Chapter Eleven
As Nate’s carriage rolled through the gates of Villa De Lacey, Bridget gazed up at her beloved home.
She was pleased to see that the blue shutters and curtains in all the rooms were open, allowing daylight to infiltrate.
So many of the rooms had been shuttered for years, when it had just been Papa, Aunt Marianne, and she, occupying the villa.
Papa had closed eleven rooms to save money, and she’d never realized how silent and isolating it had been.
Her grandfather’s home was meant to be seen, appreciated, and enjoyed.
And for a time, it had been. Until once again, it was marred, by murder.
She sighed and stroked Bijou, who lay curled in a ball on her lap. He opened his eyes and looked at her. Upon seeing her smile, he sat up and tried to lick her face. Then, noticing his cherished garden out the carriage window, he started yapping madly.
“Bridget, make him stop!” Aunt Marianne put her hands over her ears. They had started their journey in the wee hours of the morning, and Aunt Marianne was tired and irritable.
“He’s excited to be home, that’s all.” Bridget stroked the terrier, who now stood on his hind legs with his paws resting against the carriage window and his tail wagging.
The carriage rolled to a stop outside the stables, and Aunt Marianne was the first one out the door when the driver opened it for her.
She nodded at Jane, who’d come outside to greet them, bustling past her and disappearing into the villa, no doubt heading straight to her chamber for a well-earned rest.
Bridget exited behind her aunt, letting an excited Bijou scamper forward to greet the footman James, who bent to pet the dog as it spun in a circle driven by his excitement.
“Downstairs, Bijou. Go and see Cook. I’m sure she has some nice scraps of meat for you.”
Nate came up behind Bridget and together they watched the terrier race down the stairs to the servants’ quarters.
When Bridget took her eyes off her dog and faced Jane, she saw that the woman’s expression looked grim.
“I do hope everything went smoothly whilst we were away,” Bridget said, feeling apprehensive. “We cannot thank you enough for your help.”
“Indeed, it did. Aunt Marianne has trained the servants so well that this place practically runs itself.” A nervous laugh escaped her throat, and Bridget noticed that she clasped the fingers on her right hand as if uneasy.
“Is everyone well?” Nate asked. “There hasn’t been another…”
“Heaven’s no! Nothing like that,” Jane said.
“Then what is it? I can tell there’s something.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Angert and Colonel Kendall have stirred up a bit of trouble.”
“Good Lord!” Nate groaned. “What have they done now?”
“Well, Mr. Angert has started selling miniatures of the murder scene, and it has brought an influx of villagers to see the site. And Colonel Kendall has taken it upon himself to give the ‘visitors’ a tour and a detailed explanation of what occurred that day.”
“Good grief!” Nate said. “They are turning Villa De Lacey into a circus.”
“Indeed. And their actions have greatly upset Lady Matheson, who has taken to locking herself in her room.”
“This will not do,” Nate said. “I shall have to put an end to it immediately.”
“I should say so,” Bridget said.
“It has also upset Rupert and Charlie a great deal.”
“Rupert and Charlie are not our guests, so why is that a concern?” Nate asked.
“But they are our guests. They’ve moved in.”
“Moved in?” Bridget said with a gasp. “Do you mean to say they’ve abandoned their cottage?”
“Oh, yes. They cannot afford to stay there anymore, what with the loss of Mr. Otis and his share of the rent.”
“If that’s the case, then they definitely can’t afford our rates,” Nate said.
“Oh, but we can’t throw them out onto the streets,” Bridget said. “After all, their friend was murdered on our property.”
“Payment is not a concern,” Jane said. “Lady Luxton is paying for their keep.”
“Lady Luxton?” Nate exclaimed, his voice sounding both surprised and relieved.
“So, she is still here?” Bridget saw some of the tension leave Nate’s body.
He likely knew the day would come when Lady Luxton would take Henry away again, and his chances of seeing the child after that would be filled with uncertainty.
“Oh, very much so,” Jane said. “You might say she was running the villa in your absence, the way she took to ordering the servants.”
Bridget’s chest tightened. Lady Luxton was obviously quite bored at home with her husband and so had decided to become mistress of Villa De Lacey. “Well,” she said frostily, “We’d best get inside and put an end to these shenanigans, which seem to be disturbing the peace of our guests.”
*
Nate’s priority upon his return was to see his son. But he was sorely disappointed when he approached Helen and asked if he could spend a little time with Henry.
“Rupert and I are taking Henry to the lake,” she said.
“Rupert?” Nate asked, unable to keep the irritation from his voice.
“Yes. Henry adores him.”
“Well, I can see why. That poet is but a mere child himself.”
“He is no child”—she gave him a coy smile—“that much I can assure you.”
Nate felt the tension in his jaw as he bit back his retort. “What about tomorrow?” he said as amiably as he could manage.
“Why is it you want to see him now? You have shown no interest in days.”
“I’ve been in York. I thought you knew.”
“Yes, of course,” she drawled, and Nate saw a flash of malice in her eyes.
“Am I expected to arrange my time around your little excursions with your blond orphan? If Henry were your priority, you would remain here for the short time he is present. It won’t be long before I take him back to Lochmaben.
His papa misses him terribly, you know.”
Nate swallowed the sorrow that rose in his throat.
Perhaps Helen was right. He knew Henry would only be at Villa De Lacey for a short time, yet he’d spent three days in York investigating a murder that, as far as the magistrate was concerned, was already solved.
Still, he could not allow Helen’s manipulation and attempt to control him to continue.
She was still trying to punish him for rejecting her the previous year.
Rejection was not something Helen could accept.
She wanted every man in her path—even those she’d discarded—to worship her.
“It’s just as well,” Nate said, suppressing the ache in his chest, “I have busy days ahead. Good day to you, Lady Luxton.” Then he turned on his heels before she could say more and walked in the opposite direction.
Thrown off course by his encounter with Helen, Nate strode aimlessly forward and almost collided with Mr. Angert’s valet, who was carrying his master’s easel and painting utensils out to the garden.
“Excuse me, sir,” the man said in a thick German accent.
Nate stopped. He’d almost forgotten about Angert and his blasted paintings. “Where is your master?” he inquired.
“I’m here,” Angert said, coming toward Nate.
The man was impeccably dressed as always in a dark suit, gray waistcoat, white shirt, and black cravat.
He also wore expensive leather boots and gold-rimmed spectacles perched on his beak-like nose.
It suddenly struck Nate that the man reminded him of a crow as much as the headmaster had reminded him of an ostrich. He chuckled to himself.
“What is so funny?” Angert demanded.
“I was just thinking what a fine suit that is for a day of painting.”
Angert lifted his pointy chin. “I am a gentleman as well as an artist. One does not cancel out the other.”
“Of course,” Nate said. “I hear you’ve been keeping quite busy.”
“Ja. It’s wonderful. This murder. The interest in my paintings is enormous. I cannot thank you enough.”
“I find it both strange and unsettling that you think murder wonderful, Mr. Angert. And thanking me—well, I’d prefer you didn’t. In fact, I must ask you to stop selling paintings of Mr. Otis’s murder. I hardly think it appropriate for you to exploit a man’s gruesome and tragic death.”
Angert’s long, thin face became even more drawn as he looked sourly at Nate. “I am an artist, Mr. Squires. I do not exploit. I make art. Death is part of life, and it can be beautiful. People find my paintings majestic. Come”—he gestured for Nate to follow him—“see for yourself.”
Nate followed the man to his chamber. Upon entering the room, he was aghast to see the walls lined with paintings of the most gruesome nature.
There were several portrayals of Mr. Otis’s murder.
At the start of the row, the paintings depicted the sea of daffodils in Villa De Lacey’s Garden against the idyllic backdrop of Lake Windermere, surrounded by greenery and a brilliant blue sky.
Then, upon closer inspection, one could see drops of blood seeping from the daffodils.
The first picture showed only one or two drops, which were hard to detect upon first glance.
In the next, the blood trickled between the flowers, and in the third, it stained some red.
The fourth picture grew more macabre. It showed George Otis’s stiff hand, in a frozen, petrified death grasp, emerging from a bloodied patch in the flower bed.
As the row of paintings went on, they became even more graphic, showing details of the murder and Otis’s mutilated body. Nausea rose in Nate’s throat. There was something very wrong with Herbert Angert.
“Well, what do you think?” Angert beamed at his work.
“I imagine you are wondering how I painted so many in such a short time. It’s because I am what they call beidh?ndig in German.
It means ‘two-handed.’ I use both my hands to paint two pictures at a time—one with the left hand and one with the right hand.
It’s a talent I was born with.” He turned to his paintings and grinned. “Masterpieces, are they not?”
“I won’t deny your talent, Mr. Angert,” Nate said, trying to be diplomatic. “But I must say, these are in bad taste. In that respect, I must ask you to stop.”
“Stop!” Angert spat out the word as if it were an obscene object stuck in his throat. “You ask an artist to stop painting? That is like asking him to chop off his hands.”
“I’m not asking you to stop painting. Westmorland has some of the most exquisite scenery in the world. You can paint endless landscapes. I thought that was why you came here.”
“It is. And I have captured Lake Windermere on my canvas.” He reached down and extracted a painting from a pile leaning against his wall. “See.”
Nate nodded at the landscape, which depicted a rather dark and gothic-looking Lake Windermere with stormy skies above.
It was a somewhat exaggerated portrayal of how ominous the lake could look during a storm.
“I see you have a penchant for the gothic,” Nate said wryly.
“All I’m asking is that you stick to painting scenes like this one.
There are even lovelier views from Orrest Head, and Buttermere is quite breathtaking.
Why don’t you venture out there with your easel? ”
“Demand for depictions of Mr. Otis’s murder is high, Mr. Squires.”
“You cannot possibly need the money. Isn’t your father a baron?”
“Wasn’t yours an earl?” Angert said, coolly.
“He was. But that title now belongs to my brother, who inherited all my father’s wealth, along with the title.”
“Leaving you at your brother’s mercy.” Angert’s fists curled into a tight ball.
“I know something of that injustice myself. Nothing irks my brother more than me selling my paintings. He says it besmirches the family name. And that is exactly why I continue to do it.” The corners of his mouth curved into a sinister smile.
“You and I are alike in that respect, are we not?”
Nate swallowed. Was Angert correct? After all, he’d been profiting heavily since the first murders at Villa De Lacey. The notion made him sick.
“I see that made you uncomfortable,” Angert said.
“But the truth is that people love the macabre. Public executions in Germany delight the masses as they do in England. Have you ever seen a man drawn and quartered, Mr. Squires? It’s a most gruesome spectacle, yet Englishmen flock to see it.
They bring their wives and children. That’s why these murders have been good for you.
Why should they not be good for me too? The colonel is also profiting in a different way, no? ”
“Don’t tell me he is charging villagers too,” Nate said.
“No, but he delights in the attention. What is the harm?”
Nate squeezed the bridge of his nose. It was obvious that he was not going to be able to convince Angert to stop the sickening paintings or Colonel Kendall from being a self-appointed authority on the murder. And that left him with only one solution.