Lady Emma's Revenge

  By

  Fenella J Miller

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any method, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of The Author - Fenella J. Miller

  Lady Emma's Revenge Copyright Fenella J. Miller, 2015

  This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author' s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental

  Cover design J D Smith

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  Chapter One

  Chelmsford, 1816

  The crack of the pistol shot echoed through the house. Emma stumbled backwards almost losing her balance and crashing headlong down the staircase.

  The sound had come from Richard's study. Gathering up her skirts, she spun and raced down the stairs, across the vast expanse of chequered floor and along the spacious passageway that led to his sanctum.

  His man of business, Stokes, barred her way as she tried to go in. 'No, my lady, better not see. I was too late to stop him.' He wiped his eyes on his sleeve but remained firmly in front of the closed door. 'The master's dead. There's nothing you can do for him.'

  'Dead? Are you telling me that he has killed himself? I don't understand – we breakfasted together little more than an hour ago and he was perfectly well.' Her head was spinning; she couldn't take in this dreadful news.

  The housekeeper, Smithson, appeared beside her. 'You come along with me, my lady, let Mr Stokes take care of things. He'll get Doctor Reynolds to deal with this.'

  Emma allowed herself to be gently guided away from the study. She had believed her husband had been contented with their union despite his lack of interest in the marriage bed. How could he have taken his own life? It made no sense.

  'No, Smithson, I'll not be removed so easily. Mr Stanton could not possibly have committed suicide. I must speak to Stokes and he must send for the magistrate and have him investigate the matter.'

  Ignoring the anxious tutting and clucking from her housekeeper she hurried back to the study and turned the handle – but the door was locked. She banged on the door and demanded to be let in and she was certain she heard movement behind the door.

  Stokes rushed to her side, his face pale. 'I locked the door, my lady, the master wouldn't want you to see him like that.'

  'There's someone in there. Quickly, unlock the door, whoever it is will be getting away.'

  His expression changed to one of concern and he fumbled in his pocket for the missing key. 'There cannot be anyone inside, my lady, the door has been locked and the windows are closed.'

  Eventually, the door was open and Emma was first to enter. The room was indeed empty, but she was certain there had been somebody inside. Her attention turned to her husband who was slumped across the desk, his fair hair caked with blood, the discharged duelling pistol in his hand.

  Her eyes filled and she swayed. She dug her nails into her palms, she wouldn't faint, she must be strong. Richard had been murdered and she could think of only one person who would wish to do this. His younger half-brother, Benedict Stanton, had always coveted the estates and substantial income that went with them. The last time Richard had spoken to his brother had been more than a year ago and the meeting had ended with Benedict threatening to kill him.

  'I can't go any closer. Stokes, could you check the desk and see if there's a note for me?'

  After a cursory search amongst the papers he shook his head. 'Nothing at all, my lady. The master would have left a note explaining. I don't understand.'

  'I'm feeling decidedly unwell, I must lie down. I'll leave you to speak to the doctor. Would you also send word to our lawyers that they must bring the will? Thank God the estates are not entailed, they will remain under my control and won't be passed on to Mr Stanton.'

  'The master had summoned me here on an urgent matter. I didn't get the opportunity to speak to him, but he received two letters from London this morning and I believe it was in relation to those that he wished to speak to me.' He bowed and stepped aside to allow her to exit.

  Smithson was waiting in the passageway and Emma was glad of her support. The shock and anger at Richard's demise had carried her through the first awful minutes, but now grief was overwhelming her. It was as if she had been shrouded in a heavy, wet cloak. Her feet were becoming more difficult to move and a welcome blackness took her away.

  *

  Bridge Street, London

  Sam Ross had been up all night apprehending two villains wanted for the murder of a fellow runner. His eyes were gritty from lack of sleep, his hands blood-smeared and his clothes little better. He slumped into a chair and Meg, the girl who took care of his rooms, placed a steaming bowl of porridge in front of him followed by a mug of porter.

  'You get this down you, Sergeant, you look done in. Did you catch them varmints?'

  'I did, but I must wash before I eat.' He was about to shove himself to his feet but she pushed him back.

  'You stop where you are, sir, I'll fetch you a basin and some hot water.' The porridge and beer were whisked away and immediately replaced with what he needed.

  The water was red-stained by the time he'd finished his ablutions. He dried himself and handed the damp towel to Meg. He was about to spoon up the last delicious mouthful of his meal when he heard footsteps on the stairs that led to his door.

  'See who that is, no doubt it will be bad news of some sort.' He wiped his mouth and drained the last of his porter. His maid hurried to answer the loud knocking and Sam was unsurprised to see the shrivelled form of the clerk from Bow Street sidle in.

  'What do you want, Garfield? I've only just got back, dammit, and I've yet to find my bed.'

  'I beg your pardon, Sergeant Ross, but Mr Fletcher requires your immediate attendance.'

  'Tell him he'll have to wait. I'll be with him by noon. If the matter is too urgent to stand for a few hours then let him give the task to somebody else. There are dozens of us working out of Bow Street nowadays. Let one of them take this case.'

  The clerk was about to argue but wisely thought better of it. 'I'll give Mr Fletcher your message but he won't be pleased by it.'

  Sam waved him away and Garfield scuttled off like the beetle he was. Sam yawned and without further ado headed for his bedchamber. His lodgings were in Bridge Street, no more than a ten minute walk from where the magistrate held court. He was lucky he had sufficient funds from his days as a soldier to pay for decent lodgings, for he was damn sure he would not live as well on the meagre wages he earned as a runner.

  Since he'd returned from Waterloo last summer he'd immediately applied to join the Runners. He needed something physical to do, something to take his mind off the loss of his two closest friends in the bloody battle.

  'Meg, wake me at half past eleven and not a minute before.'

  'You go along to your bed, Sergeant, I'll get your garments sponged and pressed whilst you sleep. It ain't right how they treat you, you never have a minute to yourself.'

  'I'm a lead investigator; the penalty of being efficient at one's job is to be asked for by name.'

  Meg followed him into his bedchamber and with her assistance he removed his boots and outer garments and flopped into bed. He was instantly asleep.

  *

  Emma awoke to find her maid, Annie, sitting at her side. 'I wish to get up. Has the doctor visited, do you know?'

  'He has indeed, my lady, he left you a tisane to take which will help you sleep.'

  'I have no wish to sleep any longer. Help me get dressed and then send for Stokes.'

  She was pacing her sitting room when Richard's man of business arrived. 'Come in. I apologise for my weakness earlier. I'm quite recovered, I'll not let my emotions overwhelm me again.'

  He seemed reluctant to step into her private room but she beckoned him impatiently. 'We cannot stand on ceremony, Stokes, I wish to know what transpired with the doctor. Was he prepared to sign the death certificate as an accident?'

  'He was happy to do so, my lady. The coffin was fetched from the vault. Mrs Smithson took care of things and now the master's resting in the family chapel.' He cleared his throat and refused to meet her eye. 'Sir Reginald sent his man over and has decided to take the matter no further. Investigation will only serve to draw attention to the suicide...'

  'Suicide? I told you my husband was murdered and if Sir Reginald isn't prepared to investigate, then I shall take matters into my own hands. I've no intention of inviting the remnants of Richard's family to attend the funeral and I'm estranged from my own – therefore I wish to hold it as soon as it can be arranged.'

  'The vicar has called in, my lady, and the service can be held tomorrow. The master will be interred in the family vault so there's no necessity to employ a gravedigger.'

  Talk of such things almost brought her to her knees. She could only bear the thought of Richard's death if she pushed it to the back of her mind and concentrated her efforts on seeking revenge.

  'I'll have a letter for London as soon as I have penned it. I'm going to be in the study and will send for you there.'

&nb
sp; His shocked expression almost made her retract her statement. For a recently bereaved widow to enter the room in which the death of her husband had taken place was unheard of. However, Richard had always given her free rein to do as she pleased and she had no intention of changing her character just because he was no longer with her.

  Somehow, she had expected the house to reflect the death of its master, but the sun still shone through the windows, the tall vases of summer flowers still scented the entrance hall and the staff appeared to be going about their daily duties as usual.

  The study door was closed and it took all her courage to reach out and turn the handle. She doubted she would ever visit this room again once the murder was solved. Richard had received a missive from London and she needed to find this before she wrote to the magistrate at Bow Street and requested that his most efficient investigator come to her immediately.

  After a fruitless search she realised the letter was no longer in the study. A shiver flickered down her spine. Had Richard been killed because of this? The family lawyers resided in Chelmsford, a sizeable market town no more than five miles distant, so this communication could not have come from them.

  After writing her letter she sanded it, folded it neatly and pressed the Stanton ring into the molten wax to seal it. Her husband had never worn this but kept it in a drawer and used it only on his correspondence. She pulled the bell-strap and when Stokes appeared, she handed him the letter plus a sovereign to cover the exorbitant expense of sending it by express.

  He could not fail to notice to whom it was addressed – but he merely shrugged and set off to do her bidding. After he had departed to run her errand, she began a thorough exploration of Richard's papers. She was aware that his funds were invested in various manufactories and shipping lines and the reports from these showed a healthy profit. Whitford Hall, and the various estates which belonged with it, were also showing a handsome return.

  She carefully replaced all the account books, and various letters appertaining to these subjects in the desk. A parlourmaid had already scrubbed the top clean and if she hadn't known that less than four hours ago it had been covered with her husband's blood, she would have thought there was nothing amiss.

  This room would remain untouched until the Bow Street Runner arrived and could examine it himself. The lawyers would have to meet her in the small drawing room – the study was out of bounds. She carefully locked the door and put the key in her pocket; she had no wish for anyone, even Stokes, to be in the study until it had been properly inspected.

  The weather was perfect for an afternoon walk around the rose garden. She hadn't the energy to change into her riding habit and take her massive gelding for a gallop. As she wandered amongst these sweet-smelling flowers she ran through the practicalities of her situation. Richard had shown her his will; she held title to everything with no trustees or legal impediment. It would be highly unusual for a female to hold the reins of such a large estate but for some reason a widow was considered more capable than an unmarried lady.

  She settled in a concealed arbour, breathing in the smell of honeysuckle and roses, allowing the warmth of the sun to thaw her icy limbs. When she had rejected her father's choice of husband, he had disowned her. The Earl of Streford would not be gainsaid and he ordered her to be sent to live with an ancient relative in Scotland. So Emma had accepted Richard's offer – she hadn't been in love with him but had liked him well enough.

  Love had not grown over the five years as they spent little time together. Richard had preferred to spend time with his male friends and was often away from home with them. However, her life was infinitely better than before her marriage and she had been relatively happy.

  Whoever had taken Richard from her would pay dearly. She wouldn't rest until she had found the culprit and brought him to justice. She was convinced that the murderer was Benedict Stanton – all she had to do was prove it.

  When the vile creature had visited she hadn't met him, but she would never forget his voice, never forget the venom with which he had issued his threats. At the time she had been concealed behind a pillar in the entrance hall, not intending to eavesdrop, merely keeping out of the way of someone Richard had said was a nasty and objectionable character.

  The death of her husband would not be announced in The Times, the burial would be private. They were a considerable distance from the village and the staff were loyal and wouldn't discuss the matter if asked to keep it private. With luck Mr Stanton would not hear of it. She jerked upright at the stupidity of her thoughts. Of course he would know, he was the perpetrator, wasn't he? This would make things so much easier to prove – if the villain appeared in the next few days insisting that he was now the legal owner of the Stanton estates, that a mere woman couldn't possibly inherit in her own right, she would know for sure he had done the deed.

  The only person who might reveal that Richard was dead was the vicar himself. She scrambled to her feet and ran headlong to the house. She must ride at once to the vicarage and make sure he held his tongue. This shouldn't prove problematical as his living was provided by the Stanton estates and he wouldn't wish to offend the person who paid his stipend.

  Chapter Two

  Sam shouldered his way past the press of miscreants who were being processed for the courtroom, greeted several of his fellow runners and fought his way to the staircase at the rear of the building. Mr Fletcher, who was the magistrate in charge of Bow Street, had his office on the first floor away from the noise and unpleasantness downstairs.

  The clerk was hovering in the anteroom, glancing nervously at the wall clock which now showed it was fifteen minutes past the hour of twelve o'clock. Sam ignored him. The man was undoubtedly efficient, but he was sly and no more honest than those in the cells beneath them.

  Mr Fletcher was standing at the window staring down the street but he turned at once and greeted him. 'At last, forgive me for dragging you from your bed, Sergeant, but this is a matter of the most extreme urgency.' He gestured towards a chair. 'Sit down, man, sit down. I shall give you the letter that came by express this morning to read for yourself.'

  The paper was expensive, the penmanship immaculate. The address at the top was Whitford Hall, not somewhere he was familiar with. He perused the missive and his eyes brightened. 'A man murdered in a locked room and letters missing, this sounds an intriguing case.' He continued until he'd read the whole. The remuneration offered was substantial, the lady who had written to ask for their help was the widow of the man who had been killed.

  'I shall leave at once, sir, as this seems a matter of the utmost importance. I'll ride. It's be no more than half a day to Chelmsford. I'll overnight there and make a few discreet enquiries about the family before I go on to meet Mrs Stanton.'

  'Take someone else with you, your choice, but you have to pay him from your own pocket. Keep me informed of developments, but there is no need to return until the matter is solved satisfactorily.'

  'If Collins is available, I'll take him. We've worked together before and he's a shrewd fellow, able to blend in and worm out useful information from the locals.' His chair scraped as he stood. 'Did Mrs Stanton request me by name?'

  'No, she asked for my best investigator.' Fletcher waved him away and resumed his stare out of the window.

  Sam moved silently to the door and threw it open. As he expected Garfield had been lurking behind it and was sent flying. Serve him right for eavesdropping; the Beak had been told several times that his clerk was dishonest but he refused to send him packing. He had said that it was a good thing to have a foot in both camps, so to speak.

  It took a while to locate Collins as he was in a local hostelry drowning his sorrows after failing to apprehend the collector he had been sent after. Highwaymen were difficult to catch at the best of times and this one was proving particularly elusive. Collins' bright red waistcoat immediately identified him as a mounted runner, and Sam wasn't surprised there was a noticeable gap on either side of him.

  'Collins, I've a job out of town. You're to come with me. Lose the waistcoat, dress plainly and bring your barking irons. We've a murder to solve – I'll tell you more about it as we ride. Be ready to leave in an hour.'