Murder by Midnight

by Blythe Baker

  “I am just a friend of the family. Truthfully, I don’t know them very well, but I spoke with Mrs. Jameson,” I said, raising my eyebrows in a question. Mrs. Brown nodded, letting me know she recognized the name. “And she told me that you would know more than anyone about the family’s history.”

  There was a moment where I didn’t think Mrs. Brown would give in to flattery. I thought the eccentric old woman might slam the door in my face. But then, she opened the door a bit more and took a step out onto the porch, allowing me to see her silk slippers and matching house gown. Clearly, she had not been expecting visitors.

  “Do you have questions for me?” she asked.

  “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  She studied me for a moment and then stepped aside, ushering me into her home.

  The house was just as small on the inside as it appeared from the outside, but Mrs. Brown kept it nice and tidy. She had two chairs in her sitting area, arranged around the fireplace, and a rickety table in the middle of the kitchen. The small space was sweltering because of the fire, and I could already feel a sweat breaking out on my forehead, but I still accepted the seat she offered me only a few feet from the hearth.

  Mrs. Brown, like Mrs. Jameson, seemed to be a no-nonsense kind of woman. I was sure that had a lot to do with the fact that they were both experienced at being in charge of a large household staff. They had to command respect.

  “What is your interest in the Drummond family?” she asked.

  I told Mrs. Brown that I was both curious and concerned about Alastair’s death. Having been the one to find him as he was dying, I couldn’t push the questions out of my mind. I needed to do my best to have them answered.

  “And have you found the answers you are looking for?” she asked.

  “Not all of them,” I admitted. “That is why I’m here to see you. Mrs. Jameson said you worked with the family for many years.”

  “I did,” she said. Then, she narrowed her eyes. “And that is why I have and will remain loyal to them.”

  “And I would never wish to tarnish that long history of loyalty. I only wonder whether you know anything about the Drummond’s friendship with Samuel Rigby.”

  “Ahh,” she said, tipping her head back and drumming her fingers on her knees. “Yes, their connection has gone back many years. Lord and Lady Drummond have always been fond of Samuel Rigby and his work.”

  I nodded, waiting for her to elaborate, but she stared at me with a quiet kind of intensity that let me know I would have to work for any information I got from her.

  “And what of their children?”

  Immediately, her mouth quirked up in a pleased smile. “It seems you have stumbled upon a bit of information before coming to me.”

  “I have been thorough.”

  She smiled and folded her hands in her lap, preparing to tell a story. I wondered how often people came out to the cottage to visit her. Based on her leisure clothes, it didn’t seem she expected guests often. Maybe I was the first person in awhile—aside from the police—to care what she had to say. If so, I hoped it meant she would tell me all she knew.

  “Gordon Drummond was always reserved. He was not one to mingle much with others or form new friendships. Young Alastair, however, was friendly and sociable since he was a young child. So, when Samuel Rigby began visiting regularly with his daughter in tow, she and Alastair became fast friends.”

  “And did they become anything more?” I asked.

  “That depends who you ask,” she answered coyly. “According to the parents, there was no such connection. Lady Drummond is a kind woman, but she has standards for her son, and the daughter of a then-struggling writer would not have been her first choice.”

  I leaned forward. “And if I had asked Alastair or Mr. Rigby’s daughter?”

  She arched an eyebrow. “A different story would emerge.”

  I was desperate for information and decided to be frank. “I overheard Gordon say that Samuel’s daughter and Alastair may have been lovers.”

  Mrs. Brown pursed her lips, looking displeased that someone had beat her to the twist in the story, and then nodded. “I cannot say for certain how far the relationship went, but I can tell you that Jenny Rigby cared for Alastair Drummond deeply. Despite his family’s protestations, she very much believed the two of them would end up together.”

  “And how did you know that?” I asked.

  “Members of household staff are often overlooked or expected to silently move through the house without really paying attention to much, but we see more than people know,” she said. “I spotted the two of them together in quiet corners often enough to know something was going on. And having been a young woman myself once, I recognized the look of love on the girl’s face.”

  I had a feeling Mrs. Brown would not have been so forthcoming had she still worked for the Drummonds. But now that her working days were done, she was ready to let loose the secrets she had been holding.

  “And then Jenny died?” I prodded.

  She frowned, her eyes turning downwards. “She did. The poor girl grew sick and died rather quickly. It was a shock to everyone.”

  I shook my head, confused. “She became ill?”

  Mrs. Brown nodded.

  “Then why would Samuel Rigby have ever believed Alastair was responsible for her death?” I asked. “He could not purposefully cause her to contract a disease.”

  “A woman with a broken heart is more prone to illness,” she said simply. “Or, at least, that is what many people believed.”

  “Alastair broke her heart?”

  Mrs. Brown leaned forward and looked up at me from beneath unkempt eyebrows. “Between you and me, Alastair’s intentions with the girl had never been honorable, and when she realized he had no intention of marrying her, she descended into a terrible melancholy.”

  I sighed. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Brown, but do you really believe she died of a broken heart?”

  The old woman wrinkled her nose. “No. To me, it is most likely she contracted the influenza. It was especially bad that year and the girl had always been on the sickly side.”

  I nodded, thinking through everything. Even if the reasoning behind the claim that Alastair had caused Jenny’s death was faulty, that wouldn’t matter. Samuel Rigby would have been beside himself with grief and not thinking logically. If he bought into the idea that Jenny died of a broken heart, then he would certainly hate the man who had purposefully deceived his daughter. Perhaps, he would hate the man enough to wait for the perfect opportunity to murder him. Even if he had to wait years for that opportunity.

  “Clearly, I gave you something to think about,” Mrs. Brown said, leaning back in her chair and folding her hands in her lap.

  “You did,” I said. “Would you care to give me even more to think about?”

  The woman raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

  “Do you believe Samuel Rigby could have killed Alastair in revenge?”

  She twisted her mouth to one side, making the wrinkles in her face even more apparent, and then sighed, her head bobbing back and forth. Finally, she settled on an answer. “You want to know what I think? I think there are more people than even I know who had reason to hate Alastair Drummond.”

  Mrs. Brown did not ask me if I wanted a refreshment or to stay for a meal. When she decided the conversation was over, she stood up and led me to the door. I thanked her for her time, but she did not respond. Instead, the moment I stepped outside, she began to close the door.

  The last thing I heard before it clicked shut was a sudden warning she tossed at my back, “Mark my words. There’s still darkness lingering up at that castle. Were I you, I would not return to it.”

  Before I could ask for further details, she closed the door behind me and I heard the sound of a lock sliding into place.

  14

  I untied my horse and climbed into the saddle, already feeling much more at home atop the animal than I had two days before. The mare, it seemed, had taken to me
, as well. Or perhaps she was simply eager to get back to the stables. Either way, she headed in that direction immediately and with little direction from me.

  By my estimation, we were halfway between the cottage and the stable when I heard a thundering sound coming from the woods on our right. My horse seemed skittish, side-stepping the trees slightly and shaking her head. I kicked her sides to encourage her onward, but she maintained pace. I didn’t know if this was a good sign or not.

  I glanced over my shoulder as we rode, listening as the sound grew nearer. I noted the crunch of leaves and twigs.

  Someone was coming.

  I had only just reached the realization and was doing my best to get the mare away from the area when a horse broke through the tree line in front of us.

  I pulled back on the reins hard enough that the horse turned her head, though she did not change course. If anything, she moved towards the other horse.

  And then I understood why.

  “Alice?”

  The rider was Gordon Drummond. His round face was flushed from the wind, and his red hair stuck up in every direction. Dirt was splattered across his boots and the legs of his horse.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I came out for a ride,” I said quickly as four more horses with riders came out of the trees behind him. Mr. Kentworth, the estate manager was in the lead.

  “Is that Miss Alice?” Charles Barry asked, clearly puzzled.

  “The very same,” Sherborne Sharp said, riding up next to Gordon and pulling his horse to a stop at a diagonal. A single dark eyebrow was raised.

  “I didn’t realize you all were out this direction,” I admitted. “I just rode out for some fresh air.”

  “If you had wandered much further, you might have found yourself part of the hunt,” Sherborne said with a loud laugh. “You are nearly on the hunting field.”

  Given the murderer still on the loose, Sherborne’s comments struck me as inappropriate and made me uncomfortable, but I simply smiled along with him.

  “Lucky for me I was heading back to the castle now,” I said, pulling on the reins and trying to navigate around Gordon’s large beast.

  “A gentle tug is all it takes to lead her,” Gordon said, demonstrating for me on his own animal. “And we are heading back, too.”

  My mare had been, after all, a little difficult today, so I refrained from pointing out that I knew how to handle a horse.

  “We will all ride together,” Sherborne said, stretching his arms out wide as if he wanted us—horses and all—to join him in a group embrace.

  Samuel Rigby seemed eager to ride ahead, making no eye contact with me, and Charles seemed disinterested either way. That left me trailing just behind Sherborne Sharp and just in front of Gordon Drummond.

  “I had not realized you were so fond of the outdoors,” Gordon said, urging his horse up next to me.

  Whether on purpose or not, Sherborne pulled away, as well, allowing a bit of comfortable space between us so he would not overhear our conversation.

  “A lot can change in a day,” I said. I immediately regretted the words.

  “Indeed, it can,” Gordon said softly.

  “I’m sorry. That is not what I meant.”

  He waved away my embarrassment. “We all say things we do not mean.”

  I stared at the side of his face, wondering if his words perhaps had two meanings. Then, he turned to me, the full force of his green eyes on mine. “Forgive me, Alice.”

  I looked away, uncomfortable with the emotion in his face. In the few short days I’d spent at Druiminn Castle, I had become comfortable with the surly, disinterested Gordon who cared little what anyone thought. But in front of me now, I could see every emotion from the last couple of days written plainly on his face. He was a grieving man.

  “There is nothing to forgive.”

  He nudged his horse closer to mine. “I accused you of a horrible thing, Alice, and I had no right.”

  “Your brother had just died,” I said, voice low. “I understood then and I understand now. You do not need to apologize.”

  He sighed. “Please don’t be stubborn. Just forgive me.”

  When I looked up at him now, the emotion was still obvious in his eyes, but he was smiling. I couldn’t help but smile in return. “You are forgiven.”

  His shoulders relaxed and slowly, as we cantered towards the castle, his horse shifted away from mine. Our group moved in a quiet unit, everyone too tired or too lost in thought to speak until we returned to the stables.

  Charles Barry groaned as he dismounted just outside the stable doors and handed his reins off to a groom who came running to fetch them. “My legs will be sore for the rest of the week, I think.”

  “That is surprising, Charles. You seem like the kind of man who would partake in a great deal of physical activity,” Sherborne said, clearly teasing.

  Charles, however, was oblivious, and puffed up his chest. “I explore the grounds around our home frequently and enjoy a long walk. But it is not often that I find myself on the back of a horse.”

  Sherborne opened his mouth to make another remark, but Gordon nudged him and shook his head, as Charles drifted away.

  I scrambled down from my own mount as the stable boy I had met earlier came to assist me.

  I was watching him lead my horse away when Sherborne, who had dismounted by now, moved to stand next to me. “The job is done.”

  I turned to him, forehead wrinkled. “Excuse me?”

  “I snuck into Alastair’s room last night,” he whispered, after handing off his horse’s reins to a servant. He nodded for me to follow him to the castle.

  Gordon had emerged from the stable already and hurried off up the path in front of us with Charles, Mr. Kentworth, and Samuel Rigby following behind, so I knew we would not be overheard.

  “What did you find?”

  “Aside from an open window and some blood stains, nothing,” he said with a shrug. “His room looked the same as always.”

  “You didn’t notice anything missing?” I asked, disappointed.

  He shook his head. “Nothing obvious. Did you have any luck talking to Gordon?”

  “Not yet.” Though, since he had just apologized to me about the accusation he made, perhaps I would have another chance to ask him about what was missing from his brother’s room.

  Suddenly, Sherborne grabbed my arm and pulled me to a stop. “Maybe this is a sign that this investigation should end.”

  “You don’t want to know what happened?” I asked, confused by his change of heart. He had seemed willing enough to help me before.

  Sherborne ran a hand through his dark hair, looking more frazzled than I’d ever seen him. His examination of Alastair’s room and the sight of those blood stains must have disturbed him more than he let on. The easy, joking figure from just a few minutes ago was gone. “Of course, I want to know, but I think the police will solve this and save us the trouble.”

  “And what if they don’t?”

  “Then what makes you think we can do it on our own?” Sherborne held his hands up and took a few steps away from me. “I know you are strangely committed to unraveling this mystery, but I think it looks better for both of us if we let it rest here.”

  He must have been able to read the confusion on my face because he explained what he was really thinking. “I snuck into his room last night, Alice. Do you know how bad it would have looked if I’d been caught? I can’t be seen poking around this investigation.”

  So that was it. I understood his concern, but I also wanted to know what Sherborne had to hide.

  He was Alastair’s best friend for years. No one would suspect him of murder. If he was found in Alastair’s room, he could easily explain it away as missing his friend or mourning him and no one would think twice. But clearly, Sherborne was nervous, anxious to be done with the investigation, and I had to wonder why.

  “Fine,” I said. “We are done.”

  He furrowed
his brows. “Are we? Or am I?”

  “Does it matter?” I asked.

  He sighed and lowered his head, looking down his nose at me. “It doesn’t look good for you either, Alice. You would be wise to get through this week and then go home. There is no reason to involve yourself further.”

  It struck me that throughout everything that had happened, Sherborne Sharp had not seemed very deeply moved by his friend’s death. Perhaps their friendship had been less about genuine affection, at least on Sherborne’s side, and more a matter of convenience. For a man who had admitted his own family’s fortunes were failing, maybe it had been necessary for him to cultivate useful acquaintances like Alastair Drummond.

  I’d put aside my doubts about him early on, out of desperation. I wanted to investigate Alastair’s death, but I didn’t know if I could do it on my own. But now Sherborne was encouraging me to drop the investigation. I couldn’t help but wonder if he had been involved in some way. Especially as his supposed friendship with the victim had apparently been a rather shallow one. It was just possible that Sherborne was a colder, more calculating figure than I had initially thought.

  I remembered what Mrs. Brown had said, that more people than anyone knew had reason to dislike Alastair. Did she know more about the friendship between Alastair and Sherborne than anyone else did? Perhaps Alastair had found out about Sherborne’s penchant for theft? If he had caught Sherborne stealing from him and threatened to reveal his secrets, might not Sherborne have concluded that this particular acquaintance had outlived his usefulness?

  I didn’t know for sure, but as I walked to the castle next to Sherborne, I decided definitively that whatever I did for the remainder of the investigation, I would do alone.

  My mother had been busy enough tending to the Drummonds that she hadn’t noticed my absence. Vivian, too, didn’t seem to think anything was amiss when I walked into the castle with the men returning from the hunt. And none of the gentlemen seemed to think it was important enough to mention. All of which I was grateful for.