Page 50 of A Duchess of Mystery

“Did Mrs. Barnes examine Isabella for bruises?”

Atkins nodded again. “She did. It was Her Grace’s own idea. She’s a brave one, and was not as shocked by what she’d seen as Lady Dora. Mrs. Barnes said she wasn’t even crying. Just calm and cold and practical, as though she’d distanced herself. When she and Mrs. Barnes had got Lady Dora upstairs and into bed, she asked Mrs. Barnes to help her take off her ruined gown. It was torn and she’d knelt in some of the duke’s blood.” He seemed, despite the influence of the brandy, to have realized the importance of any evidence they could find. “She was anxious her bruises should be witnessed. She showed them to Mrs. Barnes again on the following day, when they’d darkened. She was heavily marked, but not on the face. His Grace was usually careful not to mark her where the bruises would be seen. I myself saw the bruises on her arms where he’d grabbed her. Mrs. Barnes can vouch for the truth of the story.”

Of course, they would have faded to nothing by now, but at least she was alive. For now.

“Tell me,” Richard said. “Why did you decide to do what you did? To cover it all up the way you did?”

Atkins’s hand shook as he placed his empty brandy glass back on the table, but at least the awful grayness had gone from his face. “It was a spur of the moment decision made by me and Amos Rowan. He wasn’t asleep, and he heard the gunshot and came to find me. I think perhaps we both guessed it wasn’t the duke’s normal target practice because it was only the one shot instead of several. And there’d been the scream.” He indicated one of the long windows. “He had a habit of opening this window and setting up the targets on the ledge or trying to shoot rabbits on the lawn. He was proud of his marksmanship.”

Richard could vouch for that. A vivid memory of Marcus, full of glee, shooting the chickens in the yard of one of the tenant farmers leapt into his mind. And the cats. An unpleasant memory he’d thought packed away and forgotten.

Atkins went on. “Amos came in, you understand, after Mrs. Barnes had taken the ladies upstairs, and I told him what had happened. We neither of us knew what to do, but both of us wanted to protect Lady Dora.” His voice shook as much as his wrinkled hands. “I saw where the duke had been shot and put the pistol beside his right hand, so it would look as though he’d done it himself. I didn’t think. I was in a panic. I knew he was left-handed but until you pointed it out, it completely slipped my mind. I should have thought of it, though. I’ve known him all his life, so I should have known.” He shook his head again. “Then we came out and locked the library. We waited until first light before we sent a footman to knock on Mr. Sanders’s door and report to him what had happened. We both wanted him to take over responsibility.”

“Was he a party to this deception?”

“No. We didn’t tell him. We showed him the body and he seemed to accept it for what it appeared to be. He asked a few questions only. But now I come to think of it, they were about where the gun was. Do you think it’s possible he guessed as well?”

Richard shrugged. “If he did, then he’s kept the secret. He gave nothing away when I spoke with him.”

Atkins went on. “We waited again until a more hospitable hour for disturbing the gentry and then sent the footman, Robert it was, to fetch Colonel Jarvis. He brought his man who questioned everyone and made a sketch of the scene. Then he allowed us to move the body and make the necessary arrangements. And clean up the room. I had the gardeners take out the rug and burn it. The colonel was satisfied with our deception. Fooled, I should say. We thought we’d succeeded.”

“Colonel Jarvis is one of three magistrates for Newbury, is he not?”

“He is. Mr. Theodore Dawes is the second—the one who signed the arrest warrant for Her Grace. The third is Sir Oswald Peverel.”

“I think I need to visit Sir Oswald with some urgency. If two of the magistrates disagree with the third, we might prevail. It seems Mr. Dawes might be in Lady Dangerfield’s pocket. Her deep pocket.”

Richard recounted what he’d overheard in the garden on the night of the ball. Last night, or rather earlier this morning. Was it such a short time ago? A lot had happened since. Too much. It felt as though more than a week had passed since he’d stood hidden behind the summerhouse, not just a few short hours.

Atkins listened, his face paling further, if that were possible. Richard began to feel a real concern that the old man might keel over from the stress.

When he’d finished, he reached out and covered the old man’s bony hand. “The first thing we have to do is find out which of the servants, for a servant it must be, they have paid to lie.”

Atkins’s face brightened a fraction, as though hope had arisen in his breast. “Indeed. I would vouch for all the older ones, for they’ve been here for years and all of them care deeply for the duchess and Lady Dora. It can’t be any of the kitchen staff, the below stairs servants, for they never come up to the main part of the house so would have no excuse to say they saw anything. Of the above stairs servants, only a few are not of long-standing. And of course, there are the stable staff who would perhaps have reason to claim they were awake at that time and peering in a window. Some of them are more recently employed, so perhaps not so loyal.”

“Which ones? We need to speak to them. Now.” Richard paused. “I think we will need Mrs. Barnes as well, and Amos. All of us will interview these servants. The more of us to intimidate them, the better. Can you arrange it?” He rubbed his eyes. “Our only chance of saving Isabella is by proving their witness to be a liar.” He glanced towards the door. “For we can tell no one the truth. We have to protect Dora.”

Atkins got to his feet, a trifle unsteadily, it had to be said. “I will have them sent for immediately, Your Grace.” They were back to being butler and master again, the camaraderie gone. As it should be for this.

The coach bearing Isabella drew up outside the Guildhall, a building in a rather sorry state of disrepair standing in the middle of the marketplace in Newbury. The ratty man, whose name Isabella gathered was Barker, descended first, then reached up and took hold of her in a pinching grip on the upper right arm as she climbed out. Did he think her about to make a break for it, here in the center of the town? With late passersby staring at her in open curiosity.

He must have forgotten she was a duchess.

She held her head up high and made an attempt to shake him off, but this time, when Richard was not present, he hung on, his strong fingers digging into her flesh. Constable Hooper climbed down from the driver’s seat and took up a position on her other side as though he, too, thought her a dangerous captive.

Isabella glanced over her shoulder, but neither of the ladies, if you could call them that, which she swore she never would again, had made any move to exit their carriage. However, Lady Dangerfield was leaning forward, her stony eyes brimming with malice. “I warned you not so long ago never to cross me, tradesman’s daughter. You would have done well to have paid more attention to my words.” Her upper lip curled in a sneer, which made her look very ugly indeed.

Despite her erratically pounding heart and the weakness in her knees engendered by real fear, Isabella mustered her most cutting of stares. With reluctance, she dismissed the impulse to warn Lady Dangerfield that the wind might change and her face would be stuck like that, and turned sharply back to look where Barker and Constable Hooper were about to take her.

She’d seen the Guildhall on a number of occasions. A large building with a belltower on the peak of its sagging tiled roof, one half of it rested on sturdy pillars under which she’d often seen market stalls sheltering on market day. Perhaps luckily, it was not market day today. Outside it stood the currently unoccupied pillory and whipping post. No doubt that woman would have liked to have seen her make use of them. Above the pillared section lay she knew not what.

She was soon to find out.

Constable Hooper and Barker marched her up a wide flight of sagging wooden stairs on the northwest side, where Hooper opened the door into what must have been the Council Chamber. Isabella had a vague idea that this was used for the Quarter Sessions and other public purposes, but right now it was empty, their footsteps echoing as they crossed it.

A door on the far side swung open and a man emerged, his face familiar, but not one she could put a name to.

Barker and Constable Hooper, who had hold of her left arm, pushed her toward this man. They seemed to be enjoying having control over a duchess, but she was a veteran of far worse bullying than either of them were capable of.