Murder Most Malicious (20 page)

The girl shrank even further into herself, if that were possible. Her voice, when it emerged from her half-bitten lips, was shaky and filled with fear. “He wanted me where he could find me again, my lady, should he wish to.”

For several moments Connie's words buzzed round and round Phoebe's head like a swarm of bees. Yet one by one, the implications fell into their logical order, and Phoebe understood. “Dear merciful heavens. Lord Allerton . . . he'd been . . . forcing himself on you all along . . .”

Connie only nodded, and Phoebe felt ill.

 

Eva wasn't at all surprised when Phoebe appeared in the service room some five minutes later. Without a word she came in, slid onto a stool at the table, and sat with her chin in her hand.

Eva set aside the blouse Julia had given her last night with the request that the mother-of-pearl buttons be replaced with ones sporting real pearls in solid gold settings. “You look troubled, my lady.”

“I am.” She reached for one of the plainer buttons, held it in her palm a moment, then fisted her fingers around it. “Lord Allerton deserved what happened to him, Eva.”

“My lady, don't—”

“I'm sorry, Eva. I don't like saying such things. It's wicked, I know. But in this case . . .”

“Connie had more than that one run-in with him, I'm guessing?”

“At the place of her last employment, in London.”

Eva pulled another stool to the table and perched on it. “But I thought she last worked in Yorkshire, at an estate called Stonebridge, I believe.”

“No, she worked for a family called the Smythes, in London. When they caught her slipping food out the back door they dismissed her, but one of their guests at the time arranged to have false references written up for her. He engaged his friend, Lord Bellington, who owns Stonebridge.”

“But why . . . ?” The dismay on Phoebe's young face supplied Eva with her answer, or at least enough of one. She didn't wish to know more. “I see.”

“He sent her here, to us, for convenience sake. I suppose he thought after the war, he could have his dalliances without his mother catching on, which she might have if he'd have carried on at home.”

“Oh, my lady . . .” Immeasurably sad, Eva trailed off. What could she say to her young mistress? That she didn't want Phoebe so much as thinking such thoughts? That it pained her dreadfully that sweet Phoebe should not only know about such things, but must suffer them to occur here, in her own home?

It was too late for any of that. Too late to draw a curtain of innocence across a window that had been thrown wide. She could only be what she was to Phoebe: her maid, her friend, and if needed, her protector. “My lady, shall I make you tea?”

“Thank you, Eva, but no. I don't need tea. I need answers.” Rising, she went to the door and closed it. When she returned to the table, she pointed to Julia's blouse. “I'm sure my sister will be wanting that. You sew, and we'll talk.”

Eva picked up her needle, already threaded with a length of the fine silk thread she had purchased at Henderson's haberdashery. She positioned one of the precious pearl buttons, not gotten from Henderson's but on Julia's trip to London last summer. “In your mind, has Connie incriminated herself in regards to Lord Allerton? She certainly had motive.”

“I don't believe so,” Phoebe replied, “at least I don't wish to. Someone willing to risk her own employment not once but twice in order to feed hungry children? That's not a likely candidate for murder, is it?”

Eva experienced another painful twinge to hear the word
murder
from Phoebe's lips, yet one more concept she should never have to think about.

“But there's something else I wished to tell you, Eva. It happened last night.”

Eva looked up from her task, her needle poised in midair. She narrowed her eyes, taking in what she hadn't previously noticed in Mrs. Sanders's office: the dark smudges beneath Phoebe's eyes. “You were up late, my lady.”

“Yes, I waited until everyone was in bed, or so I thought, before going to Lord Allerton's bedroom.”

“My lady, you didn't. What if someone had seen you?”

“Someone almost did,” she replied so calmly Eva was possessed of an urge to tug her own hair. “When I opened the door—luckily without a sound—I discovered . . .” She glanced over her shoulder at the closed door, then continued lower, “I found Lord Owen Seabright inside, going through Lord Allerton's travel desk. He removed something from among the documents.”

Eva set her work aside. “You must go to your grandparents. They should know about this.”

“I'm not so sure of that. Lord Owen might have been doing the same as you and me—searching for the truth.”

“But, my lady, you don't know that. A guest traipsing about the house at night, searching through a man's possessions. This doesn't set Lord Owen in a positive light—not a positive light at all.”

“Again, it's nothing I hadn't intended doing myself. I did find something just over the threshold, and managed to snatch it up before I retreated from the room. It was one of the shirt studs Lord Allerton wore on Christmas.”

“Do you think that means something significant?”

“On its own, perhaps not. But it might prove there was a struggle in Henry's room. It's what I need to find out.”

“Take it to the inspector, then. You're becoming too involved, my lady. You've done enough.”

“The inspector will likely declare that Lord Allerton was untidy with his possessions.”

“Which might be the truth.”

Phoebe sighed. “Really, Eva, sometimes you seem to be taking Inspector Perkins's side in not wishing to ruffle feathers. Someone has to dig at the truth.”

“It's not that I agree with the inspector, my lady. It's that I do not wish
you
to be the person doing all the digging. Will you at least consider speaking with Constable Brannock?”

“Possibly, except there are some extenuating circumstances that occurred last night. On my way out of the guest wing, I ran straight into Julia. Now, where do you suppose she was going?”

“Oh, my. You all might have had quite a gathering in Lord Allerton's room. Please don't do that again, my lady. It could be dangerous.”

“Don't worry, Eva, for now I'll leave Lord Allerton's room alone. It's Lord Owen's room I'd like to explore next.”

“My lady—” Eva heard her own voice becoming shrill. She drew a breath and whispered no less fiercely, “Don't you dare!” A ghost of a smile from Phoebe made her want to shake the girl. “I fail to see anything amusing in this.”

The maddening smile persisted. “I'm sorry. I was just wondering if you ever speak to Julia this way. Or Amelia, for that matter.”

Eva's chin came up defensively. “I do not, my lady. With Julia I would not dare. And with Amelia there is no need.”

“Oh, I see.” All trace of amusement vanished from Phoebe's features. “Then you find me wanting when compared with my sisters.” She stared at Eva, her gaze full of contention and pride and stubbornness. A Renshaw through and through, Eva thought wryly.

Her own resolve softened, and she shook her head. “No, my lady. Not less. More. Much more. I love your sisters, but I know in my heart your achievements will be so very much greater than either Amelia or Julia could ever imagine.”

Phoebe blinked, and the fight visibly drained from her. “Oh, Eva, I hope you're correct. Sometimes the future is like glimpsing a vista through a veil. I wish to step through, but there isn't a path in sight and I've no inkling where I might end up.”

“Of course not, my lady. You're young and your future hasn't yet been shaped. Not yet imagined or invented, not for women. You'll do the inventing, my lady. I know you will, but you must also learn prudence, not to curb your spirit but to safeguard it.”

The silence stretched. Had Eva overstepped her bounds? If she had, she didn't—couldn't—regret it. She would rather see herself sacked than allow harm to come to Phoebe. Then Phoebe's smile returned, no longer amused or mocking but something so much more, something deeper, that tugged at Eva's heartstrings. Phoebe hopped off her stool and came around the table, and suddenly they were hugging like sisters. Just for one long, precious moment before their arms dropped and Phoebe cleared her throat.

“Thank you, Eva. I believe I needed to hear that. It certainly trumps Fox telling me I should be content in the roles for which God designed women.” She burst out laughing and Eva joined her, until a new thought silenced her.

“I have an idea concerning Lord Owen. He's engaged Mr. Hensley as his valet, on a trial basis—”

“I'm so glad!”

“Yes, and I was thinking he might be able to discover whether Lord Owen and Lord Allerton perhaps knew each other better than he admitted to you.”

“Good thinking. Servants know everything.”

“Well, I wouldn't say everything, my lady, but they do know who comes and goes, as well as to whom their employers send mail. I'll ask Ni—er—Mr. Hensley if he'd be so kind as to make some inquiries for us. Considering the circumstances, I'm sure he could come up with a feasible excuse for his questions.”

“As long as he doesn't endanger his new position.”

“If Lord Owen had anything to do with Lord Allerton's disappearance, my lady, I highly doubt Mr. Hensley would wish to continue in his employ.”

“Yes, that's true, isn't it?”

“I'll just go and find him, then.”

“No, you finish Julia's blouse or you'll never hear the end of it. I'll speak with Mr. Hensley.”

C
HAPTER
13

L
uncheon promised to be a somber affair that afternoon. Lady Cecily joined them, along with Theo and Lord Owen. Lady Allerton had again opted to have a tray sent up to her room. Though she showed a braver face than Phoebe previously would have given her credit for, the strain of her son having not yet been found was taking its toll. It was taking its toll on all of them, to the point that even Fox kept his unwanted opinions to a minimum as the serving dishes were passed round. Grams and Grampapa made a valiant attempt to lead the conversation, even if the only neutral subject they could devise focused primarily on the weather and reports of an approaching storm.

Julia sighed at the news. “Then we'll be trapped here indefinitely.”

“Planning to go somewhere, are you?” Grams's question dripped with irony.

“Nothing definite,” Julia replied with her trademark half shrug, either not catching Grams's tone or choosing to ignore it. “But one does like to have options.”

Amelia looked up from her steak and kidney pie. “And where would you go? Let's make a game of it. If we could be anywhere else in the world, where would we each choose? I'll go first. Oh, is it all right to play a game, under the circumstances?”

Amelia caught Phoebe's eye and Phoebe nodded encouragement. Anything to lift the pall that pressed harder on Foxwood Hall with each passing day. Grampapa also lent his approval in the form of a hearty “Yes, yes, indeed, my dear.”

“Well, then, I would go to Rome, where it's warm, and we could tour the museums and churches.”

“If you want warm,” Julia said, “the south of France. That's where I would go. In a heartbeat,” she added in an undertone that spoke of an impatient desire to escape.

Fox bounced in his seat. “I'd go to Germany.”

“Germany,” Julia shot back. “Are you mad?”

“No, I'd go to gloat that we won the war and they lost.”

Phoebe was tempted to deliver a kick under the table. A range of disbelieving gawks and disapproving frowns—even from Lady Cecily—circulated round the table, but it was Theo who responded.

“War isn't a thing to gloat over, Fox. No side ever truly wins.”

“How can you say that—ouch!”

Phoebe struck, guessing she caught her brother in the side of his shin with the pointed toe of her velvet-stamped pump. At the same time, fiery outrage on Theo's behalf crept from her neck to her hairline. Even Julia glared daggers at Fox. A dreadful silence gripped the table, until Theo held up his hands and spoke again.

“You see these burns, Fox. And here.” He pointed to the side of his chin. “I got these, as you probably know, at the Battle of Somme.”

“You were a hero,” Fox interjected, his voice catching and breaking as it had begun to do in recent weeks, but mostly in times of duress.

Theo nodded slowly. “Perhaps. The gas rolled across no-man's-land and poured into the trenches. There weren't enough masks—I gave mine to an enlisted boy and tried to cover as well as I could with my clothing. But my hands were exposed, as well as the side of my face.”

“You
were
a hero, Theo,” Amelia said with a note of wonder, but it was the admiring shimmer in Gram's eyes that most caught Phoebe's attention.

Theo shook his head. “No, Amelia. There were greater heroes than me, on both sides of the war. And men who lost much more than I did. Lives, limbs, their sanity, and the ability to earn a livelihood. German, French, English—now the war is over it doesn't make much difference. We all lost a great deal.”

“Indeed we did.” Grampapa reached around Grams to clap a broad hand on Theo's shoulder. “Thank you for reminding us of that, dear boy.” With a sweeping glance he encompassed Fox, Phoebe, and her sisters in manner uniquely his, a manner that never failed to make them all sit up straighter. “Patriotism is one thing, but war is never a matter to be glorified.”

“But—” A sharp hiss from Grams forestalled whatever Fox might have said, and thank goodness. Phoebe needed a moment to take in the past few minutes. Never had she heard Theo Leighton speak so many words, nor so eloquently. At least not since before the war, when they were all young and unaware of how drastically life would change.

She never would have attributed to him such tolerance either, but the way he answered Fox—so intelligently and patiently—impressed her greatly. There was more to the Theo who returned from the war than she had suspected, or that he had let on. This was something she needed to ponder, and discuss with Eva. Despite Lord Owen's suspicious behavior, they hadn't ruled out Theo as the possible culprit in Henry's disappearance. Only now . . . She glanced again at the stretched and pitted skin beneath the corner of his mouth. Now she hoped it wasn't Theo.

“I suggest a return to Amelia's game,” he said at length, bringing a second uncomfortable silence to an end. “I've seen enough of the world to last me several years, so I would simply choose to remain in England. I think I should like to spend next summer on the Cornish coast. Owen?”

With a slight smile Lord Owen shifted his sights to Phoebe, only to send a new wave of heat to her face—this time not due to anger, but to the familiar and disconcerting chagrin that seemed always to overtake her at his slightest attention. “Like Theo,” he said, “I've seen enough of the world for a while, although if I had to choose, I believe it would be somewhere in the tropics. South America, perhaps, or Polynesia.”

“How wildly exotic of you, Owen.” Grams gave a little shiver. “Too rich for my blood, to be sure. I'm with Julia—the south of France sounds heavenly. And civilized,” she added with emphasis. “Cecily, how about you, dear?”

“Must one choose? Couldn't I board a ship and go round the whole world?”

“Of course you may, if you like,” Grams said, spearing a roasted asparagus tip with her fork. “But which way? East to west, or vice versa?”

Lady Cecily didn't answer, but with a puzzled frown twirled her finger one way and then the other, as if she couldn't quite grasp the concept of Grams's question.

“And I would gladly escort Amelia to Rome.” Grampapa beamed fondly across the table at her. “Would you suffer your old Grampapa to escort you round the churches, my dear?”

“I would wish no other,” Amelia declared, and raised her glass of lemonade in tribute. “May we, Grampapa?”

“Perhaps next year, my darling, when the world has recovered.”

Amelia looked glum a moment, before brightening and turning to Phoebe. “What about you? You haven't said yet.”

“I don't know. . . .” After Theo's earnest disclosure, even contemplating a holiday seemed trite. Where would she go? Like him, she couldn't envision much beyond England right now. Their country needed so much, needed every able-bodied citizen to contribute to rebuilding—what? Surely not the old ways, with their restrictions and silly notions of keeping people in their so-called rightful places. But building something new . . . yes, England needed that, and perhaps she could help. “I'd stay home—” she began, but Lord Owen interrupted before she could explain.

“Come now, Lady Phoebe, you must play.” His coaxing sounded more like a command, and all eyes turned expectantly toward her. Yet it was
his
gaze alone that made her feel singled out in a most discomfiting way. She suddenly didn't like this game of Amelia's, wished it were over, wished her face didn't feel so hot. Did the others see it? Did
he
?

He held her gaze so steadily, Phoebe wished to crawl under the table. Was he doing this on purpose? And did she detect a mocking hint of one-upmanship in his manner? But why? She had wondered if he noticed her blushing; but what if it was worse than that? What if he knew she had peeked in on him in Henry's room last night? He had never turned around.... At least she didn't think he had....

He smiled, all mockery gone, and said in a kindly voice, “Surely there is somewhere that captures your imagination, where all things seem possible.”

As if by magic an answer came to her, so swiftly she barely knew where it originated, and hadn't time to ponder it before she said, “America. The United States. New York, I should think.”

“Why ever would you wish to go there?” This came from Julia, with a look of distaste. “The Americans are so . . . common. I met numerous ones in London last summer, officers, mind you, yet even they exhibited a familiarity just this side of vulgar. Then again, you do seem to enjoy their penny-dreadful novels.”

“Where were you meeting American officers?” Grams demanded from beneath the severe slash of her silver eyebrows. “You know I didn't approve of you going to London. Far too dangerous, even if those horrid Gotha bombers were no longer the threat they had been. Seems there were other threats equally as treacherous. American officers, indeed.”

Luckily for Julia, the subject ended abruptly when Fox saw fit to interject one of his unasked-for judgments. “Phoebe would only get in trouble in America,” he declared with a smirk.

Indignation had her pulling up straighter. “I'll have you both know—”

She had been about to point out that those novels to which Julia referred characterized the Americans as innovative, enlightened, and brave, when the door opened upon Mr. Giles. Giving away nothing by his expression, he came to the table and leaned low to whisper in Grams's ear, whereupon she paled and surged to her feet.

“Archibald, one of my father's priceless daggers has been stolen!”

 

Constable Brannock removed his pocket square and dragged it across his brow in a gesture so reminiscent of Inspector Perkins, Phoebe half expected him to reach next for his hip flask. At Grams's frantic summons he had hurried down from the attic, where the search for Henry was expected to reach its conclusion this evening, at least as far as the house was concerned. The outbuildings and greenhouses had all been searched as well, an icy endeavor for those involved. After this, the search must take to the forest and the surrounding environs. Henry could be anywhere, anywhere at all, and oftentimes Phoebe wondered if he would ever be found. When she thought about the contents of the Christmas boxes . . . well, she wondered how much of Henry even remained to be found.

Weariness dragged at Mr. Brannock's features and made him appear older than when he arrived only three days ago, suggesting he shared Phoebe's doubts. He stuffed the handkerchief back into his coat pocket and faced Grams squarely. “Why did no one think to inform either Inspector Perkins or myself about the existence of these knives, my lady?”

Grams scowled, no doubt finding his tone impertinent. The constable had wished to speak with Grams privately, but she had refused. The news from Mr. Giles had left her uncharacteristically ruffled, even shaky. The stolen dagger turned out to be a third-century Roman pugio with a leaf-shaped blade and a steel hilt emblazoned with solid gold. Priceless and in surprisingly good condition, the dagger had likely been a ceremonial piece owned by a general or statesman rather than a common soldier.

Did Grams fear the theft might make her a suspect? Or someone else in the family? Or was it merely being required to speak to the authorities that left her bristling? Either way, she had insisted she needed her family around her. Phoebe and Julia flanked her on the sofa in the Rosalind sitting room, while Grampapa looked on from an easy chair. Amelia had wished to be here as well, but Grams had wisely charged her with seeing to their guests' comfort, a task that satisfied Amelia with its importance. Equally wise, Grampapa had sent Fox back to his room for looking far too elated about this latest development. He had gone off mumbling about never being allowed to have any fun.

“My young man, they are not
knives,
” Grams testily corrected Constable Brannock. She tugged her silk shawl tighter around her shoulders. “They are daggers. Very old, very valuable daggers representing every significant era of European history. It took my father a lifetime to amass his collection.”

The constable didn't look impressed. “That may be, my lady, but we should have been alerted to the presence of these weapons in this house. Can you hazard a guess as to when the dagger in question went missing?”

“
Pugio,
and how on earth should we know that?” Grams shrugged, her expression proclaiming this an absurd question. “No one here takes these weapons out to play, Mr. . . . er . . .”

“Constable Brannock, Grams,” Phoebe leaned to whisper.

Grams waved a hand in dismissal. “The only reason we discovered the theft today is because Mr. Giles sent Douglas to retrieve them from their case in the billiard room for their monthly polishing. They must be oiled regularly or the old steel will rust.”

“So sometime between last month and today, this pugio went missing.” At Grams's pained look, Constable Brannock jotted a note in his writing tablet. “And they are kept in the billiard room, you say?”

“In a locked, glass-fronted case,” Grampapa said. “In the old days I might have noticed the absence immediately, but since I rarely play billiards anymore, I don't tend to enter that room much.”

No, Phoebe thought sadly, not since Papa went off to war.

The constable made another notation, murmuring, “Perhaps we've finally found what we were looking for.”

“What are you saying?” Obviously startled, Grams appealed to Grampapa. “Archibald, what is he saying?”

It was Phoebe who answered. “He is saying, Grams, that he found it doubtful the harm done to Henry could be attributed to Mrs. Ellison's cleaver.” She looked up at the man for consensus. “Isn't that what you told my maid? That the damage to Henry's hands could not have been achieved with such an unwieldy weapon.”