Aurora by Joan Smith Page A

Derwent. He is dead, and I can prove it.”
    There was a hushed, awful silence in the Blue Saloon. The questioners looked at the man they had just decided was Kenelm, they looked at Lady Raiker, they looked at each other, and said not a word. There was dead silence for forty-five seconds, when the claimant recovered his wits and broke into unholy laughter. “Clare, you witch!” he said. “Who the devil have you murdered and chucked into a grave to have a body ready against my return?”
    “I shall overlook that slanderous remark, sir. Mr. Coons, you will proceed with the exhumation order we have had made up to cover this contingency. I think there will be no doubt as to the identity of the corpse. It will be long decayed, of course, but no doubt the clothing and some personal effects will bear me out.”
    “What? Did you actually dress your victim up in one of my outfits?” Raiker asked. “You are up to anything. I always knew you were as devious as a nawab, but I never began to appreciate your foresight till now.”
    “There is no point in continuing this discussion,” Clare said to her solicitor, then turned a disdainful eye to Raiker. “You will be notified of the hour of exhumation, sir, that you may have your counsel there, and yourself, if you have the stomach for it.”
    “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I want to see what outfit I chose for my interment. Where am I buried, Mama?”
    “Kenelm is buried in the family plot, naturally, as any member of this family would know.”
    Kenelm turned to the committee members. “Am I to assume the verdict in my favour still stands? I am the living Kenelm Derwent, while simultaneously mouldering in my grave?” he asked with relish.
    His old schoolmates were eager to support him. How the deuce could anyone but Kennie know about putting the frog in Chuck Dalmy’s milk, or sousing that old mugger of a tutor with a bucket of water when he was slipping out the back door to meet his doxy, or the series of anonymous letters perpetrated during their last term at Eton, threatening the headmaster with revelations of his scarlet past, and the man a dead bore who never did a thing wrong, but still went into a quake every time a letter was received? Such were their questions to the claimant, who entered into the memories with delight and a plethora of details that led some to believe he had been the instigator of all the mischief. The school friends were convinced, but agreed to go along with the others and withhold judgment, as their number did not constitute a majority in any class.
    There were, of course, questions posed to Clare to expand on her announcement, but she sat like a sphinx, giving away nothing. The meeting broke up, and Lord Raiker turned his mount immediately down the road to inform the ladies at the Dower House of the latest development, and to try to discover of them who the corpse might be, though he had a fair idea. They had been waiting on pins and needles for his arrival, as he had arranged to come to them at once, whatever the verdict. Malone too was on hand. She had become a firm supporter of Raiker—admitted quite bluntly she had become “abscessed” with the whole affair, and rarely thought of anything else. The butler announced him, and he entered smiling broadly.
    “He used the wrong name,” he said. “He ought to have called me the late Lord Raiker.”
    “You got here sooner than we expected you,” Malone assured him.
    “Late as in dear departed. Mama’s got me killed and buried in the family plot. Well along in decay by now, as it seems I have been there ever since I ran away.”
    Three shocked faces tacitly demanded an explanation. “Yes, quite a shocker she has been saving up. I am no more. Gone to my just deserts long ago. I’m dying to hear how I met my end—no pun intended. She wouldn’t tell us a thing, not a single detail. I wonder how the devil she means to account for my untimely demise. Some terrible accident, I suppose.