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

a large man leaning against the wall on the corner. A silver pin of some sort. Ash feared he knew what the pin was, but he needed to get closer to see it.

Throwing the cabbie a shilling, Ash descended, intending to walk the short distance to the house.

Pulling his hat over his eyes, he stuck his elbows out at an angle and worked his way through the small crowd, ignoring the cursing and the yells. There were probably twenty people in all, calling out insults and jeering. But no sign of violence, not yet.

He rapped on the door, and when it opened a mere crack, announced he was here to see his lordship, as Mr. Fielding’s representative from Bow Street. Once standing in the spacious hall, with its deceptive air of tranquility, he handed the smartly liveried footman his hat, and headed upstairs before the footman could escort him. He would not speak to the marquess first. Now where would Lord Godfrey and his bride have spent their wedding night? He had a bare few minutes before the servants caught up with him. He’d better make the most of them.

Not the first floor, because that would be devoted to the staterooms. More likely a floor up, where most of the main bedrooms would be situated. He didn’t hesitate on the main floor with its portraits and gilded decorations, but carried on up the next flight of stairs.

Nobody stopped him, which came as a shock. They should have guarded the house better. Anybody could enter and find their way up here. He passed a maid who stared after him, her eyes wide, as he followed the sound of murmuring voices.

Ah. A man dressed in an elaborate white wig and expensive clothes stood conversing with a servant. Ash gave him his best bow and proffered the note.

“I am Sir Edmund Ashendon, my lord. I have come from Bow Street on behalf of the magistrate.”

Shoving the maid aside, the man took the paper.

“Humph.” The marquess raked his gaze up and down Ash’s body, his attention coming to rest on his face. They were almost of a height, but not quite, so the marquess had to look up. Most people had to look up to Ash.

Evidently the peer enjoyed the pleasures of the table. His jowls were mottled and his coat of black broadcloth must have taken considerable yardage to complete. His coat and waistcoat were decorated with ranks of buttons holding his coat of arms. A proud man, then, but Ash detected the subtle signs of suppressed grief. A frown deepened the lines on his brow, and his eyes were reddened, as if he’d been weeping.

“I am empowered to arrest the lady and take her to the magistrates, but I would like to see the room where it happened first.”

“Are you a gentleman, sir?”

“I have property and a title, my lord. I’m a baronet.”

“What the devil are you doing working for Fielding?”

The marquess was more concerned about Ash’s standing than his competence. “I do not work for him, sir. I’m acquainted with him, and he requested my help in this difficult matter.” No point telling the man he was a lawyer, since he didn’t intend to offer his services in that capacity.

The marquess scrutinized him again, his cold gaze raking Ash’s face. “Very well. But the servants have their jobs to complete and I want the place cleaned and freshened before nightfall. Clear?”

Ash nodded. “I will not take long, my lord. Please accept my deep condolences on your loss.”

He bowed, and put his hand on the door, heaviness filling him. He detested this part of his investigations, meeting the relatives, but he had to do it, to assess their mood. The marquess had loved his son, and grieved for him. The marchioness was nowhere to be seen, so he couldn’t assess her state of mind.

Ensuring the marquess did not get a glimpse of the chamber of death, in case the sight increased the father’s sentiments, Ash opened the door of the bedroom enough to enter, and closed it behind him. Or attempted to do so, but a footman followed him in.

The metallic tang of freshly spilled blood greeted him, settling at the back of his throat. Someone had stripped the bed of its linen, but the bare mattress stood witness to the tragedy. A great deal of blood had been spilled.

Ash was no stranger to scenes of violent death. This was another, the furnishings more luxurious than usual, and the scene more hushed. He’d seen worse. Narrowing his eyes, he set himself to a dispassionate study.

The room held no clothes, and the elegant furniture was set at precise angles, giving a sense of eternal formality. The rich furnishings were not to his taste, gloomy and overwrought, but the setting appeared appropriate for a chamber of death, rather than a place to celebrate a wedding. The only sign that the room had been occupied at all, apart from the gore, were two wineglasses on a side table and an empty decanter behind them. No clothes, no personal possessions, nothing on the dressing table.

Ash crossed the room to the bed, his feet sinking into the soft Oriental rug, now ruined with bloodstains, and examined the disposition of the stains. Dried blood had caked the mahogany bedstead and trickled onto the lush Oriental rug.

Dipping into his pocket, he found his sketchbook and pencil.

He set to work. The pencil was a boon, a piece of charcoal, as hard as could be devised, twine bound around it to protect his fingers and the fragile drawing matter. Better than a wax tablet, far better than scrabbling for pen and ink. The only drawback was its tendency to smudge, but he would handle it carefully and trace it over with pen and ink when he was in a more convenient place.

He sketched the scene from various angles, carefully tracing the position of the furniture and the objects set on them. As a finale, he leaned over the mattress and outlined