Murder Most Malicious (18 page)

“I don't believe it does.” Phoebe gave her skirts a shake to dislodge the snow from her hems. “Just because a trail isn't obvious doesn't mean there isn't one.”

“So what do you suggest, my lady? Hounds?”

“No, Mr. Hensley, I'm afraid we no longer have hounds on hand. The last of the ones that didn't go to war died over a year ago and my grandfather hasn't had the heart to bring any new dogs onto the estate. Hunting was something he and my father used to do together, you see.” She paused, and a gust of wind rattled through the trees to echo the hollow sadness Eva felt on her mistress's behalf. As quickly as the wind dropped, however, Phoebe seemed to recover from the memory. “I do believe that on closer inspection, we might be able to detect minute signs of a trek through the woods. Crushed undergrowth, broken branches, and the like.”

The possibility seemed doubtful to Eva, until she remembered something. “Nick, you were once a gamekeeper's assistant, right here at Foxwood. In fact, wasn't it your job to see to the hounds? Perhaps you remember a few tracking techniques.”

“That was a long time ago.” He looked uncomfortable and slightly embarrassed. “But I suppose it's worth a try.”

“Wait a moment.” Phoebe crossed the treeline into the frigid shadows and went still.

Eva hurried to her. “My lady? What is it?”

“Gamekeepers, hounds . . .” She whirled about to face Eva and Nick. “Constable Brannock and his men will never find him in the house, because he isn't there. We need to check the gamekeeper's cottage.”

Eva's stomach sank at the thought of trekking through the woods for such a distance in this weather. “But didn't Constable Brannock say his men already searched there?”

“Yes, he did.” Phoebe raised her chin in defiance. “But
if
he was telling the truth rather than merely attempting to placate me, they obviously must have missed something. It only makes sense. The gamekeeper's cottage is the only building on the estate no one ever uses. Where better to hide a body?”

 

Phoebe led the way at a brisk stride, or as brisk as icy, rutted ground, tangled brambles, and sharp rocks would allow. She heard Eva and Mr. Hensley thrashing through the dormant vegetation behind her, but she didn't slow down for them. Her lungs felt as if frosty daggers stabbed at them by the time she broke through into the well-manicured clearing of the stable yard. Here, beyond the shelter of the forest, snow once again blanketed the ground in fresh drifts. A hodgepodge of human and horse tracks littered the way between the stable doors and the closest paddock, where the remaining groom exercised Grams's carriage team and Amelia's sweet, aging Blossom daily.

Several buildings inhabited the clearing, slate-roofed and constructed of creamy Cotswolds stone. Phoebe entered the main stable and welcomed its relative warmth. A moment later, Eva and Mr. Hensley stepped into the building behind her.

Though far less pungent than in the old days when the stalls were fully inhabited, the odors of horse and hay still had the same steadying effect on her now as then. As if she entered another world where war and strife and sadness simply didn't exist. How she had loved spending hours here, feeding, brushing, even mucking—when Grams wasn't about. And then mounting Stormy and flying round the paddock and, again when Grams wasn't about, along the riding lanes that wove through the forest.

“My lady, surely you don't believe Lord Allerton is somewhere here?”

She started at the sound of Eva's voice. Quickly she wiped a coat sleeve across her eyes before the others could glimpse the moisture that had gathered there. “No, but it doesn't hurt to ask if Trevor saw or heard anything that night.” She called out the groom's name. “Are you here?”

“I am, my lady.” Once only a groom's assistant, Trevor Reeve, the new head groom, walked out from the office adjoined to the tack room. Like so many of the others remaining on the estate, Trevor was young, no more than eighteen, Phoebe guessed. Before the war he had been a shy, pale boy, rail thin, who always seemed much more at home with the animals than people. Though he had filled out to a man's proportions, that last hadn't changed, and he removed his cap and held it awkwardly in his hands. “Would you like the carriage?”

“No, nothing like that, Trevor.” Phoebe walked down the center aisle to him, pausing to stroke Blossom's nose along the way. “I'm wondering if you noticed anything unusual yesterday morning.”

“Something related to Lord Allerton's disappearance, my lady?”

Shy perhaps, but not unobservant. “Yes. Could someone have passed through here that morning or the night before? Do you lock up each night?”

“All doors are always locked at night, my lady. The one you entered through, the outside door to the office, and the big ones that open onto the main drive.” He used his hat to point to the opposite end of the building. The horses were led out to be exercised through the doors through which Phoebe had entered. The other set of doors led out to the expansive, cobbled courtyard where, in the old days, motorcars and carriages would deliver the family and their guests for the great hunting parties held each autumn. Phoebe could almost hear the rumble of engines, the clopping of hooves, and the hurrying feet of the footmen as they served refreshments before everyone mounted up and the eager hounds were loosed. She wondered, would Foxwood see such happy activity again? Or had those old traditions died along with so many others during the war?

“My lady?” Eva touched her arm and Phoebe jumped.

“I was remembering . . .” She smiled weakly. “Never mind. So you say the doors are always kept locked at night, Trevor?”

“Indeed, my lady, I explained to the police—”

“So they've been here, then?”

“They were here with their search party,” Trevor told her. “They turned the place upside down early this morning, but found nothing.”

She thanked Trevor and led the way through the building and out the main doors. The courtyard showed signs of footprints and motorcar tracks beneath last night's fresh fall of snow. The search party, of course. If anyone else had come through here, all signs of the direction he might have taken had been obliterated. Phoebe started down the tree-lined lane that connected the stables and gamekeeper's cottage to the main house.

Eva and Mr. Hensley followed in her wake, and she could sense both their curiosity and their doubts. Where the lane forked, she followed partially obscured footprints and once again entered the woods. They walked for several minutes, picking their way over branches and rocks strewn across the once-wide and manicured path. It struck Phoebe how quickly nature had taken over this once frequently traveled route. Another couple of years and there might be no path left at all.

The cottage stood in a small clearing framed by a thick growth of trees. The branches were no longer tidily trimmed as they had been previously, and hung over the cottage in places and even scraped the roof. The place lay eerily silent except for the light screeching of wood against slate, reminding Phoebe of the ghost stories Grampapa used to tell her and Julia when they were young, before death had stolen their mother away. After that no one told ghost stories at Foxwood Hall.

She examined the clearing. Low mounds of snow tufted the ground and showed signs of a recent trampling. “Well, it does appear as if Mr. Brannock's search party has been here. Still, let's have a look inside,” she said, and turned around to realize she had been talking to herself. Eva and Mr. Hensley hadn't caught up to her yet.

The cottage comprised small living quarters for the gamekeeper and an equipment room, each with their own entrance but connected from inside. It was to the latter she headed first. She strode to the oak door and tugged. The latch jiggled but held stubbornly in its locked position.

“Oh, hang it.” She kicked lightly at the door. “I should have thought to ask Mr. Giles for the keys.” She had never thought much about locked doors in the old days. The servants had always known the family's plans ahead of time and made all the necessary preparations.

How naïve—and oblivious—she and the family had been then.

She turned and this time saw Eva and Mr. Hensley negotiating the last bit of trail. She hadn't realized she had walked so fast and felt a little pang of guilt as the other two trod none too quietly through the brush and into the clearing. Eva panted from the exertion and Mr. Hensley appeared to be favoring his right leg.

“Are you all right, Mr. Hensley?”

“Yes, fine, my lady.”

“Nick, I didn't realize you'd hurt yourself,” Eva exclaimed. “Why didn't you say something?”

“I'm fine, Evie. What ails my leg happened a while back.”

“Oh.” Eva appeared to understand his meaning. “The war . . .”

“It rarely pains me anymore. But the cold combined with the walk . . .”

“I'm so sorry,” Phoebe was quick to say.

He nodded and, apparently dismissing the subject, joined her at the shed door.

“It's locked,” she told him, resisting the urge to deliver another, harder kick to the solid panels. She would only succeed in bruising a toe. “I'm sorry I dragged you both all the way out here for no good reason.”

“Well, as long as we're here . . .” Mr. Hensley gave the door a tug as she had, though much more forcefully. Upon receiving the same result, he studied the lock, then looked about him. “You say no one ever uses the cottage anymore?”

“That's right,” Phoebe replied.

Mr. Hensley nodded. “We need a sturdy rock.”

Eva returned to the edge of the woods and toed the snowy ground with her boot. Then she stooped. “How is this?” With both hands she hefted a rough stone about the size of a wood used in lawn bowls.

Mr. Hensley smiled as he took the rock from her. He hit the latch once, again, and a third time. Clanging filled the air and made Phoebe cringe. She was glad they were far enough away from the house that no one would hear them.

On his fifth try, Mr. Hensley was rewarded with the crack of metal breaking; a piece of the latch thudded to the ground. Phoebe clapped her gloved hands. “You did it, Mr. Hensley.”

“I can only hope I won't be apprehended for breaking and entering,” he said wryly.

“You won't. Now . . .” Phoebe pushed and the door creaked open several inches. A waft of musty abandonment poured out from the murkiness within, making her nose tingle and her throat itch. “That's dreadful. They
can't
have been in here long.”

“Who can't have?” Eva asked.

“The search party. If they had conducted a thorough search, the place would have aired out, at least somewhat.” She thought of the inadequate search the inspector conducted of Henry's bedroom. “They must have been in and out in a matter of moments. And they could easily have missed something.” She drew a breath. “Let's go in.”

Eva stepped up beside her. “Would you like me to go first?”

“No, I should go first,” Mr. Hensley offered.

“This was my idea, and I dragged you both out here.” Phoebe stepped boldly across the threshold into the nearly black storeroom. “We'll need to open the curtains.”

C
HAPTER
11

D
ust clouds billowed when Eva parted the heavy burlap curtains on the room's two windows. Light struggled to penetrate the panes, begrimed inside and out from years of neglect. She coughed and fanned at the air. “That doesn't light the room much, does it?”

“Enough to serve our purposes.” Phoebe stood before a long glass-fronted case mounted to one wall. “The rifles have all been moved up to the house, along with anything of value that was out here. But as for the rest . . .” She sniffed the air. “It's horribly dank in here.”

“Yes, but not putrid, my lady.” Eva refrained from explaining further, but Phoebe's tightened features indicated she understood the reference to a decaying body.

“No, you're right about that,” she said. “Still, we should look about. After all, the freezing temperatures would forestall the . . . the rotting of the . . .”

Corpse.
Eva cringed.
Good heavens.

One half of the room contained crates piled high and pushed up against the wall, stacked folding chairs, and a dusty mound of folded blankets. “There's nowhere on this side a body might be concealed,” Eva said. “The crates are all too small.”

“Not unless . . .” Phoebe's lips flattened. “Unless our culprit didn't stop at Lord Allerton's fingers, if you catch my meaning.”

For all their euphemisms, there seemed no avoiding being distastefully blunt. But then, there was nothing gentile about what happened to Lord Allerton. With a hand pressed to her stomach, partly due to a vague queasiness and partly in a futile effort to shield herself, Eva approached the array of storage containers. She squinted to make out details and leaned down closer to examine surfaces. “No fingerprints in the dust,” she announced with relief. “Nothing here looks as though it were disturbed in years, neither by the inspector's men nor by the killer.”

They scanned the rest of the room. Several cages of various sizes occupied a corner. Eva knew these had been used by the gamekeeper, part of whose job it was to release the quarry in the desired area so the earl and guests might enjoy their day of riding, picnicking, and the triumphant climax of watching the hounds corner a poor, beleaguered fox against a tree or outcropping. Eva shuddered at the image that conjured.

“Are you all right? Cold?” Nick began unbuttoning his woolen overcoat.

Eva stopped him with a hand over his, imagining she could feel the warmth of his skin through their gloves. “No, it isn't that. This may seem silly coming from a farmer's daughter, especially when that farmer raises cattle for the local butchers, but anything to do with hunting always makes me sad . . . and a little angry, I'm afraid.”

“I agree.” Phoebe crouched beside a trunk on the less cluttered side of the room. “I loved the riding and being outdoors, but I always returned home before the others closed in for their pretend kill. At least they ultimately spared the creatures' lives. They only terrified them, the poor dears. Of course mallards and geese were another matter.” She fingered the trunk's clasp. “This doesn't appear to be locked.”

“Allow me to help you with that, my lady.” Nick crossed the room to her but hesitated before lifting the lid. “Please go stand with Eva, my lady. Just in case.”

She looked about to argue, but instead nodded and moved away. She reached for Eva's hand, and even as Eva sucked in a breath she felt Phoebe stiffen and do the same. The lid whined in protest.

“Nothing,” Nick said with obvious relief. “Looks like . . .” He peered in closer, squinting as Eva had done in the pale light. “Extra tack. Even a few horseshoes.”

“Supplies were kept here in case anyone threw a shoe or the like during the hunt.” Phoebe next turned to a cupboard in the rear corner. Once again, Nick preceded her and reached for the latch. As before, he hesitated, then stood so his back would block the contents from Eva's and Phoebe's view.

Another disagreeable odor filled the air, dank and moldy. But Eva detected no hint of rotting flesh. Neither did Phoebe, apparently.

“I'm beginning to believe I was quite wrong about this,” she said.

“Are you disappointed, my lady?”

“In a way, yes. Lord Allerton must be found, and given everything we've learned so far, this seemed the most likely place to hide a . . . body. I was just so convinced the authorities missed . . . I don't know . . . something . . .”

“Let's keep searching.” Nick headed for the only other door. “Another cupboard, or does this lead into the living quarters?”

“Yes, that would be the kitchen.” Phoebe went past him and turned the door handle. The door stuck, and she gave it a shove that sent it swinging open to bang against the inside wall. Eva jumped at the sound, then peered into a smaller room fitted out with a fireplace, a coal stove, an old-fashioned sink with a water pump, and cupboards ranged above the work counter.

Nick followed her in and began opening cupboard doors. Remembering Phoebe's comment about the assailant perhaps having not stopped with merely severing Lord Allerton's fingers, Eva found herself holding her breath again with each creaking door that opened.

“Nothing but dust and mold,” Phoebe griped minutes later. They had gone through the third room that had served as both parlor and bedroom for the gamekeeper.

“I suppose there's nothing left but to go.” Eva started toward the door through which they had originally entered, but stopped when she realized Lady Phoebe hadn't moved to follow. Instead she stood staring up at the ceiling, an odd expression on her face. “My lady?”

“We need a ladder,” she said, still gazing upward. Eva followed her line of sight and gasped.

“The attic!”

“Indeed.” Lady Phoebe finally dragged her gaze away from the square trapdoor cut into the ceiling. “We'll need a ladder. . . .”

“Hang a ladder.” Quickly Nick grabbed the nearest crate and set it on the floor directly beneath the trapdoor. As he reached for another, both Eva and Phoebe each bent to lift two more. Soon they had fashioned a makeshift ladder. “I'll go up.”

“Do be careful, Mr. Hensley.” Phoebe stood watching with hands clasped, her brow furrowed. “I know this is it. I
know
it is.”

Eva moved to hold the crates steady as Nick climbed until he was able to press his palms against the trapdoor. It gave easily enough, and he slid it to one side of the attic floor before maneuvering himself higher, until his head and shoulders disappeared through the opening.

“What do you see?” Phoebe bounced on the balls of her feet.

With one hand fisted against her mouth, Eva watched with rather more apprehension, not at all certain she wished to know what sight might be confronting Nick at this very moment. The seconds seemed to drag on unendurably. . . .

“It's quite dark. . . .” His voice emerged from above, echoing hollowly against the rafters. “But . . .” He pulled himself higher, until only his legs dangled into the storage room. Finally, he said, “There is nothing up here, my lady. Nothing at all.”

“But . . .” Phoebe seemed to lose inches from her stature. “I was so sure . . .”

Eva put an arm across her shoulders. “Come, my lady, let's start back. It was a good hunch, and if nothing else we did rule out the cottage altogether. Now we need never wonder if Inspector Perkins might have missed something.”

Phoebe allowed Eva to guide her back outside. She kept her eyes on the ground and continually shook her head with a baffled expression. “It doesn't make sense. The footprints leaving the house
are
deeper than those returning, and I believe that to be significant to Lord Allerton's disappearance.”

“It may yet prove significant, my lady.” Nick gazed off through the trees as they returned to the trail. “Perhaps he's lying somewhere in the woods.”

“If that's the case,” Eva said, “it could take weeks or even months to find him.”

“Unless the inspector were to expand his search party and—”

Eva stiffened at the sound that cut Phoebe's words short. It was a snap unlike that of the trees bending to the weight of the snow or protesting the push of the wind. More like underbrush being stepped upon. An animal? She hoped so. Nick tensed, his face raised. His eyes glittered in concentration. Phoebe inched closer to Eva and slipped a hand into hers.

They listened another several moments, but the sound didn't come again.

“Did we imagine it?” Phoebe whispered.

“We must have. Or it was a deer, perhaps.” But Eva's heart hadn't stopped its staccato rhythm.

Nick remained unmoving and cast wary glances into the shadows beneath the trees. “Let's get back.”

“Yes, let's.” Phoebe released Eva's hand. Her stride lengthened, taking her several paces ahead of Eva and Nick. Where a fallen branch blocked the path, Phoebe stepped nimbly over it. Nick offered his arm to assist Eva over.

He did not release her once they safely reached the other side. Instead he placed his hand over her own where it rested in the crook of his elbow. Eva found herself smiling. Even through their gloves, she liked the sensation of her hand nestled beneath Nick's larger, sturdier one.

 

Phoebe stood with her ear to her bedroom door, listening. Her room lay in darkness but for a thin band of moonlight falling through a gap in the curtains. The silence from the corridor persuaded her to turn the knob and soundlessly open the door. She stepped lightly onto the hall runner and paused, again pricking her ears. Only the steady tick of the grandfather clock echoing from the Great Hall disturbed the midnight hush. She set her feet in motion, finding her way by memory in the gloom.

Even through the rug and her slippers, the marble floors breathed their chill into her feet. She hugged her wrapper tighter about her as she reached the gallery, bathed in moonlight shining through the clerestory windows high above the front doors. Rather than comforting, the glare made her feel exposed and she hurried across, passing the open door of the darkened billiard room and seeking the guest wing of the house. Once there, she counted off the doors and slowed as she came to the bedroom Henry had inhabited.

She listened again for signs that anyone might be awake, and scanned beneath each nearby door for telltale signs of lamplight inside. By all appearances their guests were deep in slumber. Still, one never knew and she dared not take too long in her errand. Would she find the evidence Henry had claimed to hold over Julia? Or better still, would she discover proof of Henry's manipulation of war bonds? Victory Bonds, England had called them, yet these particular ones sounded as if they had brought victory to no one—not those who had invested their savings in “the cause,” and certainly not Henry, wherever he lay.

She would have liked to conduct this search sooner, but with the inspector's men constantly underfoot she'd had no choice but to wait for her opportunity. Had Julia already been here?

She and Theo had acknowledged a need to destroy evidence. Yet it wasn't Julia's style to go snooping about. Instead, she tended to keep her nose in the air and ignore situations until they erupted in front of her, whereupon she relied on her considerable skills to talk her way out of any difficulty. She could envision Julia doing just that no matter what evidence ultimately surfaced. Beyond a doubt, whatever it was, she would have Grampapa believing the exact opposite of the truth before the day was out.

Phoebe steeled herself before wrapping both hands around the doorknob. With the utmost care not to make a sound, she turned the knob and paused again before pushing inward. Despite her bravado in the forest today, snooping came no more easily to her than to Julia, though perhaps for different reasons.

Holding her breath, she opened the door, then instantly pulled it closed again but for an inch. A gasp pushed its way to her lips, but she found the presence of mind to clamp them shut. Across Henry's room, in a small circle of light cast by a kerosene lantern, Lord Owen sat at the desk with his back to her. She recognized him by his height, the lines of his shoulders, his tapering torso clothed only in a shirt and waistcoat. Just beyond his elbow angled the lid of what appeared to be a travel desk, Henry's no doubt, open upon its hinges. The sound of fluttering pages sifted through the air. Even if she hadn't recognized Lord Owen by sight, she would have known him by how nimbly he rifled through whatever items inhabited the portable desk. Theo, with his debilitated hands, could not have pored through so quickly and quietly.

She started to back away, but the fluttering abruptly stopped. Lord Owen held something up to the light. Phoebe strained her eyes to see, but Owen's shoulder blocked whatever it was. His chin turned until the light gilded his strong profile. She tensed, inched backward, but then he turned his head back to his task. He slid whatever he held into his waistcoat. Her curiosity burgeoned, but with no options available other than to reveal herself, she started to back away. Suddenly something on the floor winked a glimmer of light into her eye.

Acting on instinct, she crouched, widened the door, and slipped her arm through the gap. Her fingers closed tight around a tiny object. Her heart thundering in her ears, she pulled her arm back through, scooted backward, and used the wainscoting beside her to pull to her feet.

Dare she close the door again? Her instincts told her no, at least not all the way. He might hear the click. Better to retreat at once and let Lord Owen believe what he will. As long as he didn't see her. But what was he doing there, and what had he found?

And what had
she
found?

Turning, she raced on tiptoe back down the corridor, only to nearly barrel straight into Julia, who appeared before her like a ghost in a fluttering cloud of pale nightgown and wrapper.