Proper English

by KJ Charles

“But I think I know too!”

  “Five minutes, compare notes.” Pat shoved the door open, and she and Bill hurried to the East Wing together, Pat setting the pace.

  “What on earth are we doing?” Bill asked as they went.

  “Checking something I should have realised before.”

  “But what will looking at Haworth’s corpse tell you?”

  “Just get on,” Pat said. “I don’t want the police to turn up while we’re mucking about in there.”

  They half-ran up the stairs. The first-floor corridor felt very cold. Bill unlocked the room in question, opened the door, and made a face. “You might want to reconsider this. Or let me look for whatever it is.”

  “Nonsense.” Pat pushed past him and regretted it almost at once, since the atmosphere was much as one might expect with an unwashed day-old corpse at the table. She stopped breathing through her nose after the first inhalation, but she couldn’t close her eyes.

  Haworth lay over the desk, knife-handle still jutting obscenely. His hand on the desk was clawlike and livid, though the position of his arms suggested the rigor had passed. She was glad she couldn’t see his face.

  She approached, legs feeling oddly reluctant. He looked very dead, but still human in his slumped posture, like a thing that slept. If he stood now, if he leapt from the table and turned to her—

  What self-indulgent silliness. It was only a body. She clenched her fists and peered over the dead man’s shoulder.

  “What are we looking at?” Bill asked adenoidally, since he was also breathing through his mouth.

  Pat pointed at the playing cards scattered over the table. “Does that look like two packs’ worth to you?”

  Bill frowned. “Not unless he’s lying on most of them. Why would you say— Good Lord!”

  Pat nodded. Bill took a pencil from his pocket and used it to lift one card, then another, squinting underneath. “They’ve all got the same design on the back.”

  “One pack of cards, but two aces of hearts,” Pat said. “I saw it yesterday, you know. The red aces looked like drops of blood on the table, and there were three of them, drip drip drip. I saw it but it didn’t sink in, somehow, what with the corpse.”

  “You can be forgiven for that,” Bill said. “A spare ace of hearts. An ace in the hole. That would be an opening for blackmail if ever there was one, when one’s victim lives entirely by gambling.”

  “Does he?” Pat asked.

  Bill made a face. “He’s a clubman with no visible means of support except for that remarkable knack at cards. If Haworth exposed him as a cheat he’d be expelled from his clubs, which would put paid both to his career as a gamester, and to the invitations to house parties. He’d be ruined. I think Lady Anna will need to be more specific about the time he spent with her.”

  “Footsteps past my bedroom,” Pat said. “If Jack took the knife from the wall, and followed Haworth after a few moments, if he killed him and then took the back corridor to Lady Anna’s bedroom—that fits, doesn’t it?”

  Bill winced. “Was there a plan between them, or do you think he acted alone?”

  “I’d guess the latter, or they would have had their alibis aligned in advance.” Pat imagined what it might feel like to have a lover’s tryst and afterwards discover that your lover had just murdered your husband. “This won’t be pleasant for her.”

  “Not awfully, no.”

  “He took the dagger with him. He planned to do it when he left the drawing room.” Pat could picture Jack making his way through the empty hall, moving softly up the stairs. “He came in here, keeping the appointment he pretended Haworth had with someone else. Saw Haworth sitting with his back to the door, building a house of cards with too many aces. Walked up, and—I suppose the man simply wasn’t expecting it.”

  “I’m sure he wasn’t. Jack’s no Preston, to lose his temper.”

  “But he is a gambler,” Pat said. “He took a chance, and there were a lot of red herrings to fish for. Maybe he thought it would be easy to cast blame on Victoria. Maybe he knows about the family troubles.”

  “I’m sure he does. Which makes me reflect that Jimmy and Lord Witton will find it a great deal easier to repair their family situation now Haworth’s dead, so Lady Anna might make a very attractive widow for a man who isn’t a high stickler. Come to that, she’d be the future Countess in her own right if Jimmy swung for the murder, and I’d rather not believe his calculation went that far. My God, old girl, you’ve cracked it.”

  “Thank Fen,” Pat said. “It was her idea to look into this while I was sitting around panicking about you. Which— Could we have a quick word? Not in here, though. The, uh, the next room?”

  Bill flushed, evidently recalling as vividly as Pat what had transpired in the next room, but didn’t argue, which was welcome because the presence of the corpse was becoming overwhelming. He locked the door again and led the way to the study.

  “Don’t bother locking the door,” he said drily as they stepped inside. “It’s broken. As you discovered.”

  “Quite. Look, I just wanted a word about—well, personal affairs. Not to pry, but I feel I ought to understand in case I put my foot in it. And also, there’s something else.”

  “I can’t imagine what else there could be,” Bill muttered. “As for understanding... The fact is, not everyone is cut out for marriage. Some people, ah, incline to members of their own sex, and—”

  “Like Oscar Wilde,” Pat said. “Or Mr. Grisham in the village with his old Navy colleague. I understand that perfectly well.”

  Bill gaped. “Who the devil told you about Oscar Wilde?”

  “Daddy, of course. I asked him. I was reading the papers to him around that time because his eyesight had failed, and I wanted to know what all the veiled allusions were about. What I meant was—well, for pity’s sake, Bill, Jimmy got engaged to Fen!”

  “We can’t all be Mr. Grisham, and retire quietly with nobody asking awkward questions. Jimmy’s going to be the next earl; of course he’ll marry at some point. One has...diversions, before marriage. That’s the way of things.”

  “Rubbish. Don’t tell me you’re a casual diversion sort of chap when you’ve been looking like a chewed piece of string since we got here. Before that, in fact, because you looked dreadful at Jonty’s wedding. Is that why you were so unkind about Fen? And angry that he took her to the theatre?”

  Bill winced. “Don’t. We’d been that same week, Jimmy and I, and it stung. He didn’t warn me, and when I found out...” He made a face. “I don’t suppose I had any great right to make a fuss. But I did, because it hurt dreadfully.”

  “Oh, Bill.”

  “I didn’t want to come here at all after that, but it was all arranged, and the office insisted and I couldn’t find a good excuse to get out of it. I told myself I could at least tie things up properly, only then I arrived and learned Miss Carruth would be here too, and that made everything worse to a degree I can’t tell you. I thought I might go mad watching Jim dance attendance on that—”

  “Hoi!”

  “I don’t mean to be rude to Miss Carruth,” Bill said hastily. “None of this situation was her fault, and she’s behaved with great good sense, but I wasn’t in a frame of mind to appreciate her qualities. And then they ended the engagement, you see, and you told me what Jimmy had said.”

  “That he was in love with someone else and hadn’t realised it.”

  “Mmm.” Bill seemed to be concentrating on the picture above the mantelpiece. His cheeks were red. “And—well, anyway, we’ve been trying to settle our differences.”

  Pat suspected that covered a great deal of desire, desperation, love, and pain, none of which she wanted to hear about from her brother. “It seems to me that Jimmy has behaved extremely badly.”

  “You don’t need to tell me,” Bill said, with feeling. “He’d worked himself into a rotten state. He does that, you know, for all everyone thinks he’s a country squire type without a thought in his head. And in fair
ness, he was faced with an appalling situation.”

  “Which he made appalling for you and Fen.”

  Bill gave a sudden, rueful grin. “He’s an oaf. Never thinks before he acts, as with that stupid lie earlier today. He’s terrified of being caught for—you know.”

  “That’s fair enough, surely?”

  “It’s how things are, and one has to cope. And there’s no sense living in dread of two years for gross indecency if it means one talks oneself into being the prime suspect for murder.”

  “There, I agree,” Pat said. “Although to be fair, I’m not sure how sensible I’d have been in his shoes.”

  “Oh, you’d have been perfectly sensible. You aren’t at the mercy of the sex feeling, with emotions flying all over the place. It must be marvellous.”

  “Just a moment,” Pat said. “The fact that I don’t make a God-awful fuss about everything doesn’t mean I don’t have a private life. I simply conduct it with a bit more dignity than some people I could mention.”

  Bill’s brows rose sharply. As well they might, she supposed, because she had never mentioned personal affairs to him before, any more than he had to her. She’d wept about Louisa in secret, just as he’d been alone in his misery over Jimmy. She wanted to share her hope and happiness with him now.

  She cleared her throat. “Which is to say, you aren’t the only person in this house who’s getting on well with someone.”

  “But...did you not say Preston’s engaged to Miss Singh?”

  “He is. I’m sure they’ll be very happy.”

  “Then...” Bill’s lips moved silently. “Ah. I have noticed you’ve become very thick with Miss Carruth.”

  “I have, yes.” Pat tried to sound as nonchalant as she could. She wasn’t sure she’d pulled it off.

  Bill stood unmoving for a moment. Then he said, slowly, “So we—brother and sister—came here to visit an engaged couple, and now—”

  Pat felt the blood rush to her cheeks. “Must you put it like that?”

  “Oh dear God. Dear God almighty. Who the blazes cast a pair of Mertons in a French novel?”

  Pat choked. Bill started to laugh as well, doubling over until he had to hold on to the couch for support. “Great Scott. Have you ever known anything so absurd?”

  “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?” She wiped her eyes. “I really don’t know what’s in the air at Rodington Court.”

  “I wonder myself. We’d better get out before anything else happens.” Bill hesitated, then came over and gave her a swift hug. It felt slightly easier than the previous one, as though they could get used to this. “Are you happy, old girl?”

  “Awfully.”

  “Good. I hope it goes splendidly. I’d be very pleased to know someone appreciates you as you deserve.”

  “Same to you.” Pat had a sudden, alarming feeling she might cry. She loved her brothers in principle, and was fond of Bill in practice, but this sudden intimacy and connection was something else. New and precious, to be quietly cherished rather than discussed. “Do you know what you—you and Jimmy—are going to do?”

  “I honestly don’t. We’ll have to see how it shakes out, I suppose.” He saw her frown and returned a shrug. “With Haworth gone I should be able to unpick the Earl’s mess, which will remove a lot of the financial pressure on Jimmy, and a great deal of the nervous tension. As long as he isn’t arrested for murder.”

  Pat stepped back. “Yes. That. We should probably go and deal with it, shouldn’t we?”

  “I dare say.” Bill interlaced his fingers and stretched them. “What do you think, old girl, as a hunter? Corner the blighter now, or keep quiet and drop a word in the police’s ear when they arrive?”

  Pat considered. “The latter, if we can pull it off. He’s clever and rather quick—he hasn’t missed an opportunity to tell Lady Anna she’s in trouble if she doesn’t support his alibi. Would you say he’s dangerous?”

  “He’s a killer, but from behind. That might be cowardly, or it might be cold-blooded. I think we have to assume the latter.”

  “Then let’s keep it to ourselves. Don’t give him a chance to prepare a reaction.”

  Bill nodded. “Sounds good. And means I’m inclined not to tell Jimmy our deduction, he being an oaf, as discussed.”

  “But I will tell Fen,” Pat said, detecting a hint. “She isn’t the featherbrain you think.”

  “My respect for her good sense has increased dramatically, believe me,” Bill said. “Shall we go?”

  Pat nodded. “You go now and tree the blighter. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Pat hurried to her room. She had a faint hope Fen might be there waiting for her, based on nothing but wanting it to be true, and was nevertheless a tiny bit disappointed that it wasn’t. She would doubtless be downstairs, with Jimmy, probably rather irritated. Pat got her things together, guiltily aware that she hadn’t listened earlier. She ought to have stopped and explained her flash of realisation, but she’d been so desperate to know if she was right, if the memory of those three single drops of blood, the tell-tale heart, had been correct. It was the kind of focus she had on the hunt, brushing away all other concerns and distractions. It now, far too late, occurred to her she’d been rude.

  She never had to explain herself at Skirmidge House; she did what needed doing and took sole responsibility for her domain. Collaboration was a novelty, and for all the growing joy and hope of—well, of something with Fen, she had forgotten about working together the moment it proved inconvenient. She would have to apologise for that, hope Fen understood, and make sure she didn’t do it again, because it simply wasn’t on. Pat made a firm mental note to herself on the subject of letting other people have a say, and set off down the corridor to the West Wing stairs.

  She was half way down when she heard the whistle, a sharp two-note sound.

  She knew those notes. It was Bill’s whistle, the one the Merton boys had used to summon each other when they’d roamed Stoke St. Milborough as a pack, and Pat ran without hesitation, clutching her skirts, trying to follow the sound. It had been faint with distance, but it had come from this direction—

  She swung round a corner and heard voices from the library.

  It was a large room, well lit with a good-sized window, and everyone was there. Jimmy and Bill stood together, visibly tense. Preston and Victoria were by the window. Her brows were drawn together; he had a keen look that she’d seen him wear on the shoot. Lady Anna stood against a bookshelf, very pale, eyes darting. Fen sat in a chair in the middle of the room, very stiff and straight. And Jack Bouvier-Lynes was behind her with one hand on her shoulder, the other resting casually in his pocket.

  “What’s going on? What are you doing, Jack?” Pat’s voice sounded odd, almost echoey, in her own ears.

  “As I told the others.” Jack’s smile was a show of teeth; his eyes flickered between her and the men. “I was just having a little chat with Miss Carruth about how very unkind gossip and slander can be.”

  “Just get away from her,” Jimmy said. “Let’s talk about this sensibly.”

  “I know what your sensible talk means,” Jack said. “It means brushing everything that doesn’t suit you under the carpet. Finding a scapegoat. Well, I don’t choose to be brushed away, or made a scapegoat because my family doesn’t go back to the Domesday Book. The Wittons always wanted Maurice gone because he wasn’t the right sort. Not good enough, not up to snuff, not one of us. Then Jimmy decided to blame him for the Earl’s handing of Threppel and Swing, and now he can’t defend himself any more, can he? And they’re all closing ranks against me the same way. You can see them doing it, can’t you, Anna? Coming up with a tissue of lies to shift the blame and avoid awkward questions. You see I have to defend myself against that, don’t you?”

  Pat felt a stab of uncertainty. She knew very well that she wasn’t fond of Jack as she was the others. Had she let that cloud her judgement?

  “That’s awfully good.” Bill
didn’t sound beset by doubt in the slightest. “Very effective. But you lied about being with Lady Anna. You weren’t with her at half past eleven; you arrived significantly later, and she knows it. And if she sticks to your story she’ll be an accessory after the fact. Making her your accomplice is hardly the act of a gentleman.”

  “I did not lie,” Jack said. “I always told you I didn’t look at the time; why should I? You lied, and we all heard you. Where was Jimmy when Maurice was killed? Why did you lie about that? Because he did, Anna. He lied about where your brother was when your husband was murdered. I want to know why.”

  Lady Anna had one shaking hand pressed to her mouth. Pat looked from her to Fen, desperate, and their eyes met. Fen’s face was oddly set. She stared into Pat’s eyes, then she very deliberately, even jerkily, changed the direction of her gaze up to point, as best she could, at Jack.

  It was a shout of warning, and Pat let out a long, slow breath. “I have a question too, Jack,” she said. “It’s about Maurice Haworth blackmailing you.”

  Jack’s mouth opened, and his fingers tightened on Fen’s shoulder. She gave a little gasp.

  “I overheard him threatening to expose you,” Pat went on. “It’s as simple as that. Of course you could assert I’m part of this conspiracy against you but the thing is, when he was murdered, he was sitting at a desk with a pack of playing cards that included two aces of hearts. He’d caught you out, and you killed him for it. Didn’t you?”

  Fen’s brows were almost at her hairline. Pat caught her eye, though she couldn’t manage a smile. Jack was too close to Fen; she was sitting too rigidly.

  “More nonsense,” Jack said. “They’re lying, Anna. They’ve picked me as the sacrificial lamb. Merton probably put the extra ace there himself to throw suspicion on me—he’s already lied for Jimmy and you heard him threaten you with that talk of being an accessory. I shan’t let them blame you or me, don’t worry. I won’t stand for it.”

  “But there were cards all over the table when he was found,” Preston said. “And if he was blackmailing anyone over card play, it was you. Of course it blasted was: you’ve taken enough of my money in the last few days. Two aces? You miserable swine.”