The Late Heiress: The Amberley Chronicles Read online

  “A very tragic story. One would imagine that a father would take more of an interest in his only surviving child.”

  “The sixth Earl never expected Marian to be his heiress. When he broke his neck jumping a hedge he was engaged to an eighteen-year old debutante, the wedding to be celebrated within weeks. Marian was not invited. He always intended to replace his first family, and particularly his son and heir.”

  Lady Marian’s father was probably no great loss to the world, but Thomas kept this opinion to himself. “And then, I gather, his brother unexpectedly inherited the title, while the non-entailed properties and funds went to Lady Marian. Didn’t her father leave a will?”

  “He had destroyed his previous wills, and was going to write a new one after his wedding, I imagine.”

  “Tell me more about your friend. What was she like?” And what was Mrs. Smith herself hoping to accomplish in Chatterham?

  “Serious, studious, very controlled,” Mrs. Smith said after a moment. “She was tall for fifteen, but I think had already reached her full height. Her features were regular and pretty when she smiled on rare occasions; the hair middling brown and heavy, very straight, and the eyes brown as well. Her complexion was very pale in wintertime. In summer she liked to ride and be outdoors whenever the weather allowed. She also read a great deal. She was lonely.”

  “As the niece of her governess, there must have been a considerable social gulf between you,” Thomas said. “Was she very conscious of it?”

  “Less so than I. Marian was reserved at first, but not because of her higher rank; rather she was sensible that everyone abandoned her sooner or later. And she was right; I also left when my aunt sent me to a boarding school. It would have brought Lady Marian great benefit had she been able to attend school as well, but as far as I know that was never even considered.”

  “Was she in poor health, when you knew her? And what do you know of her relationship with her uncle and guardian?”

  The widow replied without hesitation. “Marian was no more an invalid than I. Indeed she must have had a strong constitution, to survive the scarlet fever that carried away her three siblings – she caught it too, but recovered quickly. As for her uncle, I had already left when Lady Marian’s father died, but I gathered from her letters that she neither liked nor trusted her new guardian. She ceased writing within weeks of becoming his ward, which I found alarming, but as a schoolgirl there was nothing I could do. Now that I am mistress of my own movements, I want to find out if the Earl was responsible for her early death, either directly or by driving Marian to kill herself – but the latter is so unlike the girl I knew, that I am loath to even consider the possibility.”

  “People change, especially between fourteen and twenty,” Thomas reminded her. “Can you tell me what her handwriting was like? Her writing style? Did you preserve her letters?”

  She hesitated, her black veil turned in his direction. “Why do you ask?”

  “I have been trying to get a sample of her writing, which can betray a great deal about a person’s character and state of mind. Here in Chatterham I have drawn a blank – only the companion signed the guest book at the Inn. As far as I could discover, nobody local has seen even the slightest scrap of writing from Lady Marian.”

  “Her handwriting was very neat, as I remember, but the letters she wrote me no longer exist. I am not in the habit of keeping old correspondence.”

  Was she speaking the truth? He had his doubts.

  “Maybe she had a journal or letters among her luggage,” Mrs. Smith said thoughtfully. “If so, I would be most interested in finding them myself.”

  “Are you also an expert in the interpretation of handwriting?”

  “I am not convinced that the woman who drowned here two weeks ago was Lady Marian at all.”

  Chapter 4

  Nell wanted to recall her imprudent words the moment she had spoken.

  Mr. Thomas scrutinized her as though wondering at her sanity. “What makes you suggest such an extraordinary thing? If the dead woman was not she, surely the real Lady Marian would have said by now, I am alive, it is all a mistake.”

  “Maybe I simply do not want to believe it,” Nell backtracked. “A girl I remember as a vibrant, healthy fifteen-year-old, to be drowned because of a leaky boat in this boring seaside village – that simply does not make sense.”

  “You will come to terms with the facts eventually,” he said with a sympathetic look at her veils.

  Nell thought quickly. “You must admit that her actions, as described to us, do not make sense either. And Mrs. Pelham’s description does not sound at all like the Marian I knew.”

  “Suppose you find more incongruities and your doubts grow,” he said, “what do you plan to do? What can you do? I imagine you suspect the current Lord Colville of making away with his niece, given how much he stood to gain. Surely he would know if it was his niece or some impostor in that boat? Killing the latter would not be the slightest benefit to him.”

  “He would hardly undertake such a distasteful task in person. His minions might not have realised the error.”

  “Entrusting such a task to another would be excessively stupid. Think of the potential for blackmail.”

  “The minion would also hang, if he talked,” Nell pointed out.

  Mr. Thomas maintained a sceptical silence.

  “In certain circumstances it might be of great benefit to kill an impostor, even knowing full well who she was. As long as the real Lady Marian is not in a position to gainsay him, Lord Colville will now inherit her entire fortune. Just a few more months, and he would have lost it forever. Marian would have written a will and disinherited him as soon as she reached the age of twenty-one.”

  “But why would his niece maintain her silence, and not gainsay him, as you put it?”

  “I can easily envisage such a scenario. She may be travelling abroad, or hidden away in some lunatic asylum under a different name. Or she may have been dead for years. I have written to her now and then, but never received a single line in answer.”

  “It does seem odd she was never presented at Court, or allowed to have a London Season,” he conceded, “but if she was in poor health by then, that might explain it. Still, somebody must have seen Lady Marian before her arrival in Chatterham. The servants, her companion –,”

  “In her last letter Marian mentioned that the servants from her father’s time were all dismissed or pensioned off, that there was no familiar face around her anymore.” They had reached the tip of a small promontory, and stopped by common accord, to watch the setting sun over the turbulent waves. The wind was strengthening, and she felt cold. “We had better return; it is turning chilly.”

  “Indeed,” he said immediately, and they turned back towards the village. Nell was very aware of his muscled bulk so close to her, able and willing to defend her against enraged ganders or any other danger they encountered. “Have you spoken to a single person, other than Mrs. Pelham and me, who has actually known Lady Marian?”

  “Not yet,” he admitted. “But then I have not yet been to Colville Hall.”

  “Then you do not have any useful information at all, so far?”

  “No,” he sounded frustrated. “But you have given me several promising leads that I shall lose no time to pursue. I am much obliged to you, Mrs. Smith.”

  “Promise,” she said, “to let me know if you find proof that the dead woman was really Lady Marian – or not.”

  “Very well,” he acquiesced after a short pause. “But I still cannot imagine such a bold imposture.”

  For a minute they walked in silence, each wrapped in thought.

  “Are your parents still alive?” she asked him. “What do they think of your literary ambitions?”

  “They are indeed very much alive. My father is a physician, with a clinic and practice in rural Yorkshire, and his father – my grandfather – still lives as well. He is an ironmonger.” He said it challengingly. She was a little surprised at this
background, as his intonation was indistinguishable from the highest upper class; the result of his education together with the sprigs of the nobility, she guessed, in some exclusive school. “My family are as yet unaware of my literary plans.”

  “You never considered going into medicine like your father? Where did you receive your education?”

  “A minor public school in Yorkshire, and Merton College, Oxford.”

  “One hardly hears the Yorkshire upbringing.”

  “That is my mother’s influence. Her mother was from the south, the daughter of a Viscount. Unfortunately I never knew this grandmother, who died early. My sister is named after her.”

  So Thomas represented a mixture of social classes, of North and South. Whatever elements had gone into producing him had clearly fit together well. Nell approved of the result, in a purely aesthetic spirit.

  “Is that the sister who was bitten by the gander?”

  “Indeed, she is the eldest of five, my senior by a year.”

  “I wish I had brothers or sisters,” she said wistfully. “It must be wonderful to have a large family. Since my aunt’s death,” she caught her mistake just in time, “and my husband’s, I am all alone in the world.”

  “One takes them for granted, but I owe I would not want to miss any one of them. You will yet have a large family of your own, Mrs. Smith, if Providence wills it.”

  “Amen,” she muttered under her breath.

  ***

  The information provided by Mrs. Smith – to his vexation, he still did not know her first name – exercised Thomas’s thoughts all through the evening. He did his best to draw out the dinner guests at the Dorchester Inn, all six of them. Alas, none had been here at the time of Lady Marian’s accident, so he did not persist in talking of it; he already had exposed himself quite sufficiently, judging by Mrs. Smith’s reaction.

  Why was she staying in the cheaper Rose Inn? Was she in straitened circumstances? For a young widow, it was all too likely. She had the accents of a lady, but that did not mean that she had a feather to fly with. By her own account, as a child she had been orphaned, and depended on an aunt who worked as a governess. It was unlikely that her husband had been much richer; wealthy men tended to marry well-dowered girls.

  At that thought he felt a violent desire to shower her with his modest worldly belongings, and share whatever he might earn or inherit with her. When he did not even know the woman’s first name! His mind was clearly unhinged, or rather – he admitted to himself – his feelings. Every thought led back to her. As he was toying with the lumpy vanilla pudding, he wondered if Mrs. Smith’s dinner was even this acceptable, if she was eating enough to keep her strength up. Ridiculous.

  Mrs. Smith was highly intelligent, and her mind worked in a fashion similar to his; that must be it. It was unusual to find a young female of such logical bent, though her imagination was running away with her – that theory that the drowning victim had not been Lady Marian was quite outlandish.

  Or was it? Could it be that his own belief in the normalcy of reality was misleading him? Professor Mellon had more than once remarked that few people were inclined to question a lie, if it was bold enough. Passing off another woman as Lady Marian would certainly qualify.

  If he admitted the possibility – who could the drowned woman be? Mrs. Pelham had seen an inert form in a bright purple dress – the wrong dress for early morning – wet and draped with seaweed. Apart from the purple dress, it sounded like Ophelia in Hamlet. A mistaken identification might be faked with the connivance of the local coroner and undertaker – no, surely not. Too many people in the secret meant too great a risk for the principal. Yet for an enormous fortune, some people might be prepared to risk it. There also were criminals so arrogant they could not even conceive of being caught out in their misdeeds.

  His next step was clear. He had to have a word with that coroner.

  “Will you share a cheroot outdoors?” Mr. Denning, the only other male guest, asked him at the conclusion of dinner. The man had arrived just before dinner, though this was not his first visit to Chatterham, as he had mentioned over the meal.

  “I do not smoke,” Thomas said. “But a little fresh air would not come amiss.” The dining room had three windows, but if they were ever opened to exchange the stale air, he would be surprised.

  As soon as they were outdoors, Denning ceremoniously lit his cheroot and drew a cloud of smoke. “What brings a young man like you to this quiet place? Do you not miss the company of other people your own age?”

  “I am solitary by nature,” Thomas lied, “and do not plan to stay above a week at most, for natural studies. I am interested in insects, particularly ants and beetles. This area is rife with rare species.”

  Denning snorted dismissively. “What a strange occupation for a man who would look strapping in a uniform.”

  Thomas only smiled. “I have never felt any inclination towards the military or the navy. When you can afford to be your own man, why engage in a career that involves implicit obedience?” He said it with conviction, but a moment later remembered with chagrin that a career in the Home Office would also mean following orders.

  “The last young visitor to Chatterham seems to have come to a bad end,” Denning said, with a significant glance. Was the fellow obliquely threatening him? Acrid smoke curled upwards. Thomas moved a little away, to escape breathing it in.

  “Yes, a sad story. What brings you to Chatterham yourself, Mr. Denning?”

  “My health, of course. I am suffering from a bilious liver, and my physician believes the sea air may improve it.”

  Thomas wondered if he was speaking the truth. The way this man had earlier stuffed himself with pig’s cheek did not indicate liver troubles. Denning could not be much over forty. He spoke and acted like a sedentary type – a trusted clerk, or maybe a solicitor. Could it be that the Home Office had decided to open an official investigation after all, and sent Denning down to conduct it?

  The idea sat ill with Thomas. Even though his suspicion was likely unjustified, Thomas could not like or trust the man. He returned to his room a few minutes later, after exchanging only inconsequential remarks with his fellow guest.

  Chapter 5

  Roger Ellsworthy could put two and two together. His cousin’s interest in Lord Colville clearly had to do with the puzzle set before him by Lord Ormesby of the Home Office. It could not be a coincidence that Lord Colville had just tripled his net worth through the sudden death of his young niece.

  The story had not made as big a splash as might have been expected, Roger reflected, because nobody in society had ever seen the reclusive heiress in the flesh. Why had he never met her at the entertainments of the ton? She was of his generation. Not only had she been conspicuously absent from the haunts of her class, nobody even spoke of Lady Marian as a friend or acquaintance. She had not truly existed for society even before her tragic demise. Such a circumstance favoured the uncle, Roger reasoned; the young lady had had no other close relatives, no friends to stand up for her or ask questions.

  Whatever secrecy Thomas might have promised hardly applied to Roger. He would look into the situation, at least until he was satisfied that it did not represent any hidden risks to his cousin. Thomas might be quicker at maths or ancient languages, but Roger, who had moved amongst the fashionable and powerful all his life, was more up to snuff.

  It only wanted a few discreet questions to his valet to ascertain that Lord Colville’s Club was Brooks, the Whigs’ established haunt. Roger’s political views were idiosyncratic, but so far he had not publicly diverged from Lord Amberley’s stout Tory principles, even if he sympathized with some of the radical views espoused by his uncle Henry. He could easily get a friend to invite him to Brooks, but as a non-member, he would be at a severe disadvantage if he tried to tackle Colville there.

  Colville’s children were still at school, and his Countess hardly ever left home.

  Roger went home and swiftly riffled through the heap of
invitations on the mantelpiece. Though his allowance would easily have stretched to private lodgings, he had never bothered to move. He got on well with his parents and siblings, and the family house was large. Much of the year he had it to himself, while his parents and sister stayed in Sussex or Cornwall.

  He discovered several cards for staid affairs with political overtones that he normally would have refused without further ado. On closer inspection, most of those were addressed to his father, but no matter. Without false modesty, Roger knew he would be just as welcome.

  Next he consulted Debrett’s Peerage, to ascertain if there were any other relatives on the Colville family tree, so brutally pruned over the past decade. There were not. Nor did Lady Marian’s late mother have any close surviving relatives.

  It took him three days to run down his quarry, but Roger could be patient and dogged once he had formed a resolution. The subsequent Thursday Lord and Lady Colville attended a charity function in favour of the indigent relics of officers. Roger unobtrusively drifted in their direction, greeting and talking to acquaintances, mostly of his father’s generation or even older. Presently he stood almost next to the Earl and Countess, able to listen to their conversation with Lord Meckles, another Whig peer.

  If Lord Colville’s niece had perished only days ago, should they even be attending this function? Granted, a charity concert was not a ball or the opera, but neither the Countess nor the Earl wore black armbands. He felt an irrational spurt of indignation on behalf of the dead lady.

  “Sorry, I am too busy,” Colville was telling Meckles. “I have to settle my late niece’s affairs, which is going to take some time.”

  “Ah yes, my condolences,” Meckles replied. “Another time then.”

  “I would not have minded attending,” Lady Colville said wistfully. “The country air is more wholesome than the dust and smoke of London.”