The Angel of Hever Castle: A City of Mystery Christmas Novella Page 5

  A baby.

  “Madonna and child,” Trevor said quietly, and then he began to wobble a bit on his feet, and wondered if, despite the open door, the paint fumes were beginning to affect his senses.

  “Not just that,” Rayley said. “It would appear that Anne’s jealousy was well founded.” He lifted his own fading torch a little higher and a dim light fell across the top part of the painting.

  The Madonna’s face was certainly not that of Anne Arborton. But nor was it that of Dorinda Spencer, at least not to Trevor’s mind. The woman in the portrait resembled Dorinda, so Trevor could see why Anne had reacted so strongly, but there was something wrong in the image, something Trevor felt but could not name. Portrait artists, he thought, are like detectives. They must train themselves to look very closely at the human face, to note the small differences that distinguish one person from another. And an artist of LaRusse’s skill would not make this sort of mistake.

  “It’s Dorinda,” Rayley said.

  “I don’t think so,” Trevor answered. “If you look here, here at the eyes –“

  But just then a gust of wind slammed the door, extinguishing their torches and leaving them in total darkness.

  ****

  Later, back in London, they would take great care in how they described the next few moments. In relating the story to their fellow members of the Murder Games Club, in how they recalled them to each other, and even how each man remembered the events in his own mind. They would edit out the fact they both screamed. The sharp panic, that moment of confusion, how they bumped squarely into each other in the dark, Trevor very nearly knocking Rayley off his feet. How they finally managed to find the door and stumble out into the moonlight, their smoldering torches still in their hands, for the one thing they both had the presence of mind to do is to hang onto their burning sticks in this room full of toxins. They would recall instead, that they calmly exited the gatehouse and that they were merely startled, not terrified, by what happened next.

  For Trevor and Rayley were barely out of the gatehouse and back in the sheep-strewn field when they saw the figure. She was female, most certainly, for she moved with an airy grace, the folds of her cloak swinging rhythmically as she ran. And she furthermore moved swiftly, gliding over one of the rises and descending across the meadow, almost seeming to melt from their sight.

  The two men remained frozen in shock, neither fleeing the image nor chasing it. Just keeping watch, and finally Rayley drew a shaky hand across his brow. The night had done nothing but grow colder and yet he was covered in sweat. “Please tell me that you saw that.”

  “I saw it,” Trevor said. “And if you ever quote what I am about to say next, I shall roundly deny it and claim you were drunk. But it would seem that we lowly shepherds here have indeed been visited by an angel. Whether it was an angel of the Lord, I cannot say.”

  “An angel?” Rayley said sharply. “I would call it a ghost. Queen Anne herself perhaps, or some other woman who has known heartbreak. And if you ever report that I went out walking one night and claimed to have seen a ghost, then I shall be the one who roundly denies it and swears that you were drunk. We will keep our lady in white between us, will we not?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Do you think she is the one who closed the gatehouse door?”

  “I cannot say. It may have been the wind.”

  “There is no wind.”

  They stood in absolute silence, save the soft bleating of the sheep. They coughed, sniffed, readjusted their clothing, and Trevor fiddled for a match in his own pocket and relit his pipe. And then, without further comment, they started back in the direction of Hever Castle.

  They were almost back to the oaken bridge before either one spoke. “Welles,” Rayley finally said, “the question is only in theory, of course, but what would you imagine to be the difference between an angel and a ghost?”

  Trevor did not hesitate before answering. “I should think it was intent.”

  Chapter Six

  Even before she got Trevor’s telegram, Emma had been checking into the history of LaRusse Chapman and his possible romantic conquests. Tess offered a good starting place with her list of families who had provided references for Chapman when she had first commissioned Anne’s portrait. But these people had nothing but glowing things to say about the painter, which Emma supposed was not surprising; LaRusse would hardly have offered jilted girls and outraged parents as his references.

  “Apparently he doesn’t seduce every woman he meets,” Emma said to Geraldine over breakfast on the morning of December 22, “for quite a few people stand ready to proclaim the man’s virtues. Perhaps he is one of those fellows who only find a certain kind of woman attractive? You know, the sort of man who chooses some variation of the same woman over and over?”

  “More likely he only bothers to make advances if he believes he has a good chance of succeeding,” Geraldine replied. “He looks for girls who are vulnerable, insecure, eager for flattery.”

  Emma was surprised. “And Anne Arborton fits that description?”

  “I’m childless, and thus likely speaking out of turn,” Geraldine answered, folding her morning paper and removing her glasses. “But it seems to me that the most confident mothers often produce the least confident daughters. Leave the next step to me. I shall make a few calls and compose my own list - debutants from the last three seasons, since that is apparently his preferred hunting ground. And then I shall poke around and see if any of those girls have dropped from the social scene.”

  “Time is of the essence,” Emma said.

  “Darling, please,” Geraldine said, with an airy wave of her hand. “This is the business of a single afternoon.”

  Emma smiled – for someone who claimed to be a dotty old lady, Geraldine could be remarkably focused when she chose to be – and turned her attention back to Trevor’s wire. “Trevor mentions a specific name, although this girl isn’t missing. Apparently she’s an artist at the colony. Dorinda Spencer. Have you ever heard of her?”

  Geraldine shook her head, a pensive frown playing across her features. “I thought I knew every family on the circuit, but I don’t know any Spencers. If she is standing there before his eyes, why has this Dorinda piqued Trevor’s interest?”

  “He doesn’t say.”

  “All right then,” Geraldine said, rising to her feet with a flourish. She loved to have a task, most especially a task connected to the Murder Games Club. “I am off to sniff out intrigue with LaRusse’s other potential artistic muses and you are off as well, my darling.”

  “And what is my mission?”

  “Sending a telegram to John and Leanna out at Rosemoral,” Geraldine answered, meaning her grand-niece and her recently-acquired husband. “Ask John where upper class girls go when they find themselves with child.”

  “With child?” Emma asked in confusion. John was an obstetrician, and before his marriage to Leanna and subsequent move to her family’s country estate, he had planned to start a maternity clinic for the poorest women in London. He would surely know every confinement home within the city, but Emma wasn’t sure where Geraldine was headed with this line of inquiry.

  “Yes, darling, and don’t look so surprised,” Geraldine said, popping a final piece of cherry tart into her mouth before leaving the table. “Poor girls are not the only ones who sometimes find themselves in a spot of trouble. We may be running down a blind alley, but somehow I doubt it. If LaRusse has seduced a series of girls, the odds are that at least one of them might have found herself carrying a child she could not claim. These unfortunates must go somewhere for their confinement and John will know where.”

  “Geraldine, you never fail to surprise me.”

  “Thank you, darling. That’s one of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me.”

  ****

  Emma sent her telegram, then walked a few blocks further for her midday shopping, picking up all of Gage’s needs for dinner. She had just arrived home and was unpacki
ng her purchases in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. To her surprise, it was a telegram delivery boy, already bearing Leanna’s swift response to her inquiry.

  Darling, the telegram began, in the effusive manner so common to women of the Bainbridge family. It sounds as if you have gotten yourself ensnared in another of Trevor’s wonderful mysteries. And a romantic one involving starving artists and illegitimate children and abandoned castles. Tom is beside himself with envy, and it is all we can do to contain him from returning to London at once. John says an upper class girl in the family way will likely find herself at the Kirkland School in Chelsea. Good luck, and I expect to hear all the exciting details when everyone comes for New Year’s. Ever yours, Leanna

  Emma sighed. Only someone as wealthy as Leanna would compose such a wordy and breathless sort of telegram, which made it sound as if the two girls were gossiping over tea rather than trying to convey information in a businesslike fashion. The mention of New Year’s, when the entire party was expected to journey to Rosemoral for a ball, only served to remind Emma how few days were left before the holiday week arrived. Despite everyone’s predictions to the contrary, she knew there was a good chance Trevor and Rayley would not be back for Christmas brunch, and the thought hit her with a pang. Furthermore, if she and Geraldine didn’t scramble, there was even a chance that the men would still be at Hever Castle over New Year’s and thus unable to join them on the planned journey to Rosemoral.

  That would never do. Emma glanced at the clock. Nearly three, and there was truly no telling when Geraldine would return from her gossipy pilgrimage through the streets of Mayfair. Kirkland School, the telegram had said. It sounded like a fine cover – a maternity home for the daughters of the well-to-do, masquerading as a boarding school. No doubt the resultant babies would be adopted out to wealthy families, who were happy to know that their young wards, while illegitimate, came from blue-blooded mothers. And the girls, sadder but wiser, were then free to rejoin the ranks of the respectable.

  If I wait for Geraldine, it shall be tomorrow before we can venture to Chelsea, Emma thought. And each day we burn increases the probability that Rayley and Trevor will not sit at our holiday table. Crumpling Leanna’s telegram in one hand, she reached for her cloak with the other.

  ****

  The Kirkland School for Young Ladies sat considerably back from the road, surrounded by a high fence. Emma peered through the iron railings at the well-tended lawns. It did indeed have the appearance of a respectable school, albeit one without any students, for the yard was empty and the entire scene eerily quiet. She pushed against the gate and it opened with a heavy creak, the sound of a hinge which was rarely moved, then picked her way through the crinkly leaves to the front porch.

  Her ring of the doorbell was promptly answered by an older woman dressed entirely in gray, who motioned Emma in without asking either her name or her business there. Emma felt a surge of confidence. Trevor and the others were entirely too protective of her. They were reluctant to send her on any missions that could become even remotely dangerous, and thus she was forced, over and over, to prove her worth to the team. But there were some situations in which a woman could get farther along the investigative path than a man, and this was clearly one of those situations. Especially if the woman was young, alone, and wearing a tremulous smile.

  “I’ve come about my sister,” Emma said softly, dropping her eyes to the plush Oriental carpet in the hall. The word “sister” always stuck in her throat a bit and she supposed it always would. Her only sister, Mary Kelly, had been the last victim of Jack the Ripper and there were times when it took all the self-control Emma possessed to avoid sinking into despair at the memory. Mary had likely been her last true relative in the world, since their parents had died of typhoid and their brother Adam had disappeared into the wilds of America without a trace. Geraldine and the others were like an adopted family, and she loved them all fiercely, but still – blood was blood, and in this sense Emma Kelly stood orphaned in the world.

  Tears sprang to her eyes, surprising her, although she supposed they also helped her ruse. The Kirkland School appeared to be quite accustomed to the sudden arrival of weeping women, for the woman in gray took her arm gently and guided her to a small parlor off of the entrance hall.

  “Call me Mrs. Carter,” she said. “Would you like tea?”

  Emma nodded, more to give herself time to think than for any real need of refreshment. It was odd, the way the woman had said “Call me Mrs. Carter” rather than “I am Mrs. Carter.” Perhaps contrived names were the norm of such a place. She looked around the room. It was somber in tone, but nicely furnished, and the roaring fire was welcoming. The tea cup, when it arrived, was of a fine bone china and the brew inside proved to be the same expensive brand that Geraldine served in her own parlor. Emma supposed that if a young woman was forced to wait out an unwanted pregnancy and give up her child, there were worse places to do so than within the Kirkland School for Girls.

  “Now, tell me about you…your sister.” Mrs. Carter said, taking her seat across from Emma.

  So she thinks I am the one who is pregnant and the sister is an affectation, Emma thought. Very well, I suppose one lie works as well as another.

  “You must promise me absolute discretion,” she said, suddenly aware that Mrs. Carter had not yet asked her for her name. This could make matters tricky. In a house where women either went by assumed names or offered up none at all, how would they be able to find if any of the Kirkland “students” matched any of the names on LaRusse’s list of “muses”? The parlor door softly opened as she spoke and a young woman entered, carrying a tray of biscuits. She looked to be a full nine months into her pregnancy, far enough along that she waddled unsteadily on her feet and Emma was flummoxed by her presence. They made the pregnant girls at Kirkland work? Carrying a tray of biscuits was hardly the equivalent of plowing the fields, but it still seemed an odd task for the daughter of a genteel family, no matter how far she might have fallen.

  “Discretion is our hallmark,” Mrs. Carter was saying. “But as I am sure you can understand, this discretion is required on both sides of any agreement. May I ask how you learned about our school?”

  Emma was about to give John’s name, when something stopped her. It would have been an honest answer and a logical one, and John’s name was one that Mrs. Carter would undoubtedly recognize and respect. But citing John would bring her no closer to the truth she sought, so instead Emma blurted out “Dorinda Spencer.”

  The room fell silent. Mrs. Carter glanced to the side, to the door where the pregnant maid had entered, but the girl had moved and was now behind her mistress, still holding the tray. Her own gaze flitted up and Emma’s heart leapt. Was that a flicker of recognition at the name, and, if so, what did it mean? Dorinda Spencer was hardly a student at Kirkland – she was an artist at Hever. But of course she might have been a student in the past…might have had a child and given it up and then followed LaRusse…

  But Emma’s reverie, an entire story built solely on a maid’s slight shift in expression, came crashing down when Mrs. Carter said calmly, “I am not familiar with that name.”

  ****

  Ten minutes later Emma was back at the iron gate. Her interview with Mrs. Carter somehow had managed to be both brief and exhaustive, both vague and enlightening. Emma had left telling the woman she needed some time to consider the proposition in privacy before deciding if the Kirkland School would be right for her mythical sister. Mrs. Carter had nodded and then quoted a tuition fee that made Emma’s mouth literally drop open. Apparently discretion came at a very high cost, but at least the secrets of the Kirkland School appeared to be well-kept. When Emma had timidly asked for references from other satisfied students, Mrs. Carter had merely shaken her head and said “This is an impossible request, my dear. As I suspect you already know.”

  The woman had followed Emma to the door and watched as she descended the steps and made her way down the long path to the street
. But when Emma had reached the gate, the door of the school had at last firmly closed, leaving her standing here with her hand on the iron railing, debating her next best move. She had found out precious little that would help the case, but she couldn’t quite shake the notion that the maid had recognized the name “Dorinda Spencer.” The afternoon was quickly fading to dusk. Preparations for dinner were probably already underway and almost all homes of this size had back entrances into the kitchen…Should she risk it?

  ****

  The pregnant maid’s name was Melly MacGraw. She offered this up with such ease that Emma had no doubt that it was true. Nor did the girl seem especially surprised to find Emma at her kitchen door and she accepted Emma’s offer of help with alacrity.

  “You needn’t worry that I’ll make a muddle of it,” Emma said. “I was a maid myself this time last year.”

  “Were you now?” said the girl, sliding a clump of carrots and a paring knife toward her. “They’ll put you work fast enough if they hear that.”

  “I am not pregnant.”

  The girl glanced down at her protruding abdomen. “All right then, neither am I.”

  “I have come as part of an investigation,” Emma said cautiously, for she didn’t wish to say anything that might alarm Melly or cause her easy open manner to shift. “Into missing girls. When I mentioned the name ‘Dorinda Spencer’ it seemed to me that you reacted. Did you know her?”

  “Not exactly. There was a Rose Spencer here when I first come, four months ago. I waited on her, as her personal maid. She had very fine hair, you know. And she liked the way I did it up. Said I was as skilled as any lady’s maid in any fine house in England.”

  “And what happened to her? Do you have any idea where she is now?”

  Melly paused in the process of peeling her potatoes and frowned. “What happens to her is what happens to them all, I figure. She had her baby and she left.”