The Deception at Lyme Read online

  Darcy strode ahead to rescue his hat, which indeed lay about ten yards from the gin shop doors. He reached it just before the horses did, picked it up, and moved flush against the Cobb wall to get out of their way. When the cart had passed, he turned to rejoin the captains, but the sound of voices gave him pause.

  “… does not want to be held in soaking-wet arms, and I cannot blame him.”

  “Ben, if Captain Wentworth sets you down, you must stay at my side. Do you promise?”

  The voices were clear as if the speakers stood right beside Darcy. But Captain Harville yet leaned against the stone wall, his friend and son close beside him, at least threescore feet back along the curve from where Darcy stood.

  “All right, then. If you misbehave, I will not take you to the shipyard with your brothers.” Harville looked from his son back to Wentworth. “They are preparing to launch a new Indiaman any day now—a thirty-two-gun, the Black Cormorant. Have you seen her? I thought I would take the boys over there later today to have a look.…”

  Darcy was astonished. Somehow, the curved wall carried Harville’s voice directly to him despite the considerable distance. He had heard of such acoustical phenomena in domed buildings such as St. Paul’s in London, but he had never personally experienced an instance of it.

  He moved away from the wall gradually, determining the proximity required for the effect to work. When he lost the sound, he quickly walked back to the captains. The act of eavesdropping, however accidental, on any conversation, however innocuous, violated Darcy’s sense of propriety. Not wanting to embarrass them, he said nothing to his companions about the discovery.

  Seventeen

  Upon looking over his letters and things, she found it was so.

  —Persuasion

  “If only we could purchase sugar for Pemberley direct from the West Indies,” Elizabeth declared as she reached the final leaves of Gerard’s diary. “I had no idea that casks of it came with prizes inside. It is little wonder that sugar barons are so wealthy.”

  “I doubt all sugar casks are thus equipped,” Darcy replied.

  “Even so, the mere chance of finding such a treasure would sweeten my tea all the more.”

  She returned her attention to the journal, while Darcy rose from his chair and crossed their small sitting room to gaze out one of the windows. Though impatient for her to finish, he did not want to distract her reading of the critical last entry by staring at her. As he looked upon the street, however, he barely saw the tourists entering the fossil shop on the corner, the gull poking at some morsel on the ground, the gig trying to maneuver round an opposing coach in a side lane too narrow to accommodate both vehicles. His person might stand in a Lyme cottage in the present, but his mind was in the past, on the quarterdeck of a ship in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

  He turned sideways, as if gazing farther up the street, but in truth surreptitiously watching Elizabeth’s expressions as she read. She frowned, eyes narrowed. At last, she finished and looked up at him.

  “The approaching vessel, I take it, was the Dangereuse?”

  “Yes, as evidenced by the date.”

  She squinted at the lines. “I can barely make out the date. The handwriting on these last pages is inferior to the rest. Though still clearly your cousin’s hand, the strokes are not as controlled, and the ink is smeared.”

  Darcy, too, had been forced to slow his reading when he reached the final entry. Impressions from facing pages, where the ink had not entirely dried when Gerard closed the volume, had resulted in ghostly characters that further hindered legibility. “Indeed, one can see that he wrote the entry in great haste.”

  “I do not expect, however, that it is Lieutenant Fitzwilliam’s penmanship on which you are soliciting my appraisal?”

  “No—Lieutenant St. Clair’s character.”

  “Well.” She glanced at the page once more before closing the diary. “One must read between the lines for that, and you have had more opportunity than I today. You have been unusually pensive since your appointment. What transpired?”

  Darcy came away from the window and sat down across from her. He related the full conversation, from the meeting with Captain Tourner to St. Clair’s repeated references to the contents of Gerard’s sea chest. Though he censored some of St. Clair’s descriptions of the horrors of combat, he included more particulars of the battle and Gerard’s injuries than he would have imparted to any other lady in England. As he had hinted to St. Clair, he and Elizabeth had encountered such unpleasantness before, and he was blessed with a wife who could discuss such matters with sense and penetration. He needed both at present.

  “So, your cousin and the cook—Mr. Hart—were two casualties of how many?”

  “I did not think to enquire.” His mind had been so occupied by coalescing suspicion that he had not asked all he might have during his conversation with St. Clair, and the battle itself, though of tantamount significance to Gerard’s family, had been of such minor consequence in the overall war that it had received little attention in the Naval Chronicle at the time. “St. Clair made it sound a large number, though obviously this was no Trafalgar.”

  “Perhaps the number of other wounded does not signify,” Elizabeth said. “The salient point is that both Lieutenant Fitzwilliam and the cook died shortly after becoming aware of the figurines—objects that somebody else wanted hidden. The question is whether the timing of their deaths resulted from coincidence or malice. As Lady Elliot’s demise has already put me in a murderous frame of mind, it is tempting to read homicide into this history. However, ship-to-ship cannon blasts followed by boarding and melee seems a rather inefficient method of murder.”

  “But a very convenient cover for one—or two.”

  “You suspect your cousin and Mr. Hart were killed by a member of their own ship’s crew?”

  “The melee provided a perfect opportunity to silence any questions about the idols.”

  “Surely you do not think Lieutenant St. Clair himself—”

  “It is possible. Or someone acting with his knowledge and perhaps on his instructions.”

  “But why should he want them dead? He had their trust—he is the person who hired Mr. Hart, and he acted as a mentor to your cousin. He also had the idol in his possession by the time the battle occurred.”

  “Idols.” Darcy emphasized the s as he pronounced the word. “Recall that there were two—hence, twice the value and twice the motive for keeping their existence secret.”

  She perused the final entries again. “Your cousin writes that Hart came to him with two figurines, but the later account of his conversation with Lieutenant St. Clair says he gave up only one: ‘I surrendered the idol I had shewn him, but they remain fixed in my thoughts.’ Lieutenant Fitzwilliam must have held back the other idol.”

  “Or in the haste of writing, he accidentally left off the s in that single instance—a reasonable possibility, given the general state of those lines’ urgency and execution.”

  “The word is plural everywhere else it appears,” she conceded. “Yet if he did relinquish only one idol, did he retain the other with or without Lieutenant St. Clair’s knowledge? Was St. Clair aware of the second? Perhaps your cousin told St. Clair about only the first. Alternatively, Lieutenant Fitzwilliam might have informed him of both but brought only one with him when he sought out St. Clair.”

  “St. Clair could have known about both before Gerard even said a word.”

  “Because he himself put them in the sugar cask?”

  “Or ordered someone else to.”

  “Why would he hide anything of value in a cask to be opened and shared by others, instead of keeping the figurines among his private possessions?”

  “Perhaps he did not intend for that cask to be shared, but for it to quietly travel to England with his other personal property.” Darcy gestured toward the diary still in Elizabeth’s hands. “Gerard writes that many of the officers had purchased small quantities of rum, sugar, spices, and other
West Indian goods for themselves or gifts for friends at home. When those goods were loaded onto the ship, a cask intended for St. Clair’s stores could have become confused with those designated for his mess.”

  “Might that not be true of all the officers’ goods? The cask in question could have belonged to any one of them.”

  “Yes, but recall that St. Clair acted as caterer for his mess—he contracted for the group’s sugar and other provisions. If a cask from anyone’s private reserve was likely to be misidentified as communal, it would be his.”

  “Again, why would he—or anybody—hide such objects in a cask at all? Why not simply lock them in his sea chest?”

  “Perhaps he feared they would be stolen. Perhaps he did not want to be connected with them if they were found.”

  “He bought two gold figurines as souvenirs of his time in the West Indies. What is the harm in that? Why go to such lengths and risk to disassociate himself from them?”

  “Perhaps the idols were something he was not supposed to possess. Given to him by acquaintances he was not supposed to have.” Darcy rose from his chair. It was difficult to sit still with his mind so restless. He went back to the window, but saw no more of the view than he had before. “I wish Gerard had described the figurines in more detail.”

  “Had he known he was leaving behind a mystery for you to solve, no doubt he would have. Unfortunately, he did not expect to die.”

  “He had the foresight to leave directions for the disposition of his sea chest in the event of his death.”

  “Yes—ironically, into the care of the very person whom you now suspect of precipitating his demise.” She set aside the diary and came to him. “Have you considered that we have only Lieutenant St. Clair’s word that your cousin asked him to separate the sea chest from the rest of his belongings and deliver it in person?”

  A coldness settled upon Darcy. “I had not. Now that you raise the point, Captain Tourner knew nothing about the request. In fact, he found it extremely unsettling when he heard of it today.”

  “By taking the sea chest into his custody, Lieutenant St. Clair secured himself unrestricted access to it. Perhaps you are correct—perhaps your cousin did surrender only one of the figurines to St. Clair, and St. Clair wanted time to break into the chest for the other one.”

  “The chest, however, was never broken into. It is undamaged—other than normal wear—and yet secured by the original lock. Would he not have sawed it off or taken the chest to a locksmith? He has had years in which to do so.”

  “Maybe he did not need to. Maybe Lieutenant Fitzwilliam told him the combination, or maybe St. Clair figured it out. The code is not difficult to guess by someone who knows even the most superficial information about your family—your uncle’s name appears in Debrett’s, for heaven’s sake—and St. Clair is an intelligent man.”

  “Yet we found all in order.”

  “Did we? If something were missing, how would we know?”

  He pondered this, first imagining Elizabeth’s hypothetical scenario, then recalling their actual encounters with St. Clair. “Whatever his intent, I do not think St. Clair ever managed to open the chest. Both here and at the tavern, he seemed very interested in its present contents—almost as if he were hoping we would invite him to examine them along with us.” Darcy wondered how he had become St. Clair’s defender; he had initiated the conversation expecting Elizabeth to assume the role of devil’s advocate.

  “I think we have taken this speculation as far as we can without additional information,” she said. “We need to either ask him directly about the idols and see how he responds, or find someone with sufficient naval connections to help us investigate. Might Captain Tourner be approached?”

  “I doubt any captain would speak against one of his own officers to a stranger, particularly someone outside the navy.”

  “Might Captain Harville know Captain Tourner?”

  “Perhaps. Or—I met Captain Wentworth today, the husband of Sir Walter Elliot’s middle daughter and a good friend of the Harvilles. Upon better acquaintance, he might be persuaded to help us.”

  “Today while seabathing, Georgiana and I met another friend of the Wentworths who spoke very highly of both the captain and his wife. We will have an opportunity to become better acquainted with them quite soon—Sir Walter and Miss Elliot called this afternoon to invite us to Alfred’s christening.”

  “I take it that ‘Alfred’ is the baronet’s new son?”

  “Walter Alfred Henry Arthur Elliot.” Her brow furrowed. “Or is it Walter Alfred Arthur Henry?” She shrugged. “Yes, Lady Elliot’s baby—the new crown prince of the Elliot family.”

  “Are we to come bearing gold, frankincense, and myrrh?”

  “I think gold alone will satisfy Sir Walter, so long as it is delivered with proper homage by magi. Though perhaps he might use the frankincense to preserve himself in all his aristocratic stateliness. Miss Elliot, too.” She paused. “From the Wentworths’ friend Mrs. Smith, I received the impression that Sir Walter’s second daughter does not at all share the eldest’s demeanor. What was your sense of her husband?”

  “Captain Wentworth has a manner far superior to that of the baronet. I can see why he has risen in his profession. What I cannot see is how he tolerates his new father-in-law, who must sorely try his patience.”

  “Likely the same way you tolerate my mother—distance and small doses.”

  In the time they had been speaking, twilight had turned to dark. Though a candle burned beside the seat where Elizabeth had read Gerard’s diary, she now moved about the room, lighting more. “Between your recommendation of her husband, and Mrs. Smith’s praise of her kindness, I anticipate pleasure in meeting Mrs. Wentworth at the christening. I hope Mrs. Smith might also be there, as I would like to speak with her more—as we parted, I realized I had seen her on the Cobb the morning of Lady Elliot’s fall. She was on the bench near Granny’s Teeth when we first arrived—I saw her from above.”

  “There was nobody seated on it by the time we discovered Lady Elliot.”

  “Even so, I have been wondering whether she might have observed anything that morning which could prove illuminating to our questions about the accident. It is worth at least enquiring, should the opportunity arise at the christening. Meanwhile, however, we have a less extravagant engagement to which we can look forward. I have invited a guest to dinner tomorrow night.”

  “Sir Laurence?”

  “No.” She reflected a moment. “Although that is an excellent idea. Perhaps we should invite the baronet and Miss Ashford to join us, unless you would then accuse me of matchmaking—your sister, however, hardly needs my help in that matter. But you will never guess who received the original invitation, so I shall have to tell you. It is Professor Randolph.”

  “Professor Randolph is in Lyme?”

  “Georgiana and I met him in Broad Street this morning. He is here meeting with some fossil collectors. Georgiana mentioned to me previously that Sir Laurence has an interest in fossils—in all sorts of collections, actually—so he and Miss Ashford might make a good addition to our party independent of any thoughts regarding his candidacy as a suitor for your sister.”

  “Very well. Let us issue the invitation at once. Tomorrow night is little notice.”

  “Somehow, I do not think the baronet will mind.”

  Elizabeth retrieved her portable writing desk from the corner and set it on the table. While she wrote the note, Darcy found himself drawn to Gerard’s sea chest once more. He opened the lock.

  “Are all the contents still in order?’ Elizabeth asked.

  “That is what I am determining, now that I know what I am looking for.”

  “I doubt we mistook a gold figurine for a grooming item.”

  So did Darcy, but reading the diary had made him want to examine all the chest’s contents more closely. He withdrew the uniforms, linens, and oilskin, carefully checking folds and pockets. He looked inside the writing box, examined eac
h nautical instrument, set aside the miniature and the letters.

  Elizabeth sealed her note and sent it with a servant to the Ashfords’ house. She then joined Darcy beside the chest. “Have you found anything new?”

  “I am afraid not.”

  All that remained was the money purse resting on the bottom. Though he had looked inside it before, he lifted it out again now. A sixpence escaped through a small hole in the fabric. The thin coin landed on the bottom of the trunk and rolled to one side, where it became wedged in a narrow gap between the chest wall and base. Darcy grasped the coin. He had difficulty getting his fingers around it, and he wound up extracting it at a slight angle. The action caused the chest floor to shift and rise slightly with the leverage.

  “Is that—?” Elizabeth asked.

  Darcy already felt as if he had struck gold. “I believe so.”

  The chest had a false bottom.

  He withdrew another coin from the purse and with the pair of them managed to pry up the thin wooden panel that rested about two inches above the true floor of the trunk. The hidden compartment was lined with velvet, a precaution, Darcy supposed, to deter concealed items from shifting around on a rocking ship, and to muffle the sound of any that did. Within lay a larger purse—this one heavier and in superior condition. It contained the pocket money Darcy would have expected the son of an earl to have.

  It also contained a gold idol.

  Eighteen

  “My idea of good company, Mr. Elliot, is the company of clever, well-informed people, who have a great deal of conversation; that is what I call good company.”

  —Anne Elliot, Persuasion

  Professor Randolph turned the figurine in his hands, studying it from every angle as Elizabeth and Darcy waited in suspense.

  About four inches long and nearly as wide, the idol looked to Elizabeth like some sort of sinister angel—a golden Lucifer with an avian head. Fierce and intimidating, its beauty resided in its craftsmanship and history. It was not at all the sort of art object to which she was drawn.