Chapter 10 #3
Guilt pricked her conscience. Lady Bellingham had lost her husband and son in the last twelve months, yet Emma would wager no one had booked a seat on the stage to Taunton.
Mr Stanton shrugged off his coat and lifted the edge of the mattress, checking beneath it without a word. Emma found herself more distracted by the flex of his forearms and forgot her next question.
“We’ll also need to see Mr Bellingham’s room while we’re here.” She knew Mr Bellingham hadn’t the funds to leave home and occasionally stayed with friends at The Albany, or so he said.
“Across the landing.” Parker inclined his head. “I’ll be downstairs in the hall if you require anything more.”
As soon as the butler left, she opened the armoire and searched the drawers. “It certainly looks like Miss Bellingham packed for an extended trip.”
“Or she ran away,” Mr Stanton said, lowering the mattress.
“Find anything?”
“No, but it’s your preferred place to hide secrets.”
“Not anymore.” The only safe place for thoughts of him was the deepest recess of her mind.
They searched in vain.
Emma closed the last drawer a little harder than necessary. “Lady Bellingham knew we’d find nothing incriminating. And the servants have tidied away anything useful.”
Mr Bellingham’s room told a different story. Yes, the dark wood was polished to a sheen, his shaving implements arranged neatly beside the washstand. But the folded shirts in the drawers suggested he’d had no plans to leave.
They examined the stack of books, the Bible on the nightstand, and the backs of every picture, as Abigail was wont to do. All to no avail.
Mr Stanton crouched beside the trunk at the foot of the bed and lifted the lid. His shoulder brushed her skirts each time he searched beneath folded shirts, stockings and old cravats.
“I think he was afraid to leave evidence,” she said with a resigned sigh when he closed the trunk. “Why not simply write the killer’s name on the note? Why not post a letter to you at The Sentinel explaining the motive?”
“Because names are dangerous when one only has suspicions.”
Parker entered, chin lifted, back straight as a ruler. “Her ladyship says your time is up. I’m to show you out.”
“But I need to search her escritoire.”
“I’m to show you nothing but the door, ma’am.” He gestured to the landing.
“Sod this.” Mr Stanton barged past and descended the stairs two at a time. His boots struck the parquet with a hollow thud.
His arrival was met with a shriek from Lady Bellingham. “I told you to leave this house. You’ll not rummage through my drawers like a common thief.”
“Step away from the desk, or I’ll move you myself.”
Lady Bellingham gasped. “It’s true what they say, sir. You really are the devil.”
Parker took advantage of the chaos to slip a folded scrap of paper into Emma’s hand, the edges rough and burnt.
“Miss Rebecca burned papers in the bedchamber grate the day before she left,” he whispered. “This was all the maid managed to salvage. Don’t read it here. I don’t believe Miss Rebecca reached Taunton.”
Emma gripped his arm. “Do you know where she is? Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything to help me find Mr Bellingham’s killer?”
Parker bent his head. “I know he blamed his father for being weak and for leaving them in a terrible predicament.”
Emma knew Sir Robert had left them in dire straits.
“Parker,” Lady Bellingham cried.
The man nearly jumped out of his skin. He ushered Emma from the room and down the stairs. “Don’t come here again,” he said, sounding officious.
Mr Stanton stormed out of the sitting room, clutching a length of black sealing wax. “I found this, but no seal. She claims she uses it for mourning letters.”
Lady Bellingham was concealing something about her daughter’s absence. She seemed more than capable of writing a threatening letter warning Emma to keep her nose out.
Parker’s gaze flicked to the wax before he opened the door. “Good day to you.”
Emma waited until they were on the pavement before telling Mr Stanton what the butler had said. “Parker insisted we wait until we’re away from here before reading it. I’d say he’s afraid of more than his mistress.”
Mr Stanton took her elbow and steered her towards the carriage. “I need to return to Fleet Street. We’ll read it en route and decide our next move there.”
“I can do some investigating of my own. You’re a busy man and certainly don’t have time for this.” And she was getting used to his company, to the innocent touches that kept the October chill at bay. “Perhaps you could introduce me to your informant.”
“Like hell. You’re stuck with me for the time being.”
She was just thinking of all the ways she might interpret that when a cold prickle at her nape warned her they were being watched.
She glanced towards Lady Bellingham’s window, but her gaze caught on the familiar coach waiting across the street.
Her heart sank.
“What is it? Does the thought of spending time with me sound so unappealing?”
“No. That’s my brother-in-law’s coach. Thomas Colworth. And the lady with her nose pressed to the glass, plotting my execution, is my sister.”