A Pinch of Poison

by Alyssa Maxwell

  Her eyes large and luminous, she nodded. She chewed her lower lip until it whitened between her teeth, then glowed red when she released it. “It was me,” she said in a whisper.

  Phoebe barely breathed. “What was you, Lilyanne?” She was aware of Amelia going to the other side of the bed and climbing up to sit beside Jane. Both girls kept silent, but Phoebe felt the riveting weight of their curiosity.

  “Miss Finch.” Lilyanne swept a hand through her hair, her fingers tangling in the curls. She tugged them through with a sigh. Tears slid down her cheeks. “The cake. I prepared it. Not Zara. It was me. It was so busy in the kitchen, no one really knew who did what. So I gathered the ingredients and mixed them together. Zara only poured the batter into the pan.”

  She left off, and Phoebe asked, “Why you? Zara was supposed to have baked that cake and she took the credit for it.”

  “She threatened me if I didn’t help her. She said I’d be sorry if I didn’t do as she said.”

  “From what I understand,” Phoebe said gently, “Zara makes your life miserable at every turn. What would have changed?”

  Lilyanne choked back a sob. “I thought maybe this time she would relent and be nicer.”

  “Has that ever happened before?”

  “No.”

  Phoebe nudged Lilyanne’s chin higher with the backs of her fingers. “Did you ever tell Miss Finch about how Zara treats you?”

  Amelia supplied the answer. “Miss Finch had a strict policy about telling tales. She always wanted us to work out our own problems.”

  Jane nodded. “That’s true. Miss Finch always said life isn’t fair, and the sooner we learn to live with that, the better.”

  Lilyanne’s mouth curled downward, and bitterness entered her voice. “I did tell Miss Finch about Zara once, and she didn’t give a fig.”

  “It’s not that she didn’t care.” Jane patted Lilyanne’s knee. “She wanted us to learn to be strong and stand up for ourselves. And I believe she was absolutely correct.”

  Phoebe wanted to hush the girl, as her opinion didn’t seem to lighten Lilyanne’s mood.

  “Perhaps,” she said, “but I know Miss Finch didn’t care for me in the least.”

  “I’m sure that wasn’t the case,” Phoebe was quick to assure her, but Lilyanne adamantly shook her red ringlets.

  “It’s true. She thought I was weak, and she was right. Zara could cheat and bully all she wished, and Miss Finch turned a blind eye or worse, praised her for being the top student. Because Zara is strong, just like Miss Finch wanted. That mattered more to her than anything else. But now she’s dead, and it’s my doing, and what’s more, I’m not all too sorry to see her gone. I wish I were, but I’m not.” She dropped her head into her hands and began weeping again. “And for that, I shall surely burn in hell.”

  Phoebe’s insides went still. Even her heart felt suspended in her bosom, and all her senses seemed poised on a precipice. Crying out in a dream was one thing, but Lilyanne was awake now. Did she just make a confession? Or were these merely the rantings of a distraught girl who felt alone and misunderstood by everyone around her? She touched the girl’s shoulder. “I’m sure it wasn’t your fault, Lilyanne. You said you gathered the ingredients yourself?”

  “I did.”

  “And did you gather anything not on the recipe list?”

  Lilyanne’s wayward spirals spilled forward as she shook her head.

  “And when you mixed them, did you see a container of rat poison or anything else nearby that could poison the cake?”

  “N-not that I can remember.”

  “Then how can it be your fault?”

  “But I was the last person preparing the batter right before Zara poured it and placed the pan in the oven. I also mixed the glaze, although Zara spread it over the top. Who else could be responsible?”

  The next question Phoebe wished to ask was whether Lilyanne watched Zara place the cake in the oven. Could Zara have sprinkled in an extra ingredient on the sly? But she daren’t plant that notion into any of the girls’ heads, or they’d likely be at each other’s throats with accusations.

  She didn’t like saying it, but in the interest of putting Lilyanne’s mind at rest—at least long enough for them all to get some sleep—she explained, “The police believe the kitchen maid, Bernice, might have sprayed rat poison near the pots and pans. Accidentally, of course. So you see, it wouldn’t have been your fault.”

  Lilyanne’s head came up. “Truly?” A little spark of hope ignited in her blue eyes, even as an ember of guilt burned in the center of Phoebe’s chest.

  “Truly.” She helped the girl lie back down and raised the blankets to her chin. Then she looked over at Amelia and Jane, still sitting together on the other side of the bed. “All right, you two. The crisis is over. I hope I don’t have to tell you both that there is no need to mention this to anyone in the morning.”

  Jane shrugged and crawled under the bedclothes beside Lilyanne. Amelia followed Phoebe to the door. After exchanging good nights, Phoebe and Amelia stepped into the hall and closed the door behind them.

  “I certainly never expected a scene like that in the middle of the night.” Phoebe let out a weary breath. “I’m beginning to think nothing at that school is as it should be.” She took Amelia’s hand. “Any chance you’ll go right back to sleep?”

  “After that?” Amelia shook her head. “I could use some warm milk with cinnamon.”

  “Good. I can’t sleep either. Let’s sneak downstairs. I need some information, and right now you’re the only person I trust to supply it.”

  * * *

  Eva attempted to school her features as she stared out the Vauxhall’s windscreen, but it proved an arduous task. So much so, she quite failed at maintaining a neutral expression, and Lady Phoebe noticed as much.

  “Really, Eva, you needn’t worry about my killing us here on the estate road. The way is level and clear, and I’m barely pressing the accelerator.”

  Lady Phoebe spoke the truth. The estate road that linked Foxworth Hall with its stables and beyond could not have presented a more amicable prospect for a motorist. Flat and smooth, the paved road wound gently beneath a canopy of budding elms and oaks, and was flanked by grassy swales and flower beds carefully placed to look like the haphazard design of nature.

  But that was not the case when Eva and Lady Phoebe traveled this road by truck last Christmas, and it was that memory that made her long to return to the familiar embrace of the house.

  “It’s not your driving, my lady. It’s what occurred at our destination last time we were there.”

  Phoebe’s eyebrows gathered. She took one hand off the steering wheel and reached over to pat Eva’s shoulder. “I know, and I’m sorry. I just couldn’t think of anywhere else to meet Constable Brannock without being seen or overheard. If we are going to assist him in finding Miss Finch’s killer, we must do so secretly, or we’ll put his job at risk.”

  Eva nodded. The stone and slate carriage house and stables filled her view beyond the windscreen, but rather than enter the wide, cobbled courtyard, Phoebe veered to the right and kept going about another half mile down the road. Here, the small vehicle began to rattle and pitch as the road beneath them became cracked and rutted. Several winters’ worth of ice and snow had taken its toll, and Lord Wroxly had seen no reason to keep up repairs on this unused stretch of roadway.

  The Vauxhall came to a stop beside what Eva recognized to be Miles Brannock’s motorcar. He would have entered the estate from the service driveway, so as not to be seen from the house. But where was he? Eva saw no sign of him either along the road or the budding trees and foliage on either side.

  Lady Phoebe set the brake. “This is strange. His motorcar is here . . .” She peered into the shady dimness of a woodland path that forked away from the road. “Perhaps he walked over to the gamekeeper’s cottage.”

  A wave of dread gripped Eva. The last time she had been in this exact spot, it had been snowy, dark, a
nd she and Lady Phoebe had been forced to trek to the cottage, abandoned since before the war. The place was set far enough away from the house and the stables that no one could have heard their cries for help....

  Lady Phoebe seemed to read her thoughts, for she gave her hand a squeeze. “It’s all right. You mustn’t dwell on what almost happened here last time.”

  Eva didn’t bother explaining that the fear of almost losing her dearest girl would never entirely leave her. She merely opened the car door, climbed out, and fell into step behind Lady Phoebe. Rather than dwell on the past or questioning why her mistress felt this need to search for the constable rather than wait for him by the motorcars, she concentrated on keeping her footing over rocks, tree roots, and tangles of weeds. Soon enough, the gamekeeper’s cottage, made of stone and slate like the stables, came into view in its small clearing. An air of abandonment, of dusty stillness, hung about the place, magnifying the sounds of the surrounding forest. Sunlight fell in shafts through the overhanging trees, dancing each time the wind blew.

  She jumped when Lady Phoebe called out, “Constable, are you here?”

  It was all Eva could do not to shush her, as if she might awaken last winter’s ghosts. Ridiculous, but she couldn’t deny the sense of relief that washed through her when Miles Brannock stepped around a corner of the cottage and tipped his helmet to them.

  “Terribly sorry, my lady. Miss Huntford,” he added with another bob of his head, “I arrived early and thought I’d make sure things here had been taken care of properly.”

  Eva understood what he meant. Her gaze traveled to a low mound near the storage room door. As soon as the weather permitted, Lord Wroxly had indeed properly taken care of things here, to ensure there could be no repeats of last winter’s events.

  Lady Phoebe didn’t waste a moment on pleasantries, but got right to the point. “Thank you for meeting us where we could speak privately. I know it seems irregular, but if my grandparents—” She broke off at the snapping of twigs from behind the cottage. Memories sent chills of fear racing down Eva’s back and she very nearly grabbed Lady Phoebe’s hand and began running. In the next instant, Lord Owen Seabright came around the same corner the constable had.

  “What are you doing here?” Lady Phoebe demanded, echoing Eva’s own thoughts, except a good deal more defensively. Sometimes the way Lady Phoebe reacted to Lord Owen reminded Eva of her own reactions to the constable. As if his proximity threw her slightly off kilter, and she couldn’t quite breathe properly.

  “Glad to see me again, are you?” Lord Owen, looking rather dapper in well-tailored Norfolk tweeds, flashed a lopsided grin.

  “Lord Owen paid me a visit this morning,” the constable said in explanation. “He’s done some checking.”

  “Checking on what?” Phoebe asked, but the constable held up a hand.

  “You first, my lady. You said you learned a few things yesterday.”

  “Yes, I did. First of all, Zara Worthington didn’t bake the Madeira cake for Miss Finch. Lilyanne Mucklow did.”

  Constable Brannock frowned. “Why would they lie?”

  “Because Zara was supposed to have done it, but she bullied Lilyanne into doing the work for her. Zara only popped the cake into the oven and later poured the glaze over it—the glaze that Lilyanne also made.”

  “But again, why would Lady Zara continue to lie in light of Miss Finch’s death?” Lord Owen came to stand beside the constable.

  “Because, my lord,” Eva supplied, “then Lady Zara would have to admit she lied in the first place. Better to keep silent, I should think, and wait to see if she is accused of anything. If not, she need never expose her deceit.”

  “Indeed. But that isn’t all.” Lady Phoebe glanced at Eva. As soon as their lessons with the girls ended this morning, they had debated whether or not to inform the constable about Lilyanne’s revelation following her nightmare. Eva nodded at her now, for she believed if they were to discover what happened to Miss Finch, they should hide nothing from Miles Brannock. Phoebe swallowed. “I’m sure this was just the outpouring of a lonely, insecure young girl, but Lilyanne said she wasn’t sorry about Miss Finch’s death, because she felt certain Miss Finch didn’t like her and in fact treated her poorly.”

  “Frightened her, actually,” Eva added.

  “Motive and opportunity,” the constable murmured.

  “I can’t believe that of Lilyanne. Zara, perhaps, though even that is hard to envision. But Lilyanne?” Eva shook her head.

  Lady Phoebe took up her argument. “Lilyanne is a typical teenaged girl, if a particularly shy one, Constable. At that age, most of us believe there is some adult in our life who is set against us. We only told you of this because Eva and I agreed we should keep nothing from you. If we are to find justice for Miss Finch, we must form a clear picture of events—all of them. If Lilyanne bore ill sentiments toward Miss Finch, surely others did as well.”

  Lord Owen placed his hand on the constable’s shoulder. “When you think about it, Brannock, having the Mucklow girl mix the cake could have been a ruse to take suspicion away from the actual culprit.”

  The constable considered. “This Zara, you say she’s a bully?”

  Lady Phoebe described some of the incidents Amelia had told her about. Then Eva recounted Miss Finch’s philosophy concerning the girls standing up for themselves and not intervening in their squabbles.

  “And when you lured Miss Sedgewick out of the main office,” she said, “we discovered that it was Miss Finch, and not Miss Sedgewick, who had been changing Zara’s marks.”

  “Interesting.” Constable Brannock removed his helmet and pushed his curling mop of hair off his brow.

  “That’s not all that’s interesting,” Lady Phoebe said. “Apparently, Miss Finch decided not to perform any more favors for Zara. We found a drafted letter in Zara’s records informing her parents that she was now on academic probation.”

  The constable let out a low groan. “I truly don’t wish to be suspecting young ladies of murder. I truly don’t. Is there anything else?”

  “Isn’t that enough?” Phoebe held out her hands.

  “Actually, there is something else.” Amelia had confided in Eva about Jane Timmons only that morning, before lessons began. Jane had been last to arrive in the Petite Salon and seemed rather breathless as she took her place at the table. Amelia had leaned to whisper in Eva’s ear, and now Eva repeated the gist of it for the constable. “It seems Jane Timmons has a habit of sometimes arriving late to her lessons, especially the early morning ones.”

  At this, Miles Brannock and Lord Owen traded mystified expressions. Lord Owen said, “A late sleeper? Brannock, you’d better arrest that girl straight away.”

  Eva’s cheeks heated as the two men chuckled, but their teasing didn’t deter her. “Jane is not a late sleeper. And like her, I attended Haverleigh on scholarship. I assure you, I would never have broken even the smallest rule for fear of expulsion. As it was, I had to leave school before graduation anyway, but my time there was of greater value to me than I can ever express. We have continued the girls’ lessons at the Hall, and Jane has proven herself to be an exceptional scholar. I cannot believe an intelligent girl in her position would be so careless of school rules without some very pressing reason.”

  The men’s grins faded. Phoebe flashed a satisfied smile. “Amelia told me about Jane’s tardiness last night, Eva, but I’d completely forgotten. I’m glad she also thought to mention it to you.” She turned to the constable. “It could be important, couldn’t it?”

  His lips taking on an ironic slant, he exchanged another look with Lord Owen. “If the current trend continues, I’ll soon have reason to be suspecting the entire student body.” He sobered quickly enough. “She bears watching, this Jane Timmons.”

  “We’ll keep a close eye on her,” Eva assured him. “But you said you’d learned something as well?”

  With a hand gesture, Constable Brannock deferred to Lord Owen, who cleared his thr
oat. “It’s about the handyman. I’ve tried to trace the youth’s origins, but Elliot Ivers seems to have been conjured out of thin air.”

  Lady Phoebe’s frown mirrored Eva’s own mystification. “Then he didn’t fight in the war?”

  “Not as far as I can tell. There are no records of him having ever been in uniform. No records of him existing at all.”

  Phoebe’s eyes narrowed to pensive slits. “Do you suppose he’s using an assumed name?”

  “The thought did occur to me,” Lord Owen conceded.

  “As it did to me,” Constable Brannock said. “Yet the idea of an assumed name seems a rather complex one for a chap like Ivers.”

  “Very true.” Lady Phoebe nudged at the pebbles on the ground with the pointed toe of her boot. “Eva, I suppose we should have searched for his employment papers when we had access to Miss Finch’s files.”

  “There might not be any employment papers, my lady,” Eva replied. “It’s quite possible Miss Finch found him somewhere, took pity on him, and simply hired him on.”

  “That does make sense, especially since Miss Sedgewick seems to have no information about him. Still, Miss Finch had to be paying him, and to do that she would have to keep an accounting of the outgoing funds.”

  Eva shook her head. “Not if his wages consisted of room and board and the occasional quid from petty cash.”

  “Well, if that’s everything for now,” the constable said, “I’d best be getting back before Inspector Perkins starts wondering what I’ve gotten up to. My lord, are you ready to go?”

  Lord Owen answered the constable with a suggestion of his own. “Phoebe, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll come up to the house and pay my respects to your grandparents.”

  “Eva and I came in the Vauxhall. I’m afraid there isn’t room.”

  Eva heard the disappointment in Lady Phoebe’s voice and came up with an immediate solution. “I don’t mind walking back, my lady. Truly,” she was quick to add before Phoebe could protest.

  “Never mind,” the constable said. “I’d be happy to give Miss Huntford a ride along the service road.”