A Deadly Affection (25 page)

The logical starting place, I supposed, was with Hagan, the Fiskes' recently departed first footman. Perhaps I could locate his room, slip inside, and search for incriminating evidence. My stomach clenched at the mere idea. How would I know which room was his? And what would happen if I was discovered? Glancing down at my bodice, I saw there was now a large wet circle where the small, sticky spots had been. I dabbed at this for a few more minutes with a dry corner of the towel before I gave up with a curse and started back to the ballroom, still undecided what my next move should be.

I was padding down the carpeted stair hall, and had nearly reached the top of the stairs, when I heard a woman on the landing below demand, “What are these?”

I stopped, recognizing Lucille's voice.

“They're cigars, ma'am,” came the quavering reply.

Peering cautiously over the banister, I saw Lucille confronting a cringing maid on the landing, holding up a box of cigars.

“Mr. Fiske does not smoke Belinda cigars,” Lucille spat out. “He smokes El Rey del Mundos.”

“I know, ma'am,” the maid said, “but they didn't have any at the tobacconist.”

“Didn't have any?” Lucille repeated, her voice silky with threat. “Did you tell them who they were for?”

There was a long pause, filled only with the beating of my own heart, before the maid miserably replied, “No, ma'am. I…I didn't think it would make any difference.”

Lucille's free hand shot out and slapped the girl across the face.

I pulled back from the rail, stifling a gasp. I knew I should go before I was discovered, but my fascination with the unfolding household drama temporarily trumped my instinct for self-preservation. I stayed where I was, holding my breath, just out of sight of the pair below.

When Lucille spoke again, her voice was as cold and hard as an iceman's hook. “I want you to go back there this instant and tell the shopkeeper who they're for.”

“But, ma'am,” the maid whimpered, “the shop will be closed—”

I heard a second slap, louder than the first. “Then find the proprietor and wake him up,” Lucille demanded. “Tell him who the cigars are for. I don't care if he has to go to every other tobacconist in town—he will find El Rey del Mundos, and you will not return without them. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, ma'am,” whispered the maid.

I heard the shuffling of feet and then the rhythmic thump of someone climbing the stairs. Horrified that Lucille would see me and realize I'd been eavesdropping, I turned and fled back into the powder room.

I locked the door and let out my breath, deeply disturbed by what I'd seen. I found it shocking that someone as outwardly cultured and beautiful as Lucille could treat a servant so badly. My own mother had never raised a hand in anger toward anyone on our staff. Such behavior was more than a breach of etiquette; it was an abuse of power, a power that, if not self-regulated, would not be regulated at all.

Louisa's words suddenly struck me with new significance: Hagan, she'd said, was one of Mrs. Fiske's favorites. Not Mr. Fiske's, but his wife's. I sank down on the commode, reexamining everything I knew personally or had ever heard about Lucille. By the time I left the powder room, I was wondering if Simon's hypothetical scenario may have featured the wrong Fiske in its leading role.

When I reentered the ballroom a few minutes later, Lucille was seated in one of the large chairs in front of the stage, gazing up in rapt attention at an aerialist in a sequined leotard who tottered across the high-wire over the platform. I watched in amazement as she oohed and aahed along with the crowd, clapping gleefully at each suspenseful dip and recovery. I would never have guessed that she'd just been battering her maid.

The perfection of her attitude after such an unpleasant altercation, and the ease with which she projected it, only added to my suspicions. I started rehashing Simon's suggested scenario, putting Lucille in the murderer's role. We knew that Dr. Hauptfuhrer had met with Lucille in his office on the Friday before the murder, presumably to convey his concern that Olivia might have inherited Huntington's chorea and to insist that the Earl be informed. The doctor had likely contacted Lucille again on Sunday, after Eliza phoned him to say she'd be coming to his office the next day. Lucille would have seen the scimitar on Hauptfuhrer's desk during her office visit; she might have thought of it again on Sunday night while plotting ways to silence him. For after what I'd heard and seen tonight, I had little doubt she'd have wanted to silence him. She had invested too much in Olivia's marriage to let the doctor stand in her way. The decision to kill him would have been easier if she'd known she wouldn't have to bloody her own hands to do it. She could simply recruit her favorite manservant, paying him enough to stay away until the dust cleared or, perhaps, to live out a comfortable retirement in the old country.

The high-wire act ended, followed by a Mozart aria by the opera diva Johanna Gadski. Although Miss Gadski rendered Donna Elvira's pain with moving intensity, it was Lucille's more subtle performance that continued to absorb me as the entertainment progressed. Indeed, I was so engrossed that I jumped when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see Bartie Mattheson standing beside me, holding a plump red rose.

“Hello, beautiful,” he greeted me.

I raised a cautioning finger to my lips, nodding toward the singer.

“Mother said she saw you come in,” he whispered loudly. He handed me the rose. “This is for you.”

I eyed it dubiously. “Where did you get it?” I whispered back. “From the refreshment table?”

“Coat room, actually.” He shrugged. “It wasn't doing anyone any good in there.”

“I'm flattered.”

A jack-o-lantern smile lit up his angular face. “Excellent! Just the effect I was after.”

I smiled too, for what felt the first time in days. After all I'd been through, Bartie's familiar presence was as comforting as a hot bath after a long day's ride. When the entertainment concluded, he gave me his arm and guided me toward the refreshment table.

“So,” I asked him briskly, “what do you think of the event of the season so far?”

He made a sweeping gesture with his free arm. “The ladies are lovely, the champagne is Clicquot, and the entertainment is above par. What more could anyone ask?”

“Spoken like a gentleman,” I said, which of course he was. Indeed, Bartie's only defect, as far as society matrons were concerned, was his uncompromising dread of the altar. He fell in love as often as most men changed handkerchiefs, and fell out of it just as quickly. He got away with this disappointing behavior because, while he lasted, he was a generous and devoted suitor, and when the infatuation was over, he always made it look as though he was the one who'd been turned out.

“Speaking of lovely ladies,” I asked him, “who's the lucky one tonight?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

I had known him too long to be thwarted by his evasive tactics. “The apple of your eye, the target of your affections, the Eve to your Adam, the desire of your loins…”

“All right!” he cried, throwing up his hands. “I get your point.”

“You're not still courting Marjorie Fuller, are you?”

“History, I'm afraid. She couldn't tolerate my taste in neckties.”

I thought it more likely he had discovered her penchant for gratuitous backstabbing but made no comment. We were passing by the front of the stage, where a bevy of young women had gravitated toward the Earl like iron filings to a magnet. “What about Cora Richardson?” I suggested, nodding toward the most striking of the group. “I've always thought you two would make a lovely couple. Why don't you go take her off the Earl's hands?”

“I'd rather stay here with you.”

“That's my gallant Bartie.”

“I quite mean it,” he said, sounding suddenly awkward. “I'd far rather hear the latest on germ research than what they're wearing in Paris.”

I eyed him suspiciously. “You haven't been listening to them, have you?”

“Listening to whom?”

“Our parents. They seem to have hit on the idea of joining us in connubial bliss.”

“Now that you mention it, I had gotten wind of it, yes.”

“Well, you needn't worry,” I said, patting his arm. “I have no intention of marrying you, so you're off the hook.”

“I don't know. I thought it was rather a nice idea,” he said, looking put out. “If I have to settle down, I'd just as soon it be with someone I can stand.”

“You'd be miserable with me, and you know it! You didn't call me Bossy Boots all those years for nothing.”

“You've changed.”

“I haven't. And neither have you, I'm glad to say.”

He scratched his head. “You don't think we ought to at least give it a try, for the parents' sake?” He glanced toward his mother and father, who were standing a few yards away.

“Dearest Bartie, I won't let you throw your life away on me,” I said lightly. “But I will let you get me something to drink.” I tucked my hand over his elbow, and we started again toward the refreshment table.

One would never have guessed, seeing the heaping plates of finger foods laid out there, that we would soon be eating a six-course dinner, followed by breakfast after the dancing. Although I had no appetite, I did accept another glass of punch, for it gave me a reason to linger by the table and observe Olivia, the Earl, and their circle of admirers, now standing just a few yards away.

“Have you spoken with the Earl yet?” I asked Bartie, glancing toward the guest of honor.

“More times than I care to recount,” he replied, waving a crabmeat canapé dolefully in the air. “He's everywhere I go these days.”

“Don't you like him?”

“I suppose I'm just jealous. It's hard work competing with an Earl where the ladies are concerned.”

“Don't tell me you've taken a fancy to Olivia!” I teased. “And here I thought you'd set your cap for me.”

“Olivia? Good God, no.”

His vehemence surprised me. “Why not?” I asked, peering at him.

“Oh, well,” he said quickly, “I just meant that—I don't think I'd be her cup of tea.”

“That's not what you meant at all.”

He squirmed under my gaze, ratcheting up my curiosity several notches.

“Out with it, Bartie.”

“You're right. You are still a bully.”

I crossed my arms and waited.

He sighed. “It's just that there's been…talk. Totally unfounded, I'm sure.”

“About what?”

His big blue eyes beseeched me; Bartie would rather sleep on nails than disparage a lady behind her back.

“You know I won't repeat it,” I said patiently. “Now tell me. What did you hear?”

“Well, if you must know…” Lowering his voice, he continued, “It's been suggested that all this marrying-the-Earl business has affected Olivia's nerves.”

“How do you mean?”

“As I recall, the talk started after the Harrimans' Thanksgiving ball. After that incident with Cato Armstrong.”

I looked at him blankly.

“Oh, I forgot. You weren't there. Olivia was dancing with Cato when suddenly, for no apparent reason, she fell. Of course, at first we all assumed it was on account of Cato's two left feet, but later, he told Harvey Lipton that she'd been wobbly as a carriage with a broken wheel the whole time they were on the floor.”

“Was she hurt?”

“Apparently not. There was a doctor on the premises—as a matter of fact, it was that doctor who was murdered a few days ago. He was Mandy Maidlaw's cousin, you know. Anyway, he looked her over and pronounced no harm done. But then a week later, at one of the cotillions, she shattered a glass of punch. I saw it myself; the glass simply dropped from her hand onto the marble floor.”

“Perhaps she was just overtired,” I said, trying to ignore the alarm sounding in my head.

“I expect you're right,” he agreed, far too quickly.

“All right, what aren't you telling me?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“There's something else, isn't there?”

He sighed. “Just the grumbling of a discharged lady's maid. And you know you can't put any stock in that.”

“Olivia's maid? What is she saying?”

Grimacing, he bent closer to confide, “She claims that Olivia throws tantrums. More specifically, that she tossed a bust of Ophelia off the second-floor balcony when the maid took too long bringing her ice cream. And that she refuses to leave the house without changing her gloves at least half a dozen times.”

I stared at him. “She threw it off the balcony?”

He nodded. “It was a Woolner too, if I remember correctly. Damn shame if it's true.”

“Over a bowl of ice cream?”

“Yes, well, as I say, it's only talk.” He glanced at Olivia. “All the same, I have no great urge to be in the Earl's shoes.”

Falling, dropping things, fits of temper: they could all be signs of Huntington's chorea. Even compulsive behaviors like the alleged glove-changing fit the profile. And Dr. Hauptfuhrer had been there when Olivia fell. Perhaps he'd observed her at other functions as well. I knew he had treated her grandfather after he'd fallen and broken his arm; perhaps some similarity in their behaviors had made him suspect an inherited disease, causing him to take a closer look at Eliza and to eventually voice his concerns to Mrs. Fiske.

I watched Lucille rejoin the Earl's entourage, twining her arm around Olivia's and drawing her close. To all appearances, it was an affectionate maternal embrace. But what if it was really something else? What if Lucille was trying to hide the fact that her daughter was ill—trying to hold her together, as it were, while also partially shielding her from view?

It struck me as entirely plausible, considering Lucille's determination to make her daughter a countess—except for one important fact. While Olivia may have been acting clumsily and having tantrums, I hadn't seen her exhibit any of the classic, choreic, twisting-type movements most closely associated with the disease. I stared now at her free arm, extended tautly at her side, searching for the slightest tremor or involuntary movement, but it was as stiff and still as a wooden Indian's. If it was the disease that was causing Olivia's strange behaviors, surely she should have been experiencing at least some degree of chorea. I forced my shoulders to relax and sipped my punch. There had to be some other explanation.

Charles came over to claim the Earl and lead him toward another group of guests, leaving Lucille, Olivia, and three young women I knew only by sight to chat among themselves. I sidled closer to listen in, drawing Bartie with me, nodding occasionally as he related a story about a sledding party that had gone awry, while from the corner of my eye I watched Lucille deftly fill the gap created by the Earl's departure. She'd always been an animated speaker, given to dispensing colorful opinions and witty nuggets of advice, but tonight, as she flitted from one topic to another, punctuating her comments with flutters and jabs of her enameled fan, I detected a shrill note to her chatter that hinted at an underlying unease.

“I'm sick to death of cotillions and waltzes,” she was saying, waving her fan dismissively in the air. “I've told the orchestra I want nothing but popular music this evening. It will be good for Branard to try something American for a change.” Her lips tightened for an instant as her eyes flicked toward the Earl. The next second, they were smiling again as she launched into a story about seeing “Tum-Tum” dance the cakewalk at Biarritz, tossing off King Edward's nickname like so many pennies to the poor. She was, I thought, a born performer, with a performer's instinctive ability to use voice and gesture for calculated effect. And yet, as I watched, I gradually became aware that her attention was never far from her husband. Time and again, I saw her eyes seek him out as he moved among the guests, lingering for a moment on the side of his face or his broad back, watching him with an expression that took me completely by surprise. For what I saw in her face was hunger—a hunger so raw and naked, it made me feel I should avert my eyes.

Instead, I stared in fascination, wondering for the first time about the nature of the Fiskes' private relationship and whether it might have somehow played into their murderous scheme. Suddenly, Lucille glanced in my direction and our eyes met. She cocked her head, raising her eyebrows with a smile. Mumbling excuses to Bartie, I stepped over to join her.

“I was just admiring your tiara,” I told her. “I've never seen anything like it.”

“Thank you. I designed it myself,” she said, raising her hand to the diamond-encrusted headpiece. “Although lately I've been thinking of trying something new. Something a little simpler, perhaps, in plain gold and silver, without all these heavy stones.”

“Something to complement Olivia's coronet when she marries the Earl!” the young woman beside me eagerly offered.

Olivia flushed and looked down at the floor as an awkward silence dropped over the group.

“I mean, if he asks her to marry him,” the young woman amended, her own cheeks turning red. “That is, if they should wish to marry…”