A Silent Stabbing

by Alyssa Maxwell

  And finally, there had been William, who had seen the killer. He’d described a slim, wiry figure in baggy clothing. Why, Mrs. Corbyn had worn her husband’s clothes along with his cap.

  “You left it there on purpose, didn’t you?”

  “Left what?” the woman snapped. By her tone, she was growing weary of Eva’s and Lady Phoebe’s questions. But Eva wanted an answer.

  “You husband’s flat cap. You left it there on purpose to incriminate him.”

  “It was a good idea. It worked, didn’t it?”

  “And that day in the gardener’s cottage. That was you who ran me down.”

  The woman chuckled. “Sorry about that. But you didn’t give me much choice. I couldn’t very well have let you recognize me. If you had, you and Lady Phoebe would already be dead.”

  “Why were you there?” Lady Phoebe’s grip on the steering wheel tightened as the car bumped its way over deep ruts in the road.

  Those ruts resulted in Mrs. Corbyn’s gun digging deeper into Eva’s side, but she resisted the urge to wince. Mrs. Corbyn said, “To find the letter I’d written Stephen about Mr. Walker’s plans. I did find it, you know, and everything would have been just fine if not for the pair of you. I wish I had killed you both that day.”

  The motorcar rumbled up a low hill. At its crest, sprawling fields opened up on either side of the motorcar. To the right, a frothy sea of sheep poured into sight, herded by several enthusiastic, shaggy, black and white dogs, with two men following in the rear. At first the livestock seemed intent on running parallel to the road, but as Eva watched they took a sudden turn.

  “They’re heading this way,” she said. “They’re going to cross the road. There must be a break in the stone wall up ahead.”

  “They’ll either wait or move out of the way,” Mrs. Corbyn said dismissively.

  Judging by the herd’s distance to the road, and the rate at which the Vauxhall was moving, Eva estimated they would reach the same crossing at the same time. Lady Phoebe apparently made the same calculation in her mind.

  “We’ve got to slow down,” she said, and changed gears as she applied the brakes.

  “Keep going,” Mrs. Corbyn commanded. “I told you, they’ll move out of the way.”

  “Or we’ll hit them. Is that what you want? Do you think I’ll be able to keep this vehicle moving after plowing into a half dozen or more full-grown sheep?”

  “Speed up then.” The woman craned her neck, leaning her head out the window as she scanned the distance. “Hurry. We can pass them before they reach the road.”

  Lady Phoebe was shaking her head. “We won’t. I don’t want to hit them.”

  They reached a decline and the sheep dipped out of view. Mrs. Corbyn brought her head back inside the motorcar and jabbed her gun painfully into Eva’s side. “I said hurry up. If you attempt to slow this motorcar again I’ll shoot your friend. And you’ll be next.”

  “And you’ll be caught,” Eva reminded her.

  The woman shrugged. “And you’ll be dead. Now go, Lady Phoebe.”

  The Vauxhall lurched ahead, the thin tires burning up the road even as the sheep made short work of the field. Their herders couldn’t have noticed the motorcar yet, especially not over the noise of barking, bleating, and hooves tramping over the turf. The road curved frequently, and now they caught only fleeting glimpses of fluffy white bodies in motion. The shepherds might not spot them until it was too late.

  Lady Phoebe began pounding the button on the Vauxhall’s Klaxon horn, sending its blaring a-rooga cry into the afternoon air. Would the warning be enough to stop a swarming herd?

  “We’re going to collide with them,” Lady Phoebe shouted as she maneuvered with one hand and continued thumping the horn’s mechanism. A-rooga filled Eva’s ears and blocked out other sounds while the oncoming sheep filled her vision. They were almost at the crossing point, and the first of the sheep had already streamed through the gate in the low stone wall and were descending the verge between the field and the road.

  “We won’t make it!” Lady Phoebe stopped sounding the horn in order to clutch the steering wheel with both hands. “I don’t want to hit them.”

  “They’re just sheep,” Elaina Corbyn shouted back.

  “You’re detestable,” Eva said, and once again contemplated reaching over, opening the door, and pushing the farmwife out.

  Before the thought had wholly formed in her mind, Lady Phoebe shouted, “I won’t!” and twisted the steering wheel. The Vauxhall swerved and skidded, sending up a shower of dust and pebbles. As the sky tilted in the windscreen, Eva felt herself thrown against Elaina Corbyn’s side—and against the barrel of her gun, which stabbed cruelly into her side. The motorcar began to spin, turning full around as it shimmied sideways across the road away from the oncoming sheep. Road and fields streaked past as the car slid toward the verge, the rock wall, and the sturdy gatepost at the entrance to the second field.

  A blast exploded in Eva’s ears, setting off a deafening ringing. Before her face, the windscreen shattered outward. Shards sprinkled into the air, clattered onto the motorcar’s bonnet, and slid off to shower the ground on either side. The Vauxhall came to a jarring stop at a tilt, giving Eva the sensation it might at any moment tip onto its side.

  Even through the ringing, she heard the frantic bleating and running of sheep, the desperate barking of the dogs, and the urgent shouting of the shepherds.

  “Eva?” Lady Phoebe shouted.

  Eva barely heard her through the high-pitched whistle that pulsated in her ears, and yet the sound of her mistress’s voice filled her with relief. It took her a moment to comprehend exactly what had happened. The gun. The bullet. The windscreen.

  Whatever happened in that final moment before the car crashed—running off the road, climbing the grassy verge to hit the gatepost—had dislodged the gun barrel from Eva’s side and sent its discharging bullet wildly into the air. It had hit the windscreen and shattered it.

  Eva wasted no time. Even as she yelled to assure her mistress she was unharmed, she twisted, seized Elaina Corbyn’s trigger hand, and pinned it to the seat. Then she pried the weapon from the woman’s stubborn fingers, resorting to stomping on her foot when she proved uncooperative. That did the trick. Mrs. Corbyn shrieked, and Eva whisked the gun from her possession and handed it to Lady Phoebe, who in turn tossed it out of the Vauxhall.

  Sheep surrounded the automobile, while the dogs stood on their hind legs, their front paws propped on the frame. They raised a ruckus of barking. Lady Phoebe opened her door and stumbled out. “Help us, please. This woman with us, the redhead—she’s dangerous.”

  Eva used the distraction to reach around Elaina Corbyn, open the door as she had wished to do during the ride, and shove her out. The woman tumbled over and collapsed onto the ground on her side, to be overrun by panicking sheep and barked at by the dogs. Speaking of sheep and dogs . . .

  Eva took a quick look about her as she slid out of the Vauxhall after Lady Phoebe. She saw no animals strewn across the road, no blood, no tufts of fur floating through the air. It seemed the motorcar had missed the animals altogether. She came around the vehicle and thrust out her forefinger. “That woman kidnapped us. This is Lady Phoebe Renshaw, granddaughter of the Earl of Wroxly, and this woman endangered her life.”

  “Both of our lives,” Phoebe corrected her. She wrapped an arm around Eva and pulled her to her side.

  The two men were clearly having difficulty grasping the situation; little in their experience could have prepared them for such a sight or such accusations. They hesitated, then moved slowly around the nose of the Vauxhall to glimpse the woman who lay moaning on the other side.

  “She’s wanted in Little Barlow for the murders of two men,” Eva told them in a firm voice. It wasn’t precisely true, but it would be soon enough.

  “Yes, and I know my grandfather will want to reward you for your assistance,” Lady Phoebe added, and that made up the men’s minds for them. One on each side
, they hauled Elaina Corbyn to her feet while Eva went to collect the discarded weapon.

  * * *

  Eva spent that night at her parents’ cottage, sleeping in one of the two beds in the room she and Alice had shared as children. Miles had driven her out there last night, after taking her and Lady Phoebe’s statements and assuring himself they were both all right. He’d been fiercely protective, sweetly solicitous. He would be coming by later that morning to drive her back to Foxwood Hall.

  She and Alice had talked late into the night, airing grievances as sisters will do, but finally finding common ground and even forgiveness. In the morning, Eva once again awoke to aching bones, not to mention a couple of bruised ribs. But she was alive. Lady Phoebe was alive. Keenan Ripley had been released from jail, Elaina Corbyn having taken his place, and by nightfall yesterday Lord Wroxly had gone to visit Keenan with an offer to help him save his orchard.

  Her sister’s bed lay empty, the covers neatly in place, the pillow fluffed and angled just so against the iron headboard. A glance at the bedside clock let Eva know she had slept later than usual, while the sounds of voices from across the small house beckoned to her. She quickly donned the same frock she had arrived in last night, pinned up her hair, and made her way to the kitchen.

  What she saw from the doorway both took her aback and made her grin. A bouquet of flowers—roses, peonies, baby’s breath—sat in one of Mum’s earthenware pitchers in the center of the table. And the person who had brought them? He stood with his hat in his hands, his head slightly bowed, a remorseful look on his slightly lined face. He was speaking in a low murmur, for one pair of ears only, and Eva couldn’t make out the words. Whatever they were, however, she knew they were sincere. Beyond the window that overlooked the garden, Eva spied her parents walking slowly away from the cottage, looking as though they wished to appear industrious but in fact were only putting a discreet distance between themselves and the occupants of the kitchen.

  Alice, on the other hand, sat at the table and stared into her coffee cup, her expression shuttered and her posture conveying the impression that she had little interest in the words her husband was speaking to her.

  For all Eva yearned to remain and witness the events unfolding, she backed away from the doorway and moved out of sight. Oliver and Alice hadn’t seen her. She tiptoed to the front door with every intention of slipping outside, when she heard a cry.

  “Oliver, you’ve been the worst kind of idiot.”

  Eva stopped with her hand poised on the door latch.

  “Yes, I admit that. But your leaving me has knocked sense into me, Alice.” Oliver said more, but his voice dropped again and Eva couldn’t quite hear.

  Then Alice said, more calmly, “I didn’t leave you, Oliver. I merely came home to think things through.”

  “And?” Oliver’s voice rang with eager hope.

  Eva held her breath, crossed her fingers, and joined him in those hopes. Unlike Elaina Corbyn, Alice had loved her life on the farm she and Oliver had built together in Suffolk. She took pride in their work and gained a sense of value from it. She and Oliver had always been partners—until recently, when he’d made bad decisions and then compounded them with reckless behavior.

  “And . . .” Alice said slowly, “if you’ll mend your ways, I believe we can mend things between us and on the farm.”

  “I’ve already mended them, Alice, I swear.”

  “Don’t swear, Oliver, it’s vulgar. But promise me, no more drinking—at least no more than a person should—and no more gambling. At all.”

  “Yes to both, Alice. I sw—that is, I promise. My solemn promise. Your father said he has some ideas that’ll help us get back on our feet, not that I intend to take a penny from him. Alice, just come home. The children miss you. I miss you. What do you say?”

  A long pause ensued. Finally, Alice said, “We’ve faced worse, I suppose. That summer there was almost no rain, the war, the influenza. . . .”

  “That’s true,” Oliver was quick to agree.

  “So then, yes. I suppose I’ll come home.”

  “Alice . . .”

  Abruptly, Alice said, “There’s something you should know.”

  Sounding wary, Oliver asked, “Yes? What is it?”

  “Another mouth to feed, I’m afraid.”

  “Alice . . . Alice . . .” His voice hitched. He coughed, cleared his throat, and spoke her name again.

  Eva’s eyes suddenly burned and a lump that might have been joy pressed against her throat. The last thing she heard from the kitchen was the scrape of a chair—presumably Alice getting up from the table to embrace her husband—before she opened the front door and stepped out.

  * * *

  Phoebe came into the morning room expecting to find her grandparents having their breakfast. She didn’t at all expect to see, instead, Julia sitting at the table enjoying a mound of eggs, fruit, and toast. This was the first time Julia had chosen not to breakfast in her room in months—since before her wedding.

  “You’re looking chipper today,” Phoebe commented, then regretted it. Calling Julia things like chipper was just the way to sour her mood. And yet, once again, Julia surprised her.

  “I’m feeling chipper, actually. Not quite sure why. I slept well, I suppose.”

  “Where are Grams and Grampapa? It’s awfully early for them to have eaten and gone about their business. Or aren’t they up yet?”

  “They’re up.” Julia stabbed a perfectly formed melon ball with her fork and popped it in her mouth. With uncharacteristic enthusiasm, she chewed and spoke at the same time. “They’ve gone to telephone Mr. Peele. They’re going to beg him to come back to Foxwood Hall. And I can’t tell you how glad I am. I want him to help me plan a garden for the baby, a rather extensive one. I want lots of blue hydrangeas and delphiniums as well as pink roses and such. If we plan it all out now and decide what we’ll need to order, we can start the planting as soon as the spring thaw comes in the New Year. I simply don’t trust it to anyone but Alfred Peele.”

  “That’s a lovely idea.” Phoebe went to the sideboard and filled a plate of her own. Perhaps Julia’s voracious appetite was catching. Perhaps nearly being killed yesterday had increased her appreciation of simple things, like breakfast. Or, perhaps it was hearing Julia speak of the prospect of having a boy or a girl with equal enthusiasm, if her choices of flowers gave any indication. “If I can help, please let me know.”

  “Would you like to?”

  Phoebe turned to face her sister. “Of course I would.”

  “All right then.” Julia reached for the coffeepot. “There’s something else I could use your help with, too. It’s for Grams and Grampapa’s upcoming anniversary.”

  “That’s not for months yet.”

  “I realize that. I wish to order something special in honor of their fifty-fifth year together. We might even need to take a secret trip, you and I. And Amelia. I suppose we couldn’t leave her out.”

  Phoebe carried her plate to the table. “Where to?”

  Julia took on a positively mischievous and conspiratorial grin. “Sit, and I’ll tell you.”

  Good heavens, Phoebe thought as Julia launched into her idea for their grandparents’ anniversary, did a new Julia sneak into the house to replace the old one? Had she come to her senses and stopped blaming herself for her husband’s untimely death? Stopped agonizing over whether she would have a boy—Gil’s heir—or a girl?

  Had past resentments between Julia and Phoebe simply dissipated into the autumn air? And would this surprising accord between them last? That was a question Phoebe had asked numerous times in the past. Would this time be any different?

  Yes, so many questions. She let Julia talk, nodding her head in full agreement with all of Julia’s plans, and wondered whether they should take another ride to Cheltenham, this time for Phoebe to consult with the fortune-teller to see what their future held.

  ing