Chapter One
London, October 1819
Jeremy Sheffield, the Viscount Northwood, known to all by “North,” walked from the mews into Pemberton Square, which, as of last week, he now called home. His father, the Earl of Aylesbury, had convinced him it was time to move into a proper house instead of lodging at the Albany. He hoped it would encourage North to marry, especially since his twin had taken a wife some months earlier.
A change in residence would not prompt matrimony, but North appreciated this move would at least quiet his mother’s dismay that he was their last remaining unwed child. And he was the heir.
North had preferred to depart the coach at the mews to enjoy the dawn quiet of his new environs. He sought the exercise after a night of relative excess that included cards, wagers, drinks, and a visit to his favorite courtesan.
Inhaling the cool, crisp autumn air, he admired the yellow and orange leaves still clinging to the trees. There hadn’t been a good blow yet—in fact, they’d had fine weather and today looked to be no different. Though the sun was just rising, the sky was nearly cloudless.
Pemberton Square was compact and charming, with a variety of houses, a bookshop and lending library, a confectioner, and the Pemberton Club for the denizens of the square and by invitation only to others. North’s terrace sat on the south side where the smaller dwellings were located. The north side was made up of grander homes. North had no need of a house like that.
Someday, he would move into Aylesbury House on Mount Street. That was hopefully a long way off, as his father was in robust health.
A movement in one of the trees in the center of the square drew North’s attention. He thought it was perhaps a crow or magpie, but he discerned the dark outline of the square’s omnipresent cat. The black feline patrolled Pemberton Square better than any watchman, his green eyes conveying an intelligence that North suspected could rival any watchman too.
“Good morning,” North said. “I wish I knew your name. How about Nix?” He’d tried several other options—Midnight, Shadow, and Herbert on a night when he’d been foxed—but the cat hadn’t responded to any of them. “Would you even let me know if I guessed correctly?”
The cat abruptly turned his head toward the north side of the square. His ears perked.
A moment later, a young man wearing dark blue livery came running out of number twenty-four. “Help! We need a physician! We need the watchman!”
“Shall we investigate?” North asked the cat, but the animal had already leapt from the tree and was making his way across the street. “Wait for me,” North murmured as he hurried to reach the man who was still shrieking.
“Please, you must help,” the young man, who appeared to be a footman, pleaded.
“I’m Lord Northwood. I live on the other side of the square at number twelve. What’s happened?” North glanced up at the house, which was almost directly across from his terrace. He hadn’t met a great many people yet, but he’d become acquainted with Mrs. Lambton, the square’s eminent busybody, who’d eagerly told him about several of the residents. If North recalled correctly, this was the house of Sir Radnor Fieldstone.
North hadn’t met the man, but Mrs. Lambton had enthusiastically described him as a distinguished older gentleman with a surplus of charm and a keen wit. He was also known as a passionate book collector.
“Sir Radnor is dead,” the lad replied with great anguish, his face red and his brows drawn together. “I’m Amos. I’m—I’m a footman here,” the young man stuttered, his hazel eyes wide.
“I don’t think there’s any use in calling the watch as they’ve just concluded for the night,” North said, trying to be helpful. “May I come in and be of assistance? I can send for my brother. He’s the new coroner.”
The footman nodded. “Yes, please come in, my lord.” He gestured for North to enter through the open front door, above which was situated an ornate fanlight. The footman followed him in and led him toward the stairs. “This way.”
Sir Radnor’s house was one of the larger dwellings in the square, with three bays and four stories, in addition to the lower floor where the kitchen was located. The stone steps were cantilevered, and an oval dome overhead allowed the dawn light to spill over the staircase.
They did not stop at the first floor but continued up to the second. “The housekeeper found him a few minutes ago.”
“How unfortunate. Do you think there was foul play?” That seemed to be the case since Amos wanted to fetch the watchman.
“I can’t say,” Amos replied as they arrived at the chamber at the rear of the second floor. He stopped short and turned to North. “I don’t really know what happened.”
“That’s because you panicked.” A low but feminine voice snapped from inside the chamber.
Amos flushed. “This is Sir Radnor’s bedchamber.” He motioned for North to precede him.
Stepping into the masculine room, North saw a maid on her knees cleaning the carpet. Two buckets sat in front of her—one with clean water and the other dirty—and on the other side of them lay Sir Radnor on his stomach, his face pointed away from the maid. Or perhaps she was the housekeeper, for she was in her early fifties. Her dark brown hair was streaked with gray strands and was pulled severely into a coil at the back of her head.
“What are you doing?” North demanded.
The woman lifted her head and met North’s stare. “I’m cleaning up the blood from Sir Radnor’s fall.”
North couldn’t see Sir Radnor’s injury, but the man was quite still. “Are you certain he’s dead?”
“Of course I’m certain,” the housekeeper replied sharply. “I had to move him a bit to clean the carpet. He isn’t breathing.”
A third retainer entered the bedchamber. This man, with his somber dark gray costume, neatly combed gray hair, and authoritative demeanor, had to be the butler. He registered North’s presence with a start. “Who are you?”
“I’m Northwood from number twelve across the square. You must be the butler.”
“Maberly, at your service, my lord,” he replied with a nod. “Pardon me, but why are you here?”
“Amos ran outside and shrieked for the watch,” the housekeeper said with great irritation. “I could hear him up here.”
“Yes, I heard him as well,” Maberly murmured.
“I encountered his lordship,” Amos explained eagerly. “He offered to help. His brother’s the coroner.”
“That’s very kind of him,” Maberly said. “However, I’ve already sent Samuel to summon Dr. Ellingham.”
North acknowledged it was more appropriate to ask for a physician to assess the situation before the coroner was notified. If the man had died of natural causes, there would be no need to alert Harry at all.
The housekeeper pursed her thin lips and narrowed her gray-blue eyes at the footman. “Amos, what did you hope to accomplish with such behavior?”
“I was only trying to help,” the footman answered meekly, his shoulders drooping. The lad was probably twenty—or close to.
“Take yourself off now,” the housekeeper said gruffly, but she also sent the young footman a nod that seemed tinged with a motherly fondness.
North took stock of the room. The bed was neatly made, and the chamber was bright for this hour of the day, yet the curtains were still drawn. The light came from the fire in the hearth, which was rather large for having just been kindled. Perhaps Sir Radnor preferred it to be stoked all night. How exhausting for some poor servant.
“Is the carpet coming clean, Mrs. Babcock?” the butler asked the housekeeper.
She’d gone back to scrubbing whilst North glanced about.
“Somewhat. Thankfully, this carpet has a great deal of brown.” She tossed the cloth into the dirty bucket and used the side of the bed to push up to her feet.
“You cleaned away all the blood?” North asked. Before becoming the coroner recently, his brother Harry had been a principal officer at Bow Street, where he’d often been frustrated by people ruining evidence. It made his investigations far more difficult.
“Of course,” she replied as if North were daft. “Just from the carpet. I didn’t clean his head.” Mrs. Babcock made a face. “It was difficult enough to touch him. I’ll be glad when Dr. Ellingham arrives and takes care of the body.” Her gaze fell on the finial atop the bedpost closest to where Sir Radnor lay. “There’s blood there too.”
As she bent to pick up the cloth again, North stepped forward. “Stop! You shouldn’t be cleaning. Not until an officer from Marlborough Street or even Bow Street has investigated. You assume this was an accident, but an inquest must determine that. Unless… Were you here when it happened?”
The housekeeper’s brows pinched together as her eyes narrowed briefly. “I was not. But it doesn’t take a Bow Street Runner to conclude that Sir Radnor tripped as he fell out of bed in a drunken stupor.”
“I hardly think Sir Radnor’s state signifies,” Maberly said crossly, perhaps attempting to protect his employer’s dignity.
“This isn’t the first time he’s fallen at night,” Mrs. Babcock snapped back.
“It is, however, the first time he’s been discovered dead,” North noted without a hint of sarcasm.
The housekeeper inclined her head toward the bedside table, upon which sat a lamp, an empty decanter, an empty tumbler, and a book. “Sir Radnor drank that entire decanter of port last night, in addition to what he imbibed at dinner and with Lady Cartwright.”
Lady Cartwright? North knew that name, but not the woman behind it. She lived next door at number twenty-five, according to Mrs. Lambton.
North looked at Maberly. “Is it true that Sir Radnor drank that much last night?”
The butler appeared uncertain, his brow pleating. “I’d have to ask his valet, but he doesn’t rise until later, particularly on mornings after Sir Radnor has been up late, as is typical when he entertains.”
“The entire household must be interviewed,” North said, knowing that was what Harry would do.
“That decanter was full yesterday afternoon. I brought it here myself,” Mrs. Babcock said. “Sir Radnor doesn’t like if it drops below half, so I refilled it.”
North envisioned a drunken Sir Radnor falling out of bed and hitting his head on the floor. The carpet would have cushioned his fall, however. He recalled the blood on the finial that he’d stopped Mrs. Babcock from cleaning.
Stepping toward the bedpost, he glanced at the housekeeper, who was partially blocking his way, along with the buckets and Sir Radnor. “I’d like to look at the finial.”
Mrs. Babcock picked up the buckets and moved them outside the chamber.
There was indeed blood on the finial, but not a great deal of it. “This doesn’t look to be enough blood for a head wound.”
“I cleaned up plenty from the carpet,” Mrs. Babcock said, having come back into the bedchamber.
That seemed odd. “I should think there would be more on the bedpost if that’s where Sir Radnor struck his head. For that blow to kill him seems an unlucky twist of fate.”
“The bedclothes were a knotted mess before I tidied them,” Mrs. Babcock explained. “I believe Sir Radnor was tangled up and fell. Knocked his head on the finial on the way down. I have no trouble believing that’s how it happened.” She shrugged.
“You also made up the bed?” North asked.
Mrs. Babcock sniffed with indignance. “I can’t leave things a mess when we’re expecting Dr. Ellingham.”
Her employer had died, and instead of being distraught over his demise, she was worried about cleaning. North found her overall attitude to be curious. And it made him doubt her accident theory.
North turned to the butler. “Do you agree with Mrs. Babcock’s assessment?”
“I suppose it makes sense.” He shook his head and frowned, his brow creasing with distress. “We must hear what Dr. Ellingham thinks.”
The housekeeper moved to the bedside table and picked up the decanter.
Again, North stopped her. “You can’t take things from the bedchamber, nor can you clean anything else.”
She’d already destroyed whatever evidence was on the rug as well as disturbed the state of the bedclothes. Her testimony, should it become necessary, about both would have to be enough.
“I was only trying to tidy before Dr. Ellingham arrives. What else am I to do?” she asked with exasperation. “I take great pride in caring for Sir Radnor’s household.”
“I’m sure you do,” North said in a placating tone. “Can you describe how much blood you cleaned from the carpet?”
“Enough to turn the water brownish-red.” Her answer was wholly unsatisfying.
North remained polite. “And how far did you move Sir Radnor?”
“You can see for yourself. He was on top of the wet area before I moved him.”
The Aubusson carpet was dark, with brown and cobalt as its primary colors. It was difficult to ascertain exactly where it was wet. North bent to touch where she’d been cleaning and made a note in case it dried before someone came to investigate.
“If you’ve nothing else, my lord, I’ve household duties to see to,” the housekeeper said crisply before turning toward the doorway.
“Mrs. Babcock, you don’t seem terribly upset about the death of your employer,” North commented.
She whipped her head around, eyes blazing. “Of course I’m upset,” she said sharply. “Now I need to find a new position, as does everyone else here. Sir Radnor’s death is a calamity. For now, we must carry on.”
That wasn’t the sort of upset North had meant, but he didn’t correct her. “I’m sure you’re all shocked and sad.” He watched for her reaction.
“Yes,” she murmured, casting her gaze toward the body. “It’s quite…sad.” She turned on her heel and departed.
North turned to the butler. “Would you please open the curtains so we may have some daylight in here—such as it is at this hour?”
Maberly hastened to do as North asked whilst North surveyed Sir Radnor’s body. His nightshirt was long but bunched up around his thighs.
It seemed plausible that Sir Radnor had become tangled in the coverings, which had caused him to be unsteady enough to fall and hit his head on the finial before landing on the carpet. The best way to determine the possibility or likelihood would be to try it. Though, North couldn’t do that with where Sir Radnor was, and he wasn’t going to disturb the body. Again.
He could, however, investigate the wound.
Removing his gloves and stashing them in his coat pocket, North crouched down and studied Sir Radnor’s face. His eyes were closed, his thin lips pale, as was his flesh. There was blood on his right cheek—the side of his face that was pressed to the carpet.
Moving to the man’s other side, North turned his head to face him so that the wound would be exposed. He grimaced as he handled the corpse.
Sir Radnor had white hair that was quite thin on top. His right temple had a gaping wound where the flesh was torn, and blood matted the surrounding hair and stained his skin.
North looked up at the finial: a large egg shape atop the turned post with a carved point rising from the center. Landing on that finial just right could cause a horrible wound. Blood streaked from the top of the point down the side of the egg. At least North had stopped Mrs. Babcock from cleaning that bit.
Standing, North judged the top of the finial to be about four feet from the ground. North bent his temple toward the bedpost and decided he could have sustained such an injury if he’d fallen in precisely the right way. But he was just over six feet tall. He looked at the butler. “How tall is Sir Radnor?”
“Not as tall as you, my lord. Perhaps a few inches shorter?”
Sir Radnor was likely tall enough to have hit his head. But had he? “I’m afraid I can’t ignore the principle of parsimony, that the simplest explanation is likely the correct one.” Likely. However, North had the sense something was off. Perhaps it was the housekeeper’s demeanor and her cleaning and tidying everything so that the evidence was ruined.
Maberly looked sad. “I’m sure you’re right. I’m just so shocked that Sir Radnor is—” He lost a shade of color and swallowed. “Dead,” he murmured, bowing his head.
“We can hope he didn’t suffer,” North said, though if the man were as foxed as the housekeeper indicated, he likely hadn’t felt a thing. “I’m sorry for the upset this causes you and the household.”
The butler raised his head to reveal that his eyes were damp. “I’d hoped Sir Radnor would be my last employer, but that was probably foolish given his age.”
“How old was he?” North asked.
“Seventy this past summer,” Maberly replied. “Just ten years ahead of me. It’s jarring to think I may have only a decade left in me. Or less if I’m not as fortunate.” He waved his hand. “Ignore me. I’ve turned maudlin. I shall go downstairs to await Dr. Ellingham.” He started for the door.
“Maberly,” North called, and the butler turned. “Does Sir Radnor have children or other family who need to be alerted?” Mrs. Lambton had indicated he was a widower, which North just remembered.
“No children, but he has a great-nephew and great-niece. They reside in Islington and call regularly.” Maberly shook his head sadly. “They’ll be sorry to hear this, I’m sure.”
“One more thing,” North said. “I would still like to send for the coroner. Perhaps you could dispatch Amos, if you think he’s not too distressed.”
“He’ll be fine,” the butler said. “Probably best if this is all sorted appropriately and with due haste. I hate to think of the gossip this will ignite around the square.”
“Mr. Sheffield is at number fourteen Cavendish Square,” North said.
The butler departed, leaving North alone in the bedchamber.
North moved to the head of the bed. He imagined lying in the bed and waking up twisted in the coverings. North had done that on more than a few occasions. Usually, there was a woman in the bed with him who’d helped to tussle the bedclothes in that manner.
Perhaps Sir Radnor’s entanglement was due to a similar issue? The man was seventy, but he hadn’t been dead. Yet.
Exhaling, North glanced at the bedside table and noted the book—Characters of Shakespear’s Plays. He picked it up and opened the cover. There was an inscription on the first blank page:
For Sir Radnor,
I’ll expect you to have read this before our next discussion of Mr. Shakespear’s work.
With affection,
H. Cartwright
Lady Cartwright again. He recalled what Mrs. Lambton had told him about her. She was a widow of means, which she had to be, given the size of her house. She frequented the new bookshop and the attached lending library and had many friends in the square. In fact, Mrs. Lambton had started to tell him that Lady Cartwright had a “particular friendship,” but they’d been interrupted by Mrs. Lambton’s spinster sister, Miss Selby. Now, North was curious if Mrs. Lambton had been about to tell him of Lady Cartwright’s particular friendship with Sir Radnor. Had she helped Sir Radnor tumble the bedclothes?
For some reason, North found that distasteful. Was that because Lady Cartwright was probably forty years younger than Sir Radnor?
North had glimpsed her on one occasion as she’d departed her coach and walked up the steps to her house. Though he hadn’t seen her closely, he’d judged her to be a woman of estimable taste based on her extremely well-cut and fashionable costume. He’d also found her alluring, even from a distance. Something about the tilt of her head, the carriage of her shoulders, and the curve of her hip had drawn his attention. He’d looked forward to making her acquaintance.
Now he had a specific reason to. Lady Cartwright would want to know her friend—presumably she and Sir Radnor were at least friends given the tone of her inscription in the book she’d gifted him—had died.
A maid entered. She was slight and pale with dark brown hair mostly tucked under a white cap and wide eyes. Her costume was that of an upstairs maid.
She regarded North warily. Then her gaze darted toward Sir Radnor. Her frame appeared to stiffen. Had she not known he’d died?
“I’m Lord Northwood from across the square. I’ve come to help with Sir Radnor’s unfortunate demise. I’m sorry if you’ve just happened upon this unfortunate scene.”
“No, I’d heard he died in the night. I came to fetch a tray that Mrs. Babcock left. She said you wouldn’t allow her to remove the decanter and tumbler.” She glanced toward the bedside table.
“Not until after the coroner arrives.” Harry would know precisely what to do.
“May I fetch the tray?” Her gaze moved to a table near the hearth upon which sat a silver tray.
“Of course.” North realized he still held the book from Lady Cartwright and set it back on the bedside table. He took a few steps toward the door, meeting the maid before she departed. “I understand Lady Cartwright was here last night. Can you tell me why?”
“She often comes for dinner.” The maid clasped her hands before her. “She and Sir Radnor discuss books.”
That explained the gift and the inscription. “Thank you.” North wanted to address the maid by her name. “What are you called?”
“Cora, my lord.”
“Cora, do you know what time Lady Cartwright departed?” North asked.
She shook her head. “Not for certain. I know she and Sir Radnor dined and drank port in the library downstairs. Sometimes, she’s here quite late. Maberly will likely know when she left.”
Quite late. A widow and an aging baronet who regularly discussed books and drank port. And shared an affection.
“I shall ask the butler. Thank you again, Cora.” North inclined his head toward the maid, and she dipped a curtsy before leaving with the tray.
North considered visiting Lady Cartwright despite the hour. Something was off, no matter how much Sir Radnor’s death might appear to be an accident.
What if it was murder?
Harry would know what to do.
North only hoped he’d share what was learned from interviewing everyone, particularly Lady Cartwright. Whatever her connection to Sir Radnor, she was one of the last people to see him alive.
Return to In the Midnight Hour
