Page 17 of Nature of the Crime
Audrey’s temper snapped unexpectedly. “Lord Burton.” Her voice reverberated off the arched ceiling, perhaps even more forcefully than his. “You have made your position quite clear. Now, allow me to make mine so. I want to see the face of the man I stand accused of harming.”
“Why is that?” he asked.
Hugh came to stand on Audrey’s other side, but before he could speak on her behalf, she replied, “Whoever placed that note on his body knows me by name. I would like to see if the victim is anyone I recognize.”
She could not say the utmost truth: that she wanted to see if the victim was her husband, who was already supposed to be dead.
The baron smirked. She held his stare, refusing to back down. “After you, my lord.” She gestured him to lead on. He flared his nostrils, then entered through the open door and began to descend some stairs.
Cassie relinquished her arm before they started down the stone steps after him, into what Audrey presumed were the church vaults. Cold air penetrated her heavy pelisse and dress, her flannel petticoats and soft, lambswool stockings. She wrinkled her nose against the musty odor. Lanterns on brackets guttered changing light as the steps twisted downward, then came to an end. The lamplight only reached so far, but from the echoing of their feet, Audrey suspected the windowless crypt ran the length of the nave.
Near the base of the stairs, a white-sheeted figure lay atop a wooden bench, parallel to a stone retaining wall. This might have been a house of the Lord, and perfectly suitable for housing a body, but its placement here seemed wrong. Far too forlorn.
Aware that she feared Vaillancourt was, in fact, either Philip or Freddie Walker, Hugh supported her with his palm to her lower back. With Michael and Cassie present, there would be quite an uproar if it was indeed Philip. Audrey prayed her fear was unfounded.
Then, Lord Burton flung back the sheet without a word of warning or an ounce of reverence.
Her heart lodged in her throat—and she released her breath. From her vantage point, she could only see the man’s dark crown of hair. Not Philip’s golden hair, or even Freddie Walker’s more reddish hue. But then, Cassie gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth. Audrey rushed to her side, and from there, she could see what her sister-in-law had: the dead man’s face.
“Mr. Ricci?” Audrey whispered. She stared in wonder at the older gentleman, lying still and ashen on the bench. She shook her head. “No, this cannot be.”
“Why do you call him that?” the baron asked.
“He was our tour guide in Rome,” Cassie answered. “It doesn’t make sense.” She turned to Michael. “What is he doing here?”
“So, you do know him.” The sticky sound of Lord Burton’s pleasure drew Audrey’s attention back to the trouble she was in.
“As Lady Cassandra has said, he was our tour guide in Rome for several days. Mr. Bruno Ricci,” she said. “He took us through the ancient ruins. We parted on good terms and did not see him again after leaving the city.”
Hugh took down a lamp from its bracket and held it closer to the dead man’s face. “How did you meet him?”
“Our hotel concierge,” Cassie answered. “He said Mr. Ricci was vastly knowledgeable on Roman art and architecture, and indeed he was. He knew everything about the history of the Colosseum, the Pantheon, the Baths of Caracalla. He was quite interesting.”
“You are mistaken. This man’s name is not Ricci,” Lord Burton snapped. “It is Vaillancourt. His personal possessions match the name listed on the manifest.”
“We are not mistaken,” Audrey insisted. With his slightly bulbous nose, long chin, and downward turned lips, Mr. Ricci had a face one did not easily forget.
“I believe you met this man in Rome, and that he presented himself to you as Mr. Ricci,” Hugh said, hooking the lantern on its bracket again. “But the baron is correct. His name is Vaillancourt.”
Silence met his statement. Audrey peered at Hugh. “You know him.”
He nodded grimly. “He was an officer at Bow Street when I was a foot patrol. Shortly after I arrived, he left to become a private inquiry agent.”
Audrey’s stomach dove.
“A private inquiry agent? Are you saying this man posed as a tour guide in Rome?” Michael’s near shout bounced off the rough stone walls of the vaults. “That he washiredto do so?”
Hugh met Audrey’s fleeting glance as alarm streaked through her. Someone had sent Vaillancourt to spy on her? Did this inquiry agent have anything to do with the note about Philip? And now, the agent was dead.Murdered.
Lord Burton held up his hand. “Lord Neatham, why did you not say you knew Bertrand Vaillancourt when you had the chance earlier?”
“It’s been years since I’ve had reason to think of the man,” Hugh explained. “I had no reason to anticipate it to be the same Vaillancourt, nor did I know what his given name was at the time.”
Lord Burton stepped forward as if to argue, but his foot struck something on the floor and sent it skidding. Under the bench where the inquiry agent’s body had been lain out, the baron had dislodged a leather satchel. Vaillancourt’s belongings? If only she could hold them, she might be able to learn something more about his reasons for following her—if that was what he’d been doing. But with the baron and guards here, she had no chance of accessing it. Last night, Hugh hadsaid he’d get her something during the inquest. She would have to trust that he would.
“How did he die?” Audrey asked, taking in Mr. Vaillancourt’s unmarred upper body, exposed by the partially drawn back sheet.
“The coroner believes it was poison,” Lord Burton replied. “A woman’s murder weapon, is it not?”
