The Deception at Lyme Read online

  Mrs. Smith, whose gentle features generally bore either a smile or the appearance of being close to breaking into one, now regarded Elizabeth with the most grave expression Elizabeth had yet seen on her. “I would not be at all surprised to learn that Mr. Elliot tried to harm Alfred before he was born. Nor that he still harbors designs on Sir Walter’s title.”

  Mrs. Wentworth looked a little pale. “These are very serious suspicions.”

  “I do not voice them lightly,” Elizabeth said. “Nor do I mean to alarm you. I only wish to share my concerns with you and Captain Wentworth, Alfred’s guardians, and leave you to make your own determination about whether additional vigilance regarding Mr. Elliot is warranted. You, after all, know the gentleman far better than I. Indeed, I hope my conjecture turns out to be entirely groundless.”

  Twenty-four

  They were now able to speak to each other and consult.

  —Persuasion

  A verdict having been rendered on the monumental issue of how best to steady a wobbly chair, and the offending object having been removed for repair to another part of the house, Captain Wentworth turned, with some hesitancy, to Darcy.

  “I suppose we ought to return to the sitting room.”

  Darcy sincerely hoped the ladies’ conversation had not progressed to Alfred’s digestive functions. “I suppose we should.”

  Neither man made the slightest motion toward the door.

  “Perhaps after a glass of wine?”

  “That is an excellent suggestion.”

  Captain Wentworth went to a side table upon which rested a decanter. Above it hung a print of the Victory leading the British fleet at Trafalgar, its sails full and its course unwavering. On another wall hung two paintings of individual ships—a sleek frigate and an older sloop. Maps and nautical instruments also adorned the walls and shelves. Darcy recognized some items, such as a compass, but could not begin to guess the purpose of others. The entire chamber, with its oak paneling and solid furniture, created the impression of a captain’s cabin. Even the windows offered a view of the sea, and Darcy wondered whether Wentworth had chosen this room as his study for that reason.

  “Do you miss the sea?” Darcy asked.

  “I do.” Wentworth removed the stopper from the decanter. “However,” he said, with a grin, “I have found marriage a highly agreeable alternative to living on a warship full of men. And should I become too sentimental about nautical life, Alfred now wakes me during the night as regularly as a ship’s bell. Perhaps I should assign him the middle watch, so he can earn his keep.”

  Darcy recalled how disruptive—though joyful—Lily-Anne’s arrival had been in their own household, despite their having had, like the Wentworths, the assistance of nurses, and despite, unlike the Wentworths, their having had months in which to prepare for their new condition as parents. “Alfred joined your household rather suddenly.”

  The wine poured, Captain Wentworth replaced the decanter and picked up the two glasses. “Indeed, I thought Mrs. Wentworth and I would enjoy a little more time to ourselves before having a child to care for. I do not, however, regret our decision to take him.” He glanced at the print of Admiral Nelson’s flagship before turning and handing one of the glasses to Darcy. “‘England expects every man to do his duty,’” he said with a shrug. “Sometimes duty calls with a softer voice, and is performed in less dramatic ways.”

  “Were you at Trafalgar?”

  “No, though like nearly every sailor who served in the year five, I wish I could say I was. The biggest battle I saw was the action off San Domingo a few months later. That day made me a commander.” He gestured toward the painting of the sloop, and a nostalgic expression crossed his countenance. “My first ship was that little sloop—the Asp—and I was sent straight back to the West Indies in her.”

  “My cousin served in the West Indies, aboard the Magna Carta.”

  “Indeed? What is his name?”

  “Gerard Fitzwilliam. He died in action about three years ago.”

  “The war claimed the lives of many good men,” Captain Wentworth said. “I am sorry that your cousin was among them.”

  “So am I. He had just been made lieutenant, and looked forward to a glorious career.” Darcy paused. “Actually, I wonder if I might ask your assistance in a matter pertaining to him.”

  “What sort of assistance?”

  “I have questions regarding the circumstances of his death. There seem to be … irregularities in written and oral accounts that I have been unable to reconcile. However, my own ignorance of naval protocol and routines might lead me to imagine improprieties where none exist.”

  “That is entirely possible. A ship is its own floating domain, one that no outsider can fully comprehend without having spent time aboard. Tell me your concerns.”

  Wentworth listened as Darcy recounted what he knew of Gerard’s time aboard the Magna Carta—the little information his family had been given at the time of his death, Lieutenant St. Clair’s personal but belated delivery of his sea chest, Darcy’s discovery of the diary and pendant, his recent conversations with St. Clair and Captain Tourner. Wentworth asked occasional questions, his brow becoming increasingly furrowed. When Darcy had done, Wentworth refilled their wineglasses.

  “You initiated this discussion by saying that you had questions about your cousin’s death, but a substantial portion of what you have told me pertains to the mysterious appearance of the gold figurines, not the battle.” The captain returned Darcy’s glass to him. “I take this to mean that you suspect the events are related—that your cousin, and perhaps the cook, did not die in legitimate melee with the French, but by the hand of one of their own shipmates?”

  “Based on my limited knowledge, I believe it is possible that the battle provided an opportunity for the owner of those artifacts to ensure their existence remained a secret. From what I have told you, do you concur?”

  “Unless naval victuals have improved exceedingly since I was in the West Indies, I would certainly describe gold idols in a sugar cask as irregular. One certainly wants to know how they came to be there.”

  “Is there any reason someone with a rightful purpose for possessing the objects would hide them in a sugar cask rather than in his sea chest or among his other possessions?”

  Wentworth thought a moment. “There is not much privacy on a ship. While officers enjoy more than the men, even an admiral’s belongings are packed up and his furniture moved to the hold in preparation for a battle. An officer’s cabin is dismantled—canvas walls removed, chests and furnishings stowed—to entirely clear the deck for the gun crews. Seamen’s hammocks are rolled up and put to other use, and even when not in battle, several messmates might share a sea chest. So no matter what a man’s rank, there is a great deal of moving things about, by many hands, and not under the immediate supervision of their owners, who are performing their own duties. Whereas items secured in the hold or on the orlop deck, where an officer’s stores would be, stay put until needed or until the voyage ends. So I suppose it is possible that someone might believe treasures such as you describe would be safer in storage.” He paused. “But were they mine, I would secure them in a locked chest.”

  “Then I think we can assume that their owner did not come by them honestly, which means their discovery was a threat.”

  “Even so, it is a great leap from theft to murder. In the navy, murder is one of the few crimes punishable by death—usually hanging.”

  “Is that not all the more reason why the mayhem of battle would provide an ideal opportunity for a thief fearing exposure to commit one—or two—with little risk of being caught? And is it not further possible that in the fervor of battle, if a chance to silence someone who knew too much suddenly presented itself, the thief might seize it without pausing to consider the consequences?”

  “It is,” Wentworth conceded. “But we also cannot dismiss the possibility that however wrongfully the artifacts might have come to be in that cask, the deaths of your
cousin and the cook could have been the legitimate result of battle.”

  “I agree. I am not seeking an individual to blame for my cousin’s death if no one is guilty of it. The French collectively provide a sufficient object of resentment. And in truth, I would rather remember Gerard as having died for the preservation of England, than for private greed. However, if this discovery cost him his life … I want to know.”

  “You and Mrs. Darcy saved my godson’s life; the least I can do is help you put to rest questions about your cousin’s death. I suppose we should begin with who beyond Lieutenant Fitzwilliam and the cook knew about the idols.”

  “Lieutenant St. Clair, who allegedly was going to raise the issue with the captain after his dinner guests left the ship.”

  “Have you directly asked Lieutenant St. Clair or Captain Tourner about the artifacts?”

  “I thought it best not to betray my knowledge of them.”

  Wentworth nodded. “That was prudent, until we have a better sense of what—and whom—we are dealing with. I know Tourner by reputation only, and St. Clair not at all. Did the latter mention other captains under whom he has served?”

  “Only a Captain Croft, who I understand is an admiral now.”

  “Yes, he is rear admiral of the white—and my brother-in-law. Did St. Clair serve under him as a lieutenant?”

  “A midshipman.”

  “Croft should be able to give us a better sense of St. Clair’s character—at least, St. Clair in his younger years. Naval life can change a man. He might also be familiar with Captain Tourner. As luck would have it, Mrs. Wentworth and I will see the Crofts this week; I can speak to the admiral then. Now, who else might have known about the gold figures?”

  Gerard’s diary had not indicated that any other individuals learned of them from him or the cook. Darcy pondered broader possibilities. “How would any cask of sugar have gotten aboard the ship? Who would have handled it?”

  “The cask would have been loaded with the other provisions within a few days of leaving port—rats are enough of a nuisance once at sea; there is no reason to give them an early start at the food. Since this was a cask purchased for the wardroom mess, it would have been stored below in an area reserved for the lieutenants’ provisions, and brought up to the galley when needed.”

  “If St. Clair acted as caterer for the mess, would he have overseen the loading?”

  “It is not inconceivable. However, as first lieutenant he had more important responsibilities, so I expect someone else oversaw the loading.”

  “Perhaps the midshipman who maintained the wardroom’s inventory?”

  The suggestion appeared to puzzle Captain Wentworth. “St. Clair assigned a midshipman to monitor the lieutenants’ private stores?”

  “I do not know whether he did so regularly, but my cousin wrote that the cook encountered a midshipman taking inventory of the wardroom’s provisions the week before the idols were discovered.”

  “That is rather unusual.”

  “The cook also received a hostile response for having surprised him. Perhaps this midshipman is someone we should learn more about?”

  “If we can. Did your cousin happen to mention his name?”

  “Musgrove.” Darcy had noted at Alfred’s christening that Sir Walter’s youngest daughter was married to a Musgrove, and wondered whether they might be related to the midshipman. He therefore had held back the name at first, unsure whether Captain Wentworth might be able to maintain objectivity about the man’s possible involvement should a connexion indeed exist.

  Captain Wentworth’s brows rose. “Richard Musgrove?”

  “I do not know—Gerard wrote only ‘Mr. Musgrove.’”

  “Hmm. I had a midshipman on the Laconia named Musgrove—a very troublesome fellow—went by the nickname Dick. Ironically, he became a distant relation of mine posthumously upon my marriage. If this is the same man, I would not be at all surprised if he were involved in something he should not have been. I will see if I can learn whether he wound up on the Magna Carta after leaving me.”

  “There was one other person aboard the Magna Carta with whom you might be familiar. I believe the Mr. Smith my cousin refers to in his diary is the same Mr. Smith whose estate you are helping to settle for his widow. Your friend told Mrs. Darcy that her husband traveled to the West Indies about that same time, in the company of Mr. William Elliot.”

  “He did indeed, though I do not know the nature of the business he conducted on that trip. His papers are a hodgepodge of important documents and trivial memorandums—no order to them whatsoever—and I have found nothing about the journey save for a note from Elliot confirming westward passage booked aboard a merchant vessel. From the rest of the papers, I have determined that he inherited a goodly sized sugar plantation from his father, and that when it came into the son’s possession, it was a lucrative holding. Its primary business was producing rum and sugar for export to England. The income was not extraordinary, as the British government imposes such high taxes on those imports and requires the sugar to be refined in England, so that our own refiners can monopolize the industry. But the plantation provided enough to maintain a gentleman’s style of living. By the time of Mr. Smith’s journey, however, the estate had fallen into financial straits. Much of the problem derived from his extravagant spending, but his income had also decreased. I expect he traveled to Jamaica to meet with the plantation’s overseer, to personally examine his accounts and methods of management.”

  “Have you asked Mr. Elliot about the purpose of the trip?”

  “You witnessed the amount of cooperation I have received from Mr. Elliot.”

  “Yes, he advised you repeatedly to drop the matter altogether.” Darcy paused. “In fact, despite his ostensible reason for approaching us—to enquire of me after Alfred’s well-being—he seemed far more interested in talking to you. Or, more to the point, in making a great show of not talking to you about Mrs. Smith’s estate.”

  “Perhaps because he made such a failure of it—if not by exerting influence over Smith during his life, then as executor after his death,” Wentworth said. “He has told Mrs. Smith that the property is so deep in arrears on its taxes that it has been seized, and that recovery is impossible. However, when it comes to increasing the size of his own fortune, Mr. Elliot is a talented schemer. Had he applied his shrewdness to the Smith estate, I have no doubt it would have become a profitable concern once more.”

  “Particularly,” Darcy said, “since having traveled with Smith to the plantation, he likely saw the entire operation and gained intimate knowledge of its potential.”

  Darcy was having trouble comprehending Mr. Elliot’s actions and motives. One would think that after Mr. Clay’s betrayal with Mr. Elliot’s wife, Mr. Elliot would have done better by the friend who had remained loyal to him. Apparently, however, Mr. Elliot was loyal only to himself, though his friends might drop dead around him: both of the Clays, his wife—

  Mr. Smith.

  Mr. Elliot seemed to have lost an extraordinary number of friends in the past three years.

  “I understand Mr. Smith died almost immediately upon returning home,” Darcy said. “Do you know how?”

  “Some sort of illness. It upsets Mrs. Smith to talk about it, so I have never enquired into the particulars, as they have no bearing on the issue of the estate. All that matters is that Smith is dead; the law cares not how he came to be thus, so long as it occurred by natural means.”

  Or means that appeared natural. A push could look like an accidental fall; poison could disguise itself as illness.

  A killer could masquerade as a friend.

  Twenty-five

  The listener’s proverbial fate was not absolutely hers: she had heard no evil of herself.

  —Persuasion

  Upon leaving the Wentworths’ home, Elizabeth and Darcy found their steps leading them not to their own cottage, but back to the Cobb. A boundary between the quiet village and the untamed sea, the ancient breakwate
r was the only place where it felt natural to entertain conjecture on subjects that also lay beyond the limits of civilized behavior. As they walked along the lower wall, passing the gin shop and following the curve toward the quay, Elizabeth recounted the ladies’ sitting room conversation.

  “You shared with Mrs. Wentworth your suspicions regarding Mrs. Clay’s death?” Darcy sounded somewhat surprised.

  “I had not planned on doing so overtly,” Elizabeth replied, “but when the opportunity arose in the course of conversation, I thought I should—not only to encourage watchfulness on Alfred’s behalf, but also to increase the likelihood of her revealing any pertinent family business to someone outside the family, should she think of something useful to our probe. I was a bit apprehensive about how Mrs. Wentworth would respond, but she appreciated my concern for Alfred, and as you saw, she was as cordial as ever when we parted.”

  Darcy laughed.

  “What is so amusing?” she asked.

  “While you were engaged in murderous conjecture with the ladies, I was telling her husband my suspicions regarding Gerard’s death.”

  Elizabeth released a laugh of her own. “Can you imagine the conclusions they will draw when they compare conversations? They will think us the most distrustful couple they have ever met.”

  “We probably are.” Darcy took her arm as she trod over an especially uneven series of stones. It was a calm day; not needing to hug the wall for shelter from the wind, they were walking closer to the harbor’s edge than on previous promenades along the lower Cobb.

  “We have good reason. For a resort where visitors come to improve their health, Lyme seems to attract a great many people with mysterious deaths in their past—and present. We can but hope that nobody notices we are not ourselves exempt.”

  “Yes, but we solve the murders; we do not commit them.”