The Counterfeit Lady

He began to rise when I entered the room, but a barked command from the tall, burly guard standing like a pillar to one side made him drop back into his seat like a deadweight.

I glared at the guard, but he stared straight ahead, saving him from viewing my wrathful stare. Changing to a pleasant expression, I turned to Gattenger and sat down across the scarred table from him. “Lady Phyllida Monthalf sends her greetings and her assurances that as an i

He turned the saddest blue eyes that I have ever seen toward me and said, “How can it be all right? Clara is dead.”

The Duke of Blackford sat down next to me and said, “Tell us what happened that night.”

“I’ve told my story over and over, and no one believes me. What good will it do?” He buried his head in his arms on the tabletop and sobbed.

The duke shared an a

“It doesn’t matter. Clara’s still dead,” he mumbled from beneath his arms, but at least the sobbing seemed to have stopped.

I smacked my hand on the table. “It matters to your wife that we find the man responsible and have him face justice. What do you think she’d say if she saw you like this?”

Gattenger sat up and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “You’re right. Clara deserves to have her killer punished. But I don’t know who the man is.”

I spoke quietly, not wanting to upset him again. “Just tell us what you do know of that night.”

“We went into the study as we always did after di

He stared at his fisted hands. “I told him to give me the drawings. Clara asked him how he got in, why he was there. He said nothing; he just moved cautiously across the room toward the windows. Furious at his silence, I raised my voice. To my surprise, Clara did the same. The man just kept facing us as he edged his way toward the window. He never said a word. I decided to be a hero. What a fool I was.” With a moan, he shoved his fists into his eyes.

“And then?” If he’d keep talking, we might learn something.

“And then? I tried to stop him. I struck out at him. I grabbed hold of the blueprints in his hands. I tore one sheet. He gasped as if in fright and swung at me. I ducked and swung back. Clara shouted at both of us to stop, and then I shouted at him. His answer was to punch me in the side of the head.” He shrugged. “I don’t remember any more. The next thing I knew, I was leaning over Clara’s body, begging her not to be dead, but I knew she was.”

“Were you standing? Sitting?” the duke asked.

“Lying on the floor next to her, half sitting, holding her. Her head was bloody and her eyes stared at me. Accusing me. I failed her.”

A clank reverberated along the stone-lined hallways, making us all jump. “And then?” I pressed.

“I pulled myself to my feet, went to the door, and unlocked it. I told the maids to get a doctor and the police, but I knew it was too late.”

“Did you see the burglar or the drawings when you came around?”

“No. I thought he’d taken them until the police found part of one in the fire. I guess he burned them.”

“Why would he burn them?” the duke asked. Actually, he demanded to be told, but Gattenger didn’t appear to notice Blackford’s overbearing tone of voice.

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“You must be able to think of a reason. Those drawings are valuable, but they’re not the only copy.” The duke leaned across the table. “Why would anyone destroy them?”

Gattenger slammed his fists on the table. “I. Don’t. Know.” He rose halfway from his seat, glanced at the guard, and sat back down. “I’m sorry. I know you’re trying to help, but I don’t know why someone broke into my house, killed my wife, and burned my drawings.”

“What did the man look like?” I asked.

He stared at the table and spoke in a monotone. It was as if all the air, all the life, had left him. “Thin, in his twenties, a little shorter than me.”

“Did he have any scars? Did he have a receding hairline? Did he limp when he walked toward the window?”

“No limp. No scars. I didn’t see his hairline. He wore a cap.”

“What kind of cap?”

“Just a regular workingman’s cap.”

I glanced at Blackford. He nodded slightly and I continued. “What color was his shirt?”

“Faded. Brown or gray or something.”

“Did he wear a collar?”

“With that shirt? No.”

“His trousers?”

“The same. Faded. He looked and dressed like a workman.”

I pulled a sheet of notepaper and a pencil from my bag and passed them over to Gattenger. From the corner of my eye, I was aware the guard moved. He didn’t demand the paper and pencil, so I guessed Blackford stopped him; I suspect with a ducal glare. “Can you sketch his face?”

He began immediately and in a matter of moments had drawn the outline of the man’s features.

“Why did you bring a set of plans for your new warship home with you that night?” Next to me, I felt Blackford stiffen. I kept my eyes on Gattenger, who kept working on his drawing.

“I wanted to check something.”

“What?”

“Someone had questioned one of the calculations that day, and I wanted to verify my figures.” He looked up at me. “The calculation affects several different facets of the ship, so I needed a full set of plans to check all the possibilities.”

“Was your calculation correct?”

“I don’t know. I hadn’t had time to study it once I got home.”

“And why was that?” Blackford asked. “Because you and Mrs. Gattenger had an argument?”

“We didn’t have an argument.”

“We know you did. Your wife was very upset before you two went into the study that night.”

“We didn’t have an argument. She wasn’t upset.” Gattenger didn’t look up from his drawing at either of us as he spoke. He was lying.

I decided to ask what had puzzled me the most. “Why did you have a fire burning in that room on the hottest night of the year?”

“There was no fire.”

Leaning forward, I said, “I saw the ashes myself.”

He stared at me as he banged his fist on the table hard enough to make it jump. “There was no fire.”

For the first time, I doubted Phyllida. This liar sounded like a murderer.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE sound of Ken Gattenger banging his fist on the table echoed in the small stone room. Blackford and I looked at each other, and he gave me a tiny nod. I was to make the first attempt to get the man I now saw as a possible murderer to tell us the truth.

“We know there was a fire. We know you and Clara had a fight. Tell us what happened. It’s the only way to find her killer.”

The air seemed to escape his body. “We didn’t—it wasn’t an argument. Clara was told—oh, why bother with this now? She was told I had cheated the navy. That my design was basically flawed and I’d be the laughingstock of England, if I wasn’t thrown in jail for treason. Just as she told me what she’d heard, di