The Late Heiress: The Amberley Chronicles Read online

  The Late Heiress

  The Amberley Chronicles

  May Burnett

  Chapter 1

  London, June 1843

  “Mr. Thomas Seymour, my lord.” The clerk ushered the visitor into the Undersecretary’s presence, discreetly withdrew and closed the door behind him.

  Thomas bowed to the elderly official, who looked distracted, as though wondering who this young man before him might be, and what business he had in the heart of the Home Office.

  “Ah,” Lord Ormesby said after a moment, “you are the young relative Amberley recommended to me, aren’t you? His cousin or nephew, something like that?”

  Thomas nodded stiffly, his starched collar digging into his jawbone, and did not bother to explain that his mother was Lord Amberley’s first cousin. It went against the grain that he could only be considered for a position by way of such patronage, but that was the way of the world.

  “There was also a letter of recommendation by Professor Mellon, I seem to recall, highly praising your intelligence and discretion. I suppose you studied under him in Merton College?”

  “Yes. He took a friendly interest in me because I shared his passion for the more obscure ways of deciphering medieval manuscripts.” That made him sound like an unworldly bookworm – hardly the best impression to create with a potential employer. Thomas set his teeth.

  Lord Ormesby looked him over in silence. Silver-rimmed pince-nez magnified his pale blue and slightly protruding eyes. “Ah, an Oxford man. That is all very satisfactory, and if I had an opening just now, I would not hesitate to offer it to you, Seymour. However, I fear it will take several months until we have an appropriate vacancy for a man of your – um – particular background. You are not in urgent need of the salary, I hope –?”

  Was Ormesby insulting him on purpose? Thomas remained outwardly calm and collected. “Not at all. My family is well off. I do not seek a position for the remuneration, but primarily as suitable employment for my talents.” He secretly would have preferred to join the recently founded police force, but that, of course, was unthinkable for a gentleman. A career overseeing it should also offer interesting challenges.

  “Hmm.” Ormesby regarded him more keenly. “If you have time on your hands, young man, there is a little affair where you could be helpful – in an entirely unofficial capacity, mind – a slight mystery, with a tragic outcome. Not the sort of thing we usually concern ourselves with, but something in the nature of a niggling distraction.”

  Thomas bowed slightly, hiding his spike of interest. “I am of course at your service, my lord, and eager to prove myself in any way you suggest.”

  “This calls for the utmost discretion,” Ormesby warned. “Your aristocratic relations might come in useful as sources of information, but you must not tell anyone, not even Amberley.”

  “I can keep my counsel, my lord.”

  “So Professor Mellon asserts … very well, this might be a good way to see how useful you will eventually be to us. Sit down, boy, while I get the letter.”

  Boy? Thomas was twenty-four, the exact age at which Pitt the Younger first became Prime Minister. He swallowed his annoyance and kept his face bland.

  “Five years ago, in 1838, my predecessor received an extraordinary missive, purportedly from Lady Marian Colville.”

  Thomas blinked. “The heiress who died so tragically a few days ago? She cannot have been more than a child.”

  “Not quite sixteen, but the letter does not sound like that of a young girl. At the time, it was thought to be a hoax. Here, you had better have a look at it yourself.”

  He handed Thomas a single page, which unexpectedly proved to be parchment rather than paper. He had handled enough old documents to know the feel. The handwriting was precise and very neat.

  Colville Hall, Lincolnshire, 18 June 1838

  To the Secretary of State for the Home Department, Lord John Russell

  My Lord,

  Since becoming the ward of the seventh Earl Colville two months ago, it has come to my attention that my uncle is planning to seize possession of my inheritance. According to his solicitor, my income is nearly four times as large as his. While I can understand his motives, I take strong exception to plans which threaten my continued existence.

  “As you said, my lord, the style is hardly that of a schoolgirl,” Thomas observed. The melodramatic contents contrasted with the formal, almost dispassionate style.

  I know better than to expect direct help from you, my lord, and plan to take my own precautions to ensure that I live to see my majority. All I beg of you is to preserve this letter in your files, where it can be produced if the occasion arises in the future. Please note that I use my late father’s seal below.

  Yours respectfully, etc.

  Marian Louisa Celestine Colville

  That was all. Thomas turned the page over, but the backside was blank. There was indeed the imprint of a seal under the signature, depicting a sea shell. Judging by the size, it came from a man’s ring.

  He handed the page back. “Extraordinary, but almost certainly a forgery. Girls that age do not think years ahead into the future. And if Lady Marian feared for her life, this makes no sense. She practically insults Lord John, who was the second most powerful man in England at the time. What on earth did the writer expect to accomplish, whoever it was?”

  “Indeed – unsurprisingly, this letter went straight into the crank file. Yet now that Lady Marian has died only months before her twenty-first birthday, when she would have taken control of her fortune, one does wonder if there was anything to her suspicions of her uncle. Perhaps the letter was from her after all.”

  “A comparison with an authentic piece of her handwriting should clear that up soon enough.” Thomas wondered how easy that would be to accomplish, without any official standing. “I am not acquainted with Lord Colville. What kind of man is he?”

  “A dedicated Whig. He was active in that party since long before he inherited the title, but otherwise he is generally accounted a respected, upstanding man. The very idea of his killing his niece is absurd. And yet – that great fortune must indeed be considered a temptation. You see the problem. We would not want to start an official enquiry, as it might be considered politically motivated harassment. And besides, nothing will save the poor girl at this point. Yet it would ease my mind to know for certain if that letter was from Lady Marian, and if there was anything to her fears. I do not expect you to find proof that would lead to charges against Colville – trials in the Lords are most inconvenient, but even so…” His voice trailed off suggestively.

  “It does sound like an interesting problem, my lord,” Thomas allowed. “I shall bend my best efforts to its elucidation.”

  “Nobody must know about the letter, or that you heard of the case from me,” Ormesby cautioned. “You do this on your own initiative. On no account let Colville know what you are about, or indeed anyone else.”

  “I shall use my utmost discretion.”

  “Excellent. And as I said earlier, I am sure we can find a post for you – eventually. In the meantime, Godspeed, and give my regards to Lord Amberley.”

  ***

  As he left the Home Office, Thomas was already revolving various plans and stratagems in his mind. He had only known of Lady Marian’s death through a recent article in the Morning Post, Heiress Drowned, and could not recall the exact details. The accident, if it was one, had occurred in some obscure seaside resort, the kind where invalids went to ease their lungs or whatever other ailments plagued them. At twenty years of age, Lady Marian ought to have been dancing at London balls, being courted by fellow aristocrats and ambitious fortune hunt
ers; most likely married, in fact. Had she been an invalid? Yet would an invalid be allowed to drown by her attendants? Surely there had been a chaperon or companion with her, who must be a prime witness, not to mention a personal maid. Whatever the truth of the matter, Lord Colville deserved censure for allowing the tragedy to happen while he was the lady’s guardian. If he was indeed her heir, it was surprising there was not more gossip about the case.

  There were two locations to investigate, the young lady’s residence, Colville Hall, and that seaside resort. What had been the name of the latter? Chatterham, that was it. Why had Lady Marian gone there, to find an early death in the waves? That letter sounded supremely confident she could evade any threats her uncle might pose. Had she fatally underestimated the man?

  The real object of the investigation was Lord Colville, the uncle. Thomas could try to find out Lord Colville’s financial situation through Sir Jonathan Durwent, a close friend of his Uncle James, and a force to be reckoned with in the City. Yet how was he supposed to keep the focus of his investigation secret, if he went asking questions about Lord Colville and his niece?

  All that would have to wait, however, as he had promised to meet his cousin Roger Ellsworthy for lunch at the latter’s favourite Club, the Charybdis, where Thomas hoped to become a member also in another year or two. Its kitchens were famous, and the members were not nearly as stuffy as those of White’s and Roger’s two other clubs. In the Charybdis it would not be held against Thomas that his father was a physician of modest birth.

  Roger was already waiting in the elegant dining room. “How did it go?” he asked eagerly as soon as they had ordered. A year older than Thomas, Roger dabbled in natural history, but despite their different interests they had always got on well.

  “I am not sure. Lord Ormesby claimed he could not offer me a position now, but implied it would be possible eventually – that is to say, in a few months’ time.”

  “Strange. If he wanted to take you on, he could do so at a moment’s notice. Maybe he wants to see how determined you are, or this is a polite way to discourage you without offending Uncle George.”

  “He offered me a pretty puzzle to solve in the meantime, in an entirely unofficial capacity. I am not able to give any details.”

  “That may be intended as a test, but I am not sure I like the sound of it.”

  Thomas shifted uneasily on his chair, remembering several instances when Roger’s instincts had proved sound. “What makes you say that?”

  “The unofficial, deniable part. Take care you don’t become a cat’s-paw. Either this mystery is important enough to investigate officially, or something about the whole situation is off.”

  “I shall be careful,” Thomas promised. Roger was worrying over nothing. Thomas would soon find out if Lord Colville had had the means and opportunity to murder his niece – the motive already seemed a foregone conclusion. A simple handwriting comparison would show if the mysterious letter had come from the heiress at all. There could not be any risk in this affair, as Lord Colville would never become aware of his activities.

  “Let me know if there is anything I can do to help,” Roger offered. “And if you get in too deep, forget about secrecy and ask my father for advice.”

  “I’ll keep your offer in mind.” Uncle James was astute and experienced, but it was time the younger generation stood on their own feet. “There may be one thing – I have to go spend some time in a small seaside resort, and want to look harmlessly eccentric. Have you any suggestions?”

  “You could pretend to be a devoted coleopterist. People immediately class you as a bore if you wax fervent about the variety of beetles you are collecting.”

  “It might serve, except that I don’t like to kill animals just for a pretext; not even insects.”

  “Then say you are writing a treatise on ants, and studying them in their natural habitat. Following their paths will serve as an excuse for turning up anywhere outdoors, and sometimes indoors.” Roger grinned. “Are you sure you do not need an assistant? My talk of insects would sound absolutely authentic.”

  “Oh? Whom have you been boring with it lately? I think I can handle it. But you might lend me a couple of your books on the subject, and some of the paraphernalia.”

  “Consider it done.”

  Their food arrived; for a while they devoted their whole attention to its proper enjoyment, but Thomas could not prevent his thoughts from circling back to the puzzle before him.

  “Have you ever met Lord Colville?” As the prospective heir to their uncle, Lord Amberley, Roger frequented the highest tiers of London society, and was much sought after by ambitious hostesses.

  “Ah.” His cousin looked thoughtful. “A little older than our parents’ generation, active Whig. His wife is dowdy and provincial, and he is a prosy bore. Keep well away from the man.”

  “You do not like him?”

  “I hardly know Lord Colville, just the most superficial acquaintance. He does not attend the same events as I do. While I do not know anything to his discredit, I do not plan to pursue any closer acquaintance. Every other word he utters is mere cant.”

  “He is not close to Uncle George or your father, by any chance?”

  “Not that I know of, and I should think they both have better taste in friends.”

  “Well, thank you for lunch, Roger. Once I am a member, I shall reciprocate – how many lunches here do I owe you now, twenty?”

  Roger grinned. “Who is counting?”

  Chapter 2

  Nell jerked her neck sideways, irritated that her black widows’ veils, the bonnet and the corkscrew curls dictated by current fashion interfered with her vision. The gauze veils especially tended to bunch at the sides of her face; she kept feeling that something dangerous was sneaking up on her from her blind side.

  “Your nervous ailment does not seem to be improving, Mrs. Smith,” Mrs. Pelham remarked solicitously. Nell had met this friendly, talkative lady some hours earlier over the modest lunch offered to residents of the Rose Inn. “I am sure Doctor Rimblescarp could do wonders for it, did you but consult him.”

  “No doubt you are right, Mrs. Pelham, but I shall try the regimen my own dear Doctor Wombling has prescribed a little longer. He designed it especially for my weak constitution.”

  “Do let me know if you change your mind. I can put in a good word with Rimblescarp, he does not generally accept new patients at this time.”

  “Thank you, that is very kind. Was Lady Marian also a patient of his?” If so, maybe she should not be so hasty to reject the man’s services.

  Mrs. Pelham grimaced. “Indeed, for what good it did her, though only from her arrival in Chatterham. When I first met her during the doctor’s tea party, I immediately thought to myself, ‘That young lady will come to a bad end.’”

  “What led you to such a prophetic conclusion, Ma’am?”

  “Lady Marian was haughty and scattered, unable to keep two consecutive thoughts in her head. She immediately forgot people to whom she had just been introduced, and mixed up the proper modes of appellation.”

  “That is strange indeed in the daughter of an Earl.”

  “As you say, Mrs. Smith. In my opinion it was not so much her nervous disposition that needed care, as her mind. Too late now, of course.”

  “It must have been a terrible shock to your system, that you actually saw her body as they carried it from the shore. Such a grim spectacle would throw my treatment back by several weeks. I admire your fortitude.”

  Mrs. Pelham nodded, accepting the compliment as her due. “It was a sight I shall not soon forget. I was on the point of fainting, and nothing would serve but departing right away. Only Doctor Rimblescarp could have convinced me to give Chatterham another chance.”

  “Poor girl,” Nell murmured. “So young to drown, with all of her life ahead of her.”

  “You never know when the hour will arrive,” Mrs Pelham said sententiously. “We can but take proper care of our health, so as to post
pone the end as long as possible.”

  “When you saw the body – are you positive it was Lady Marian, the lady you had met earlier?”

  “Of course. I would have recognized that purple dress anywhere, even dripping with seawater and draped with algae.” She shuddered. “I beg of you, let us change the subject to something more cheerful. My physician does not like me to dwell on melancholy thoughts, and it cannot be good for you either.”

  “You are quite right, Mrs. Pelham – I beg your pardon.”

  “Mind, you are not the first person to ask about my distressing experience. When I had tea at Mrs. Dorchester’s yesterday, there was a young man, a Mr. Thomas, who showed a morbid interest in the subject. Apart from his passion for ants, it was the only thing he would talk about.”

  “Oh?” Nell’s senses went on high alert.

  “It is likely that he will have tea again today. I suppose we could fortify ourselves there as well, that is, unless…” her voice trailed off in sudden doubt. Nell did not pretend to misunderstand her.

  “I am in quite sufficient funds; please allow me to invite you.” What passed for tea in their own modest boarding house was included in their rent and board, while they would have to pay extra at the other, more expensive inn. “I truly appreciate your spending time with a lonely widow.”

  “The good thing is that grief passes eventually, no matter how acute. I should know, having buried two husbands in my time.”

  Mrs. Pelham seemed prepared to go into detail about her loss of these former spouses. To head her off, Nell asked quickly, “Did this young man really go on about ants? The insects, not female relatives, I hope?”

  “I am not sure which would be worse, upon my word. A handsome young gentleman wasting his time on small crawly animals is not something I can approve. But he was very well-spoken, with only the very slightest Northern accent.”

  “Northern? Do you mean he is from Scotland?”