“Stay, Mamma — I must speak a word to Mona.” Lord Harold drew the lady aside, and whispered a few phrases; at which she nodded, and grew pink with excitement. “Very well, Your Grace — lead me to my doom.”

The Dowager conducted her son unsteadily to the little salon done up in Prussian blue — and left him reclining in apparent stupor upon the settee.

Delighting in my role, I advanced to the head of the room, adopted a pose by the fireplace, and set about declaiming from Macbeth, with many an inadvertent stumble and fault.

Lady Desdemona made her way to the anteroom door, and effected an entry; Lord Harold emitted a ponderous groan; and before I had accomplished even half the length of Hugh Conyngham’s speech, the lady stood before me once more, to all appearances enraptured by my art. She had achieved the drawing-room by the panelled door’s passage.

At that moment, urged by the Dowager, Miss Wren advanced upon the anteroom; and in all the horror of exclamation and dismay, fell upon the dying Lord Harold as he lay stricken on the blue and gold carpet.

“It is done,” he said briskly, springing to his feet and adjusting the set of his coat, “and with admirable efficiency. I do not think we need enquire whether a lady pressed for time, with agitation to give her wings, could not have managed it better.”

“And the crowd of guests must disguise even Maria Conyngham, despite her costume of red,” I mused. “For I confess that on the night in question, I did not observe Lord Kinsfell’s approach to the anteroom door.”

“Nor did I,” Lady Desdemona supplied. “I was unaware of it until a hue and cry broke out, and I turned to observe Kinny standing over Portal’s body. Any number of guests might have passed from room to room without the majority remarking upon it. But why would you have it be Miss Conyngham, Uncle? Was not she in love with Mr. Portal? She can hardly have served him with violence!”

“Only Miss Conyngham may know the truth of that conjecture,” he replied, his hooded eyes inscrutable. “But I would suggest, Mona, that her precipitate appearance at Mr. Portal’s feet, before the regard of all the assembly — her wanton weeping, and her costume of red — may have been intended to fix in observers’ minds, the fact of her presence in the drawing-room itself. Miss Conyngham forced her person upon our attention only after Portal’s body was discovered — and at such a moment, the scene she played must be intriguing.”

“That’s all very well, my lord,” Mr. Elliot interjected benignly, “but you cannot prove the lady guilty without you extract a confession. And the use of the passage does nothing to advance your scheme regarding the open carriage.”

“True, my good man — but I could not be happy with the descent from the window, until I had tried the passage and found it wanting. I have not found it so. There was time enough and to spare, for the effecting of the deed; and for a lady accustomed to moving about on a darkened stage, the exit along a poorly-lit back hall should be as nothing. She might accomplish it at twice Desdemona’s speed.”

“You cannot prove it, my lord,” Mr. Elliot said again, and scratched determinedly at his club of black hair. “And consider of the risk! For Miss Conyngham could not presume her movements should be disregarded; any one of the guests might have turned in the midst of her brother’s speech, and observed her to enter the anteroom.”

“But you forget, my dear Elliot. Nor could she have anticipated Lord Kinsfell’s passage through the room. Miss Conyngham expected the deed to remain obscure some hours, with Mr. Portal discovered when the rout should have been accomplished and the last of the guests departed.”

“I remain unpersuaded, my lord,” the magistrate said with a smile, “and though I’ve no formal training in the barrister’s art, I cannot believe you’ll find a jury as will agree with you. Do you hold to your open window, and the carriage below, if you will have it the Marquis ain’t guilty — but leave Miss Conyngham in peace, I beg!”

“Would you care to adventure the passage, Miss Austen?” Lord Harold said, ignoring Mr. Elliot’s gibes. He took up a candle and pushed open the door.

We paced the length of the passage connecting anteroom to back hall, and observed the choice of direction — to the left, the servants’ quarters and stairs to the kitchen; to the right, the drawing-room’s far door. Then we returned the way we had come, our eyes intent upon the passage’s floor. Nothing to be seen; not even dust.

“You had hoped for a scrap of fabric, perhaps?” I enquired.

“Preferably in scarlet.”

Lord Harold swung the panelled door closed — and there in the space between door and passage wall, winking in the dim light of the taper, was a small figure in gold.

Lord Harold whistled softly beneath his breath, knelt to retrieve it — and the taper went out, with a parting scorch to his fingers. He muttered an oath and pulled open the door once more, freeing us both from the oppressive dark.

“I must beg your indulgence, Mamma,” he said indolently. “Does this brooch form a part of the Wilborough stones?”

The Dowager turned the pin over in her palm, a slight frown between her eyes. “It does not, my dear Harry. I have never seen it before.”

“Mona?”

She looked at the brooch — paled — and sat down abruptly on the anteroom settee. “Good Lord, Uncle, what does this mean?”

“Perhaps we should enquire of your friend,” Lord Harold replied; but the gravity of his looks betrayed his careless tone.

For what he held in his hand was a snarling gold tiger, its eyes formed of rubies — the device of the Earl of Swithin.

Chapter 9

Into the Labyrinth

14 December, 1804, cont.

HAD LORD HAROLD BEEN ADEPT IN THE ARTS OF THE CONJURER, he could not have produced a more stunning effect. For a full thirty seconds, no one spoke a word, while he observed us all in sardonic silence; and then Mr. Wilberforce Elliot stepped forward.

“I take it this brooch belongs to one among your acquaintance?”

“The Earl of Swithin — though I last saw it worn by his remarkable mother,” Lord Harold replied, and fingered the tiger gently.

The magistrate’s eyes widened in his large face. “The same earl who has just quitted the house?”

“His lordship is unlikely to have gone very far. Did you wish to speak to him, you have only to enquire for Lord Swithin at the residence opposite to this. His sister, Lady Louisa Fortescue, is presently serving as his hostess, and would ensure your every comfort.”

“You are greatly pleased with yourself, my lord,” Mr. Elliot observed drily, “but you know it will not do. The Earl might have lost that bauble at any time in this house — and have not the slightest part in Mr. Portal’s death.”

“I should concede the point with alacrity, Elliot,” Lord Harold said with a nod, “had his lordship ever set foot within Her Grace’s establishment before his visit this morning. Did Swithin go anywhere near the passage, Mona, while conversing with you?”

“I am sure he did not,” she said faintly. She was pale, but contained; and the fever of her thoughts was evident upon her countenance. “Miss Austen? Can you recall him approaching the anteroom?”

I shook my head.

“Then perhaps he was present on a previous occasion without our knowledge — in the guise of one of Her Grace’s guests at Tuesday’s rout, and moving all unknown by virtue of a mask,” Lord Harold said. “Mr. Portal’s death is amply explained, Mr. Elliot, if effected by a jealous lover. For you must know that the dead man’s attentions to my niece — whom the Earl has sought to marry — were quite obvious that evening.”

The magistrate was silent a moment. “Is it impossible that a similar pin should be worn by another?”