by Jane Goodger
Furrowing her brow, Harriet opened the diary, running a finger along the edge where wood met the leather of the binding. With a small gasp, Harriet realized that the wood moved strangely, as if it were a cleverly designed hidden panel. She pushed and shoved and maneuvered the wood, but alas, it did no more than give a hint of movement, so slight it might well be her imagination. Then she pressed along the edge and the panel popped open, revealing a hidden compartment jammed with folded papers.
Pressing her lips together, Harriet gave perhaps three seconds to consider whether she should look at the papers. She adored mysteries, the more macabre the better, and what could be more enticing than the possibility of learning why a lady had thrown herself from a castle tower? Suppressing a guilty little surge of excitement, Harriet reminded herself that Lady Greenwich had once been a living, breathing woman who had died tragically. Perhaps they were nothing more than extra sheets with nothing written on them. Or perhaps they would give a new clue as to how or why Lady Greenwich had died.
Drawing out the small packet of papers, Harriet made her way to Lord Berkley’s desk and laid them upon the polished surface before sitting down, picking up the topmost paper and carefully opening it. The words, in a tiny scrawl, completely covered the small sheet of paper, so thin it was very nearly tissue.
She scanned the words, looking for a clue, but there was nothing more than a mundane description of a visit to the village. Laying that paper aside, she went to the bottom of the pile and lifted that free. And her heart nearly stopped.
I do not believe you understand the depth of my devotion and my incredulity and heartbreak when you tell me you are ready to become Lady Greenwich in truth. My heart is battered, my soul is dead to hear you say such things. Have you no care for me at all? Has my devotion to you meant nothing? I would rather we both lie in a grave together than suffer the thought of you lying with him. I promise you now, my love, I will not allow it, may the Devil take my soul.
“May the Devil take my soul,” Harriet whispered, her heart beating madly in her chest, almost as if the letter had been directed toward her.
“What are you doing, Miss Anderson?”
Harriet let out a small sound of surprise when Lord Berkley, standing at the door to his study, let out his gruff question.
“Lord Berkley,” she said, lifting up the tissue-thin paper. “I believe your wife may have been murdered.”
* * * *
“What nonsense is this?” he boomed, not caring if Miss Anderson flinched and noting, with no small bit of surprise, that she had not flinched even though he had used his most disagreeable tone. The study was his domain, and now that it was very nearly complete, he wanted no one in it.
She placed the paper she’d been holding carefully on his desk, atop similar bits of paper. “I do apologize for my trespass, my lord, but I believe I have made a discovery.” She spoke quickly, as if she wanted to get out her words before he threw her from the room. “I went to the tower today and it struck me that it would have been difficult for Lady Greenwich to have thrown herself from the wall unless she was a very tall lady. Was she, my lord?”
Stepping into the room, he noted Miss Anderson’s fierce expression, and decided to hear her out. He never had been completely satisfied with the explanation of his wife’s death, but with no other theories, no signs of struggle on her person, the constable could come to only one conclusion, given his wife’s diary. “She actually was quite petite. Smaller than you are, in fact.”
“I found these letters in a secret compartment in your wife’s diary. I know I shouldn’t have looked at it, but I was curious.” She picked up the small stack and held it out for him to take. “The letter on top is quite disturbing, sir.”
Augustus gave her a measured look, then took the stack, removing the topmost letter and holding it in the direction of the windows so that he might read the tiny script. The letter was upsetting, but it hardly proved a murder, especially given his wife’s own words in her diary. “My wife’s last entry in the diary is far more conclusive than this,” he said.
“I disagree. Look.” She picked up the diary and turned to the last page, reading those sad words aloud. “You see, with this letter, her words make more sense. She cannot live this way, and now I believe she was referring to the affair. When she says she sees only one answer to resolve her dilemma, I believe she had decided to break it off with this gentleman and had made the decision to become your wife in truth.” Miss Anderson’s eyes shined brightly with the excitement of her discovery.
Furrowing his brow, he took up the diary, reading his wife’s last words again. I realize I cannot live this way any longer. I am so deeply unhappy and I fear that if I continue in this way, I will face a lifetime of misery and regret. I have prayed nightly for an answer. Alas, I see only one.
“Alone, the diary seems to hint at suicide. But with this letter, my lord, it takes on an entirely different meaning.”
He was silent, his eyes going from the diary to the letter, his mind eventually coming to a similar conclusion. “My God, Miss Anderson, I think you may be correct.” He wanted to curse, to scream, to throw something and have it shatter loudly against a wall. Instead, he sat down heavily across from Miss Anderson, hardly caring that she was sitting where he should be. “If that is true…” He closed his eyes. “…Poor Lenore. How afraid she must have been. Somehow the thought that she wanted to reconcile makes this all the more terrible.” The guilt that had weighed heavily on him for so long seemed to triple. He took up the letter again. “It’s not signed. Are any of the others?”
“Yes, my lord, but only with the letter C.” She riffled through them quickly, shaking her head. “Only that, my lord.”
“Actually, Miss Anderson, that single letter may help a great deal. If Lenore was murdered, then whoever did the deed must have attended her party that night. And if that’s true, Mr. Pearson will have a record of it.” He smiled grimly. “We just may be able to solve this murder mystery posthaste.”
“How exciting.” She looked like a child just told she would be attending a fair but quickly schooled her features. “Of course, it’s terrible that your wife was murdered. What I meant was—”
Augustus held up his hand. “I know what you meant, Miss Anderson.”
“It’s only that I find such matters fascinating. Macabre of me, I know. For instance, when you were the subject of inquiry, I found myself quite caught up in the mystery of it all.”
Miss Anderson was far more interesting and vibrant than he’d guessed. “Did you think I murdered my wife, Miss Anderson?” he asked silkily.
“At first it seemed you must have. A man, returning home after two years’ absence, and his wife dies that very night under suspicious circumstances. You were the talk of the village, the mysterious Lord Greenwich no one had ever seen, who some claimed didn’t even exist.”
“And what did you think?”
She tilted her head and one of her curls sprang loose, momentarily distracting him. “Murder is a crime of passion, unless, of course, you are a hired assassin. When the constable was conducting the inquiry, I had little belief that you were the culprit. It was only when I saw your house that I thought perhaps…” She gave him an impish grin and his own lips curved upwards.
“And now?”
“Now I believe it was the mysterious Mr. C who did the deed, my lord.”
Augustus stood and strode over to the far wall to pull the cord that would bring his butler to the study. In mere minutes, Mr. Pearson was there.
“Do you have a list of guests who attended Lady Greenwich’s final ball?”
“I do, indeed, sir. Shall I bring it?”
“Please.” With Mr. Pearson off to his task, Augustus turned to Miss Anderson, who was flipping through the letters, her cheeks pink.
“Rather licentious reading, I take it?”
“Mr. C believed
himself in love,” she said primly.
Augustus took up the letters and read through them quickly. “He was obsessed. It is interesting that Lenore makes no mention of a Mr. C or a lover in her journal.” He looked up and noted with some amusement that Miss Anderson’s cheeks had once again turned pink. “I read her entire diary and while there were hints of melancholy and conflict, there was nothing to indicate she was in love.”
Mr. Pearson returned with his list, a set of small spectacles resting on his nose. “This is the guest list, my lord,” he said, holding out the book.
“Have you the same remarkable memory for names as for places, Miss Anderson? If Mr. Pearson reads them aloud, will you recall them all?”
“I believe so.”
“Mr. Pearson, please read for me all the male guests with either a surname, title, or given name beginning with the letter C.” He took out a blank page, unstoppered his ink pot, and dipped his pen to transcribe the names. “Go on, Mr. Pearson.”
Clearing his throat, the butler began. “Lord Chester, Lord Anderson—his given name, sir, is Christopher Greene.”
“Ah, yes, go on, Mr. Pearson.”
“Sir Charles Long, Mr. Arthur Celeste, Lord Carrington, Comte La Frenier, Lord Lansdowne, and Daniel Cook.”
“Lansdowne was there that night? I don’t recall seeing him.” It seemed strange, indeed, that his oldest friend would not have made his presence known and that he wouldn’t have mentioned during their meeting in London that he’d been at Costille House that fateful night. He immediately dismissed the notion that Lansdowne could be the culprit, for a kinder man he’d never known.
“Mr. Lansdowne was a frequent visitor, sir. If I recall correctly, he left long before the ball began. I only included him on the list because he was invited, and he was present for a time.”
“Ah. Thank you, Mr. Pearson,” he said, dismissing the butler. Despite the fact that Augustus believed wholeheartedly his friend could not have done such an evil deed, he found himself relieved that he had not been present.
“What of the staff?” Miss Anderson asked softly once Mr. Pearson had closed the door behind him.
The question baffled him. “What of the staff? Certainly you would not suspect my wife was having an affair with a servant. Good God, Miss Anderson, she was a lady, a viscountess.”
“It isn’t unheard of,” she said, lifting her chin. She had an odd light in her eyes.
“It did not happen,” he said darkly. “My wife was the epitome of a lady, and despite our differences, I know she would never stoop so low as to consort with a servant.”
Miss Anderson’s cheeks flamed and her eyes narrowed. “And yet you…” She could not finish, and ducked her head. He was perplexed by her odd reaction until he remembered that he’d mentioned kissing her and was slightly stunned when he felt an answering tightening in his groin. It wasn’t embarrassment he saw in her expression, he realized, but anger.
“That was entirely different,” he snapped. “You are not a servant. I can say with confidence that my wife was not caught up in some sort of romantic Wuthering Heights drama.”
“Very well,” she said primly.
“And as for earlier, please do forgive me. I can only say that I was enchanted by your hair.”
She pressed her lips together, and Augustus thought she was perhaps biting her tongue to keep back some angry retort, but she surprised him when she burst out laughing. “My hair,” she said when she’d gotten hold of herself. “Really, my lord, that is the worst excuse I have ever heard.”
Augustus found himself smiling back at her, thinking that she looked lovely when she smiled. He was tempted to kiss her, but thought better of it. The very last thing he needed was to have her go haring off in virginal outrage before the house was completed.
“There’s only one thing to do, you realize,” she said, and for some reason her eyes were sparkling as if she were about to do something mischievous. Did she want that kiss after all?
“And what is that?”
“We should invite every C on that list to your ball.” Her eyes fairly gleamed with the idea. “Then, once they are all here, we can ask them questions, subtly of course, in an attempt to ferret out the killer. If, indeed, your wife was murdered.”
“What a devious mind you have.”
That sort of description might have offended some ladies, but Miss Anderson only nodded, as if delighted he thought her devious. “Oh, I know! We shall have everyone at the ball write a poem. A Christmas poem, perhaps. Or some such thing. We’ll make it a contest. Then, when we have all their handwriting samples, we can compare it to the letters.”
His eyes went to the small stack of letters lying next to the diary. “That is a brilliant idea, Miss Anderson.” And this time when her cheeks blushed, it was because of the compliment. “The real problem may be getting all the Cs to show up. Some, I believe, we can cross off the list immediately. Lord Chester is ancient. I hardly think he would have the strength to get to the tower, never mind throw poor Lenore from it.” Augustus picked up the list and easily eliminated another two, but even though he was certain of his friend, he could not bring himself to cross his name off the list of suspects. He had been a “frequent visitor,” Mr. Pearson had said, though this was hardly surprising. Augustus had asked his friend to keep an eye on Lenore while he was in America; it had been a way to convince himself that his abandonment wasn’t complete. Honestly, Augustus could not imagine Lansdowne making such a cake of himself over a woman, particularly the wife of his best friend. The writings in the letters were filled with angst and longing, and that hardly sounded like his friend. The only thing Lansdowne had ever been passionate about was painting and drinking.
Dipping his pen into the ink, he went about crossing off the names of gentlemen who were unlikely candidates. One was dead, one ancient, and one newly married and ridiculously infatuated with his pretty wife.
“There. Five left,” he said, studying his list. Other than his friend, he knew none of the remaining men closely, so had no idea if any were capable of murder.
“How I wish I could be here when you unmask the murderer,” Miss Anderson said.
“Of course you shall be here,” he said easily, and hardly noticed when her face grew pale.
“Oh, no. I could never.”
She was correct, of course. His ball would be filled with members of the aristocracy, the highest levels of British society. It never would have occurred to him to invite the Andersons and indeed, they would be like fish out of water. Still, it suddenly became imperative that this particular Anderson be in attendance. But how could he invite her and not her parents?
“You can and you shall.”
A small worry line appeared between her striking eyes. “My parents…”
“What of your parents?”
“It would take away much of the joy of the moment if they were here.”
Augustus let a slow smile form. “And who said they will be invited? I invited you, Miss Anderson, not them.”
Her eyes widened and she looked truly distressed by the idea. “I could never go to a ball without them. Or even with them.” Then she realized with a small surge of happiness that her parents and Clara would not even be in St. Ives; they would be in London for the little season. Still, the thought of attending any social event, never mind one as rarefied as an earl’s ball, was distressing. “I’m afraid I make wallflowers look like social butterflies. I’m terrified, to be perfectly honest.”
He crossed his arms and studied her. “You are Catalina. You can do anything. Princess Catalina of … Lystengrad.”
“Where?”
“Lystengrad. It’s a town I made up as a boy. I’d go there often.”
He could see she was struggling with the idea, torn between delight and worry. “You want me to impersonate a princess?”
“Princess Cata
lina is not a real person, so you would not be impersonating her. You would be her.”
She bit her lip, drawing his gaze to her soft mouth, and he forced himself to look at her eyes. “Can I be an eccentric princess? With a pet elephant at home?”
He grinned. “You can be whatever you want.”
Chapter 5
So many secrets. Harriet was about to burst from them all. So many times she was tempted to tell Clara all the wonderful things that had happened to her in the past few weeks, but Clara had been distracted of late, more melancholy than usual. Perhaps her sister had secrets of her own.
Only one person existed on earth whom she could trust more than Clara, and that was Alice. Harriet knew without a doubt that if she told Alice something in confidence, it would go no further, not even to Rebecca and Eliza, their two closest friends. Clara might be tempted to tell their parents, thinking she was doing the right thing, and Harriet could never take such a chance. Clara was the one who always must do what was right, who never complained to their mother, no matter how ridiculous Hedra was being.
Taking a deep breath, Harriet pulled on the Southwells’ knocker, then turned to look back at the sea. Clouds left deep shadows on the water, making the Atlantic look particularly ominous, and Harriet suppressed a shiver.
The door opened so quickly, Harriet let out a little squeak of surprise. Mrs. Randall, the Southwells’ housekeeper, stood in the doorway, wiping her hands on her always-present white apron. “Hello, Miss Anderson,” she said, stepping back. “I was just passing by when you knocked. I’m sorry if I startled you.”
“Just a bit,” Harriet said, taking off her muffler and gloves and handing them to the woman, who deposited them on a nearby table. “Is Mrs. Southwell up to seeing visitors?”
