‘I don’t know about them, Mr Hunt. It was the mistress who said to get you and Mr Twite said to run, not that there’s anything to be done for the master now, poor gentleman. The mistress is not ill, if that’s what you mean, sir, just very upset. But she’s taking charge of things.’ The man was regaining his own composure now that he had his breath back and he was unloading the problem onto someone else.
‘Go back. Tell them I said nothing is to be touched where Lord Northam was found, nothing is to be cleared up or cleaned. Ask Mr Twite to send for the doctor and the Coroner immediately and inform Lady Northam that I will be with her directly.’
He closed the door and made for the stairs. ‘Dover, is the stove still hot? Yes? Then make coffee at once. Then get dressed. I need you to deliver a note to the Duchess of Calderbrook, then have some breakfast and get on with things here.’
He scribbled, Lord N. dead. G. will need you. Jared, sanded and folded it, slapped on a wafer to seal it.
Dover handed him a cup of coffee and gulped his own, wincing at the heat. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll be out right behind you. Do you need hot water now?’
Jared scrubbed a hand over his chin. He’d had a shave before the ball, so the morning beard was not as bad as it might be. Speed was more important than appearances. ‘No. That can wait.’ He tied his hair back, not taking the time to braid it tightly, and pulled on clothes, fastened his sword belt.
He ran. It was quicker than trying to find a hackney at that hour and it cleared his head of the fumes of last night’s wine and the fug of too little sleep. The door of the house swung open as he came up the steps. It was Hoskins the footman again. ‘Where?’ Jared snapped.
‘Upstairs, sir. Doctor Felbrigg is here already, the mistress sent for him while I was going to you, sir.’
Jared made himself walk up the stairs. There would be enough of an air of panic in the house without him adding to it by charging about. A door at the end of the first landing stood open and he went in without knocking. A tall man he recognised as Doctor Felbrigg bent over a sprawled figure on the bed, Twite and a footman stood helpless to one side and, at the sound of his footsteps, Guinevere turned from where she had been standing in the middle of the room.
‘Oh!’ She started towards him, her tear-streaked face breaking into a tremulous smile of relief. ‘You came, Ja–’ She broke off at the abrupt movement of his hand and the smile froze, to be replaced with a stony dignity, as though he had snubbed her.
Of course, the last thing Jared wanted was a weeping female throwing herself at him, and in front of witnesses. Witnesses. Yes, of course, this was about rumour and appearances. Formality was sensible, there was no call to feel as though he had slapped her. Guin drew herself up and inclined her head. ‘Thank you for coming so promptly, Mr Hunt. As you can see, Doctor Felbrigg is here. But he says there is nothing – ’ She swallowed. ‘There is nothing that can be done for Augustus.’
‘Lady Northam, why do you not go and lie down and have your woman attend you? The Duchess of Calderbrook will be here just as soon as she can.’
‘So kind of her, thank you. But I will stay in this room until she comes.’
‘At least sit down.’ Jared pulled out an easy chair and arranged the leather-covered dressing-screen so that it was shielded from the bed. ‘Here. You will not be abandoning your post then.’
She let him lead her to the chair and sat and then, his back to the room, he finally smiled. ‘Courage, Guinevere.’ It was a murmur, but she heard it, nodded. He turned away to the dressing table, returned to hand her one of Augustus’s big white linen handkerchiefs and then went back to the doctor, leaving her privacy to mop up the worst of the tears.
It had been shock and pity, she realised. Poor Augustus had looked so very old in death, so lumpen and ungainly. How he would have hated the indignity of being seen like that, in those rumpled, stained bedclothes, in the midst of the stink of sickness and worse. Guin blew her nose and made herself listen to what the men were saying.
‘Did his lordship have anything to eat when he got home, Twite? Or to drink?’ The doctor’s voice was muffled as though he was bending over the bed.
‘Nothing, doctor. It was not his habit to take refreshment when he came home so late. There was a carafe of water by his bedside as usual, but that seems unto
uched.’ There was a pause. ‘The glass is dry.’
‘Well, something has made him very sick indeed.’
‘Is there any reason we may not open the window and refresh the air in here?’
‘No, Mr Hunt. None now. I have been unable to detect any odours which might have helped my diagnosis.’ He said something, low-voiced, to Jared about stomach contents and Guin pressed the handkerchief to her mouth until the desire to vomit had passed.
‘Twite.’ That was Jared again. ‘Do you have a tactful, discreet footman, one who can go round to Lady Fulborne’s house and discover if there have been reports of anyone else taking sick? Someone who can manage it without revealing what has occurred here? If there has been an outbreak of food poisoning this death would have a straightforward, if tragic, explanation.’
‘At once, sir.’ Twite hurried out.
‘Mr Hunt,’ Guin said, from behind the screen. ‘I do not think my husband ate anything that I did not, last night at the ball. You ate at the buffet also. We are both perfectly well.’
‘Shellfish are notoriously dangerous, Lady Northam,’ the doctor interjected. ‘It could take just one bad oyster, crab or lobster.’
‘Augustus did not eat shellfish of any kind,’ she objected.
‘What are those on the floor? Be careful, Doctor, you almost crushed them with your foot. See? Here, let me gather them up.’ A moment later Jared came around the screen, his hands cupped around something that glittered. ‘Lady Northam, do you know what these are? There are five of them.’
She picked one up, a crumpled little silver-paper square about three inches across. ‘It is a sweet wrapper. But it should not be in here, Augustus was not supposed to eat sweetmeats. You forbade it yourself, Doctor.’
‘I did indeed, and without much effect by the look of it. There is an uneaten one here beside the bed. Marchpane I would guess.’