A Pinch of Poison

by Alyssa Maxwell

  From beyond the common room, the schedule bell chimed. The girls put their teacups and plates aside and came to their feet. “It’s time for our group music lesson,” Zara announced. In addition to individual lessons, the sixth form girls formed an orchestra three days a week. Such had been the case in Phoebe’s day as well, although her musical talents were negligible at best, much to Grams’s dismay.

  As the girls streamed out, Lilyanne made her way over. “Lady Phoebe, when will Amelia be returning to school?”

  “It’s just Phoebe, Lilyanne, and I hope soon. Shall I tell her you said hello?”

  “Yes, all right. Tell her I . . . miss her.” The girl gave an almost apologetic smile before turning abruptly and striding away.

  Phoebe couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. To be so shy and ill at ease certainly set one at a disadvantage generally, but never more so than at boarding school, where such traits landed one solidly at the bottom of the pecking order. She sighed, watching the girl trail after her peers. Just as Phoebe felt certain Jane Timmons would be a leader in whatever she undertook in life, she felt equally certain Lilyanne would become a shadow at the edge of the crowd. Unless, of course, someone took her in hand and showed her how to trust in her own abilities.

  As the patter of the girls’ footsteps receded, the two kitchen maids appeared with large trays and promptly began gathering up the remnants of tea. Eva appeared next, looking pale.

  “My lady, Chief Inspector Perkins, Constable Brannock, and Mr. Amstead have all arrived.”

  The Reverend Mr. Amstead was the head of the school’s governing body as well as the school’s spiritual advisor. His presence here meant something significant had happened. Phoebe placed a stack of plates on a tray as a swarm of butterflies took flight in her stomach. “They have news?”

  “Yes. Come quickly.” As they started down the stairs, Eva told her, “Constable Brannock found me after I’d spoken with the French mistress, who, by the way, seemed quite believably content with her position here and had no issues with Miss Finch. Neither did several of the teachers I’ve spoken with. But the constable said the coroner has submitted his report. They’re in Miss Finch’s office.”

  “Miss Sedgewick certainly didn’t waste any time in claiming her new territory. Let’s hurry.” She continued down almost at a run, then skidded around the corner of the staircase in her hurry to hear the news firsthand. Miss Sedgewick’s door stood closed, but Phoebe didn’t wait for a reply to her knock before entering.

  All gazes swiveled in her direction. Judging by the inward slash of her eyebrows, Miss Sedgewick clearly disapproved of this intrusion. Chief Inspector Perkins, looking disheveled in an ill fitting Norfolk jacket and matching trousers, gruffly cleared his throat. “I’ll thank you ladies to wait outside. We have business to discuss.”

  Phoebe drew herself up and looked him straight in the eye. “Inspector, I am here on behalf of my grandmother, who, as you well know, is a senior member of the governing body. She will want a firsthand account of whatever it is you’ve come here to say.”

  “Humph. Very well.” His lips pinched, he turned to face Miss Sedgewick.

  Mr. Amstead studied Phoebe a moment longer, as if weighing her ability to comprehend important matters, and perhaps entertaining a doubt or two. They did not know each other well, for the vicar presided over the Anglican congregation in the neighboring town of Kenswick, while Phoebe and her family attended the smaller church here in Little Barlow.

  Mr. Amstead was a middle-aged man, perhaps in his forties, with peppered hair and a hunch that was not the result of old age, but rather of spending the better part of his time with his books. As Grams had told her, the vicar had been widowed several years ago, and found solace in his theological studies rather than seeking the company of a new wife.

  Chief Inspector Perkins cleared his throat and drew in his paunch as much as he was able. “Miss Sedgewick, it is time to close the school and send your students home.”

  “Close the school?” The assistant headmistress pushed to her feet. “You can’t mean that. Mr. Amstead, surely you don’t agree. Miss Finch’s death is tragic indeed, but—”

  “Now, Miss Sedgewick,” the vicar said in a placating tone, “hysterics won’t help matters. Please listen to what the chief inspector has to say.”

  “I assure you I am not hysterical, sir. I merely—”

  Mr. Amstead laced his hands together and raised them as if in prayer. “Miss Sedgewick, please.”

  “But . . .” She sank back into her chair.

  “You see,” Inspector Perkins said more gently than Phoebe would have given him credit for, “it now looks as if the poisoning might not have been accidental. The coroner has confirmed cyanide as the cause of death. And that opens up the possibility that someone intentionally murdered poor Miss Finch.”

  “Oh, but . . .” Miss Sedgewick’s voice trembled. For the first time since Phoebe had met her, she appeared at a loss. “Who would do such a beastly thing? And why?”

  “That is what we intend to find out, ma’am. In the meantime, the safest course would be to send the girls home.”

  “But what will happen to the school?” Miss Sedgewick silently appealed to each man in turn, as if one of them must hold the answer. “This could mean the end of Haverleigh. Once word of this gets out, we’ll be ruined.”

  “Not necessarily, Miss Sedgewick.” Mr. Amstead’s tone of condescension could not be missed. “Once the culprit has been discovered and apprehended, we may continue as always. I am not necessarily in agreement with the inspector on the need to evacuate the students, but his views take precedence here. I am sure this is only a temporary precaution. Isn’t that correct, Inspector?”

  “Most certainly,” he agreed, though in Phoebe’s opinion he didn’t sound as if he held much conviction. He sounded more like a man in a hurry to be off. “Miss Sedgewick, please begin notifying parents immediately. This very afternoon.”

  “All right, if you insist.” Miss Sedgewick shook her head with a look of concern. “But I happen to know a few of our parents are abroad at the moment, or come from rather far off. What shall be done about those girls?”

  “They’re welcome at Foxwood Hall,” Phoebe spoke up. “And I’ve no doubt other local families would be happy to help out as well.”

  “I’m sure that would be satisfactory. Thank you, Lady Phoebe.” The young woman opened a drawer, slid out a notebook, and began leafing through it. “What a horrid turn of events. Poor Miss Finch!” She glanced up from the open book with a mournful frown. “We had our little differences, you know, but she was a mentor to me, and a dear friend.”

  Her sorrow raised a lump in Phoebe’s throat. Her acknowledgment that disparities had existed between her and Miss Finch rang true with what Jane Timmons had said, but also revealed a softer side to the assistant headmistress. She had been easy to dislike, especially after the way she treated Eva, but perhaps they had been too quick to judge.

  “The staff, however, should remain,” the reverend said. The others regarded him in surprise, Phoebe included. Eva and Constable Brannock, listening but silent these many minutes, traded incredulous glances.

  “Will that not put them at risk?” Phoebe asked.

  “Perhaps,” the man said with a lift of a tufted eyebrow, “but it will also send the message to parents and our benefactors that the school has every intention of reopening once the investigation is complete and the guilty party is behind bars. And there is no reason to believe anyone but Miss Finch should be targeted. Isn’t that correct, Inspector?”

  “Yes . . . er . . . generally speaking, there is no reason to believe anyone else will fall victim. Most murders are crimes of passion. The well-thought-out murder spree is a rare event indeed.”

  Tell that to the victims of Jack the Ripper, Phoebe thought.

  “There you are then.” The vicar held out his hands and smiled. “Wouldn’t you agree this is the best course, Miss Sedgewick?”

  “I
. . . whatever you say, sir.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Once the first telephone calls were placed, parents began arriving almost immediately. Chauffeur-driven mamas in fur-trimmed coats came sweeping through the corridors to scoop up their daughters and whisk them to safety. Eva offered to help with the packing and the distributing of last-minute assignments, but Miles Brannock had another idea.

  “Eva, will you come and lend me a hand?” He spoke without stopping on his way up the main staircase. He didn’t pause to see if she would follow. She hesitated. What could he want? She hoped it wasn’t an excuse to be alone with her. She watched his retreating back, tall and straight inside his uniform coat, and realized he would not allow personal concerns to interfere with police business. The very idea was absurd, and a sense of foolishness gripped her as she started the climb.

  He led her beyond the second-floor classrooms and opened a door upon a bedroom large enough to have once belonged to the lady of the house. There all similarities ended, for the furniture here, though more than adequate, was of plain pine and durable fabrics. The constable momentarily took Eva aback with the boldness of his stride as he entered the room. Whenever she entered one of her ladies’ bedrooms at Foxwood, it was with a respectfully soft step that acknowledged her place in their household. However, she soon realized the occupant of this particular bedroom would not be returning.

  “This is Miss Finch’s room.”

  “Aye.” The constable stopped to scan the furnishings. “I’ve never had to search through a woman’s things before. That’s why I asked for your help. As a lady’s maid, you’re far more accustomed than I as to where a woman might stash her secrets.”

  That brought a disconcerting wave of heat to her face. She turned away. “What are we looking for?”

  “Anything out of the ordinary, or something that might allow us a glimpse into the headmistress’s life.”

  “A diary, perhaps?”

  “Or correspondence.” He approached the writing desk and glanced back at her over his shoulder. “Would you take the wardrobe? And the bureau, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  As he bent over the desk to open the first of several drawers, Eva smiled at the notion that this often irreverent man would shy away from rummaging through a woman’s personal effects. Her smile quickly faded as she remembered Lady Phoebe doing just that last winter, although it had been a man’s belongings she had riffled through. Her dear Lady Phoebe, touching a man’s unmentionables . . . and very nearly being caught!

  She drew in a breath and squared her shoulders. The wardrobe let out a whine as she opened the double doors, as if to protest the intrusion. A waft of scent assaulted her nose. Not Miss Sedgewick’s expensive Brise de Violettes, but something obviously less expensive, judging by the cloying sweetness that nearly made Eva sneeze. A variety of items hung before her, from shirtwaists to skirts to walking ensembles to dinner gowns. Though a respectable enough wardrobe, simplicity defined the whole, which Eva judged by the quality to be store-bought, machine-made, and not personally tailored. She slid each garment along the crossbar to separate it from the rest, and slipped her fingers into pockets and folds. Next she crouched and examined the floor of the closet and found only an assortment of house shoes and slippers. She almost backed away and closed the doors, but noticed the upper shelf just above her head.

  “There might be something up here, but I can’t see.”

  The constable slid a desk drawer closed and crossed to her. “I’ll look.”

  He did so easily, without having to crane his neck much at all, and Eva became very much aware of his greater height and the bulk of his uniform-clad shoulder beside her own. She noticed, too, a slight trace of hair tonic lingering about him, and as she breathed it in, a funny sensation gathered in the center of her stomach. Inhaling again, she compressed her lips and let her eyes fall closed....

  “Eva?”

  With a start she opened her eyes.

  “Are you all right? You looked as though you might faint.”

  “No, I . . .” Oh, dear. She what? Quickly, she turned to face the room. “I was just thinking of where to search next.”

  “The bureau,” he said, a slight grin forming on his lips, one on which she dared not focus.

  “Yes. Of course.” She moved away from him, and immediately regained her equilibrium. Or almost immediately. In truth, she somewhat blindly opened the bureau’s topmost drawer and plunged her hands into piles of folded fabrics.

  She felt the heat of Miles Brannock’s scrutiny on her another moment before he went to the small bedside cabinet. Eva gradually focused on her task. The drawer contained handkerchiefs, scarves, and stockings. She even pulled up an edge of the satin drawer liner, but nothing appeared to her searching gaze. One after another she searched through underthings, petticoats, nightgowns, and more. If Miss Finch had anything to hide, she certainly hadn’t put it in the obvious places.

  “Would you mind very much checking through her jewelry box?”

  At the constable’s request, she pushed the last drawer closed and pressed to her feet. On the dressing table sat a rather plain wooden box with a bit of marquetry along the edges, and a silver clasp that opened easily at the flick of her fingertip. Still standing, she bent lower to examine the contents before realizing she might take the liberty of perching on the cushioned bench. Just as barging into the room had felt untoward, so did making herself at home at the dressing table of another woman, and a woman who had been her superior in every way.

  Lady Phoebe would scold her for that kind of thinking, but shedding such notions came much easier to an earl’s granddaughter than to such as she—grateful for her position and unwilling to jeopardize her future.

  “Do you see anything unusual?”

  Once again, Eva started at Miles Brannock’s nearness as he leaned over her shoulder.

  “Em . . . let’s see.” There wasn’t much. A few strands of beads, a few bracelets and hair combs, some earrings. “None of this appears very valuable.”

  “Is there anything a man might have given her? Anything that strikes you as romantic?”

  She couldn’t help angling a glance up at him through the mirror and releasing a chuckle. Simply hearing the word romantic from this man’s lips seemed as absurd as it was unexpected. She wondered, what did Miles Brannock find romantic?

  She swallowed and returned her attention to the jewelry box, removing several items and laying them out across the tabletop. “Crystals, jet, enamel, brass—there really is nothing here of great value or that speaks of a male admirer.” And then the implications of his query struck her. “Are you suggesting a suitor might have murdered her?”

  “Suitor, beau—it’s more common than you would care to think.”

  “Well, as I said, there is nothing here that indicates there had been a man in her life. Poor Miss Finch,” she couldn’t help adding.

  “Indeed. But where else to look?”

  Eva replaced the jewelry and closed the box. She then glanced through the dressing table drawers but found only hair pins, creams, powders, and pots of rouge. The woman’s brush and comb set lay before her. She ran her fingers over the smooth wooden handles and thought how odd, and how utterly sad, that their mistress would never again lift them from the table and set about the nightly routine of brushing out the day’s coif.

  She swiveled around on the bench, turning her back to the abandoned tools of a woman’s daily toilette. Where else might Miss Finch hide something of importance, if indeed she possessed anything to be shielded from prying eyes? Beneath the mattress?

  “Miss Finch seems to have been a woman without secrets,” she mused aloud.

  “Everyone has secrets,” the constable corrected her. “And sometimes the best hiding place is in plain sight, right under everyone’s noses.”

  “Eva, there you are.” Lady Phoebe stood in the open doorway. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  Eva surged to her feet. “I’m so sorry, my lady. I—”<
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  “It’s my fault, Lady Phoebe,” the constable said from across the room. He didn’t look particularly contrite. “I asked Miss Huntford to lend a hand in looking through the victim’s possessions.”

  “Yes, so I see.” Lady Phoebe crossed the threshold. “It’s no matter, Eva. But it seems Zara, Jane, and Lilyanne are all to come home with us, since their parents cannot come for them at present. They’re packed and ready to go.”

  “Zara, Jane, and Lilyanne?” Eva repeated, incredulous.

  “Yes, you see Zara’s parents are abroad, Lilyanne’s father is a widower and an MP, presently tied up with a Parliamentary committee, and it seems Jane Timmons’s younger siblings are all down with head colds.”

  “Goodness, my lady, we shall have our work cut out for us, shan’t we?”

  Lady Phoebe’s only reply was a wry lift of her eyebrows.

  * * *

  “Eva, what on earth is going on? Who are these girls who just stampeded past my door?” Lady Julia stood at the open door of her bedroom, one hand on the knob and the other propped on her hip. She wore her dressing gown, and a single braid dipped over one shoulder to dangle in a rope of gold halfway to her waist.

  Eva burned to question Lady Julia in return, for she hadn’t yet arrived home last night when Eva helped ready the others for bed. It was none of her business, of course, but her protective instincts buzzed. She worried for Lady Julia. No matter what Phoebe claimed about changing times, well-bred young ladies didn’t stay out until all hours, especially after merely going shopping with a friend. Or had Julia gone shopping, and did she return home last night, or early this morning?

  Sometimes Julia seemed bent on being another Lady Diana Manners, who shocked society before the war by going about unchaperoned with a wild set and turning up in all manner of unsavory places. Eva didn’t know how or why her parents, the Duke and Duchess of Rutland, had put up with such behavior, but Lady Wroxly surely would not.