“What do we tell them?” Helen worried as she closed the door.
“We explain that we ate a few of the macaroons that you purchased this morning, which sated our hunger somewhat, and that we got involved in a conversation.”
“They won’t believe us.”
“I don’t much care what they believe,” Alex replied darkly.
“What’s wrong?”
Alex looked at her for a moment, then turned away and dashed a hand through his hair. “Nothing. Forget I said anything.”
“Like you did?” she asked but when he turned to look at her, she was smiling and he relaxed.
“You’re right, there are some things we need to discuss, as well as our intimate relations but I feel that’s something best left until I return from my business trip.”
“Oh,” she turned away, blushing again and he came up to her, tilting her chin up with one finger and wrapping his other arm around her waist, holding her to him. “It’s not that I don’t want you,” he told her. “You have no idea how difficult it’s been for me to stay away from that connecting door, especially since I know for a fact that you leave it unlocked.”
“How do you know that?”
“I turned the handle one night and another… I watched you sleeping for a few moments. Please don’t think that I'm some pervert but…” he groaned and leaned down, resting his forehead against hers. “You have no idea what you do to me. You…”
His breathing became laboured, even although they weren’t doing anything and Helen found herself similarly affected by his proximity.
“I think I have some idea,” she said shyly, inhaling his heady scent of rosewood, musk and cinnamon.
“My wife and I weren’t exactly well-matched in the bedroom, she tolerated my presence sometimes but she never welcomed me, like you seem to. I’m afraid that if I take you now, I won’t want to leave, and I really do have things to take care of.”
She relaxed; reassured that he wanted her as much as she wanted him.
“And we do have other things to discuss when you return,” she said, remembering what he had said just moments ago. She didn’t know what he meant to discuss but at some point, she needed to tell him that she knew about his wife and her death. She honestly didn’t believe him to be a killer but he had just more or less confirmed that the marriage hadn’t been a love match. The time apart would allow her to learn more and maybe even prove that he wasn’t involved.
“We do,” he said, almost sounding sad. She wondered if he knew that she knew.
“How long will you be away?” she asked.
“I’ll leave Sunday afternoon, return on Friday night, earlier if I can.”
“So you won’t be going far then?”
“Liverpool. Most of my ships dock there and that’s where my offices are, although my manager handles the day to day running. I also have to see my uncle about a matter but that should be quick enough to sort.” His expression had darkened but the next moment, he was kissing her again and all thoughts of it vanished from her mind.
“Come on,” he said when the kiss ended. “We have to face the others sometime.”
Helen nodded and reluctantly, they separated and headed for the door.
“And don’t forget that you promised me a macaroon,” he teased. “I intend to collect later.”
Helen very much hoped that ‘collecting’ would involve lots more kissing.
Chapter Eight
The next day was still sunny and slightly warmer, so Helen decided that they could risk eating their picnic outside rather than in the solarium, as she had planned. The boys and their father were waiting for her in the schoolroom when she came up from the kitchen; the basket in one hand and a tartan blanket over the other arm.
“Shall we go?” she asked the boys.
“Yes!” Jules cried, running over to her. Joe and Alex followed him but at a more sedate pace.
“Now, I don’t know the grounds very well, Joe, so I wonder if you would choose our spot for the picnic? Somewhere full of trees that will be a riot of autumnal colour as they change.”
She wondered for a moment if he might refuse but finally he nodded. “I know somewhere.”
“Then lead the way.”
As they walked through the house, Jules kept up a rambling dialogue that required very little input from the others but considering how sullen Joe looked, Helen was glad of it. They headed down the main stairs, through the imposing marble hallway and massive front doors, to the main steps.
“Here,” Joe said, and Helen had to admit that his choice of location while unusual, was stunning. They spread the blanket on the top of the stone steps and had a perfect view out over the front lawn, and down the avenue of trees that lined the driveway. Being so close to the house, they were also shielded from some of the light wind, making it feel warmer than if they had been eating in a more exposed area.
“Shall we eat first?” Helen asked, sitting on the blanket and beginning to unpack their food. She had chosen to wear a simple morning dress and very few petticoats, so she could easily sit on the ground.
In the basket they had fresh slices of bread, potted meats, pate, cheese, butter and slices of cold pork pie, as well as a corked jug of milk and a bottle of elderflower cordial. They even had proper plates, cutlery and glasses to eat with and after they had each helped themselves to something, Helen pulled the poetry book from the basket.
“I love autumn,” she said.
“Is it your fava-it?” Jules asked.
“Favourite, and no, I like all of the seasons because they each have their benefits, but none brings the same range of colour that autumn seems to, turning the ordinary into the extraordinary.”
“You can’t like winter,” Joe assured her.
“Why ever not? Winter turns the landscape into a blank canvas, pure and untouched by human hand. I think it’s beautiful. Even the frost patterns on the windows are something to be marvelled at.”
Joe didn’t make a response, so Helen opened the book and began to read.
“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; conspiring with him how to load and bless, with fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; to bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees…”
Her audience was attentive to varying degrees; Alex looked engrossed while Joe played with the food on his plate, pretending not to care, although the tilt of his head and expression said that he was listening intently. Jules had looked confused for a few moments, and then he lost interest and began fidgeting while he ate his food, looking around for something else to capture his interest.
Alex touched his leg to get his attention and shook his head. Jules at least sat still after that, even if he wasn’t interested.
Thankfully the poem was only three verses and she closed the book afterwards, so they knew this wasn’t a lesson but an outing.
“So what are your favourite seasons?” she asked, looking to Jules first.
“Summer b’cos it’s warm and we can play outside a lot.”
“Because,” Helen gently corrected. “And that is a very good reason to like the summer. What about you Joe, do you have a favourite?”
Joe shrugged in reply.
“Alex?” she turned to her husband. He had visited her last night and claimed both his macaroon and his kiss, but not his husbandly rights. She accepted his explanation as to why he wanted to wait but that didn’t make waiting any easier.
“I don’t have a favourite but the one I feel most affinity for is winter.” He looked out down the avenue, as if he were enjoying the autumnal trees but from his expression, Helen thought that his feelings were ambiguous at best.
“Winter?” she was surprised by that answer. He was such a vital man to like such a lifeless season.
“Winter makes everything look perfect by covering over harsh realities. They remain once the snow melts but for a time, everything appears perfect.”
Joe had been listening intent
ly to his father’s answer but when Alex turned back to Helen, he bowed his head over his plate once more.
Did he empathise with his father’s sentiments, she wondered? Did he know what was being ‘covered over’ in this house?
“I hate winter,” Joe added.
“That’s very strong language,” Helen asserted.
Joe shrugged. “It’s a horrible season; it’s cold, nothing grows and nothing is cheerful.”
“Have you never made a snowman? Or a snow angel?”
He shook his head.
“Then this winter, I will show you how much fun snow can be.”
Joe looked sceptical.
“I know, why don’t you boys try and write your own poems about your favourite seasons and we can read them next Sunday?”
“We’ll be doing this again?” Jules asked.
“I think we should make it a weekly event, although perhaps not outside once the weather cools down.”
Jules grinned and Alex smiled at the idea but Joe remained impassive.
Suddenly Jules’ face fell. “But I don’t know how to write a poem!” he cried.
“Don’t worry, I’ll talk to your nanny and ask her to help you. Besides, it doesn’t have to be perfect.”
They remained on the steps for another two hours, until all the food and drink was gone and it was time for Alex to begin his journey to Liverpool. They left the picnic for the staff to clear away and walked over to the stables with him.
Rather than taking a carriage, which would be slower, Alex kept rooms in Liverpool, close to his office, so he was able to journey there with just saddlebags. He had laid out what he wanted to take with him and his valet had packed the bags during their lunch.
One of the grooms brought Black Knight out, saddled and ready to go and Alex turned around to say his goodbyes. He picked Jules up, settling the boy on his hip as they hugged, then he turned to Joe, who was scuffing his shoes against the cobbled entry to the stables.
“Don’t do that, Joe.”
The boy stopped and looked at his father, his expression mutinous. “Have a good journey, father,” he managed to say, although it was far from heartfelt.
“Thank you,” Alex sighed and put Jules back on the ground. “Will you boys be good while I'm gone?”
“We will, Father,” Jules smiled at him but Joe didn’t acknowledge the comment.
Alex turned to Helen and stepped closer to her, capturing a stray strand of her red hair and running it through his fingers for a few moments.
“Be safe,” she implored, for everyone knew the dangers of travelling.
“I will,” he smiled, touched that she cared. “And don’t you let Mother upset you.”
“I won’t,” she assured him, stretching up on her toes to kiss him tenderly. She was very aware of their young audience so it wasn’t a passionate goodbye, but it was sincere.
Alex stepped away, mounted the horse and with a wave goodbye, cantered off.
All three watched him until he was out of sight, then Helen suggested that they go back inside.
***
After Helen dropped the boys back with their governess and nanny, she made her way to the south wing, in search of Emma’s bedroom. Immediately as she entered, she knew that this wing was all but abandoned, for her footsteps echoed and there was absolutely no ambient noise; no maids cleaning, no fires crackling, no footsteps of others making their way about.
She explored the ground floor first, discovering a variety of rooms, none whose purpose she could guess at, since the furniture was all covered in white sheets. One room had what looked to be a covered pianoforte and might have been a music room but unwilling to disturb the sheets, Helen didn’t explore it further.
She made her way up to the first floor and entered the rooms there. Only one bedroom looked to have personal possessions in it and opening the door to the dressing room, she discovered a full wardrobe, although each gown was wrapped up to protect it from dust and the elements.
Daring to lift the sheet from the dressing table, Helen discovered that it was still littered with items, such as a brush, perfume bottles and hair ribbons. She let the sheet fall again and headed back into the bedroom. The sheets covering every surface seemed to be covering some personal possessions. The ornamental table beside the chairs near the fireplace, still had a copy of The Old Manor House by Charlotte Turner Smith, waiting to be finished.
Lifting the sheet that covered the desk revealed an open box of stationary, a long dried out inkwell, a quill and a box of letters. It was unusual to leave such things out in the open, and Helen wondered if Emma had just finished writing to someone on the night she died, or perhaps she intended to in the morning and had got her letters out as a reminder.
It was impossible to draw concrete conclusions from what she saw, especially as she didn’t know Emma or her habits. Helen briefly considered reading some of her correspondence but that would be an invasion of privacy, although she felt it to be more a betrayal of Jane than Emma.
She looked around a little more but didn’t feel comfortable going through Emma’s drawers. She would ask Jane if she minded and if not, would do a proper search and see what she could discover.
She left the room and checked all the other doors off the hall, until she found the servants’ stairs.
These too hadn’t been used for a while, because the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling were thick and dusty. Made from plane wood, the stairs were narrow and steep and her fear of heights made her grip the doorframe tightly as she peered down.
Even although it was daytime, she couldn’t see very much on the stairwell. Leaving the door to the upper hallway open, she went down the main staircase and found the door to the same staircase on the ground floor. With light from top and bottom, she could see much more clearly.
On the ground floor, the staircase curved around and went down another flight, to the servants’ rooms in the basement. She wondered briefly what was down there but it was the floor above which most interested her.
Emma had been pushed or thrown from the top, to where Helen now stood (or very close) and there was no valid reason that she could think of, for the mistress of the house to ever use these stairs.
Had she used them for a clandestine meeting with her lover? Probably not, as she was actually more likely to encounter someone while on the servant’s stairs, since they were the last to bed and the first to rise. Plus unlike the main staircase, which was covered with plush carpet, this bare wooden staircase would make a sound with every step.
Besides, Jane had said that Emma was already dead when she fell, so who brought her to the servants’ stairs? It would make far more sense for someone to throw her down the main stairs… although the thick carpeting would make it unlikely for a fall there to be fatal, which might arouse suspicions. Perhaps while realising that it would raise a few eyebrows, the killer thought it much more believable that Emma could be killed falling down this flight of steep steps, than the wide and shallow main staircase.
Although she didn’t know why, Helen climbed the stairs to the upper landing. She estimated that each step was around eight inches high and probably only four or five inches deep. At the top, she wondered what to do. She looked down, feeling her vertigo assert itself, but she gripped the banister and slowly made her way down again.
As she reached the bottom, she heard a noise from the hallway and instinct made her pull the bottom door almost closed, leaving only a small gap to peer through.
To her immense surprise, she saw Milton leaving one of the ground floor rooms. He looked around before he entered the hallway, then closed the door after him and headed out of the wing. Helen simply couldn’t think what had brought him to this abandoned wing, seemingly alone, but while suspicious, she couldn’t link it to a motive for murder either. Why would Milton kill his own sister? He certainly wasn’t her lover so…
She couldn’t fathom his reason for being here and after leaving it a few minutes for Milton to be well away,
she closed the lower door, climbed the stairs and made her way out of the wing.
She had a lot to ponder but no answers yet.
Chapter Nine
On Monday morning, Helen rose later than usual, hoping that Pearl would have vacated the breakfast room by the time she was ready to break her fast. Thankfully she was right and only Clarence was there.
“Good morning,” he smiled at her. “Can I pour you some tea or coffee?”
“Tea please,” she smiled back as she took a seat opposite.
“How are you settling in?” Clarence asked as he poured.
“Oh, very well. Everyone has been most accommodating.”
“Even Mother?” he gave her a pointed look.
“She may not like me but equally, she hasn’t done anything against me.”
Clarence shrugged and took a sip from his cup, which appeared to hold coffee. Helen thought the beverage far too acrid for her taste but it was popular with gentlemen. She helped herself to the heated plates and sat down at the table.
“Do you have any plans for this week?” Clarence asked.
“No, not especially. I’d like to get to know the boys better but I'm taking things slowly there. Poor Joe really doesn’t like me very much and if I press him too hard, he may irrevocably turn against me.”
“Yes,” Clarence sighed. “The poor boy hasn’t been the same since his mother died.”
“So it isn’t just me he’s turned against?”
“No,” he assured her. “We used to be good friends before… but that all changed. He’s a very angry young man and that anger has no real outlet.”
Helen nodded, agreeing with his assessment and then the door opened as Milton came in.
“Good morning,” he smiled at them both. “And may I say, all the better for being able to dine with such a beautiful young woman.” He winked at Helen, who blushed.
“Good morning to you too.” Clarence rolled his eyes.
Milton took a seat at the table. “I do hope you won’t be too lonely without Alex, my dear. It must be so difficult, being separated so soon in your married life.”
Love, Lies and Murder Page 8
