Chapter 13 #2
“My father wouldn’t expect me to move a stone slab, either.”
“Then the clue is hidden in plain sight.”
They spent a few minutes in the cramped chamber, testing whether the flagstones were loose and shifting the casket to see if anything was written beneath. She ran her hand over the Roman numerals, pressing them, half expecting a hidden catch—all to no avail.
“We’re wasting our time.” She cursed her father for placing her in this predicament. “We have nothing but a bag of useless trinkets and a key to this pointless crypt.”
Gabriel stared at the floor, lost in thought. “And we have a poem. Did your father know of your fondness for the Graveyard poets?”
“Yes.” He’d given her Gray’s Elegy on the day of her mother’s funeral. “I’ve been drawn to the soul’s search for peace ever since my mother died.”
A subtle smile touched his lips. “I understand. Peace is fragile where absence lingers.”
How astute he was. She laid her hand on his coat sleeve, the wool soft beneath her fingers, though she knew the strength that lay beneath. “I’m here to listen, if you ever wish to talk.”
“You have a gift for putting stubborn men at ease.”
“And for thawing frost.”
His gaze deepened, something almost reverent in the way he looked at her. “Yes. You have the power to chase away winter’s chill.”
The moment hung between them, full of things left unsaid.
Then he seemed to remember himself, his expression turning thoughtful. “We must look for the symbolic meaning in everything. The items in the valise, the key, the poem are all relevant.”
She’d tried, but this man occupied most of her thoughts lately. “Let’s consider the items in the valise. If the compass points west instead of north, it could signify many things: my father being led astray, false leads, deception. In Ancient Egypt, west was the direction of the netherworld.”
His gaze snapped to hers. “Who told you that?”
“My father.”
“He did direct you to a graveyard.”
“Then perhaps the mausoleum is the centre, and the clue lies west of here, away from London and towards the Thames bend.”
They left the mausoleum and returned to the graves.
“Did you say you covered all the burial grounds on this road?” Gabriel asked, surveying the tilting headstones. “How many lie between the church and the cottage?”
“Three. Aside from houses, the only significant place west of here is the rectory. Mrs Hodge said Reverend Clay prefers to live away from St Luke’s.”
The rector had been left alone with Mr Lovelace at the watch-house, and had inspired Mrs Hodge’s move to World’s End, yet neither seemed capable of plotting the fall of the government.
“Perhaps we should call on the rector,” Gabriel said, like a barrister certain of a defendant’s guilt. “To express concern over the theft of a body in his parish.”
“You mean the theft of Justin Lovelace?” Why would he not say his name? “It is him. The man who visited my father.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“What makes you so unsure?”
The strain behind his eyes deepened the lines on his brow. “Because that would be too simple. And because I would know it, in my heart.”
“The heart you claim is made of stone?”
The heart she knew was anything but.
His lips quirked. “Yes, that one.”
“The countess confirmed his identity.” Joanna was strong and intelligent, not prone to sentiment. “She would have said if she had doubts.”
“We’ve not seen him in a decade. Her focus is on her own family. I suspect part of her seeks closure.” He paused, the silence heavy with uncertainty. “Besides, the man I knew would never hurt a woman.”
She touched her throat, recalling the strength and determination in her attacker’s ironclad grip. “People change. Not always for the better.”
How had a loving father become a revolutionary? A man who betrayed his family only to betray his comrades. She was certain he’d left evidence that exposed them. They simply needed to find it.
As if the Lord had heard her request, the sudden murmur of voices and soft tread of footsteps drifted on a breeze. Anticipating danger, Gabriel circled her waist, drawing her behind the shelter of the mausoleum.
“It may be mourners come to pay their respects.” She clung to him for no reason other than it brought peace.
He peered around the stone building, squinting against a ray of sunlight. “It’s not mourners. It’s Mrs Hodge and Reverend Clay. They’re examining the headstones and making notes. He’s kneeling beside a mortstone, searching through the weeds and grass.”
“Having seen the carriage on the road, I’m surprised they aren’t looking for us.”
“Kincaid would have given a bird call had they come through the main gate. There must be another entrance.”
“Yes, a path adjoining the field.”
“Well, we won’t find answers hiding here.” He took her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm. “They must believe we trust them. It will buy us time.”
“Assuming either of them is guilty.”
“In this case, they’re guilty until we prove them innocent.”
They stepped out, her confident stride belying the hollow pit in her stomach, and made no attempt to disguise their approach.
Mrs Hodge looked up first, her face blanching as if she’d seen ghosts. She tapped the rector’s arm, drawing his attention from the notes he was scribbling in his book.
The clergyman looked equally startled. He snapped the book shut and tucked it under his arm. “Lord and Lady Rothley, good day to you.”
Mrs Hodge’s mouth fell open, yet she masked her surprise with a curtsy. As she rose, she held Olivia’s gaze but said nothing.
“What brings you to such a desolate part of Chelsea?” the rector asked, then winced as his memory caught up with his tongue. “Oh dear, you must still be looking for that poor man’s body. Dreadful turn of events. Quite dreadful.”
“Yes, we’re searching all the burial grounds in the area,” Gabriel said with the aristocratic air that made lesser men uneasy, “looking for signs of a disturbance. The magistrate believes a show of authority might appease the restless parishioners.”
“We wondered if you were doing something similar,” Olivia said, “as we saw you making notes in your book.”
Mrs Hodge was quick to answer on his behalf. “We’re taking down names in the hope we can persuade family members to tend the overgrown graves. With crime on the rise, there are too many places for footpads and robbers to hide.”
Olivia frowned. Grave-tending was the sexton’s duty, not the rector’s. Since when did clergy concern themselves with weeds?
“And that awful murder, right on our doorstep, will have folk moving further out to Fulham.” The rector glanced heavenward. “Let us pray that a generous benefactor donates the funds to hire another gardener.”
She thought Gabriel might contribute or offer to send his own man, but giving money to a suspected revolutionary could implicate him in their crimes.
“Have you thought of approaching Sir Randall?” Olivia wanted Mrs Hodge to know they had spoken to her former employer. “His sister thought highly of you. He did nothing but sing your praises when we met yesterday.”
The woman shifted, as though a pebble had found its way into her shoe. “I wouldn’t want him to feel obliged. He took her passing badly, and I’d not wish to stir painful memories.”
“He keeps her marble paperweight on his desk, and seemed quite eager to talk about her.”
“All the same, I’ll not ask for his charity.”
“I’m sure the Lord will provide a solution.” Gabriel returned to the subject of his murdered friend. “Before we leave you to your work, there are a few questions we must ask on the magistrate’s behalf. Concerning the body found in the cottage.”
“By all means,” the rector said, “though I presume the suspect has reached Brighton by now. I believe the lady who rented the cottage has an aunt there.”
Olivia’s chest constricted. She counted the seconds until Mrs Hodge revealed her secret, that she was Miss Woolf, the missing suspect.
“I told the constable all I know,” Mrs Hodge said curtly.
“If you wouldn’t mind confirming the facts.” Gabriel fixed her with that penetrating gaze one dared not refuse. “It might help us understand why the resurrectionists took a body that was two days old, when the surgeons pay more for fresher specimens.”
Mrs Hodge hesitated, fingers picking at the edge of her coat as if buying time.
The rector gave a genial smile. “Go ahead, Mrs Hodge. His lordship is merely seeking answers.”
After stuttering over the first words, she said, “I came to clean the cottage after the tenant left and found the poor gentleman dead in the bed.”
Olivia shivered, imagining Mr Lovelace lying lifeless in her old bed, and some devil planting evidence to incriminate her.
And why had Mrs Hodge been so vague? Referring only to ‘the tenant’ and not Miss Woolf? Perhaps she was afraid of Gabriel. Or perhaps she hoped the constables would waste time chasing shadows because someone had helped her murder Mr Lovelace.
“Was there any sign of forced entry?” Gabriel asked.
“The back door was ajar, as though someone had opened it with a key. But I had the only key, so whoever it was must have had a spare or used tools to pick the lock.”
While dragging a body from the graveyard through the garden? “Were there muddy footprints on the floor?” Olivia asked. “Might you have noticed the size or shape?”
“How intuitive, Lady Rothley,” Reverend Clay said.
“No, ma’am. There was no sign anything was amiss until I went upstairs and came across the horrid scene.”
She wondered if her thoughts and Gabriel’s were aligned? Had he noticed the lack of empathy? The calm detachment of a woman who had seen such horrors before?
“What was he wearing?” Gabriel said.
“Dark trousers, an open shirt. His black jacket hung over the chair, his boots placed neatly beneath.” Mrs Hodge clasped her chest, remembering she was supposed to be shocked.
“I ran to the rectory.” She turned, pointing west of the mausoleum.
“Reverend Clay fetched the watchman and dealt with things from there.”
“So you didn’t find the letter?”
“The letter?” the rector repeated.
“There was one in the man’s pocket.”
Mrs Hodge kept her expression neutral, the sort that would appease any jury. “Once I confirmed he was dead, I left the house and haven’t been back since.”
“And you’ve not seen the man before?” Gabriel’s tone held the subtle desperation of one seeking the truth.
Mrs Hodge faltered and glanced at Olivia before replying. “I can’t be sure. I may have seen him on the road.”
Gabriel stiffened beside her. No wonder. Mrs Hodge had looked at her like a woman who entertained secret visitors.
He spoke again. “And the man’s boots? You’re certain you saw them?”
Mrs Hodge blinked. “Yes. They were under the chair.”
“They were clean?”
“Yes.”
Olivia heard the edge of defensiveness in her tone. Perhaps it was shock. Or simply exhaustion. But something in Mrs Hodge’s manner set her on edge.
“If we have any further questions, we’ll be in touch.” Gabriel thanked them before capturing her elbow, suddenly eager to leave. “One last thing. Someone has forced the mausoleum door. Do you happen to know if there’s a relative responsible for the plot?”
The rector seemed unconcerned. “Probably a vagrant. I can check the parish and sexton’s registers. If the family purchased the plot, it should be noted there. Though in truth, records are often hard to find once the grave is sealed.”
“Will the sexton not know?”
“Nesbit?” The rector spoke the name as if it were the bane of his existence. “He’s new, my lord, hired after his predecessor passed. I’m happy to question him when I find him. The man has a habit of wandering.”
Mrs Hodge stepped forward. “You’ve enough to attend to, sir. I can speak to Nesbit and check the burial book while I’m searching for the other relatives.” She gave a polite smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Good, good,” the rector said. “Rest assured, we’ll have this place looking respectable in no time.”
They left them to their work, though Olivia felt Mrs Hodge’s gaze burn between her shoulder blades as they walked away.
A cold weight settled in her chest. Something had shifted. The air, the truth, perhaps even Gabriel’s faith in her.
She glanced at him, searching his face. “If you’re wondering. If you’re doubting. Gabriel, I’ve only seen Mr Lovelace when he visited our house, and when he attacked me in the graveyard. Whatever impression Mrs Hodge gave, you must know—”
“That Mrs Hodge is a liar.” He placed a steady hand at her back. “And she knows a damn sight more than she dares admit.”