Chapter 26
The Evidence of What Did Not Happen
There is a quickness of perception in some, a nicety in the discernment of character, a natural penetration, in short, which no experience in others can equal …
Jane Austen, Persuasion
Rosalind found Adam on the second floor. He was staring down the length of the central corridor, so lost in thought that he did not seem to notice her until she was just next to him.
“Will you eat something?” She held out the plate of sandwiches.
“If you will,” he said, but he did not take his attention away from the corridor.
So, they stood there like that—the pair of them munching ham sandwiches and staring at nothing, each thinking their own thoughts.
“How are the Kinsdales?” Adam asked finally.
“Angry,” said Rosalind. “Frightened, and now that they know who we are, suspicious of us both.”
“I can’t say I blame them for that.”
“What have you learned?” she asked.
Adam sighed. He finished off the last bites of his sandwich and helped himself to another. “It does appear that Sir Anthony fell from his window, and Mrs. Lynn is indeed gone.”
“What did the coroner say?”
“He says Sir Anthony probably fell twice—once against a table in his room, and then from the window. He’s a competent man, but also content to take things at face value.
I agree that Sir Anthony’s head was struck twice, once in back and once in front.
But exactly what happened?” Adam added softly, almost angrily. “I can’t tell yet.”
“You’re thinking about Jasper Aimesworth,” said Rosalind.
Adam nodded. Jasper Aimesworth had been a rash young man. He, like Sir Anthony, had been found after a fall—in that case, he’d fallen from the musician’s gallery of Almack’s ballroom—and it was assumed that fall had killed him.
It was the inquiry into Jasper’s death that led to Rosalind meeting Adam.
“I admit, I was thinking about him, too,” said Rosalind.
She was also thinking about last night’s party, Sir Anthony sitting, drinking, and gaming with that crowd of men he barely knew, let alone understood.
“Did you find any money or notes with Sir Anthony?”
“No. And I did check. Thrush had emptied his coat pockets, so his purse and pocketbook were on his dressing table, but there was nothing in them.”
“I strongly suspect Mrs. Lynn took the proceeds from the party when she left.”
“That would seem likely. Thankfully, the coroner did agree we should send out some constables to the coaching inns, to see if we can catch Mrs. Lynn as she tries to leave Bath.”
“But there has been no word?”
“Not yet.” Adam finished the second sandwich. “I was hoping you’d come look at Mrs. Lynn’s room with me. You may be able to see something I would miss.”
“Of course.” She handed him the plate with the remaining sandwich, dusted her hands, and followed him down the corridor.
Mrs. Lynn’s room was the first door on the right side of the hallway. Inside waited a pretty little boudoir, although one decorated with more pink satin and ruffles than Rosalind herself would have been comfortable with.
Rosalind took three steps into the room and paused. She looked about her, turning slowly to take in the whole of it.
The room was a disaster. The bed covers were askew. The wardrobe door hung open and its drawers had been pulled out. The dressing table was a sea of overturned bottles and boxes.
Inside the wardrobe, several gowns still hung on their hooks, but some were obviously missing. An abandoned bonnet lay in the bottom, and another was on its shelf, but there was no coat or pelisse. Nor did a cursory search turn up a bandbox or portmanteau, although a trunk waited in the closet.
Adam opened the clothes press at the foot of the bed. The clothes inside had been disarranged. The small clothes were gone. As were the stockings.
“Did she fly in haste, or was the room searched after she left?” asked Adam.
“I was wondering much the same.” Rosalind crossed the room to the small jewel cabinet on the table. It was open, and its drawers emptied. She opened the dressing table drawer and found a mess of handkerchiefs and gloves.
“But there was no reason for Mrs. Lynn to fly, at least not when we parted company,” Rosalind said.
“She had a plan for a graceful—or at least organized—retreat and it seemed to me she had reasons to want to leave things in good order. However, it is possible that when she discovered the tragedy of Sir Anthony’s death, she decided speed was more important. ”
“But there’s a problem?” prompted Adam. “Another problem, I should say?”
Rosalind nodded. “Mrs. Lynn is a woman of experience. She had to know that if she fled in the middle of the night, it would raise more suspicions than if she stayed and pretended to be as shocked and grieved as the rest of the house.”
“Or if she was the one who raised the alarm.”
“Exactly.”
Rosalind went back to the writing table. It had only one drawer, with paper and quills and a penknife, and sealing wax and all the other paraphernalia needed for writing letters and lists.
“There’s no letters,” murmured Rosalind. “Not here, not in any of the other drawers. If Mrs. Lynn had been staying here long enough to organize multiple card parties, she should have been receiving her post here as well.”
Adam went to the hearth and picked up the poker.
He squatted down and stirred the ashes. “No signs of any papers having been burned,” he said.
“At least, not recently.” He straightened and put the poker back in its holder.
“I’ll ask that any letters that come for her today be set aside.
Once there’s someone to set them aside,” he added ruefully.
Rosalind glowered at the room, willing it to give her some sign as to what truly happened. But the mess remained as it was, and no revelations occurred to her. She sighed at her own foolishness and turned back to Adam.
“You did not sound as if you agreed with the coroner’s assessment that Sir Anthony fell because he was drunk,” Rosalind said. “Why is that?”
“Let me show you.”
Adam led Rosalind to Sir Anthony’s luxurious sitting room with its silks and velvets. It was a bright morning outside, but the light seemed to enter tentatively, as if obstructed by the rich fabrics. Despite this, the black scorching on the carpet stood out at once.
“That”—Adam scuffed at the scorch mark with the toe of his boot—“is what bothers me. Mr. Layng thinks Sir Anthony fell and hit his head, here.” Adam touched the edge of one of the marble-topped tables.
“That he was dazed by the combination of the fall and the drink, or even rendered unconscious. That eventually, he got up and staggered away. He meant to ring for help, or go to the door, but instead opened the window, and fell out.”
Rosalind considered this. She bent to examine the scorch mark, and then looked up at the silver candlestick on the table where Sir Anthony was thought to have hit his head. The candle had not yet been refreshed, and a shameful amount of wax dripped down the heavy silver holder.
“When did the candle fall?” she asked. “And how did it fall all the way over here?” She gestured toward the scorch mark. “Was Sir Anthony holding it when he fell?”
“But if he dropped it when he fell, when was it picked up again? And by whom?” Adam asked.
“Thrush was already gone. He said he left Sir Anthony sitting in his chair. That burn goes almost right through to the floorboards. The fire would have spread quickly if it wasn’t smothered within seconds of starting.
If there was the potential for a fire, even a dazed, drunken man would shout for help, and if he’s unconscious—”
“His clothing will catch along with the carpet and the room would be alight shortly afterward,” finished Rosalind. “Was any of Sir Anthony’s clothing scorched?”
“No. I checked after Layng left. And Thrush says if that scorch had been there when he was helping Sir Anthony out of his things, he would have seen it.”
Given Sir Anthony’s fastidious nature, Rosalind could well believe it.
“And then there’s a final point,” Adam went on. “Thrush says Sir Anthony abhorred drunkenness, and never drank to excess.”
“But Mr. Layng dismissed that?”
“As a show of loyalty from a faithful servant,” replied Adam.
Rosalind sighed, and declined to comment. “So,” she said slowly. “The candle fell, or was dropped. The carpet burned. Someone put out the fire before it could spread, and put the candle back. That someone was either Sir Anthony, or someone who came into his room after Thrush left.”
“After Thrush left, but before Sir Anthony fell? And they themselves left without choosing to alert the house to the accident with the candle?” He left off the third possibility—that this person had caused Sir Anthony to fall.
“We need to speak with Clara and her sisters,” said Rosalind.
“And Mrs. Lynn,” said Adam.
When we find her, thought Rosalind, but there was no need for her to say as much out loud. She could tell Adam was thinking the same thing.
In that moment, they were interrupted by a scratching at the door, which opened a moment later.
“Ah, there you are, miss,” said a familiar voice. “I thought it best we come look for you first.”
“Mrs. Kendricks!” Rosalind cried delightedly. “I had not expected you to come yourself!”
Indeed, she had specifically not asked her former housekeeper to come and help. She had not wished to presume on their former connection, or to put any further strain on Mrs. Kendricks’s decision to try to come to terms with Rosalind’s choices.
“And, Laurel, thank you so much,” Rosalind added belatedly. Her maid returned a prim, tolerant smile, but the light in her eyes told Rosalind she had not truly taken offense.
“And where else should I be, miss?” Mrs. Kendricks lifted her chin. “Mrs. Leigh can assemble a group of likely girls, but not one of them has the kind of experience needed to take charge in such an emergency.”
“Well, I will not deny I am glad to see you both,” Rosalind told them earnestly. “Nothing’s been done, the young ladies are in complete distress, and the house will have to be put into mourning as soon as may be. Have you met Thrush?”
“We have,” said Laurel. “He was downstairs when we came in.”
“Good. I expect he will know what’s available and what must be ordered. If you can begin making some lists? And nothing’s been cleaned or set to rights this morning. And there will be the matter of a luncheon. …”
“You may leave it all to me, miss,” said Mrs. Kendricks, and Rosalind felt a surge of relief. “On one point, there may be a need for money, and I understand. …”
She didn’t need to go any further. “Yes,” agreed Rosalind.
“You may have difficulty getting credit with any of the shops. I will ask Lord Casselmaine to draw out some funds so you can pay down something on account with any merchant you must deal with. I’m sure he will be glad to help.
” Rosalind paused, and lowered her voice.
“I do not know how long you will be needed, and during that time there may be … questions to be asked, especially about the young ladies. If you do not want to be part of it …”
Mrs. Kendricks shook her head. “I knew what I was getting into when I offered to come. And I’ve made sure Laurel understands.”
Laurel returned a cheeky grin. “As if I hadn’t seen enough of what goes on back at Orchard Street.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Kendricks, and thank you, Laurel.” Rosalind gathered up her hems. “Now, I must go downstairs and join his grace and the Misses Kinsdales.”
And the lord only knows what I will find when I do.
But before any of them could say anything more, they heard the sound of a heavy door being thrown open. They blinked at one another, and then Adam turned and ran out into the corridor with Rosalind right behind him.
They met Devon coming up the stairs.
“I hoped you’d still be here,” Devon gasped.
“What’s happened?” cried Rosalind.
“Admiral Walsingham”—Devon drew in a deep breath—“has been shot. He’s dead.”