Chapter 38
Intimate Secrets
“If there is anything in my story which you know to be either false or improbable, stop me.”
Jane Austen, Persuasion
“Unlucky?” echoed Adam. “Why’s that, Goutier?”
But Mr. Goutier didn’t answer. Instead he got to his feet and went to the window. He looked down on the courtyard for a time, clearly putting his thoughts in order. Every person in the room understood the need for such a moment, and waited patiently for him to speak.
“After we talked to the coroner, and found out about Miss Kinsdale’s statement, I decided it would be worthwhile to learn more about the admiral’s death, if anything could be learned. No matter what Layng thought about the matter, I couldn’t help but believe that the two deaths must be linked.”
“No one here’s going to say otherwise,” said Adam.
Goutier gave a soft chuckle. “Thought not. Well. I took myself down to the admiral’s lodgings.
Landlady there is a captain’s widow—spent years at sea herself.
She knew Admiral Walsingham well and had nothing but praise for him.
Wept very real tears as she told me how she’d heard nothing out of the ordinary that night until she was awakened by the gunshot right outside her doors.
” Mr. Goutier shook his head. “She’d no doubt what it was, either, having heard gunshots more than once during her own travels. ”
“Poor woman,” breathed Rosalind. The men all murmured their agreement.
Mr. Goutier leaned against the windowsill and folded his arms. “Well, after what she told me, I thought to go over the ground where the admiral died, maybe speak with some of the other guests. The landlady approves of the plan, and offers to help smooth the way with any guest who might be reluctant to speak with me. But just as I’m leaving her sitting room, I’m accosted by a whole crowd of seamen, all of them demanding to know my name and my business.
“I told them I’m from Bow Street, and they got properly angry then.
” Somewhat to Rosalind’s surprise, he smiled at the memory.
“They demanded to know what I meant to do about Walsingham’s death and let me know in no uncertain terms that if the fellow that had shot him was allowed to slip free, the Royal Navy would be taking matters into its own hands. ”
Any trace of good humor Mr. Goutier might have shown now faded away. Rosalind felt a chill pass over her at the thought of how close Bath had come to experiencing a riot.
“There I am, starting to think I might have to fight my way out of this,” Mr. Goutier was saying.
“When a new man elbows his way through the crowd. He’s a little fellow—comes barely up to my shoulder—and wiry, with bulging blue eyes and a crooked nose.
Not very imposing, all things considered, but clearly these sailors hold him in some high esteem, because when he tells them to calm themselves and that he’ll find out what’s what, they listen.
And, what’s better from my point of view, they take themselves off.
Although they do make sure this new man knows they’re not going far, in case they might be needed.
“The man introduces himself as Captain Marbury. He says he’d sailed with Walsingham many times and that they were close friends.
He had, he said, already arranged things with Mrs. Walsingham so that he would be the one to accompany the admiral’s body home after the inquest, which would spare her the journey.
He went on to say he was anxious to help in any other way he could, especially if it would allow him to bring more definite news back to Mrs. Walsingham.
“Well, naturally, I tell him he’s the very man I want to meet.
We go up to his rooms and there he tells me that he has retired from the sea and resides in Bath permanently.
He says that just yesterday, Walsingham arrived in town in a state of extreme agitation.
Marbury’d had no advance warning that Walsingham was planning to visit Bath, and in fact, the admiral asked if he could share Marbury’s rooms, all the hotels being full up for the races.
Marbury agreed at once, and asked what had caused his friend to come to Bath in such a hurry.
But Walsingham only promised to tell him later, and left as quickly as he came.
“Marbury said he was due to dine with some other friends and go to the concert afterward, which he did. When he came home, Walsingham wasn’t in the room.
He was concerned, but not overly so, believing the admiral well able to handle himself in any situation.
He swore he had no idea that anything might be truly wrong until he heard the shots, and the shouts.
And he cursed himself as roundly as his landlady had herself for not taking more care. ”
“Well, I told the captain at least some of what I knew. As soon as I mentioned the Kinsdales, he turned angry. He cursed again and said he was not surprised that Walsingham’s business involved that family.
Indeed, he said, if I hadn’t arrived when I did, he’d fully intended to call on them himself and ask them what they might know about the admiral’s death. ”
“Did he know about Sir Anthony?” Rosalind asked.
“He did, and that made it all the worse as far as he was concerned,” said Mr. Goutier.
“It seems Captain Marbury had made it his business to keep an ear out for gossip regarding the Kinsdales since they came to Bath. That, in fact, Walsingham had asked him to pay attention to how the family did, particularly the daughters.”
Rosalind felt her eyes widen. Mr. Tauton wiped his hand over his mouth, probably to cover some impolite exclamation. Adam just leaned forward.
“Did Marbury say why Walsingham asked him to keep an eye on the Kinsdales?” Adam asked.
“Apparently Walsingham and his wife had become acquainted with the girls when they were staying in Lyme and the Walsinghams thought the daughters might eventually need some kind of help. It seems that tales of Sir Anthony’s … excesses had apparently reached them via mutual acquaintances.”
Rosalind expelled a long breath. From Mr. Goutier’s description, the relationship between the Kinsdale sisters and the Walsinghams was much more than simply landlord and tenant.
She thought again of the letters she’d seen, and of all her previous suspicions of a love affair between Cynthia and the admiral.
What if I was wrong? What if the situation is even more complex?
“Did you ask him about the Walshinghams’ nephew?” asked Rosalind. “The child that Sir Anthony was saying was the reason to end the lease?”
“I did,” said Mr. Goutier. “Marbury told me that was a tragic story, but an everyday one. Walsingham’s brother—who was also a navy man—had fallen in love.
He’d wanted to make an honorable offer, but the young lady’s family didn’t approve.
So, they wed in secret and he sailed off with every intention of making his fortune and coming back awash in prize money to claim his bride.
But his ship went down with all hands, and the young bride was left with a baby on the way and no husband to point to.
“So, the admiral and Mrs. Walsingham offer to adopt their nephew, them having no children of their own. They promised to raise him until the time might come when his mother could acknowledge him.”
Rosalind felt her throat tighten. “Did he say who the mother was?”
“If he knew, he wasn’t going to name her to me.”
“But they—Walsingham’s brother and this young lady—they did marry?” Rosalind pressed. “He was certain of it?”
“He seemed to be.”
But Rosalind wasn’t really listening anymore.
She leapt from her chair, strode to the hearth, and snatched up the sack of ashes Adam had brought from the Kinsdales’ house.
She felt the inquiring glances from Mr. Goutier and Mr. Tauton, but she ignored them.
Carefully, she upended the bag, spreading the ashes out across the hearthstones.
When she was satisfied the bag was empty, she tossed it aside and knelt, like Polly Flinders in the children’s rhyme, playing among the cinders. Carefully, she began sifting the ashes with her hands.
Adam knelt with her. “Definitely someone burning papers,” he said, drawing out some fragments of foolscap. “Letters?”
Rosalind didn’t answer. There must be something, there must be. Please, let there be something. …
Something like rough string snagged at her fingertips. Rosalind brushed aside some remaining cinders and lifted it out of the pile as gently as she could. “Oh, good heavens.”
“What is it?” asked Mr. Goutier.
“It” was a chain, or the remains of one. It was tarnished black from heat and ash, as was the ring on its end. But it was not a whole ring, Rosalind saw. It was only one half, with the fine chain threaded through a piercing in the metal.
A love token. The sort exchanged when a couple expected to be parted for a very long time.
Rosalind held it up to Adam and he knew at once what he was seeing.
“But does it belong to Cynthia? Or Elizabeth?”
Rosalind stared at the ring. She moistened her lips. She did not want to speak the next words, but she had to.
“Or Clara?”