Murder by Midnight

by Blythe Baker

  “Nobody knows,” Vivian Barry answered. “Alice and Charles found him this way.”

  “Well, he was standing when I saw him,” Charles said.

  “He has been stabbed,” Samuel offered. “That much we know. Otherwise, we aren’t sure. Alastair hasn’t spoken, and it seems he is unconscious now.”

  Lady Drummond had dropped to her knees next to Gordon and was running her hand through Alastair’s hair, the same red-brown shade as her own. She whispered comforting words to him, but I had a feeling they were more for her than for him.

  As far as I could tell, Alastair wasn’t aware of much. His breathing was shallow, and his breaths were growing fewer and further between. Despite my mother’s efforts to staunch his bleeding, his wounds were too numerous. Blood seemed to pulse from everywhere, the spot on the floor growing to encompass most of the hallway.

  By the time the doctor arrived—a gray-haired man in his nightclothes with a dress coat pulled over the top—Alastair hadn’t taken a breath in fifteen minutes. The doctor pronounced him dead on arrival, but it was not news to anyone. We all knew he would die. The only question that needed to be answered now was who was responsible.

  8

  “It was eerie,” Vivian whispered, her hands clutched around a cup of tea. “The way everyone was so quiet. Lady Drummond didn’t even scream. They all just…stared at him.”

  “Screaming wouldn’t have helped,” her brother said. Charles had his arm around his sister to comfort her, but he looked like he would rather be upstairs in his bed. “It was obvious from the first time I saw him that he would die from his wounds.”

  “People do not scream to help, Charles. They scream because it is the human instinct. Alice screamed when she saw him.”

  I felt my cheeks warm. “I wanted to alert everyone to what was going on.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed, Alice,” Vivian insisted. “I would have screamed, too. If I’d seen him collapse the way you did, I would have fainted.”

  We were in the same sitting room we’d been in the night before listening to Samuel Rigby’s tales of the castle. Last night it had felt cozy, crowded with people and laughter and firelight. Now, it was cold. No one had bothered to light the fire. It was just my mother, myself, and the Barry siblings on the furniture. Lord and Lady Drummond were talking with the authorities who had arrived with the doctor. Gordon was with them, I presumed, and Samuel Rigby and Sherborne Sharp had made themselves scarce soon after the police arrived.

  “I cannot believe we are enduring this again,” Charles said. “This is the third time the four of us have been in a house where someone died. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the killer was one of us.”

  “We don’t know that there is a killer,” Vivian said sharply.

  Charles raised a brow at his sister. “You believe Alastair stabbed himself that many times? There were wounds to his back. How would he have managed those?”

  “We should leave those questions for the police to answer,” my mother said. “Our duty is to be here for Lord and Lady Drummond during this time. They are beside themselves right now, I’m sure.”

  Charles nodded, and I saw realization cross his face. My mother would know better than anyone how Lady Drummond was feeling right now. She had seen her own son shot and bleeding before her eyes. And then, she had lost him. No one could understand the pain of losing a child except for a person who had felt it already.

  “I want to do something,” Mama said, her hands fidgeting in the fabric of her shawl. “Perhaps, I could bring them some tea. Or something to eat.”

  “I’m sure that’s being taken care of. The servants are at work in the kitchen,” I said. “I saw them on my way here. No one can go back to sleep, it seems.”

  “It isn’t even five,” Charles lamented. “What was Alastair doing out of bed in the middle of the night?”

  My mother shot him a stern look, and Charles bit back his question and any further questions, it seemed. Though, I had similar thoughts.

  What had Alastair been doing awake in the middle of the night? Or had he been attacked in his sleep? If so, why had the assailant allowed him to wander the hallways rather than finish the job in his room?

  “I would love to be of help, but truthfully, I scarcely know the Drummonds,” Vivian admitted. “I met Lady Drummond only twice while she was in London. I enjoyed her company, but I was surprised when she extended an invitation to us.”

  “I didn’t want to come,” Charles said.

  “But I convinced him,” Vivian continued. “A week in Scotland sounded like fun. Of course, now I wish we had stayed home. If I never see another dead body as long as I live, it will still be too soon.”

  I raised my teacup in agreement.

  Charles did the same and then sighed. “After this, I will be perfectly content to never accept another invitation in my life. Staying at home alone is preferable to this.”

  “I still can’t get over it,” Vivian said as though her brother hadn’t spoken. “The quiet way everyone responded. It was almost as if they were expecting this to happen.”

  “Don’t say that,” my mother hissed.

  Vivian’s eyes went wide. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “Don’t let Lady Drummond or anyone in the family hear you say such a thing,” she said. “Of course, they didn’t know this would happen. Who would ever think this kind of tragedy would occur?”

  “I just meant,” Vivian stuttered, her lips trembling. “I just meant that everyone seemed too calm.”

  “She didn’t mean any harm, Mama,” I said, laying a hand on my mother’s knee. She stilled immediately, her hand coming down to rest on top of mine. She squeezed my fingers, and her hands were ice cold.

  “You are frigid.” I laid her hand back on her lap and stood up. “Let me find you another blanket and some fresh tea.”

  She tried to tell me she was fine, but her protests were weak, and I knew my mother well enough to know she was overwhelmed. Her thoughts went to Edward often enough, but a young man of similar age lying dead in a puddle of blood upstairs made it impossible for her not to think even more of my brother. I was struggling with the same issue. Staying busy would help me and hot tea would help her. I set off to find a maid.

  The kitchen was accessed by a narrow corridor off of the dining room. The ceilings were lower, making it feel as though the stone ceiling was trying to press down on whoever walked beneath it. I hurried through the space and into the kitchen.

  The household staff stood in a small huddle in the middle of the room, whispering so softly their voices were just a faint hiss. The head cook was a burly middle-aged woman with pitch black hair braided down her back and an apron around her waist. She had her arms around a red-haired maid, rubbing her hand along the smaller woman’s back. When I cleared my throat, everyone in the room turned to me, including the red-haired maid, who I recognized at once as the young woman who had given me the spare blanket before bed last night. Since she was the only one of the group I recognized, I directed my question to her.

  “Could I trouble you for some fresh tea? Ours is going cold.”

  The maid’s green eyes were red and swollen, and she blinked at me for several seconds.

  It was the head cook who nodded and answered me. “Yes, someone will bring it right out.”

  I smiled in sad thanks and left. Even the servants were crying over Alastair. It made sense, of course. A violent death in the house was always distressing. I was just uncomfortable with the fact that I seemed to be the only person in the entire house not devastated by the murder.

  It was a tragedy, but I did not know the victim well enough to cry, and each tear I didn’t shed felt like an insult to his family. I was a guest in their home. Didn’t I owe it to them to be heartbroken? Or was it better to remain stoic and calm? I could be of more help that way, after all.

  I sighed, unsure what I was supposed to do or how to help. Perhaps, it would be better if my mother and I left earl
y. We could get a ride to the train station and head for home immediately. Then, my mother would not have to relive Edward’s death, and I would not have to fret over how I was supposed to react.

  As I stepped out of the servant’s corridor and into the dining room, the echo of raised voices reached me. To my knowledge, everyone in the house was either in the sitting room or upstairs, so curiosity compelled me to turn to the right and head in the direction of the library.

  The door was partially open, allowing me to see a small sliver of the room. The most I could make out was a black oxford shoe tapping against the floor, but as soon as the conversation picked up again, I didn’t need to see any faces to recognize who the voices belonged to.

  “What exactly are you suggesting?” Samuel Rigby asked. His voice was soft but defensive. It seemed he had dropped the façade of soothing storyteller that he’d possessed the night before.

  The library floor creaked with a footstep and Gordon Drummond moved into view. His face was pale with dark circles under his eyes.

  I stepped away from the door before he could see me.

  “I’m suggesting you had something to do with my brother’s murder,” Gordon said.

  “Have the police even ruled it a murder?” Samuel asked, echoing Vivian’s sentiment from earlier.

  Almost as if they had overheard the Barry siblings bickering, Gordon Drummond responded, “I don’t need to be a police detective to recognize that my brother couldn’t stab himself in his own back.”

  “And you believe I could have?” Samuel asked.

  “Yes, I do,” Gordon said. “You told that ridiculous story last night, the tale of the weeping woman. The last words my brother uttered in my ear were, ‘the weeping woman in white’. What do you make of that?”

  My eyes went wide. I crept forward again, clinging more closely to the doorframe, careful to keep my breathing shallow and silent.

  “He was delirious, Gordon. Those who found him said he stumbled all around the hall. He tripped over a table and sent the contents rolling across the floor,” Samuel said. “Clearly, he was not well. Whoever attacked him, assuming he was indeed attacked, did their job thoroughly.”

  “He was well enough to give me a clue. Well enough to choose those words as his last. I can’t believe that doesn’t mean anything.”

  “And I can’t allow you to make a mockery of my name and reputation,” Samuel said. “I am sorry for your loss, but I’ve never wished ill upon anyone, your brother included, and you know that.”

  “I know no such thing.” The words were spoken in a half-shout.

  I looked around to be sure the sound of their arguing wasn’t drawing any other attention. I had received enough ridicule as a girl for eavesdropping that I didn’t want to be found with my ear pressed to a door. Especially when the topic of discussion was so serious.

  “Think on this for a moment, Gordon. Please. You are not making any sense. If Alastair was capable of whispering a few words in your ear, why not just say my name?” Samuel asked. “Why not make his meaning plain?”

  “Had he not been bleeding to death, I suspect he would have made his meaning very plain,” Gordon said. “As it was, he did the best he could.”

  “So, you admit yourself that your brother was confused?”

  “There is a difference between being confused and speaking nonsense,” Gordon said. “Just because he could not tell me what he wanted to in plain words doesn’t mean he didn’t tell me the truth.”

  Samuel sighed. “Why would I come into this house as a guest, only to kill your brother?”

  “We both know the answer to that.”

  “I wish you would enlighten me because I haven’t the faintest idea what my supposed motive would be.”

  “Your daughter.” Gordon let the words hang between them. “You blamed Alastair for her death. I heard you accuse him.”

  Hearing pacing on the other side of the door now, I tucked myself closer to the wall to avoid being seen.

  “I was wild with grief when I made that accusation,” Samuel answered. “You know I forgave Alastair long ago.”

  “I know you claimed to,” Gordon said. “No one can truly know the contents of a man’s heart. It is possible you told Alastair you forgave him all the while harboring ill will towards him. And perhaps, your desire for revenge grew too strong to ignore.”

  “This is absurd, and I won’t—”

  “May I search your room?” Gordon asked, interrupting Samuel’s defense. “Would I find a woman’s white gown there? It would be a fitting revenge, wouldn’t it? Killing Alastair dressed as a scorned lover?”

  “Jenny was never his lover,” Samuel bit back. “And you would do well not to mention her again. You are lashing out in grief just as I did all those years ago. I am trying to overlook your cruelty, but push, and you may find my forgiveness has a limit.”

  My attention was fully trained on the crack in the library door. My heart was pounding, and I couldn’t move. Had Samuel Rigby killed Alastair? It hardly seemed possible, but then, I knew very little about the man. I hadn’t known he’d had a daughter. Especially not a daughter who would have been old enough to be in a romantic relationship with Alastair Drummond.

  I heard Gordon unhitch his breath to respond, but before he could, there were footsteps behind me.

  “Miss Beckingham? I was just bringing your tea.”

  I startled at the unexpected voice and spun around, my hip knocking into the corner of a small shelf. I quickly steadied a picture frame before it could tip over. When I looked up, it was to see an unfamiliar maid, a blonde woman not much older than me, calmly holding a tray of tea.

  She seemed oblivious to how badly she had frightened me. “Shall I leave the tea here or take it to the sitting room?” she asked.

  I moved away from the door, doing my best to keep my expression calm while hoping beyond hope that the men in the library had not heard the maid. “The sitting room will do. Thank you.”

  The maid nodded, but before she could leave, her eyes shifted to look over my shoulder.

  I felt a draft against my back and knew the library door was fully open now. I turned to see Gordon Drummond standing in the doorway. His red hair was disheveled and sticking in every direction as though his fingers had been run through it nervously, but his eyes were clear and focused. I felt my skin heat as he stared at me, all possibility that he didn’t know I’d been eavesdropping on his conversation slipping away. He knew.

  Samuel Rigby appeared over Gordon’s shoulder, and when he saw me, he dropped his gaze, as if embarrassed.

  I expected a confrontation but before anyone could say anything, the maid spoke up again. “Oh, Miss Beckingham?”

  I turned to her slowly, not wanting my back to be against Gordon. He had given me that bit of advice the day before. At the time, he’d been discussing animals, but he’d made it clear it referred to people, too. Interesting, then, that his brother was stabbed in the back that very night. Clearly, Gordon had never shared that advice with Alastair.

  “Yes?” I answered the maid.

  “I almost forgot to tell you. The police are beginning their interviews, and they wished to speak with you first. Since you found—” She glanced back at Gordon and bit her lip. “Since you were the first person to find...” Clearly, she did not know how to finish the sentence without referring to Alastair as “the body”.

  I rescued her by nodding in thanks, and she left quickly, obviously relieved to be free of the tension.

  I took a deep breath, turned to face Gordon, and gave a small nod. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  He didn’t move or acknowledge me in any way other than tracking my movement with his eyes. I felt his attention on me until I turned into the entrance hall, where I found two policemen waiting for me.

  9

  The policemen wore dark pants and coats, their silver buttons shining in the light from the lamps, their hats resting in their laps. They leaned forward as they questioned me.

>   “You came out of your room when you heard the victim scream?” Sergeant Finley asked. He was a round man with a soft face and kind eyes. The opposite of his partner.

  “He did not scream,” Detective Cavins said with a frustrated sigh. “Miss Beckingham screamed when she saw his wounds.”

  I nodded and smiled warmly at Sergeant Finley. “Detective Cavins is correct. I came out of my room when I heard a banging sound from the hall. I believe that was Alastair stumbling over things in the corridor but it was too dark to tell for certain.”

  “So, you did not see anyone else in the hall?” Detective Cavins asked.

  “No, I did not. I could scarcely see across the corridor, let alone down the length of it.”

  Sergeant Finley jotted down my answers in his notebook. I wanted to read what he was writing. I hadn’t done anything wrong, of course, but being interviewed still set me on edge.

  “Do you know anyone who might have been angry with Mr. Drummond? Had he argued with anyone recently or talked with you about anyone who might have threatened him?”

  Gordon and Samuel’s conversation in the library came to mind. If Gordon was right and Alastair had caused the death of Samuel’s daughter, then Samuel had a good reason to be angry. Still, I had no proof to back up this possibility other than one heated conversation I was not meant to overhear anyway. It felt wrong to throw suspicion on a man when I wasn’t even sure the accuser would feel the same way in a day’s time. If Gordon wanted the police to look into Samuel as a possible murderer, he would tell them what he knew.

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I only met the Drummond family yesterday,” I said with a shrug. “My mother knows Lady Drummond, but even they have only met a handful of times. It is a sad coincidence that we were here to witness Alastair’s death. If I knew more, I would tell you, but I’m afraid there isn’t anything more I can say to help.”

  Detective Cavins pressed his lips together until they turned white while Sergeant Finley escorted me out.