The Wedding Night Affair--An Historical Mystery, L.C. Sharp [beach books .TXT] 📗

the shape of the stain on his paper. Labeling the sketches with the date and the place, careful not to smudge them, he tucked the book away.

The footman did not disturb him, but watched carefully. He stood to attention.

“Were you a soldier?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. A private in the 42nd Foot. I saw action at Dettingen.”

“Impressive.” Ash never ignored servants.

Picking up the decanter, he unstoppered the precious cut crystal and sniffed. Red wine for sure, but with a heavy overtone. Fortified, perhaps. He frowned as he replaced the vessel on the table. Strong, perhaps too much for the bride.

He had done all he could here. Opening the door, he found a servant outside. The one in the room with him followed him out and stood against the closed door, his back to the paneled wood. “Take me to the body,” he said, making his words a command.

The second son of the Marquess of Urmston was laid out in a bedroom at the end of the same corridor. This room was simpler, but still lavishly decorated. The body was not laid on the bed, but on a linen-covered trestle, doubtless brought here for the purpose, since its style did not suit its surroundings. Better than letting the blood ruin another mattress, he supposed.

Twitching the bloodstained sheet aside, Ash came face to face with the victim of this crime.

Someone had cleaned, but the body was naked. Strange that they hadn’t yet dressed it, but that made Ash’s work easier. He wanted to see everything.

Lord Uppingham must have been around thirty years of age, and shorter than average, at five feet five or thereabouts. His chest was broad, his shoulders wide. In life, he would have been physically powerful. Ash hadn’t come across him in life, so he could only assess the man from what he saw now.

Ash walked the length of the trestle, examining the body from all angles. The wound was clean; there were no other attempts to stab him, as there might have been if he’d been in a fight. Only the one deep wound over his heart, a couple of inches wide. The blade must have been pushed in to the hilt, where it would have been at its broadest. It must have taken considerable strength, or determination, or both, to do that.

Ash picked up his lordship’s cold right hand. No nicks, no bruises, no skin off the knuckles. His left hand was the same. Uppingham had not fought back. Interesting. Most likely he’d died in his sleep. Ash saw no hesitation marks on the wound, no wobbling or ragged edges, just a clean stroke. A sharp knife, determination and the right place.

The body lay there, the spirit completely gone, an image of a man, devoid of the vital spark that constituted the soul.

Ash was not unfeeling. He said a short prayer before he turned away and let the footman cover him once more.

That was more than Ash had been allowed to do for his brother.

When he saw a body like this, the memory of his dead brother returned, and the lingering guilt he’d tried ever since to assuage.

He could do nothing for Matt, but he could find justice for this person.

“Where is the blade that killed him?” he demanded. “That weapon is important.”

“It was Lord Godfrey’s own weapon, sir,” the footman admitted. “It is here.”

He gestured to a box on the table. Ash opened it, revealing a dagger. The insignia on the hilt revealed its origin. “This is a military weapon?”

“Yes, sir. Lord Uppingham served in the army for five years. He was proud of his service.”

The blade was dark with dried blood. Gore covered most of it, the shiny metal barely showing above the dulling at the lower end, but with traces near the hilt, too. Stabbing a person wasn’t as easy as many people supposed. Had his bride been seized by anger, or fear, some strong emotion that gave her the impetus to use strength she did not know she possessed?

Or was someone else involved?

The notion came quietly, but once it crept into his thoughts, he could not entirely dismiss it. Nor should he.

He nodded to the footman. “I’m done here. Please convey my thanks to his lordship.”

Now for the lady.

Chapter Six

As the door opened to admit her father, Juliana dropped into her usual curtsey. She had been too stunned to give him this obeisance before, too numb, but now she slipped into habit. Her skirts rustled, the only sound in the room until a full minute had passed.

As she rose, her father lifted his hand, and then dropped it to his side, sighing wearily. He seemed more resigned now, his face more tranquil than before.

People said that eyes were windows to the soul. His were just windows opening into a shuttered room, providing no clue as to what was going on inside. He studied her for five seconds. She counted them. When he wanted to make a point, he always left it for five ticks of the clock, and the one on her mantelpiece had never faltered or run slow. It would be ticking long after her heart ceased to beat.

He made a sound of disgust. “You have disappointed me, behaving like a ruffian off the street. A cheap one, at that. We bred you to a high station, and you took none of that into consideration when you did this.”

Outside, the shouts grew even louder. If the yells inside her could be properly articulated, they’d have the power of ten mobs.

The coldness, the way her father assumed she’d done the deed froze her to the bone. Juliana shivered.

“As the matter stands, you are guilty. Nobody else is suspected, and all the evidence points at you. I expect a visit from someone at Bow Street, who will arrest you on a charge of murder. After that, you will be questioned. Then you will appear in court, and after that...”

A rope at Tyburn and a crowd baying for blood. She would use that last opportunity