Sonnet to a Dead Contessa Read online

  “Well, he comes to your house all the time.”

  “Some of that was because we were working on cases together. He helped me clear my brother, Clive, when he was charged with murder. I could never have done it without him. He took me into the worst parts of London you can imagine to find the real murderer. The other thing is, it’s David he comes to see.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. He plays with him as if he were David’s age. I’ve seen him sitting on the floor sprawled out playing with toy soldiers for hours.”

  “I’ll be happy to let him come to see Charles and Roger if you’ll share him with me.”

  Serafina could not help laughing at the roguish expression. “You are just awful, Margaret!”

  “I suppose so,” Margaret sighed, “but, dear me, just look at those tights!”

  Finally the curtain calls were over, but during one of them Dylan Tremayne had spotted Serafina and had smiled directly at her and bowed. Everyone in the theatre craned their necks to see who the actor was smiling at, and Margaret said, “Every woman in this theatre hates you, Serafina.”

  “Don’t be boorish. We’re different in every way. Come along.”

  “But those tights, Serafina. Couldn’t you bend a little bit for those tights?”

  “We’re going home now. We have a full day with the children tomorrow.”

  “You’re not going backstage?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “I suppose it would do me no good to go, but if you weren’t here, I think I’d take my chances.”

  Serafina laughed. “You’d be wasting your time. I tell you, Dylan Tremayne is not interested in women. He’s interested in God.”

  Margaret sighed. “That’s too bad, isn’t it?”

  Breakfast at Serafina’s home was a rather large but informal affair. The table was more crowded than usual with Margaret and her children. Septimus and Alberta sat at opposite ends of the table, and Aldora, Serafina’s younger sister, sat at her father’s right. They had filled their plates, and the maid continued to bring food to them. The sideboard was laden with chafing dishes filled with eggs, meat, vegetables, and various pastries and breads. On the table were frequently renewed pots of tea, dishes of preserves, butter, fresh fruits, and sweetmeats. David was sitting next to Serafina, as he always did, and he was demolishing the fairy cakes that he loved and that the cook, Nessa Douglas, insisted on making for him. Serafina had warned Nessa she was spoiling the boy, and Nessa had said, “Nonsense! He deserves the best I can give him, the sweet little fellow.”

  The three children had been carrying the burden of the conversation, talking about the games they had been playing and the activities they had engaged in while their mothers had gone to the theatre, but David suddenly looked up and said, “Mum, is Mr. Dylan coming today?”

  “Not today. He’s in his play, you know. He’ll be here next Sunday.”

  “Will he stay long?”

  “Well, there’s no performance on Sunday, so he’ll spend the night.”

  Aldora, whom family and friends called Dora, spoke up quickly. “Matthew is coming too.” Matthew Grant had fallen in love with Dora practically at first sight. It had been a difficult thing, for women of Dora Newton’s station did not marry mere policemen—a fact that Lady Bertha Mulvane now spoke to as she often did. She was the older sister of Alberta Newton and, at the age of sixty, was heavyset with blunt features and overbearing manners. She was possibly the most selfish, ambitious, and greedy person who had ever sat at the table at Trentwood House, home of the Trents and of Septimus Isaac Newton and his wife, Alberta.

  “I’m ashamed of you, Dora!”

  “Ashamed of me? Why is that, Aunt Bertha?”

  “You know why it is.” Bertha shook her head, and the wattles on the sides of her neck shook and trembled. “Because you persist on letting that policeman become engaged to you.”

  “But I love him, Aunt Bertha.”

  “Nonsense!”

  “It’s nonsense to be in love?” Lady Margaret spoke up. “I can’t believe you said that, Lady Mulvane.”

  Bertha Mulvane had been the wife of a baron, and when he had died, the title passed with him. She had no right to be called “Lady,” but she insisted on the title.

  “It’s a shame that we have to have actors and policemen invading our home.”

  Serafina wondered why it was suddenly “our home” when Lady Bertha had her own place. She forced herself to listen as Lady Bertha continued to speak, and once again Serafina could not understand the woman. She had watched her earlier steal a spoon—there was no other way to put it. She had slipped it into a bag she carried with her, and Serafina knew that somehow she had managed to take many things from the Newton household. Even some of their furniture had mysteriously disappeared and reappeared at Lady Bertha’s small cottage.

  Margaret finally turned and, ignoring Lady Bertha, said, “Why do you like Mr. Tremayne so much, David?”

  “Oh, because he plays with me all the time. He does all the things I like to do. He can play soldiers up in the attic. He goes with me to find birds’ eggs. He takes me fishing. And he tells the most wonderful stories!”

  “He tells the most fanciful stories I ever heard of,” Serafina said wryly. “I tried to get David to see that they’re not good for him, but, of course, Dylan tells them so well it’s like seeing them unfold. He reads him fanciful books too.”

  “But he’s so much fun.” David turned and said to Lady Margaret, “If Mum would marry him, he could play with me all the time.”

  Serafina’s cheeks suddenly burned. “I’m not marrying a man just so you have someone to play with.”

  “Well, there are worse reasons for marrying a man,” Margaret said. “Men marry women for their money and then pay them no attention. Women marry men for their titles and have no love for them at all. I would say those are worse reasons than marrying to get a playmate for such a good boy. You ought to think about it, Serafina.”

  Serafina glared at Margaret and knew she was being teased. She said quickly, “Children, go get ready.”

  “What are we going to do, Mum?” David asked.

  “We’re going to play croquet, and then we’re going for a ride, and then for a picnic on the river. We’ll have all day. Now, go.”

  After the company broke up, Serafina remained long enough to have a word with her aunt. She came and looked directly at her with an intensity that made Lady Bertha nervous. “Aunt Bertha,” Serafina said evenly, “I’m going to have to ask you to stop talking about Matthew Grant in front of Dora.”

  “Why, I don’t—”

  “I’m not going to debate this with you, Aunt Bertha. The two are in love, and Matthew Grant is a fine man. He doesn’t have a title, but I know plenty of men with titles who don’t have his honesty and goodness.”

  “It’s a disgrace!”

  “This is a warning. You force me to speak plainly, Aunt Bertha. If I ever hear you speak slightingly of Matthew Grant or criticise Dora for her decision to marry him, you will not be welcome in this house. Do you understand me?” Serafina had used this threat before, and it usually had the effect of corralling Bertha—at least for a while.

  Lady Bertha understood very well and swallowed hard, her face turning crimson. She well knew she could not sacrifice her position in this household and her visiting privileges for anything. She could not speak but nodded shortly.

  “Very well,” Serafina said. “That will be the last we hear of this.”

  The day had been spent in every activity that would please the children. Serafina and Margaret were saying good-bye as the children were walking toward the carriage. Serafina suddenly reached out and said, “You’re my best friend, Margaret. We must do this very often.”

  “I’m always willing. Perhaps you’ll invite me sometime to meet the famous Dylan Tremayne.”

  “Of course. He’ll be here Sunday night. You come. Bring the children, and you’ll get to meet the famous Dylan Tremayne.�
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  Margaret hugged Serafina and laughed. “He won’t even see me.”

  She got into the coach, aided by the footman. When the door closed, the coachman spoke and the carriage moved away. Serafina’s father came to stand beside her. He was a tall, gangling man, awkward in all of his ways—except with a scalpel or any other medical or scientific equipment. He had wild, fine white hair that would not lie down, a large head, and a very broad forehead. He usually forgot to shave and sometimes even to dress. He turned to the carriage and said, “That’s a fine woman. Very fine children.”

  “I feel sorry for Margaret, Father.”

  “Why? They’re doing very well, aren’t they?”

  “Her husband doesn’t love her or the children. That’s a load for any woman.”

  Septimus stared at his daughter, and he knew at that instant that she was speaking not of Margaret Acton’s problems but of her marriage to Charles Trent. Both Septimus and his wife knew that the marriage had not been a happy one, but they had never learnt any of the details. He found nothing to say for a moment, and then he said, “I’m going to learn how to play croquet. I’ve got to learn to be more active in David’s life.”

  Serafina knew her father was trying to make up the vacancy in her own life and that of David’s, who longed for a father. “That will be wonderful,” she said. “Come now. Let’s go into the house.”

  THREE

  Superintendent Grant wishes to speak with you, Lady Trent.” Serafina looked up from her book with surprise. “Superintendent Grant? Are you sure he doesn’t want to see Dora?”

  James Barden, tall and dignified, never showed surprise. He was one of the most certain people Serafina had ever known. “No, ma’am, he specifically asked for you.”

  “Well, would you show him in, please, James?”

  “Certainly.”

  Serafina was puzzled, for she could not imagine why Grant would come to see her. Putting her book down, she rose and waited until he stepped through the door. She saw at once that he was troubled. “Is there something wrong, Matthew?”

  “Could I talk to you for a moment, Lady Trent?”

  “Not unless you call me Serafina. We’re going to be family, Matthew, so no more titles.”

  Matthew smiled. “That will be a little bit difficult for me, but I’ll do my best.” Grant ran his hand through his hair, which was thick and glossy and a beautiful silver colour. It was very attractive, although he did not think of it like that. He had sharp, penetrating hazel eyes, but Serafina could tell that he was disturbed.

  “What is it, Matthew?”

  The two were standing in the study where Serafina often retired to read. It was not a large room; most of the walls were covered with bookcases that reached to the high ceiling. Serafina had read most of the books. The huge marble fireplace sat dormant and imposing across from Serafina.

  Matthew cleared his throat and said bluntly, “I’ve just come from a murder scene. Lady Stephanie Welles was killed in her home in her own bedroom sometime last night. It’s a difficult matter, and I would like for your father to serve as the medical examiner.”

  “Well, I will go get him at once.”

  “And,” Matthew said quickly, “I would like for you to come, if you would.”

  “Me? Whatever for?”

  Matthew smiled slightly. “This is no ordinary murder. It’s the slaughter of a member of the aristocracy.”

  Serafina stared at him. “Her husband’s in the House of Lords, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. His name is Lord Herbert Welles, and he’s demanding we catch the murderer immediately.”

  “That doesn’t usually happen.”

  “Of course not, but Lord Herbert’s accustomed to having his own way. And the newspaper chaps are swarming. The public is demanding instant action. So—I can use all the help I can get.” Matthew paused and looked at Serafina directly. “Besides, your reputation as a detective is becoming quite impressive.”

  “Oh, Matthew, you know better than that.”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t. There are some things I would like to have your advice about, if you wouldn’t mind coming with your father to the scene of the crime.”

  Serafina was surprised, but she at once agreed.

  “Good. I have a carriage outside,” Matthew said. “I’ll take you and your father to the scene and have you brought back. It’s a matter of some urgency, you understand.”

  Septimus straightened up and gave Grant a sharp look. “There’s no mystery here about the cause of death, Superintendent. Her throat was cut. The murder weapon was left behind. I can’t say if that was a slip on the killer’s part or if he is daring us to find him.” Septimus, who occasionally served as a medical examiner for the police or Scotland Yard, showed no emotion as he delivered this analysis.

  “Yes, but in case it comes to trial, I would want to call you as a witness. Would you make any notes you need to, anything unusual about the murder? It would be very helpful. One thing that troubles us is that there were people in the house—servants, of course—but no one heard a sound. Wouldn’t she have screamed if she were attacked?”

  “That might have been impossible.” Septimus shook his head and looked down at the body. “Look, the knife would have severed the vocal cords.”

  “I see. Well, we’ll have the body taken to your home where you can do a complete autopsy.”

  Matthew supervised the transfer of the body into a vehicle driven by a brawny member of the police force. Septimus left at once to go with him. When Matthew returned, he said to Serafina, “I’m sure your father will do all that can be done in the medical sense, but I want you to look at the crime scene.” He shook his head with something like despair. “It’s confusing. I’ve never seen anything like it. Too many clues. I’ve made a list. Look, it’s going to be a nightmare to follow up on these things.” He handed her a sheet of paper, and she ran her eyes down the list:

  gold cuff link with the initials H. W.

  two ticket stubs, one to a circus performance, the other to a performance of Macbeth

  Victoria Cross medal

  woman’s handkerchief with “Violet” embroidered on it

  one playing card, the queen of hearts

  two pennies with different dates

  picture cut from a book, of a woman in armour driving a chariot

  assortment of small bottles of all shapes and sizes

  poem on a scrap of paper

  Serafina shook her head. “Some of these might be traced, but some would be impossible—these small bottles, for example.”

  “I know, but we have to try. What do you make of this picture of the woman wearing armour and driving a war chariot?”

  “It’s a picture of Boadicea.”

  “Who was she?”

  “She was an early queen in Britain, from a tribe called Iceni. When the Romans attacked her people and raped her two daughters, she raised an army and led them to battle against them. A very courageous woman, heroic, I might say.”

  She picked up other items seemingly at random, mentioning one from time to time. “Well, here’s something,” she said, picking up a gold cuff link.

  “I noticed that. It’s a very valuable one, solid gold, I would think.”

  “Yes, with the initials H. W. Probably belongs to her husband, Herbert, but it should be easy enough to trace.”

  She went from item to item and then moved about the room, her eyes going over the carpets and the wall. Finally she bent over and said, “Look at this, Matthew.”

  “What is it?”

  “Some sort of white powder. Just a trace, but I’d like to know what it is.”

  Grant studied the tiny smear of white and said, “Could be something the servants use to clean the room.”

  “I don’t think so. Look, there’s a tiny bit of it on this Victoria Cross.”

  “You’re right. But what does it mean?”

  “I’m not sure, but we’d better search for any other traces of it.”
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  The two went over the room but found no more of the powder. “Maybe it’s a cosmetic, but I don’t recognise it.” Serafina frowned. “But then, I don’t use a great deal of cosmetics. It seems the murderer is leaving a series of items here to confuse the police.”

  “Yes, and it will take weeks to sort all these things out, I’m afraid. But here, notice this.” He removed an envelope from his pocket and gave her the single slip of paper. “This is the note that the killer left. It’s a poem of sorts, though I’m no judge of poetry. See what you make of it.”

  Serafina took the paper and read the poem aloud:

  Is this a dagger that I see for me?

  This blood is not the last you will see!

  Count the clues but no matter how you try

  The lady will be the next to die!

  Catch me if you can—you stupid weak policeman.

  “Not much of a poem, Matthew,” Serafina said as she studied it. “It’s printed in block letters. It would be impossible to match it to anyone’s handwriting.”

  “Yes, and the contents of it are frightening. ‘Catch me if you can,’ the murderer says, ‘you stupid weak policeman.’ I suppose that’s me.”

  The two studied the poem, and Serafina made a copy and gave the original back to Grant. As she did, she said, “He’s challenging you to find him.” Serafina looked down. “And the next victim will be a lady.”

  “So he says. You’ll need protection, Serafina.”

  For a time Serafina did not move. Then she lifted her eyes to meet Matthew’s and said quietly, “You can’t protect every lady in England, Matthew.”

  Grant quickly discovered that he had not underestimated the difficulties that lay ahead of him in pursuing the investigation into the death of Lady Welles. He had had two interviews with Lord Herbert Welles, neither of them pleasant. He was preparing for another when the Lord walked into his office, this time accompanied by none other than the home secretary.

  “Good afternoon, Lord Herbert, and to you, Mr. Secretary.”

  “What have you found out, Superintendent?” Welles asked at once.

  “The investigation is in its preliminary stages, sir,” Matthew said carefully. “We’re having particular difficulties because of the method of the killer.”