promised him I wouldn't."

I admired Mr. Barber's will, wondering if I would have been able to stave off my curiosity for such a long time. "What did the letter say?"

"He asked that I personally inform Mrs. Liza White of his death. That was all."

"Was she his mistress?"

"I believe so, Lady Ashton. She grieved like a wife."

I felt sorry for her, but my sympathy was tempered by my allegiance to Beatrice. Once I had assured Mr. Barber that I would not reveal his friend's secret to his widow, he gave me Mrs. White's address. She did not live terribly far from the studio, but the directions were confusing enough that I let my driver take me in the carriage. We stopped in front of a decent, middle-class house, nothing at all like I had expected. I must confess that my reaction horrified me. For all that I thought I was enlightened, liberated, free from the ignorant biases of society, I had judged this woman from the moment I knew she was having an affair with someone else's husband. I expected to find her low, common, no better than she ought to be. In fact, it was I who should have been better. I knew nothing of this woman, her heart, her love, her reasons for the affair. I had no right to criticize her.

A broad, sturdy woman in a gray dress and crisp white apron trimmed in black answered the door. I handed her my card and asked to see the lady of the house, only to be informed that she was indisposed. Over the maid's shoulder I saw a small boy, who couldn't have been older than six, pulling a wooden train through the hallway. Although I had met David Francis only once, there could be no question that this was his son. The boy was the image of his father.

"It's urgent that I speak with Mrs. White," I said. "Do you know when might be a good time for me to return?"

"The house is in mourning, madam. I will give Mrs. White your card." My mother would never have stood for such a response. I could picture her walking past the maid, telling her to announce the Countess Bromley. This, however, was not something I was prepared to do. I would give Mrs. White a few more days to mourn in peace, then call again.

Frustrated, I returned to my carriage. I stood frozen as the footman opened the door for me. Inside, on the seat, was a large bouquet of wilted roses.