A Memorable Memorial Thursday 9 pm

[James O`Neill]

It’s not the preferment Father would choose, but what does he know? It was more than flattering to be in the company of these gentlemen and Lady Cambray – the witticisms, criticisms, and crypticisms kindled the spark of subtle mania that e’er drove the poet forth, loosened by whiskey and wine.

“Crypticism! I’ll use that, I will,” James echoed, raising the aforementioned glass in acknowledgement of his friend’s new word. “Soon, Kingston, we’ll have you writing for the stage.” He grinned, looking at Sedley, considering the play they discussed. “Perhaps His Majesty will even add Avon to your title.”

To Sedley, he added, “A pity my lord father’s title is in the Irish peerage, for I’d so cherish the opportunity to introduce such legislation in Westminster proper. Imagine, ha, how deliciously aghast they might be.”

As the talk became of Langdon’s supposed preference for men, James let out multiple chuckles, smirking  as Rochester added a remark insinuating that the man had a taste those he wished to arrest. At the mention of those who preferred the company of men, the poet suffered brief flush of scarlet, perceptible but short, broke the fairness of his flesh in his dimpled cheeks and neck – he didn’t deny having a fondness for both sexes, but neither did he exactly advertise it. At any rate, his Irish luck was certainly more successful with the ladies, while the peculiarly Irish sense of tragedy dogged him in any relationship with a man.

“Lady Cambray is not the only one who is pretty and witty among our company,” he chimed in at the end, winking at Anne-Elisabeth. “As Lord Langdon denounced me, I could swear I felt his eyes meanwhile scrutinize every inch of me, as he sought to separate me from that Wellesley girl. It all makes sense now!” When the lady then added her trademark limerick, the poet rolled his eyes in jest, and at the end quipped, “My lady, if the spirit of the limerick possesses you so much that you can’t , I may demand an exorcism. For your own good, to be sure…”

[Charles Audley]

Charles was appallingly late, he knew. There were reasons for that — the invitation, like most of his correspondence, had fallen to the side while he had been bedbound, and only been rediscovered after dinner, and frankly Charles had very little interest in raising a drink to Alexander Merriweather. On the other hand, an evening with merry company was extraordinarily tempting, and he had never turned down an excuse for excess.

And to be entirely fair to Alexander Merriweather, he killed Alexander Merriweather, which is inarguably a deed that deserves commemoration. 

Still, whether or not he had reasons, Charles was late, and that rankled.

Fortunately, though, as he doffed his hat and finally joined the others, he was in time to catch the mockery of Langdon, and, better yet, join in.

"I had always thought it was horses Langdon favoured in that respect," he opined drily by way of announcing his presence. "Their wit and intellect are more his match."

He swept an elaborate bow to the company at large.

"I must beg your indulgence for my tardiness, friends. I have been ill, and the invitation was mislaid in the resulting accumulation of correspondence."

[Francis Kirke]

Francis snickered at O'Neill's words, of trying to get him to write for the theater. The activity was a pinnacle amongst many of the court's wits, including Buckingham and many of their current company.

 

"Perhaps I will try my hand at it, but it will be difficult in my current household to become even the best in the house at it, let alone good enough for an actual performance. Cryptocisms or no."

 

Rochester then took to the stage and put forth a case...

 

For Langdon to be a sodomite.

 

He blinked. Wouldn't that be rich? Why could it not be true? Not that he particularly cared what excited someone. Sex was sex. 

 

And he could not be sensitive about that considering the rumors about his own grandfather.

 

It was then that Audley made his entrance, right when Francis had raised his own flask to his lips, so his mouth was full when Audley announced he had always thought the Lifeguard fond of horses.

 

He could not help it, he could not hold back the laugh, and it made liquor shoot up the back of his nose and burn devilishly. He choked and laughed, and sputtered.

[Blackguard]

Rochester looked pleased that each of the others embraced his slander of Langdon. Though he insulted Sedley's daughter, he knew that his friend would appreciate the castigation of the man that would not make Catherine an honest woman, not that a marriage could do so in her case.  She had made her bed with York and would reap what she sowed.

Now that O'Neill and Audley were present, Johnny felt that the Gang would have a more splendid evening.  "Shall we all attend the masque dressed as soldiers and see if Langdon is attracted to us," he tittered.   

"I think you should take Chatham's advice and dress as a horse's ass," Dorset suggested.  "You would be in true form and Langdon might prefer you."  Sedley laughed as he enjoyed the jibe, Rochester less so.

Dorset enjoyed the Irishman's attack upon limericks, though he had to agree with his female counterpart.  "You should create one at will O'Neill, they are tasty morsels of wit. "  He had one for Langdon as well, but he withheld, waited to see if there was a taste for it.  "They become all the more enjoyable and challenging the more drunk you are," he assured.  Looking at Kingston, he suggested "perhaps a crypticism limerick about an unnamed person and we would have to guess the identity?  Perhaps more drink first," he announced as he sought to refill his glass.

"Chatham," Sedley queried, "what did you spend your winnings on from last season?"  By that he meant the prize of the wager won in the King's presence, at a loss to Dorset.

 

[Anne-Elisabeth Devereux]

Anne-Elisabeth wasn't surprised that Lord Chatham had been invited to the memorial.  His opening remark added even more humorous speculation as to who … or what … Lord Langdon was attracted to. “I consider myself lucky then. If he prefers men and horses, he certainly won’t be interested in me.” She could have said the same thing in a limerick, but she decided to spare Master O’Neil ‘s sensitive ears.

 

His suggestion that limericks be exorcised out of her brought laughter to her lips. She figured that Rochester would agree and use the idea to insult her, but he was probably too drunk to recognize the opportunity. “Exorcisms are unpredictable,” she said. “What if, instead of the desired effect, a limerick emerges whenever I speak?”

 

Dorset encouraged Master O’Neill to try creating one himself. “Yes, you should,” she agreed. “Everyone should try everything at least once.”

 

She held out her glass to Dorset for a refill. Anne-Elisabeth knew she needed to be careful about how much she drank. She certainly didn’t want to become so inebriated that she woke up in bed with Rochester! Not that she thought Dorset would allow that to happen, unless he got so drunk he passed out.

 

Her gaze turned to Lord Chatham when Sedley asked about his winnings. She had no idea what that was all about, but, as always, she was quite curious.

[Douglas FitzJames]

Douglas had been annoyed - no, he'd been positively ropeable - when he was sent North at speed shortly after discovering what he was certain was the murder of a member of court. He hadn't been able to convince the constable that it had been murder - the man clearly wanted things neat and tidy and suicide was a neat explanation - but the Life Guard wasn't so easily convinced by the half-arsed attempt to make it look like Merriweather had taken his own life. He had no love for the man of course, quite the opposite, but that wasn't the point. The King and his court were in Windsor, and if someone could top Merriweather and make it look like suicide, what was to stop them going after a more influential courtier? What was to stop them going after Fiona?

He knew, he just knew, that whatever the man had been killed for had been achieved, and the trail would have been covered. He couldn't refuse the King's orders of course, but he'd seethed all the way to Scotland. The boat hadn't helped. Now Douglas was back and as soon as he felt he was on firm footing again he'd headed over to the late Merriweather's house to see what he might yet be able to find out. 

Except that he clearly wasn't the only one there. The place was lit and there were voices within. A memory tugged and vague recollection of some mention in passing of the man's wake waved in the back of his mind. Oh well. He'd crashed the man's death scene, why not crash his wake as well? Nothing for it but to enter like he had every right to be there and follow the noise. And there they were; the rest of the Merry Gang, the lady he'd seen with them, O'Niell, the fellow who'd been in the curio shop... and Kingston. The latter was unexpected, but perhaps oddly fortunate.

"Weel here's a pretty den o' sin
Tae puir the auld lad's whiskey in."* 

The towering Scotsman quipped as he appeared in the doorway, a figure of shadows and high cheekbones in the candlelight, dark crimson and the odd gleam of metal. 

Subtitles
* "Well here's a pretty den of sin
To pour the old lad's whisky in."

Edited April 12 by Douglas FitzJames
Spelling

[Francis Kirke]

(BUMP - James said that we can skip him  this round and he will catch up)

[Charles Audley]

There were times when Serendipity and the Gods of Comedy smiled on one, and allowed a mere accident of timing to elevate a fairly average jest above itself.

Watching Kingston simultaneously laugh and attempt to avoid noisily choking to death, Charles admitted to himself that this was one of those times. It was an effort to restrain his own laughter at the sight, if he was honest, but he managed to keep himself to a chuckle as he crossed the room to pour himself a generous measure of brandy.

Another thing to be said for Alexander Merriweather: he kept a very good cellar.

The talk of limericks seemed almost a challenge to Charles, even if it was not one directed at him directly. He felt a very rare flash of poetic inspiration strike. (Helped, no doubt, by the fact that he had of late been giving some small thought to lampooning Langdon. Hard work could substitute for genius, given a three day headstart.)

"With apologies to Master O'Neill, and further apologies to those of our august company with actual skill in the art form..." Charles inclined his head to Dorset and Anne-Elisabeth, and then struck the pose of a classical orator as he declaimed.

"There once was an Earl from Cornwall

in grace and wit rather small.

For women unable,

he made a brothel of the stable,

as fillies held him in thrall."

He took a generous sip of his brandy as he finished and leaned back against the drinks' table to consider Sedley's question.

"Useless fripperies mostly," he admitted cheerfully, shrugging easily, "though I did purchase a most magnificent hat."

Charles would quite readily have described that hat and its magnificence at length, but it was then that Dundarg made his entrance, and he instead arched an eyebrow at the Lifeguard.

"There is a distinct paucity of whiskey, I'm afraid, but the 'old lad' did leave behind some excellent brandy," he said, smiling thinly.

[Francis Kirke]

Francis finally regained his breath, somewhat, and sought to put more drink in his glass to help with the condition as Dorset suggested another drink. What drinking more was going to do that would dislodge fluid from his lungs or his nose, he had no idea. Having a drink whenever one was coughing just seemed the thing to do.

 

"Yes, crypticism limericks, a new fad," Francis agreed, trying to grin through the odd burn in his nose from the liquor drops that had invaded his sinuses.

 

"Bah, Chatham, you are too modest." He chuckled at the accusation, not noting the irony of calling someone modest when he himself was rather known for the trait. "Fillies, indeed, but by comparison I do not think Lightening Langdon has a royal-sized scepter, so he could not ever compare to actual studs."

 

Francis was not as practiced in limericks, but he was good with other plays on words. 

 

"Ah, Dundarg," he said, in greeting. "I did not think the Scots drank anything other than whiskey, and if one thing can be said about Merriweather, it was that his refinement did not allow for a stockpile of whiskey! We might find a good cognac before that."

 

 

[Blackguard]

The night was getting darker, as was the humor.  As the number of participants grew, so too did the comedy.

"Bravo," Dorset congratulated Chatham as he refilled Anne's glass.  "Everyone has a limerick burning inside them, and it is a damn fine one."  He was still awaiting his cousin to venture in that regard, but he seemed to be recovering from a spate of laughter. "O'Neill, tis your demon to exorcize. You must let a limerick be free of your soul," he insisted.

"Must have been a truly magnificent hat," Sedley observed in response to Chatham's accounting of funds spent.  "I should like to see it."

Rochester had been abnormally quiet, though standing on his chair still, at least until Douglas arrived uninvited.  "And who the fuck are you?" he challenged the tall Scottish soldier.  He could not recall ever meeting the man.

"A captain in the Life Guard," Sedley replied.  "Dundarg is it?  He arrived at the scene of Alexander's hanging as did I.  He challenged the servants and constable, claiming our departed toady was murdered."

Rochester sighed dramatically.  "Dungdar is it?" purposely transposing his title.  "First we are cursed with an Irishman," he looked fondly at James, "and now a Scot?  Are we to expect a bloody Turk next, or does Kingston count as that?"

[James O`Neill]

Soon, they were joined by Chatham and Dundarg, acquaintances James had made only recently and already resolved to befriend - the former had a roguish yet erudite charm, and the latter had a surprising depth of wit for a military man, to say nothing of his assistance in wooing a certain lady. He was glad of the new company accordingly, and as an extrovert, felt even more energized than before.

Ah, but he was in his element, here - heart soaring, mind racing, laughter on his full lips. Nodding at the newcomers as they entered, the young Irishman couldn’t help but laugh even more as Dorset and Lady Cambray challenged him to make a limerick of his own, Chatham meanwhile offering one of his own. James sighed dramatically (achieving plausibility here was not a difficult feat, given the his natural aptitude for melodrama), and mockingly grumbled in the lady’s direction. “An exorcism indeed…I fear, my lady, that if a limerick were to emerge, it would be a sign that you were possessed.”

“I’d offer a crypticism of my own, I would,” he began, flashing a dimpled smile. “But it seems we’re in need of some old-fashioned Irish piety, something to save you godless lot…” He raised his glass by the stem, turning to Rochester and eyeing it for a second. “But first, some holy water.” With a grin, the poet drained its contents and cleared his throat, crossing himself after setting the glass down.

“There ‘tis a great demon named Limerick,

Whose crime makes a good poet heartsick.

For the meter is hazy,

And the rhyme’s ever lazy,

And poor poesy’s a sin quite Satanic.”

“And so I beseech,” James concluded, aping the mannerisms and tone of a priest, “Deliver us, Lord, from the left hand of Lucifer - the Moloch I deem bad poetry.” Moving to refill his glass, he stood by Rochester, adding, “I should think that at the right hand of the Morningstar is whichever beast spawned our friend Lightning Langdon. Certainly, boorishness is one of the few sins I cannot think of a justification for, and even the Turk would be less blasphemous.”

Edited April 17 by James O`Neill

[Anne-Elisabeth Devereux]

Anne-Elisabeth had not known that Lord Chatham was a poet. She would have clapped if she had not been holding a glass that was currently being refilled. “Magnificent!” she exclaimed instead.

 

Lord Kingston’s comment about Langdon and fillies inspired another one of her own.

 

“I heard from a very good source

That Langdon has sex with a horse.

But his minuscule willy

Can’t attract any filly

So he prefers stallions, of course.”

 

Master O’Neill claimed that she would be possessed if she spouted limericks every time she opened her mouth. She grinned mischievously. “The only exorcism needed is to coax a limerick out of you. You're an Irishman, after all.”

 

And then he did it. He recited the form of poetry he loathed. It insulted limericks themselves but at least he had made the effort. “I knew you could do it. If there was an Order of the Limerick, you would now be a member.”  She looked up at Dorset.  "Perhaps we should create one?"

 

A new poet entered the fray, but not with a limerick. Anne-Elisabeth remembered seeing him at the carnival yesterday. Rochester was rude to him, but Sedley explained that he had been there when Merriweather’s body had been discovered.

 

Rochester’s insults were not directed at her, despite the fact that she was a Barbadian and a woman. Perhaps that was a good sign.

Edited April 17 by Anne-Elisabeth Devereux

[Douglas FitzJames]

He seemed to have walked into the middle of a limerick contest, with an interesting side dig at Langdon from O'Niell, and then the young lady. Clearly he wasn't the only one with little love for the man. Interesting. 

Chatham, that was the one eyed man's name. The same from the circus incident. That hadn't turned out well, and Douglas felt rather chagrined about it, but there was no point in dwelling on it. As the man declared that there was brandy available rather than whiskey, the tall Life Guard made a show of giving this some serious consideration. "Aye, that scans." He allowed. "As daes cognac." He added with a nod in Kingston's direction, chuckling as the man said he thought Scots drank only whiskey. "Weel, needs must."* He shrugged. 

Dorset he recognised, unfortunately. He was the one who had dobbed a trysting Douglas and Heather in to the King way back at Newmarket for no good reason than to cause trouble; once day an opportunity would arise, Douglas promised. Interesting that he seemed awfully close to the young lady; something worth noting. Sedley he'd met a few days ago that unfortunate Saturday morning that had led to all this. Which narrowed things down considerably regarding the identity of the man on the chair. The language added weight to his suspicions as to who it might be. Douglas nodded as Sedley hesitantly introduced him, recalling the nature of their meeting, and tipped his hat at the tipsy and in danger of tipping Rochester, as the other deliberately insulted him. 

"Weel, Crotch-fester, I hear yer an expert on aw thin's depraved, sae I thocht I wuid cam straight tae the source."** He drawled. 

Subtitles
* "Yes, that scans. As does cognac. Well, needs must."
** "Well, Crotch-fester, I hear you're an expert on all things depraced, so I thought I would come straight to the source."

 

[Charles Audley]

It was, despite the ostensible reason for the gathering, shaping up to be the very best sort of evening: good company, good drink and good wordplay. Charles laughed heartily at Kingston's play off his own limerick (which had been rather better received than he had expected — he knew well that he was no poet, and that limerick had been the result of a rare flash of inspiration, for which he should probably thank the Muses) and inclined his head in acknowledgement.

"It is rather pleasingly novel to be accused of modesty, though poetry is a field where I usually have a great deal to be modest about." he observed lightly, still chuckling.

It was pleasing, too, to have Dorset and Lady Cambray offer praise. Charles had a robust ego in most things, and generally felt no need of compliments to buttress it, but poetry was one of very few areas where he felt his talents lacking. 

"I shall accept the compliments, but would note that even the unskilled can be lucky on occasion," he said, demurring the congratulations. "I would claim beginner's luck, but reams of wasted paper and an ocean of ink spent in vain bely any claim I might make to being a novice, as opposed to merely possessing the skills of one."

Anne-Elisabeth was certainly no novice, and Charles let out a great peal of laughter at her (vastly superior) variation on what seemed to have become the theme for the evening's poetic compositions.

"He fought a tiger with me, and so I should be kinder to Langdon, and enjoin the rest of you to be likewise, but he does make himself so damnably easy to mock," he said ruefully. That was true, and Charles privately resolved to abandon his plans to lampoon the man. Boorish prig that he was, Langdon had nonetheless earned that much.

I have not yet really even begun, and am still left with Ogle and Albemarle, in any case.

Whatever his distaste for limericks, O'Neill, too, was by no means lacking in either poetic skill or presentation and Charles applauded the Irishman's (also vastly superior) offering.

"It is strangely appropriate that, of all my sins, my hazy metre should be the one that damns me," he mused, solitary eye glinting merrily. "It is, after all, the only one for which I feel the slightest guilt. Ah well, for the sake of my soul, and the ears of the innocent, I shall practice Abstinence, if only in this regard alone."

He laughed and raised his glass in salute.

Of course, it was a sad truth of the world that nothing could be perfect, and that truth manifested in the arrival of Dundarg. Charles smiled thinly at the Scot. The Life Guard was an oaf, and an even greater boor than Langdon, but he was not worth sustained, consistent malice. Dundarg could make himself look a prick without any help at all, Charles suspected, and so the trick was simply to be, and be seen to be, the better man.

Not that that should present any particular challenge.

"Brandy or cognac, then?" he asked with careful politeness from his position by the drinks, and then frowned slightly as Sedley revealed the likely reason behind the Life Guard's presence. On the face of it, murder did seem a much more likely cause of death for Merriweather than suicide — had not his own first reaction to the news been to simply think that Merriweather had saved him a job of work in the future?

"Oh? What made you suspect murder, Dundarg?" he asked, both to satisfy his own curiosity and to distract from the frankly boring and childish exchange of puerile insults between the Scotsman and Rochester.

[Francis Kirke]

Francis laughed as James kept his crypticisms rolling, and then Anne-Elizabeth built on his comments on Lord Langdon. He clapped heartily at the merriment and took another deep fill of his drink.

 

He had only just swallowed, thankfully, with Dungdar and Crotchfester were both put forth as dueling monikers, so he laughed without any burn going up his nose or choking on himself.

 

In this company, one had to be careful about when raising a glass to drink!

[Blackguard]

Though outwardly annoyed, Johnny enjoyed the attention.  "I should stand on the chair more often," he proclaimed, as if he was responsible for all the gaiety in the room.  Even Chatham and Annie joined in on the comedy with limericks.

O'Neill did a fine job in riposting Dorset's fascination with limericks.  "You mentioned the left hand of Lucifer, the Moloch, and then this Scot arrives," Rochester noted aloud.  "Dressed in Hell's own crimson no less."  As Douglas thought to insult him back, Rochester feigned insult, though felt no challenge from a soldier who could barely speak the King's English.  "Yes, our visitor from the North.  This is the center of depravity.  No wonder you were drawn here like a moth to candle." 

"Alexander's wrists showed rope burns, like they were tied behind his back," Sedley offered to help Dundarg answer Chatham's question.  "But the servants said he often tied his wrists for other purposes."  These same servants were likely listening to the conversation.  "But, he preferred to tie others, if I have my depravity correct."

"To find a murderer," Rochester offered from his unsteady perch upon the chair, "you must find the one with the motive.  That is why this will never be solved.  Everyone had a motive.  Ballocks in the belfry, if you sold tickets to the man's murder, Cumberland could have funded the bloody navy."

[Anne-Elisabeth Devereux]

Dorset said nothing when she suggested that they should create the Order of the Limerick. Anne-Elisabeth had expected that the Merry Gang would be all for it, even if it was just another excuse to drink themselves under the table. Or maybe they already were a limerick society, since they frequently spouted that form of poetry.

 

She laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink when Dundarg called Rochester ‘Crotchfester.’ “What an appropriate nickname,” she said, smiling sweetly at the lord in question.  Why did she feel compelled to insult him when his derision was elsewhere for once? Could it be that she missed the teasing goading they usually exchanged?

 

“I was in the stands when the two of you fought the tiger yesterday,” Anne-Elisabeth told Chatham. “I suppose Langdon redeemed himself a bit and I will thank him if I see him, but one can be brave and still be a prick.” She could have said that in a limerick, but she had already recited three and another might have been overkill. There would be more poetic opportunities before the end of the evening.

 

Her eyes widened at the news that Merriweather had been murdered and she listened to the conversation with interest. Of course a degenerate like him would have more than his share of enemies. Maybe the culprit had been the father or one of the ladies he had debauched. Or even the lady herself. Anne-Elisabeth would have had no qualms about killing a man who had ruined her forever.  Well, she wouldn't do it with her own hands, but she would charm somebody into doing it for her.

 

“Is it even possible to tie your own wrists behind your back? Crotch … I mean, Rochester … perhaps you should demonstrate? After kissing your own arse at the New Years ball, this should be child’s play.”

[Douglas FitzJames]

Dundarg enjoyed the laughter that followed his spar with Rochester; perhaps he should hang out with the Merry Gang more often. "Cognac thain, if ye weel."* He replied with a nod to Chatham. If the one-eyed man had recovered from his temper tantrum at the circus and resolved to be civil, then the Scot would do the same. He had not come here looking for a fight; at least, not with the Merry Gang. Chatham might even be able to help with this little mystery, since he claimed to know a thing or two about killing people, and Douglas would take all the help he could get. Certainly the man's question suggested his curiosity was piqued, as he enquired what made Douglas think Merriweather was murdered.

The big Highlander bowed as Rochester called him the Moloch in Hell's own crimson, even as Sedley related that the recently deceased's wrists had been tied such that he'd had burn marks from the rope, where he apparently preferred to tie others. "Aye, an' t'wuid seem awfu' hard tae tie yer ain wrists, hang yersel, then untie thaim efterwards." He pointed out. "The groom was the ain tae cut him doon, an' said he ainly cut the noose." He recalled. That did rely on the assumption that the groom was telling the truth. "On the gibbet ye tie a man's hands ahint him tae stop him interferin' wi' his fate."** And it looked to Douglas as though someone had done the same to Merriweather. 

The Scot shook his head slightly when Rochester insisted that the crime would never be solved because there were too many who wanted Merriweather dead. "Nae laddie, thair mae be plenty wha wuid cheer at his funeral, but far fewer wha wuid do the deed." He opined. "A nobleman wronged wuid call him tae a duel." He said with a nod of acknowledgement in Chatham's direction, since the man had made much of killing face to face, at close quarters. It was a good point. There was no honour in a murder, and nobility wanted to see honour avenged; people had to know. "A merchantman wronged is more likely tae seek compensation." Who knew how many young women Merriweather had deflowered; quite a lot if the gossip was true. "A lairdy micht wish it dane quiet, but if sae she paid a man whit kent his business."*** Whoever had killed Merriweather had been no amateur. They'd known how to make it look like a suicide.

"Rather thain speirin' wha haes cause, we shuid speir wha stands tae gain." He suggested. Who would benefit from Merriweather's death. "Whaur's the money?" He asked. Douglas had had time to think about the situation on the boat to and from Scotland, and this was the train of thought he'd worked through himself, that he was now laying before the Merry Gang. Perhaps of all of court they might be best placed to help him; partly because they knew Alexander Merriweather better than anyone else, and partly because they knew people. They had the kind of minds that understood what made people tick, even if they mostly used that ability for pushing people's buttons. "Whaur did Merriweather get his money?"+ Douglas asked. It was something that he'd been puzzling over and not easily been able to find out. 

He'd heard the sole lady present tell Chatham that she'd been in the stands when he and Langdon had fought the tiger. Tiger, so that's what it was called. Douglas fought a wince, but couldn't help but note her comment regarding Langdon. "Who's Langdon dane noo?" He asked her. "Tisnae bein' a prick sae much as haein' ane that is usually his problem."++ He observed. 

Subtitles
* "Cognac then, if you will."
** "Yes, and it would seem awfully hard to tie your own wrists, hang yourself, then untie them afterwards. The groom was the one to cut him down, and said he only cut the noose. On the gibbet ye tie a man's hands behind him to stop him interfering with his fate."
*** "No man, there may be plenty who would cheer at his funeral, but far fewer who would do the deed. A nobleman wronged would call him to a duel. A merchantman wronged is more likely to seek compensation. A lady might wish it done quietly, but if so she paid a man who knew his business."
+ "Rather than asking who has cause, we should ask who stands to gain. Where's the money. Where did Merriweather get his money?"
++ "Who's Langdon done now? It's not being a prick so much as having one that is usually his problem."

[Charles Audley]

Charles nodded and poured Dundarg a generous measure of cognac, listening carefully. Belligerently ignorant and ignorantly belligerent though the Scot doubtless was, he might have well have stumbled on something here. Ligature marks certainly seemed convincing to Charles.

"I don't suppose you happened to notice the state of the corpse's fingernails?" he asked curiously as he handed the cognac to Dundarg, turning his head to include Sedley in the question. "If they were unbroken then his hands were unquestionably bound at the time of death — I do not care how steady your nerve, or how committed to the idea of suicide you are, if your hands are free, they are going to pry at that noose, and violently."

Cato the Younger might perhaps manage to keep his hands by his side, but Alexander Merriweather? Never.

"The question that bothers me," he continued, "is why bother to make it look like a suicide at all? The killer is evidently capable of entering and leaving the house without being observed, or at least of compelling the servants not to speak of their presence, and as Rochester says there is no end to those with motive to dispose of Merriweather. Absent any witnesses to the act, and assuming the killer can keep their mouth shut, there really is no reason to fear being caught after the fact. Indeed, all trying to cover up the murder accomplishes is to complicate matters, and make it more likely that you are found at the scene. It is... unnecessary, and even risky, and that does not tally with a killer who seems otherwise competent."

He frowned in thought, sipping at his own drink. This was an interesting puzzle now, and one he was sufficiently emotionally removed from to enjoy as an intellectual challenge.

"Perhaps," he said slowly, "there is some benefit to the killer in having the death ruled a suicide, other than obfuscating the murder. Potentially money, as you say Dundarg, but also possibly there is blackmail that Merriweather held, and had arranged to have released in the event of his murder."

He was shaking his head even as he spoke.

"No, the instruction would have been to publish on his death, not just his murder, surely," he murmured, and cocked his head as another thought struck him.

"A gentleman who wanted Merriweather dead might well not challenge him, actually. It would be as good as announcing that the man had assailed your sister, daughter or wife. If you wanted to protect them from further scandal, and yet still avenge them, then you could well decide that murder was the solution. And you might fear that an investigation into that murder could reveal that which you would rather keep hidden, and so you might stage that murder as a suicide, despite the risk."

Charles shrugged. "In which case, I would warrant that our killer is related to one of Merriweather's more recent victims, for otherwise there would be no need to fear that any investigation would turn up anything. Where did he spend recess, do we know?"

[Blackguard]

OOC~ Skipping Francis and James for now.

Anne laid into Rochester with gusto.  Ordinarily, venom would quickly rebound, but the earl upon the chair made a surprised smile.  Perhaps he was pleased that she was no shrinking violet.  "Annie, if you are so interested in my crotch, I will show it to you later."

As for Douglas, Rochester was less kind.  "Either take the marbles out of your mouth when you speak, or learn the King's English with proper diction." He made a face as if he was taking damage listening to the Scot speak.

Sedley spoke to try and keep to the topic of murder as opposed to fanning the flames of belligerent banter.   "Alexander made his money in international financial transactions.  If his money were proper, he would have used it to bribe Lords to get a title or to purchase some grand estate.  Rather, he was a man who preferred the shadows.  He only came to court when we did.  He never came alone.  We know he was a sick and perverted man in his tastes, and I believe his business dealings were suspect.  I am not talking about common day smuggling. No, he had the grandest art and jewelry collection that anyone could want. He showed it to me one evening.  I have no doubt that there were plenty of stolen items and forgeries, but enough was legitimate that he did not draw the law upon him, getting their attention for other reasons. The only one that did business with him was the Earl of Avon, who is not at court this season.  I have not seen him in a year.  He has a younger sister that has attended court.  I do hope she never was alone with Alexander.  Avon would kill him surely," Sedley related.

"But, would he arrange a suicide as opposed to just killing him outright?" Dorset mused aloud.  "He would have gotten Pembroke drunk and alone with Merriweather," Sackville added with dark humor about his hated enemy.  Pembroke would kill Merriweather certainly, but would impale him and leave the body for the crows.  "Avon is a good guess," he admitted.  As for where Alexander was in the prior recess, Dorset knew.  "He told me he was on the Continent conducting business.  He only arrived back in England recently and came to Windsor early."

"Whoever did it, had the help or the silence of the servants," Johnny declared, not caring if they could hear him.  "One or all of them know the truth."  He rolled his eyes at the obviousness of his observation.  Rochester was always certain in his own conclusions.

Sedley spoke up again.  "They claim to have come upon his body in the morning, as I recall.  I did not look at his fingernails.  I did wonder how a man could hang himself without some second thought.  The manservant said that Alexander tied his wrists in past sexual encounters, which might be correct.  It also might be correct that a man with such a depraved past might take an action before another took it for him.  What if he knew someone was coming for him, someone he could not escape?"

[Anne-Elisabeth Devereux]

“Only in your wildest dreams,” Anne-Elisabeth said to Rochester with a sickeningly sweet smile. The topic of Merriweather’s demise was quite interesting and she listened as the gentlemen discussed it. She felt a bit out of her league, for she knew very little about corruption and murder (other than the desire to shuffle her mother-in-law off the mortal coil).  It seemed that almost everyone at court and every unsavory individual on the street had reason to want him dead.

 

Dorset maligned Pembroke, of course. He had good reason to hate the volatile Earl. “Pembroke would be an excellent tool for any killer. Tell him your victim said something vile about him, and he’ll do your dirty work for you and be blamed for it. Though I agree that his style would be more direct.”

 

It looked as if Merriweather had found himself in trouble he wasn’t able to get out of. Anne-Elisabeth had never even heard of the Earl of Avon.

 

“I don’t think Merriweather killed himself. Not only does it seem impossible to tie your hands behind your back, why go to the trouble of hanging yourself when shooting yourself in the head is quick and painless? He must have had at least one pistol, maybe even an entire collection of them.”

 

Anne-Elisabeth tapped her chin, thinking. “Is his art and jewelry collection here or did he keep it somewhere else? Maybe something is missing that could give us a clue.”

[Douglas FitzJames]

Rochester was still making an arse of himself on the chair, and called out Douglas's accent like it was something new. "Fuck off awa'; at leas' my dick hasnae rotted off."* He snapped, more interested in the discussion about the murder than the man's antics. 

"I didnae notice onythin' odd aboot his fingernails whin I examined his hands." Douglas replied to Chatham's query. True he hadn't examined them minutely, but if there had been blood or torn skin beneath them - from clawing at his killer - surely he would have noticed. As Chatham noted, it gave weight to the idea that his hands were bound whilst he died. "An' he strangled, his neck didnae break."** So he would have had plenty of time to reconsider and claw at the rope, had he wished to. 

Chatham made a very good point. Why make it look like suicide instead of murder? There were enough people who would want Merriweather dead, so you'd only do it if you had something to gain from his death not being investigated; or something to lose from it being so. "Wishin' tae avenge a lairdy wi'oot awbody kennin' is a reason." He agreed, with a tip of his glass to Chatham. "Wha else haes ocht tae lose frae the murder bein' investigated?" He asked the room in general. "An heir?" He suggested. Dundarg had never heard of Merriweather having any children. "Er a business associate."*** He added, as Sedley explained that much of Merriweather's business had been in the shadows, as it were. 

Could have got Pembroke drunk and left him with him... there was a thought that tucked itself away in the back of Douglas's mind. Dorset had already suffered a beating at Pembroke's hands. But Avon... now there was perhaps a line of enquiry. "Avon wuid be worth speakin' wi'." He acknowledged the point, though what he was about to say was cut short by Rochester's newest proclamation. And for once the man said something useful. Douglas had questioned on the day how a killer might get in and out without anyone knowing. "Aye, if thair was a killer, an' he didnae preemt some Sword o' Damocles," he said with a nod to Sedley, "thain abody must hae kent." He agreed. "Thair was the hoosekeeper, the groom... an' Constable Higgins, wha was awfu' keen tae declare the deeth a suicide." He said, meeting Sedley's gaze, recalling how the constable had completely ignored the evidence Douglas had presented. "He cuid hae been paid off."+ And therefor worth questioning. As the Lord Lieutenant of Berkshire, Prince Rupert might well be interested to know that as well. 

"An' thair was Merriweather's man Gregory, wha' arrived whilk we were thair, hae'in' been sent tae London fer... somethin'." Or so he said. He glanced again at Sedley. He'd had to leave around then, had the other man found out what the manservant had couriered. "The Festerin' Crotch haes a point. Whaur er the servants?"++ He asked. Surely someone was serving the food. 

Subtitles
* "Fuck off away; at least my dick hasn't rotted off."
** "I didn't notice anything odd about his fingernails when I examined his hands. And he was strangled, his neck didn't break."
*** "Wishing to avenge a lady without anybody knowing is a reason. Who else has something to lose from the murder being investigated? An heir? Or a business associate?"
+ "Avon would be worth speaking with. Yes, if there was a killer, and he didn't pre-empt some Sword of Damocles, then somebody must have known. There was the housekeeper, the groom... and Constable Higgins, who was awfully keen to declare the death a suicide. He could have been paid off."
++" And there was Merriweather's man Gregory, who arrived whilst we were there, having been sent to London for... something. The Festering Crotch has a point; where are the servants?"

[Charles Audley]

Charles took a contemplative sip of his brandy, thinking. It seemed broadly conclusive to him, but he was very aware that he wanted it to be murder, because then it would be an interesting puzzle, and so instinctively distrusted his own conclusion on the matter.

"It could be useful if we found something missing," he agreed with Anne-Elisabeth, "but to identify something missing we would first need to know what should be there, and we would need an inventory for that."

He shook himself and straightened.

"That aside, are we all broadly in agreement, then, that it was murder, or at least deeply suspicious? No one wishes to make a case for simple suicide?" he asked, glancing around the room.

He nodded along as Dundarg took up the thread of questioning why the death had been made to look a suicide. The Life Guard had at least the beginnings of a mind, it seemed, when he bothered to use it.

"If, for whatever reason, one found it necessary to have one's inheritance... expedited, then Merriweather's death would be the obvious solution, and that death being ruled a suicide rather than a murder would simplify things considerably," he mused aloud, and then nodded in acknowledgement to Rochester. "And of course, as their future employer, Merriweather's heir could well have considerable influence with the servants, enough to compel their aid, or at least their silence. Hmm. It occurs to me that, if the servants are complicit, and I am coming to believe that they are, at least to a degree, then Merriweather's lack of struggle might have been due to his being drugged."

He shrugged. "No way of knowing now, of course. But I don't suppose that either of you noticed if there were any glasses, cups or plates about when you found the body?" he asked Dundarg and Sedley.

There was another thought taking shape in his mind as he spoke, born from this mention of shady money and time spent abroad, but he did not wish to mention in front of the company at large. He would tell Dundarg privately, later, after he was done testing it in his thoughts.

He was brought out of his musings by the tail end of the Scot's own theorising. He looked up.

"The Sheriff could simply have wanted to avoid the scandal of a murder while court is at Windsor, he need not necessarily have been bribed," he said slowly, "but you mentioned a housekeeper, a groom, and a valet? Only those three? Merriweather did not keep a bodyguard or a coachman or the like? And the valet had been sent to London for something..."

He shook his head.

"They have had time to concoct a story together, unfortunately, but if we want to do this properly then the servants should be questioned, and separately."

[Francis Kirke]

Francis listened to all the theories about Merriweather, drinking his drink and allowing his eyes to travel from one speaker to the next.

 

Should he feel badly that he cared not one jot how the arsehole had kicked it? Francis had thought plenty of times about doing Merriweather in himself. He would have challenged him to a duel if he trusted that the man's behemoth of a servant that guarded him constantly wouldn't have murdered Francis himself afore swords could cross. Merriweather, he doubted, could have wielded a sword against him for even two minutes. In the end, it would not have been worth the King's ire for murdering someone, even if "murder" in such a case was an unlawful duel.

 

"Shall we not be honest, the man had gotten on the wrong side of numerous courtiers. Even my cousin the duke hates him for his treatment of Lady Gwendolyn. At least ten percent of court would have loved to kill him. If it weren't for his coin not even you lot would have tolerated him. He had no wit, no intellectual skill in the very least, offended even the libertine, and from what it sounds like was an insurmountable thief." Perhaps Francis was just a little bit drunk at this point. "Perhaps even his giant lug of a bodyguard had enough of him and concocted this charade to make off with a lion's fortune. He would have been tall enough and burly enough to master this suicide hanging ordeal. It is not a simple matter to hoist an already dead body that high."

 

There were not many courtiers who could lift such a weigh so high, especially when dead. Anyone who had seen battle and knew a thing or two about dead bodies would know hold one up to put a noose around it or hoisting it up by the noose (which surely would have broken the neck) would not have been a simple feat for one man. 

[Blackguard]

"His collection is in London," Sedley responded to Anne.  "I would hardly be the one to note if something is missing. Only his servants would know," he added, further emphasizing the importance of the servants.  "He has a bodyguard, a man mountain, though he was likely left to guard the valuables in London.  Alexander likely felt safe here, surrounded by so many soldiers and witnesses."

"Foolishly so," Rochester observed.

Dorset added "Gregory is the manservant that travels with him.  There is another in London.  He keeps most of his entourage there."

Sedley continued "I saw no plates or cups nearby.  I saw no struggle in the fingers, I suppose.  I think Higgins wants no trouble in Windsor."  In that he agreed with Chatham.  "The same for the suicide, instead of murder," said the playwright now turning detective.  "Fewer questions asked with a suicide.  Quicker burial with less scrutiny.  If there was a murder, it was done to be ignored," he concluded aloud.  "His heir is his niece.  She is confined to an abbey, either voluntarily or not.  She was not involved.  A rival or someone that owed him something might stand to benefit," he speculated.

"Or the servants were stealing from him and were caught," Rochester weighed in, sticking to his hypothesis.  Getting tired balancing his weight, Johnny stepped down from the chair.

Dorset picked up on Kingston's thought.  "What if he was killed and then put in a noose?  That would make some sense, or hoisted."  He also nodded at the theory that Merriweather could have been drugged first.  Taking another swig, he added "or the prick could have actually done himself in, but why in Windsor?  Avon is a suspect to my mind."

Chatham asked where the servants were.  Johnny laughed "they are listening and wetting themselves right now.  Shall we invite them out one by one now?  It could be amusing."  Amusement is what Rochester lived for.

 

[Anne-Elisabeth Devereux]

Oh well, so much for that idea. Anne-Elisabeth had wanted to see the collection. If nothing had been missing, something probably would have been by the time she left. She doubted that she would have been the only one to pocket a piece of jewelry or two. It wasn’t as if Merriweather would care.

 

Lord Kingston’s theory was interesting. She imagined that it would be nearly impossible to get a dead body in a noose unless you were really strong or had several accomplices.

 

“If he was killed first, he might have had another wound, especially if he was stabbed or shot. Was there blood on his body or on the floor? That would also explain why his hands were tied behind his back. Unless he was poisoned. But poison would mean that he was lifted into the noose when deceased. If so, then his hands might have been tied after he was dead to keep them from flailing around. He would be easier to hoist if his ankles were tied too. Were they checked for rope burns?”

 

Anne-Elisabeth took a drink and considered the options. “Was there a chair or box lying on the floor near him? If he did it himself, he probably stood on something. Or he could have been picked up and placed on it. Or forced to stand on it. Maybe the killer threatened to harm his niece."

 

A wry smile turned up the corner of his lips. “The niece could be involved. Never underestimate us women. We’re not all sweet and innocent even if we pretend to be. If I was her, I would be bored to tears in an abbey. If she was confined against her will, she could have wanted him dead so she could be free.  Or perhaps she was fed up with waiting for her uncle to keel over and wanted to enjoy her inheritance before she was old and gray.  Even though she couldn’t have done it herself, she could have hired somebody to murder him for her. She has a perfect alibi, after all.”

 

Edited June 24 by Anne-Elisabeth Devereux

[Douglas FitzJames]

There was further speculation on the manner of Merriweather's death. Could he have been lifted into the noose after being killed? The lady of the room asked about blood or signs of poison, and Douglas shook his head. "Thair wasnae ony blood, nor the smell o't; ainly shit." Not uncommon for those who died. "His een were buggin' oot, sae he strangled." Whether or not that was before or after being put into the hanging noose couldn't be told. "Thair was a chair, knockit o'er."* The big Scotsman was concentrating on his memory of the event, and not on his pronounciation, which was no doubt offending Rochester. 

"The body haed been laid oot on th'table whin we arrived." He replied to Chatham's query. "If thair were cups, they were cleaned awa'." As was the servants job. "We'd be hard pressed tae find whit's missin' noo, wi'oot an inventory, an' whither t'was ta'en by a thief er the servants."** If he'd been able to search that morning, maybe he would have found something, but the trail was colder now, any evidence no doubt tampered with, and that frustrated the big man. But temper would get him nowhere. 

Kingston chose that moment to hold forth on the subject, aided by drink from the sound of things. Douglas's gaze narrowed as he listened; it wasn't an expression of dislike but rather of thought. The man had a point. "Yer speirin' why we shuid care." He acknowledged. "I dinnae gie a fuck aboot Merriweather." Douglas declared bluntly. The man was a waste of skin and wouldn't be missed. "Whit I care aboot is that a courtier was kilt whilk the King an' coort were present." That was what was bugging him. "Abody haes threatened my sister as well." He said, not yet aware of today's attempt on her life. "Whit if the Royal Family were targeted next?"*** That was Douglas's fear. He and Kingston were both King's Men, surely the other man understood his concern. And as one of those guards at Windsor, Douglas took the death of even one like Merriweather as a personal affront. 

"Lets hae the hoosekeeper first."+ He declared, setting his glass down and heading for the door he presumed led to the kitchen. They might as well start with her, since she'd apparently found the body. 

Subtitles
* " There wasn't any blood, not the smell of it, only shit. His eyes were bugging out, so he strangled. There was a chair, knocked over."
** "The body had been laid out on the table when we arrived. If there were any cups they were cleaned away. We'd be hard pressed to find what's missing now, without an inventory, and whether it was taken by a thief or the servants. 
*** "You're asking why we should care. I don't give a fuck about Merriweather. What I care about it that a courtier was killed whilst the King and court were present. Somebody has threatened my sister as well. What if the Royal Family were targeted next?"
+ "Lets have the housekeeper first."

[Charles Audley]

"My interest is purely intellectual, I will admit," Charles said, and shrugged. "Were it not for it being made to look like suicide, I would not care so much. And further to that, it hardly seems sound policy to let a murderer run free."

Even allowing for that, if he did manage to identify the killer, Charles was as like as not to give the responsible party a clap on the back, perhaps ask a few questions, and let them go on their way, but it did not seem politic to say as much in front of Dundarg.

(Unless of course his secret suspicion turned out to be true, in which case the only reason he would not rack the killer himself was that such things were best left to professionals whenever possible.)

"You are correct, it would take a great deal of strength to lift a literal dead weight like that," he agreed with Kingston, "which is why I think that he was somehow coerced into donning the noose himself."

He paused.

"Of course, the body need not have been lifted at all," he said slowly. "He could have been garrotted, and the scene staged afterwards. The body had ostensibly already been cut down when you arrived, yes? You never saw it actually hanging from the noose?" he asked Dundarg and Sedley.

He swirled his brandy in the class, and considered further. It was looking to him increasingly likely that the servants had done it, which was probably the least interesting answer, but Occam's razor cut deep and clean, and it did not care what Charles found interesting.

"Was it... usual, for Merriweather to leave his bodyguard in London? It is my experience that men with bodyguards generally keep them close at all times, and, while I concede that I did not know Merriweather as well as some of you, it was not my impression of his character that he would feel safe and secure enough anywhere to dispense with protection. 'The wicked flee when no man pursueth' after all."

Dundarg seemed in no mood to entertain further theorising, and strode out in search of the housekeeper. Charles followed, on the basis that a more delicate touch to counterbalance the Scot would be useful, but mostly because he was deeply curious.

[Blackguard]

Rochester laughed as Douglas and Chatham were moved into action.  Sedley and Dorset stayed behind to nurse their drinks and await any drama that might unfold.

As the door opened, the two men were met by Gregory, Merriweather's manservant, as opposed to the housekeeper.  "I am afraid that Martha has retired to her bed in the attic." he explained.  "She rises early in the morning.  Perhaps I could be of assistance milords?"

[Anne-Elisabeth Devereux]

Not a thing was said about her theory that Merriweather’s niece might have hired somebody to bump him off. There were probably some disreputable servants at the abbey who would have done it for money. Did they actually believe that women were incapable of murder? If so, there was at least one positive aspect of that theory. Anne-Elisabeth might be able to kill her mother-in-law and get away with it.

 

She, too, stayed behind when Lord Dundarg and Lord Chatham went to interrogate the staff. “They’re going about it the wrong way.” She was still standing next to Dorset. “Intimidation doesn’t usually work well with servants. Bribes do, but then they’re likely to lie in order to get the reward.”

 

The Barbadian Countess shrugged. “I really don’t care who did it, but I do think they need to be caught. If thy had a personal vendetta against Merriweather, they’re unlikely to kill again, but what if this was just a dress rehearsal?”