A Silent Stabbing

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “Oh, he will. I know he will.”

  “Do something for me, Alfred.” His sister took on a look of fierce intensity. “Do not return to Little Barlow until this matter is cleared up. You’re involved after all, and . . . have you considered that you, Alfred, might be seen as having had a motive to murder this Ripley fellow?”

  “Good heavens, that’s very true.” Mr. Peele turned back to Phoebe and said quickly, “I was here, of course, by the time he died, but . . .”

  “No one thinks you had a hand in his death,” she assured him. But privately Phoebe realized that if enough evidence surfaced to exonerate Keenan Ripley, the chief inspector would be forced to seek new suspects. Would he turn his attention to the former head gardener?

  His sister looked dubious. “Better to stay here in the meantime, Alfred. As for you, Lady Phoebe, I should think you’ll want to speak with the banker and that American.” Mrs. Riordan shook her head and scoffed. “Americans. They’ve no respect for tradition and certainly no sense of fair play.”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, ma’am.” Phoebe suppressed a chuckle. “But yes, you’re right about this particular American, and Stephen Ripley.”

  “True, but there’s someone lurking in Little Barlow who’s even worse than Stephen Ripley.” When all gazes converged on Eva, she clarified, “There’s still a murderer about, isn’t there? We mustn’t forget that Stephen Ripley was a victim who paid for his sins with his very life.”

  * * *

  On the drive back to Little Barlow, Eva and Lady Phoebe discussed what they had learned from Mr. Peele. Neither had been surprised that Stephen Ripley had used threats, both subtle and overt, to persuade the former gardener to retire.

  “One thing I’m not sure I believe, my lady.” Eva thought back to exactly what Mr. Peele had said. “This damaging information about William’s father. I’m not at all convinced Stephen could have known anything about Ezra Gaff. The man is a farm laborer. He’s lived in Little Barlow all his life, while Stephen was gone for many years. What could Stephen possibly have known that the rest of the villagers didn’t?”

  “It could be something that happened during the war,” Lady Phoebe mused.

  “I suppose, but I think that when Mr. Peele showed hesitation about retiring, Stephen Ripley thought up a vague lie to increase the pressure. And it certainly worked. He was clever, my lady.”

  Lady Phoebe smirked. “Not so clever that he avoided being murdered.”

  Upon returning to Foxwood Hall and slipping belowstairs to prepare tea for herself and Lady Phoebe, Eva waded into chaos. Not a single smile or good afternoon greeted her, and, if she weren’t mistaken, more than one housemaid and kitchen assistant peered at her through swollen, reddened eyes. Several of the footmen scowled and grumbled beneath their breath as they passed her in the corridor. Raised voices clashed in the kitchen, angry words grating one against another in a bid to be heard.

  Eva went into the main kitchen to discover Mrs. Sanders and Mrs. Ellison poised on either side of the center worktable, leaning toward each other in a standoff, with their necks craned and their fists propped on the marble surface.

  “Foodstuffs don’t simply walk off,” Mrs. Sanders pronounced in a voice that declared this a battleground.

  “I never said they did.” Mrs. Ellison’s chubby jowls shook with indignation. “What I said was no one in my kitchen took them, and I won’t tolerate your accusations.”

  “I haven’t made any accusations.” The housekeeper raised her hands in frustration, and failed to notice the traces of flour that transferred from the marble surface to the sleeves of her black serge dress. “I only said you need to supervise your staff and tighten security.”

  “Oh, indeed. If that isn’t accusing me of running a shoddy kitchen, I don’t know what is.”

  “Can you deny items are missing?”

  Mrs. Ellison plunked her hands on her stout hips. “Can you assure me one of the upstairs staff isn’t to blame? I can’t be here keeping watch all night long, can I?”

  In all her years at Foxwood Hall, Eva had never seen a serious incident of theft. Oh, there had been that Christmas when Connie, then new to the staff, had been handing out kitchen scraps to the village’s poorest children, but that food would have been scraped into the bins otherwise. Eva wouldn’t call that theft. But in some large houses, dishonest servants did steal supplies and sell them on the sly, undercutting market prices by a good margin and pocketing pure profits. She couldn’t believe something like that could happen here. Foxwood Hall had always been a fair place to work, where upper and lower servants alike were treated with more regard than they had reason to expect.

  Seeing no resolution to this present argument, she went to stand at the end of the worktable—neutral territory between the two women. “Ladies, what is this about? You never have words like this. And why is everyone so upset? Surely you’re not accusing all of them of stealing.”

  Mrs. Sanders straightened. Looking down, she finally noticed the dusting of flour on her sleeves and angrily slapped at the fabric as if at a naughty child. “Everyone is a suspect until we find our culprit.”

  “I saw that several maids have been crying.” Eva shook her head at Mrs. Sanders. “Was that necessary?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.” Mrs. Ellison, whose apron had slipped askew, tugged it back into place. “We’re no closer to revealing our thief, but we now have a houseful of unhappy workers.” That last was addressed to Mrs. Sanders. Now she turned to Eva. “You might want to have a talk with Hetta. Try to soothe her. The poor lamb left here positively distraught.”

  “You accused Hetta?” Eva propped her elbows on the table and dropped her head into her hands. “Mrs. Sanders, what were you thinking? Hetta wouldn’t stick a toe out of line. She values her position much too highly.”

  “She’s the newest member of the staff and has the privilege of being able to come and go as she pleases,” the woman said defensively. “That gives her plenty of opportunity.”

  Eva lifted her head. “That privilege, as you call it, is in service to Lady Annondale. If Hetta leaves the property, it’s on an errand for her mistress. She certainly wouldn’t have time to hunt down black-market buyers, even if she possessed the necessary English to do so.” Swiss born Hetta Brauer, while understanding more English than Lady Annondale had believed when she had first hired her, still found conversing fluently in the language an arduous task.

  “What sorts of things have gone missing?” Eva asked in an attempt to make sense of the circumstances.

  “It began with the dates Dora picked for me the other day,” Mrs. Ellison said.

  “And it’s escalated to cheese—whole rings of it—along with eggs, apples, dried fish, loaves of bread. . . .”

  “It sounds like things that don’t need much preparation,” Eva noted. “And have you tried assigning someone to guard the pantries?”

  “We haven’t had time,” Mrs. Ellison said, once more on the defensive. “This has only just come to light.”

  “Perhaps if you’d been more aware of who was coming and going in your kitchen and larders, we’d have discovered the situation sooner.” Mrs. Sanders gave her steely gray bun a dignified pat.

  Realizing she wasn’t getting anywhere—indeed, the damage with the staff had already been done—Eva sighed, filled a tea kettle, and set it on the range. Lady Phoebe had sent her down with a request for tea, and she’d already taken far longer than necessary. While the water came to a boil, she went about gathering the necessary items—cups and saucers, cutlery, serviettes. She sliced two pieces of lemon poppy seed cake, set it on a platter, and filled in the remaining space with shortbread biscuits. As she set this on the waiting tray, Dora came into the kitchen.

  “Perhaps Eva’s our thief,” she said bitterly. Eva perceived that Dora’s sarcasm wasn’t aimed at her and didn’t take offense. Adjusting the kerchief that kept her limp hair out of the food preparations, the girl directed a caus
tic glance at Mrs. Sanders and swept past into the scullery. The clanging of pots and pans voiced Dora’s, and probably many of the servants’, frustrations at being held in suspicion.

  A weighty tray in hand, Eva took the back staircase up to the first floor and pushed her way through the swinging door into the corridor that housed the family’s bedrooms. She met Lady Annondale coming out of hers.

  “Eva, I’m glad I ran into you. Would you please speak to Hetta for me? You and she are able to communicate. I can’t seem to make her believe she’s not getting the sack. And I can’t for the life of me understand why she’s come to such a ridiculous conclusion.”

  “I’ll see to it, my lady. Apparently there’s been some thieving down in the pantries, and Mrs. Sanders has taken the approach of everyone being guilty until proven innocent.”

  “Oh, dear. Perhaps I should speak to my grandmother about this.”

  Eva judged that to be the last thing anyone belowstairs needed. “I wouldn’t, except as a last resort. I’m sure Mrs. Sanders and Mrs. Ellison will have matters in hand before too long.”

  “I daresay you’re right about that. But don’t let me keep you. That tray looks heavy.” She extended a manicured hand to remove the cover from the platter. “Mmmm . . . I trust you won’t mind if I just . . .” With her free hand, she took two of the shortbread biscuits. “I’d take one of those slices of cake, but I fear you’d have to give the other one to Phoebe and go without yourself. Go on then, Eva, enjoy your tea and whatever schemes you and my sister are currently hatching.”

  Deciding not to respond to that last comment, Eva moved on to Lady Phoebe’s room while Lady Annondale traversed the corridor to the gallery. Eva heard her descending tread on the grand staircase. She chuckled to herself. The typically restrained Julia Renshaw Townsend had not only acquired quite an appetite due to being with child, but had developed an insatiable sweet tooth as well. Luckily for her, her hips had yet to betray the fact.

  CHAPTER 9

  “Eva, do relax and tell me what’s troubling you.” Phoebe took another bite of cake and let the moist, lemony flavor melt over her tongue. No one made lemon poppy seed cake like Mrs. Ellison and Phoebe never tired of it.

  Across the little table from her, Eva sat as stiffly upright as always, not allowing her spine to touch the petit-point back of the armchair. She raised her teacup to her lips for a small sip and lowered it back to the saucer with the tiniest of clinks. No matter how intimate they had become during their exploits of the past two years, Eva remained careful not to cross the line between mistress and servant and never presumed to be Phoebe’s equal. And while Phoebe understood the importance of maintaining employer-employee relationships, in her point of view the difference between her and Eva was just that, while Eva, born in an earlier time, couldn’t quite shake old notions of being born to one’s station in life.

  Phoebe smiled across the space between them. “And I don’t mean the unrest belowstairs. It’s more than that on your mind. I can tell.”

  A faint glow came into Eva’s cheeks. “You know me too well, my lady.”

  “Yes, I do. So please stop being so formal, sit back, and talk to me.”

  Eva glanced wistfully out the wide window beside them, which overlooked the front park, the winding drive, and, more distantly, the Cotswold Hills, each day clad more and more brightly in shades of russet and gold. “It’s my sister. I didn’t tell you everything after I spoke with her.”

  “No, I sensed you were holding back. Was it very dreadful?”

  “It was, rather. She’s frightfully angry with me for making insinuations, yet for all her protests, I don’t believe I was far off the mark.”

  Phoebe studied Eva’s countenance as Eva’s gaze was once more drawn to the scene outside the window. “If at all.”

  Eva nodded. “Indeed. And the thought of her being willing to see Keenan condemned for murder in order to protect herself from scandal is”—she sighed—“intolerable.”

  “She did deny outright being at Mr. Ripley’s house that morning. She could be telling the truth. And that would certainly account for her anger with you. From what you told me about what went on belowstairs, plenty of the staff are good and angry about being accused of stealing. It’s only natural when one knows one is innocent.”

  “Yes, all that’s true. But Alice didn’t or couldn’t persuade me of her innocence. She couldn’t even account for her time that morning. She visited with an elderly neighbor and claims to have gone on a long walk afterward.”

  “Is that so outlandish?”

  “I’ve never known Alice to be one for long walks. Industry, yes, but not idle walking. She likes to keep busy. And her reasons for coming to Little Barlow so suddenly were equally vague. It leads me to believe there are problems at home.”

  “Problems she doesn’t wish to talk about.” Phoebe sipped her tea, a spicy chai blend she had recently discovered to be her favorite. Perhaps she should have purchased some at the tea shop in Cheltenham. Would Julia insist on another visit to see the fortune-teller? “But that, too, is understandable. If she came here to work out those problems, she probably doesn’t wish to discuss them just now. And being accused of carrying on with another man would certainly anger her.”

  “That’s why this is troubling me so. Either Alice is . . . well . . . lying, or I’ve done my sister a great wrong. Either way, there is no good end to this.”

  “Of course there is. Truth will out, Eva. And if you’re wrong, your sister will forgive you.”

  “Will she, my lady? I have no guarantee that I haven’t done irreparable harm to our relationship.”

  A reassurance was on Phoebe’s tongue, but died there. How could she assure Eva of a sister’s love when she and her own sister often skirted one another like skittish rabbits? Her younger sister, Amelia, was another story entirely. Phoebe couldn’t imagine darling, tenderhearted Amelia ever holding a grudge against anyone, much less a family member, but Phoebe and Julia enjoyed a tenuous camaraderie at best.

  “I’ll tell you what,” she said at length. “Why let things between you and Mrs. Ward fester? Take a couple of hours off this afternoon and visit her. I’ll even drive you over.”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t impose.”

  “About taking time off or my driving you?”

  “Either. Your grandfather doesn’t pay me to visit my family during the week. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “Pish posh, as Julia would say. My grandfather is no tyrant. Besides, after last spring you can do no wrong in his eyes.”

  “I don’t like to take advantage of his goodwill. Or yours.”

  “Again I say pish posh. Let’s finish our tea and go.”

  Eva reached for another shortbread biscuit. “If you don’t mind, my lady, I’d prefer to walk. If you can spare me long enough, that is.”

  “Oh, Eva, does my motoring frighten you that much?”

  “Not at all.” Phoebe was sure she was lying until Eva continued. “Walking will give me the time to consider what I’d like to say to Alice, and how I might make things right between us.”

  Phoebe couldn’t argue with that.

  “But first . . .” Eva set her plate aside. “I need to talk to Hetta and convince her she’s not getting the sack.”

  “Not trouble with Julia, I hope?”

  “No, it’s the same bee that’s under all the servants’ bonnets. Apparently Mrs. Sanders questioned Hetta about the missing food items and Hetta’s got it into her head she’s being blamed.”

  “Oh, dear. Well, if anyone can set her mind to rest, it’s you. Why don’t you see to that now and then go on to your parents’ farm. Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you out?”

  Eva thanked her again, declined the offer, and hurriedly left on her errands, once more leaving Phoebe less than confident about Eva’s faith in her motoring abilities.

  Ah, well. She went to her writing table and began making notations about the RCVF donation dispersal, which would begin soo
n. As with William Gaff’s family, there were others who were not on the main list of recipients, but whom Phoebe wished included. Some of them had written to her with appeals for assistance; others had been recommended by friends and neighbors; still others Phoebe had identified for herself. Without her explicit instructions, however, most of those families would be overlooked, not out of any malice, but in the spirit of caution and not wishing to squander the community’s largesse on those who were not deserving. The families Phoebe added to the list were indeed deserving, and once she placed her initials beside their names, no one would think to question the additions.

  She was halfway through reviewing the requests and recommendations when someone rapped at her door. An instant later, Julia walked in.

  “Are you busy?”

  “Yes, actually. I’m going over potential beneficiaries for the RCVF.”

  “Ah. You can do that later. Come to my room, please.”

  “Julia, really, I’d like to get this done.”

  “This has to do with your little hobby, in a way.” Julia tapped the toe of her house slipper on the carpet, prompting Phoebe to sigh and set down her pen.

  “All right. What’s so urgent?”

  Julia replied by turning on her heel and exiting the room, apparently expecting Phoebe to follow. With another sigh, she did. On the way down the corridor, she privately berated herself for not standing up to Julia when she did, indeed, have important work to do. But her conversation with Eva remained fresh in her mind, and Phoebe couldn’t but admit her compliance now had a lot to do with her ongoing efforts to close the gap between herself and her sister.

  The only problem was, jumping to the snapping of Julia’s fingers never changed a thing. It might at times melt a bit of the ice between them, but only temporarily. Julia was capable of freezing their détente faster than an icebox could make hoarfrost.

  She stopped on the threshold of Julia’s bedroom, stunned by the tumbling disarray that greeted her. Garments of all colors and fabrics covered the bed, chaise longue, chairs, and settee, and even hung from the bedposts. “What on earth have you been doing?”