“Not brothel women, though, Michael.”
“No, but there were plenty of married women looking for amusement, and one must always oblige a lady.”
Luce raised her eyebrows speakingly, and shook her head.
“Well, I didnae have any fun that ye need worry about, Luce. Mind you, I cannae speak for Neate.”
“My lips are sealed,” Neate said, pasting an angelic smile on his face. “You would not believe how many brothels there are inone small seaside resort. However, we found Mrs Mayberry and her merry band of nieces eventually, hidden away in a discreet side street. Seven nieces, now, so the family is expanding, and very exclusive they are. We had to grease a lot of palms to gain access.”
“Did you talk to Mrs Mayberry, and ask her why she lied to us?”
“No mystery about that, is there?” Neate said. “Nicholson wanted to keep his involvement secret. Once she realised we knew everything about the Pickering house, she confessed the whole. Very talkative she became, with enough coins in her hand. She was afraid to cross Nicholson, but now that he’s dead, she’s more cooperative.”
“And ye’ll never guess, Michael!” Sandy burst out excitedly. “Eustace’s light-skirt isnae there anymore.”
“Ah,” Michael said, smiling. “Did you find out why?”
“She has a protector,” Sandy said. “She’s some man’s mistress, and we can guess whose — Mr Eustace Atherton.”
“Did Mrs Mayberry tell you that explicitly?” Michael said sharply.
“No,” Sandy said sadly. “Even Neate wasnae able to winkle a name from anyone. But it must be, wouldn’t ye say?”
“Possibly,” Michael said, frowning. “But… that would be an odd coincidence. His lightskirt from the brothel becomes his mistress, and at the same time he betroths himself to a baronet’s daughter, who is not above warming his bed for him.”
“So are you suggesting that they are one and the same?” Luce said. “That Miss Rosamunde Wilkes became Miss Rochester?”
“It is certainly possible,” Neate said. “While Sandy was enjoying himself in the brothels, I ingratiated myself with the manservant from Miss Wilkes’ aunt. Apparently all the Wilkes daughters spent time with the aunt as they grew up, a month or so every summer, but the other two married so it was onlyRosamunde for a while. Then came the falling out with the girl’s father, and she arrived in a big rush one November, stayed for a few months and then vanished.”
“To a brothel in Pickering?” Michael said, frowning. “That seems quite a stretch.”
“Not at all,” Neate said. “Suppose that the lady had an eye for the gentlemen. Her father sent her away when he found out, but she turned out to have a little reminder of her dalliance, so the aunt threw her out when it became too obvious to hide, and the breach became permanent. What happens to a woman in that situation, Michael? Desperate, and with no other option, I suggest she joined Mrs Mayberry’s little enterprise, where she met our friend Mr Eustace. He’s using her respectable family to bamboozle us into believing he’s going to marry her.”
“Very possible,” Michael said. “If Pettigrew comes back from Northumberland with a description that matches, then I shall accept your theory, Sandy.”
Pettigrew Willerton-Forbes returned with a smug smile on his lips.
“Description? I can do better than that. I spoke to Sir Reginald Wilkes, and he has no portrait of Miss Rosamunde, having had her painted out of the family gathering hanging over the drawing room fire. However, the other daughters drew and painted numerous portraits of her and he very kindly allowed me to take one of them. There,” he said, producing it with a flourish. “Is that not the image of the lady?”
“Did you mention Eustace to Sir Reginald?” Michael said.
“I did not feel it was my place to do so,” Pettigrew said. “It is for Mr Eustace or the lady herself to approach her father… or not, as they feel best. Sir Reginald thinks she has gone abroad with her lover, and it is not for us to disabuse him of that notion.”
“Very true,” Michael said.
“Besides, it hardly matters who she is,” Pettigrew said. “She is Mr Eustace’s alibi, but not his sole alibi, after all. His entire household swears he never left his house that night, and even if Miss Wilkes is lying, I believe that the household servants and grooms are telling the truth. It is an unbreakable alibi.”
Michael laughed. “No alibi is unbreakable, Pettigrew. It is always possible for a man to sneak out of a house unobserved, if he is careful. The question in this case is why he would want to do so. That has always been the difficulty with this case.”
“So what’s next, Michael?” Sandy said. “Ye’ve a plan, I’m sure.”
But Michael sighed. “I seem to have run out of plans, my friend. I think we may have reached the end of this particular road.”
Silence fell. Even the irrepressible Sandy could not think of a single stone left unturned. The investigation was over.
But before the end of the day, an event occurred which wiped the murder of Arthur Nicholson from their minds. The Dowager Countess of Rennington, slowly declining over many months, finally breathed her last.
Corland Castle was immediately thrown into frenzied activity. Quantities of black crêpe, bought months ago against this eventuality, were brought forth to drape about the deceased’s room and muffle the door knocker, and to fashion caps and armbands for the servants. Clocks were stopped, the pianoforte was locked and the maids crept about in soft slippers.
