Bamfylde thought about the question with a serious expression on his face. “The only one who springs to mind, who I have long wondered about, is Octavia Dymchurch. You might have met her?”
“Oh yes,” said Adelia. “We have met her.”
“I know she’s your friend, Lottie,” Bamfylde went on. “But she’s not what she seems, you know. I’ve tried to tell you...”
“And I didn’t want to listen,” said Charlotte. “I should have, shouldn’t I?”
“Tell us what you know,” said Adelia.
He hesitated. “It is distasteful.”
“Forget that we are women, and family besides. We are detectives now and nothing more.”
“Very well. Huh, you know, I liked her, at least at first. I could understand her. She had always been used, or so she felt. She was raised in a family where girls were valued only as marriage potential.”
Charlotte snorted. “That is usual.”
“Excuse me ...” Adelia said, then stopped. This was not the time.
Bamfylde shrugged apologetically at Charlotte, and continued. “She knew that she wanted to take some kind of control over her life and who could use her. She resented her background. She wanted to be more than a marriageable pawn, a useful wife. And I suggest that this is what brought her to Digby Nettles’ attention. For there was a man who was ever at odds with his own upbringing, violently so.”
“He was something of a radical, a man with revolutionary tastes,” Adelia said.
Bamfylde laughed. “Oh, don’t dignify him and his actions with any kind of politics! He was not driven by a belief in a better way of life. He was driven only to destroy. His family is a good one, you know, still living out in the sticks somewhere, I don’t know where. Once, many years ago, before I was the man I am today, we encountered one another in a gaming hall. He was drunk, drunker than he usually was, and he was speaking at great length about the hatred he felt for his stepfather. After his father had died, his mother had remarried a man of great standing with a surname known in all the best places but Digby Nettles refused to give up his own name, even though he would have benefited from his stepfather’s reputation. And anything would be better than ‘Nettles’, would it not? And then his mother began to have many affairs and so began his great disillusionment with women as well as with men. He was clever, you know, frighteningly so, and a man more full of loathing I have never met.” Bamfylde laughed. “And I’ve looked in the mirror and seen myself.”
“Did he love Mrs Dymchurch?” Charlotte asked. She glanced at her mother, saying, “I know, mama, don’t scoff but it’s important, I don’t know why.”
Bamfylde said, “In truth, I don’t think he could love anyone. He used her too but she didn’t see it at first. He was interested in her only when she was married; when she was free to choose, he was no longer thrilled by her. There was no chase and no transgression. But she, I am afraid, did love him. So when she was thrown over by him, her vengeance has known no bounds. She realised he was just like all the rest. In short, she wanted marriage but he wanted power.”
“And do you think her capable of killing?”
“Poison, wasn’t it?” Bamfylde said. “Indeed I do. She was a woman scorned, do not forget. Scorned all her life.” He cocked his head then. “It occurs to me now that her husband’s death might not have been accidental...?”
“We believe she murdered him,” Theodore said flatly. “Your brain works quickly,” he added.
“Thank you. I am not entirely lumpen; I have my moments. Might I ask if you know how she effected these murders? I suppose the first was easy enough, as many wives do away with their husbands at the dinner table but I know she was not present when Digby Nettles died. And I know Mr Wiseman, who was there, but he is so painfully honest he will never be rich. He could have known nothing.”
“We think it was managed through the servants,” Adelia said. “And of course, almost all of Nettles’ servants have distributed themselves around London and cannot be found.”
“Ah, of course!” Bamfylde said. He reached out to the wine which had been brought it, pouring himself a glass and talking quickly as the ideas seized him. “After all, you’re always swapping them between households. Not a one of them has an idea of loyalty and why should they? Not here in London, at any rate. I suppose out in the country, you still have generations of retainers from the same families, but there are too many options for them here. You could break into any house you pleased if you knew the right servant to bribe and what their price was. Yes, it makes perfect sense that she would have got close to one or other of them.”
“What do you think she’ll do next?” Adelia asked. Theodore frowned at her but she ignored him. It seemed to her that Bamfylde’s insight was a fresh and invaluable one, and confirmed much of what they already suspected besides.
“Heavens, I do not know. She can’t carry on murdering people and I don’t think she will. Both those chaps were particular targets, you know? She’ll look around for some new fellow to marry and let’s hope for his sake that he keeps her happy.”
“There’s a problem,” Adelia said. “She knows that we know about her.”
Bamfylde’s grip tightened on the wine glass and his eyes widened in horror. “She knows?” he rasped out.
“I believe so. She became suspicious of my questions,” Adelia said.
“Then she’d either try to kill you all, or she would run.”
“I think she’s going to run,” said Adelia. “I happened to see her in town and she was going into jewellery shops and pawn-broking establishments. She is gathering funds and no doubt will flee in the New Year.”
“Let her go and good riddance.”
“There’s another problem.”
