Captives of the Night

  He'd gently explained that her father was a man of strong passions, which overcame his better nature because he let them rule him. When the baser passions ruled, the path from innocent pleasure to vice became treacherously steep, and it was all too easy to slip.

  She had wept with shame, because she had slipped so easily, and because he was so very disappointed.

  He had told her, then, that she wasn't altogether to blame, being young, with no one to protect and guide her. Francis Beaumont should not have taken advantage, but men generally did, given the smallest encouragement or opportunity.

  Leila had wept the more then, aware that somehow she must have encouraged, provided the opportunity. Certainly she hadn't avoided Francis. She'd been infatuated with the handsome, sophisticated man who devoted so much time to a lonely young girl.

  "Perhaps it's all for the best," Andrew had consoled her. "At least you'll have a husband to look after you. And now you've discovered how easy it is to slip, you'll be alert in the future, and take greater care."

  Leila had tearfully promised she would. She knew she might have been abandoned to the streets, as other ruined girls were. Instead, Francis would wed her and Andrew had forgiven her. But she must never err again. She must prove she wouldn't follow her father's path, but would rule the wicked nature she'd inherited.

  And she had.

  Until now.

  "It was all long ago," Andrew said, as though he saw the memory reflected in her eyes. "We shouldn't dwell upon that now—but death has a way of stirring up the past." He rose. "What we want is a piping hot pot of tea and a dose of Lady Carroll's lively conversation to lift our spirits. I shall give you proper legal advice, and she'll doubtless suggest a host of ways to shock the coroner out of his wits."

  The inquiry into the death of Francis Beaumont was one of the most splendidly orchestrated in recent British history, thanks to Ismal.

  He had personally selected the medical experts, analyzed their postmortem reports, reviewed the numerous depositions, and decided the order in which witnesses would be called. Though the coroner and jurors didn't know it, the inquest was over as soon as the first witness, the Comte d'Esmond, had given his testimony.

  Aware that not an iota of prussic acid had been found in the corpse, Ismal had only to demolish Mrs. Dempton's credibility to set events moving inexorably to a verdict of accidental death.

  That was easy enough. He'd discovered her weaknesses when he'd listened to Quentin question her. All Ismal had to do was drop a few intriguing hints during his own testimony to guide the coroner's subsequent questioning of Mrs. Dempton.

  Ismal exited immediately after testifying, to return soon thereafter disguised as a shabby country constable. He was in time to hear Mrs. Dempton characterize her late master as a saint and the mistress as a tool of Satan. Closely questioned, the servant tearfully and obstinately denied what all the world—including the coroner—knew to be true: that Beaumont spent most of his hours, waking and sleeping, intoxicated; that he was a habitual user of opiates, both in raw and laudanum form; and spent most of his time in brothels, gambling hells, and opium dens.

  Mr. Dempton came next, with nothing significant to add but the fact that Mrs. Beaumont had sent for her solicitor as well as the physician.

  Quentin, who came next, took care of the lawyer issue by mildly remarking that Mr. Herriard having been Mrs. Beaumont's guardian, she would naturally seek his assistance in her time of trouble.

  The neighbors had seen and heard nothing.

  Then the doctors—six of them—testified, one by one. They hadn't found prussic acid, Ismal knew, because it was nearly impossible to detect after the fact, even in the best of circumstances. In Beaumont's case, only a minute dose had been needed: both prussic acid and opiates produced similar cynanotic symptoms, and his internal organs were already irreparably damaged by years of abuse. It was this damage, and Beaumont's frequent headaches, that the medical experts used to explain the uncharacteristic dilation of the pupils. Two doctors even went so far as to assert that he'd died of natural causes; the laudanum dosage would not have proved fatal, they said, but for the degenerate state of the digestive organs.

  Indeed, Madame had chosen her poison wisely. What Ismal couldn't understand was why she hadn't chosen her time wisely as well. He'd assumed she'd acted in the heat of the moment. Yet poisoning, especially this one, wanted forethought.

  Beaumont had been dead for hours when he was found, which meant she must have poisoned the laudanum shortly after the quarrel. But how had she found the prussic acid so quickly? Had she kept it in the studio? Yet that would indicate planning, and surely she'd plan a safer time than right after a loud, bitter quarrel. The trouble was the timing. Tom Dempton, one floor below, had heard a noise from the master bedroom at the same time Madame claimed to have heard it: moments after Beaumont had reentered his room and shut the door.

  How the devil had she done it?

  Had she done it?

  But she must have. There was the ink.

  Yet nothing else fit.

  The problem had plagued Ismal these last seven days. It had wanted all his will and pride to keep from going back to her and questioning, manipulating, using all of his vast store of tricks to extract the secret from her. But that would be as good as admitting he was stymied. Which he wasn't, he assured himself. Never in ten years had he encountered a problem he couldn't solve. He remained at this inquest, whose outcome was already decided, solely to study her and find, in a gesture, a turn of phrase, the clue he wanted. Her turn was coming soon. Then he'd have his answer.

  He'd scarcely thought it when he became aware of a pulsing change in the atmosphere. He looked to the door just as Leila Beaumont entered, shrouded in black, like the night.

  She strode down the narrow aisle between the benches, her gown rustling in the stunned silence. When she reached her place, she threw back her veil, swept the assembled onlookers one insolent glance, then fixed the coroner with a look that should have incinerated him.

  About Ismal, males of assorted degrees, high and low, began to breathe again. Even he had been struck breathless for a moment. By Allah, but she was magnificent. Fire and ice at once.

  Mine, the savage within him growled.

  In time, his civilized self soothed. Patience.

  Leila's entrance into the inquiry room caused a bit of a stir, which she had not only expected, but dressed for. Scorning to elicit pity, she had attired herself as dashingly as the unrelieved black of deep mourning allowed.

  She wore an immense velvet bonnet, tilted back on her head at a fashionable angle, and trimmed with wide satin ribbons. Her black bombazine dress boasted wide shoulders and enormous sleeves, its high hem trimmed with two deep flounces that ended precisely at her ankles. Her elegant fur-lined boots proved a wise choice for a bitter cold day and this draughty chamber.

  Since she had been kept out of the room while the coroner examined the other witnesses, she had no idea what had been said. Judging by Andrew's expression, however, matters mustn't be going very badly for her. He looked annoyed, but not worried.

  Esmond wasn't here. She hadn't seen him since the day Francis had died. She didn't know for certain whether he believed her innocent or guilty, but his absence made her suspect the latter. He didn't want his noble name soiled by association with a murderess, no doubt. For all she knew, he hadn't testified at all, but had used his influence to get out of it.

  No one, of course, had told her who would be called to testify. Despite the fact that one was, according to law, considered innocent until proven guilty and this was merely an inquest, not a trial, Leila had been treated as suspects generally were, i.e., kept utterly in the dark.

  No one had given even Andrew information—because her own lawyer might be so audacious as to use it to help her, God forbid.

  Secretive bastards.

  She lifted her chin as she met the coroner's weary gaze.

  In response to his questions, Leila gave him all the
redundant information he sought: her name, place of residence, length of residence, et cetera.

  His clerk industriously wrote it all down, just as though no one in the world knew who she was until this moment.

  After that, she was obliged to describe where she had been the night before her husband's death, the mode of transportation which had brought her home, and more et ceteras—all, in short, that she'd told Lord Quentin and the magistrate, repeatedly.

  Only when the coroner asked why she'd cut short her stay at Norbury House did Leila allow a note of irritation to creep into her voice. "With all due respect, the information you seek is in my signed deposition," she said.

  The coroner glanced down at a paper before him. "You said only that you had changed your mind. Would you care to elucidate for the jurors?"

  "I had gone to the country to rest," she said, looking straight at the jurors. "The visit was not restful. There were many more houseguests than I had anticipated."

  "And so you returned home and immediately went to work?" The coroner lifted an eyebrow. "Is this not odd in one who desired rest?"

  "Since I wasn't going to get any, I thought I might as well try to be productive."

  "Indeed. Were you—er—productive?"

  Given at least half a dozen persons' description of the state of her studio—which the coroner had in writing in front of him—she wasn't surprised at the question.

  Leila met his piercing gaze defiantly. "Not at first. As you have doubtless already learned, I had a quarrel with myself, and consequently took out my vexation on the objects in my studio. As you have also already learned, the disturbance woke my husband. Whereupon we argued."

  "Would you describe the disagreement, Madam?"

  "Certainly," she said. The onlookers promptly came to attention, as one might expect. Until today, she had consistently refused to describe the quarrel, regardless of how much she'd been coaxed, prodded, and bullied. They were expecting revelations.

  "Mr. Beaumont made several disagreeable remarks," she said. "I responded by bidding him to perdition."

  Audience expectations sank several degrees.

  "If you would be more specific, Mrs. Beaumont," the coroner said patiently.

  "I would not," she said.

  This elicited a low buzz of speculation. The coroner bestowed a cold stare upon the onlookers. The buzzing ceased.

  Then, somewhat less patiently, he asked if she would do the jurors the courtesy of explaining why she chose to withhold vital information.

  "My husband was evidently suffering the aftereffects of a night of entertainment," she said. "He was irate at being wakened and had a thundering headache besides. Had he not been in this state, he should not have been so disagreeable. Had I not already been vexed before he entered, I should not have even listened, let alone responded, to bad-tempered comments. To attempt to repeat the ill-chosen remarks of the moment is to give them an appearance of veracity and a permanence they do not merit. Even had we meant a fraction of what we said, I should not repeat it. I do not wash my linen in public."

  Scattered whispers among the onlookers.

  "I sympathize with the principle, Mrs. Beaumont," said the coroner. "However, you must be aware that your servant understood the exchange to be of a threatening nature."

  "So far as I am aware, the servant you refer to was incapable of understanding," Leila said coldly. "She was of no assistance to me when I discovered Mr. Beaumont's body. On the contrary, she launched into an hysterical fit from which she did not recover until she had consumed a sizable portion of my late husband's best sherry."

  There was a louder buzz and some laughter. The coroner uttered a sharp rebuke, and the room instantly hushed.

  He turned back to her. "May I remind you, Madam, that Mrs. Dempton overheard the quarrel hours before this—er—hysteria you diagnose."

  "Then I cannot account for her attributing to me threats which I did not make," Leila replied. " 'Go to perdition,' is not, so far as I understand the English language, a threat, regardless how vulgar the specific terminology used. My own terminology was most unladylike, admittedly. I did not, however, threaten violence. I most certainly did not commit violence, except upon inanimate objects—my own belongings in my own studio."

  "You have indicated that you were vexed," the coroner persisted. "To bid your husband to—er—

  perdition indicates a considerable anger."

  "If I had been angry enough to do him injury," she said, "which I presume is what you are getting at, I should very much like to know why I didn't commit violence on the spot, while I was in this enraged state. Yet Mrs. Dempton saw him shortly after he left the studio. I'm sure she's told you he bore no marks of ill-usage."

  There was more laughter and another reprimand from the coroner.

  "We are inquiring, Madam—as the law obliges us—into a death whose cause is questionable," he said quellingly. "Surely it must have appeared so to you, since you agreed to summon the authorities."

  Surely it must be plain to him that a guilty person wouldn't have agreed so readily or cooperated so fully. Leila had done both, as the coroner must be aware, for all his frowns.

  "The cause did not appear questionable to me," she said. "I agreed because others appeared to have doubts, and I did not wish to stand in the way of their putting these doubts to rest in the way they thought proper. I thought then and still do, however, that the inquiry would prove a great waste of the government's resources."

  "It would seem then that, at the time, you were the only one not in doubt regarding your husband's demise."

  At the time. That was significant. Apparently, the autopsy had produced no clear evidence of foul play.

  "It was not precisely unexpected," she said, her confidence soaring. "Mr. Beaumont took too much laudanum, despite warnings from his physician of the risk of overdose. It is called opiate poisoning, I understand. It was obvious to me that my husband had—as his physician had warned—accidentally poisoned himself."

  That wasn't strictly perjury, she told her conscience. Francis certainly hadn't taken the poison on purpose.

  "I see." The coroner looked down again at his notes. "According to Mrs. Dempton, you mentioned poison during the quarrel. You are telling us that the poison you referred to was the laudanum?"

  "I referred to drink as well as opiates. I certainly was not expressing an intention of poisoning him myself—if that is what troubles you about Mrs. Dempton's statement."

  "Yet you can understand, Madam, how the words might be construed by another?"

  "No, I cannot," she said firmly, "unless that other took me for an idiot. Had I threatened murder, I hope I would not be such a fool as to commit the act immediately thereafter, especially when it was more than likely the servants had overheard the alleged threat. To do so, I should have to be either an imbecile or a madwoman."

  Leila paused to allow this to sink in while she swept the room a haughty glance, daring these men to believe her mad or imbecilic. There wasn't one woman here. Only men. Andrew was nodding sympathetically. Near him sat David's father, the Duke of Langford, his countenance a stony blank. There were the jurors, watching her avidly...Lord Quentin, his expression unreadable…several Bow Street officers she recognized…other representatives of authority…some appearing suspicious, some doubtful. Some had the grace to look abashed. They had thought she was stupid, every last one of...

  Her glance shot back to a corner of the dingy room, where a particularly unkempt constable leaned against the wall. His greasy brown hair streaked with grey, he looked to be close to fifty. His grubby coat and stained waistcoat stretched over an unsightly paunch. He was studying the floor while absently scratching his head.

  It was impossible, Leila told herself. She must have imagined that glint of unearthly blue. Even if the man had looked up, she couldn't have discerned the color of his eyes at this distance. Yet she was certain she'd felt their searing penetration.

  She wrenched herself back to the moment.
Whatever she'd felt or imagined, she could not afford to be distracted.

  "Your sanity and intelligence are not being called into question, Mrs. Beaumont," the coroner was saying. "We are simply attempting to reconstruct a clear picture of the events preceding your husband's death."

  "I have described them," she said. "After my husband left my studio, I did not see him alive again. I did not leave my studio at any time between his departure and my discovery of his body, when Mrs. Dempton was close behind me. I had remained in the studio, working—with the door open—until after teatime. I could not have done otherwise, as the painting must clearly demonstrate."

  This time, the coroner didn't trouble to conceal his puzzled dismay. "I beg your pardon, Madam. What painting? And what has it to say to anything?"

  "Surely the Crown's officers observed the still-wet painting I had completed during those hours in the studio," she said. "Any artist could tell you that it had not been done in a state of agitation or haste. Had I interrupted my work to do away with my husband, I could not have produced that sort of technical study. It wants total concentration."

  The coroner stared at her for a long moment, while the whispering rose to a low roar. He turned to his clerk. "We had better call in an artistic expert," he said.

  Several jurors groaned. The coroner glared at them.

  The glare moved to Leila. "I only wish, Madam," he said, "that you had been more forthcoming previously regarding these matters. Surely you understood their importance. You might have spared the Crown precisely the waste of resources you mentioned earlier."

  "I thought they were important," she said haughtily. "But no one else must have done, since I was never asked the relevant questions. While I am no expert in inquiries of this sort, I was puzzled why the focus of concern appeared to be my quarrel with Mr. Beaumont and Mrs. Dempton's hysteria. Though I did not understand why matters of hearsay took precedence over material facts, it was not my place to tell professionals how to do their business. I should not have taken the liberty of mentioning these matters today had it not appeared that they were likely to be overlooked altogether."