Sheri Cobb South by In Milady's Chamber

and tastelessly furnished as the rest of the house. Mrs. Bertram entered the room in such a flutter of black crape that one might have supposed it was her husband, rather than his cousin, who had died.
    “I can only spare you a moment,” she informed him without preamble. “I have an appointment with my dressmaker. I must have new blacks made, you know, for square necklines are quite out of fashion this year, while as for trains, why, one might as well wear homespun! Still, at least it is only for a few weeks—not like my dear cousin, who must spend the next twelvemonth in a color so very unbecoming to her! Really, I thought the poor thing looked quite haggish. But so it always is with ladies who possess that pale sort of beauty: dark hues steal what little color they have.”
    Jealous old bat, thought Pickett. Aloud, he said, “I’ll not take much of your time, your ladyship—”
    “Oh, you must not call me that!” simpered Mrs. Bertram, in a voice which clearly communicated her pleasure in hearing herself thus addressed. “At least, not until after the funeral. It wouldn’t be proper.”
    “As you wish, Mrs. Bertram. Can you tell me where you were last night between the hours of midnight and one o’clock?”
    Her brow furrowed in concentration as she considered the question—trying, no doubt, to decide how best to answer without dredging up her quarrel with Bertram, Pickett thought.
    “George and I—Mr. Bertram, you know, at least until after the funeral—attended the opera last night. It finished at about eleven—interminable, all that caterwauling, but simply everyone attends!—and we returned home.”
    “Where you both remained for the rest of the night?”
    Mrs. Bertram nodded. “As you say.”
    Pickett made a great show of flipping through the pages of his notebook. “Then I must have been mistaken. I understood your husband to say that he had spent the night at his club.”
    Mrs. Bertram’s face grew pale beneath her black-bordered lace cap as she rushed into speech. “Did he say so? And so he may have done. I daresay he left for White’s after I had retired for the evening.” She gave a brittle laugh. “Between you and me and the lamppost, Mr. Pickett, my husband and I were quite put out with one another. I fear he has little understanding of what it costs for a woman in my position to dress appropriately. But I am sure that is all settled now, for I know he will not wish to be behindhand in any courtesy due Fieldhurst or his widow.”
    “His widow?”
    “Why, yes, for it is not her fault that she failed to give Fieldhurst a son. I believe such is often the case with these frail beauties. But since George and I have three sons—one at Oxford, one at Eton, and one still in the nursery—it is not as if the line will die out due to her negligence. Indeed, if she does not wish to live with the dowager, I think we must consider letting little Edward’s nanny go, and giving him over to his dear auntie’s care. I daresay the boy will eventually become like the son she never had, and she may be assured that she is still one of the family.”
    The prospect of Lady Fieldhurst spending the rest of her life as unpaid drudge to her successor momentarily deprived Pickett of speech. “You seem to have matters well in hand,” he said, when he could talk at all. “I only hope her ladyship will give your offer the consideration it deserves.”
    Mrs. Bertram, oblivious to irony, preened. “Yes, well, as Shakespeare said, blood is thicker than water.”
    Pickett, living only a stone’s throw from Drury Lane Theatre and frequently to be found occupying its pit, was fairly certain that Shakespeare had never said any such thing, but declined to argue the point. He only wished Mr. Colquhoun had been present to witness this interrogation. Here was evidence aplenty of Lady Fieldhurst’s innocence, for what woman of beauty, wealth, and position would willingly cast herself upon the charity of the new