Phoebe became lost in a jumble of embraces and a muddle of voices. “I was never in any danger,” she assured her grandparents. “See to Amelia and Jane. They’re putting up a good front but they’ve suffered a terrible fright.”
She eased away from the others and rose to her feet. Julia stood as well, caught Phoebe’s gaze, and raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Found trouble again, have you?”
Phoebe’s fingertips shook with anger. She narrowed her eyes. “Do you think I enjoy this? Do you think it pleased me to see our sister in danger?”
Julia smirked, then smiled in earnest. “Don’t go getting your knickers in a knot. I’m glad you’ve come through unscathed yet again. The girls, too. Although truly, if you minded your own business, everyone would be much better off, don’t you think?”
How like Julia to clothe a heartfelt sentiment in a prickly gibe. Still, for Julia, that was practically declaring her undying devotion to her sisters. From the rear seat of the Rolls-Royce, Grampapa produced two thick blankets that he and Grams wrapped around Amelia and Jane. Nurse Delacy returned with the promised water and more blankets. Eva took one and brought it to Elliot. Nurse Delacy brought the last blanket she held to the oak tree and spread it over Miss Sedgewick’s body.
A flask and small cups also appeared from inside the Rolls-Royce, and Grams encouraged the girls to sip slowly but drink all. “It will fortify you,” she said. “Come, Archibald, do let’s get everyone into the automobile and set out for home.”
As the others began piling onto the lush leather seats, Zara approached Phoebe. She walked tentatively, like a lion tamer entering the cage. “Did Miss Sedgewick truly murder Miss Finch? All because she wanted to be headmistress?”
“From what I’ve gathered, she didn’t know Miss Finch would die, but her actions were reprehensible nonetheless.” Phoebe paused to glance at the covered body lying beneath the oak tree. At the same time, her mind conjured the image of the fashionable, attractive Miss Sedgewick, born of a landed family but forced to make her own way in the world or descend into poverty. In Miss Sedgewick’s view, such circumstances involved more than simply a monetary comedown. She would have seen her situation as a great affront to her dignity and an insult to her breeding. Her resentment must have festered for years.
And perhaps she had confided in the one person she thought she could trust—Mr. Amstead, a man of God. Except, he’d had his own agenda and his own reasons for wanting Miss Finch out of the way. She must have learned from her sister the truth about Mr. Amstead’s role in what happened years ago. Had she threatened to expose him? Or had Miss Sedgewick overheard the truth about Elliot and relayed the information to the vicar?
Unless they found Mr. Amstead, they might never know for certain.
“Miss Sedgewick fell prey to her own greed. It’s a lesson for all of us.” Phoebe couldn’t refrain from putting emphasis on greed and lesson. Would Zara understand? Of the four girls, she seemed the most in danger of going astray if not provided with the proper guidance. They had made a great stride or two with the girl, but Phoebe didn’t fool herself into believing someone could change so entirely in so short a time.
“I liked her,” Zara said. “I thought she was my friend, but I see now she was only nice to me because she hoped to benefit from it.” Her eyebrows drew inward. “It’s rather a kind of bullying, isn’t it? Only, the person being bullied doesn’t always realize it.”
Perhaps Zara had learned more than Phoebe gave her credit for. “That’s a very smart way of seeing it, Zara. But you’d better go. The others are all in the motorcar. Eva and I will follow in the Vauxhall.”
Back at home, Grams insisted on Jane and Amelia being settled in Amelia’s wide bed. The others surrounded them and Mrs. Ellison sent up tea and a platter piled high with her delicious, sweetly oozing honey cakes. Grampapa hovered in the doorway, smiled gratefully down at the girls, while Grams insisted on pressing her palm to their foreheads every few minutes and continually asking them if they were experiencing any ill aftereffects of their ordeal. Amelia and Jane sank back onto the pillows and appeared wondrously content to be safe at home. Zara and Lilyanne attempted to ask more questions about what happened at the chapel, but Grams instantly cut them off.
“No talk of that until the doctor has been and gone. There is no telling the effects of such upset on the constitution, and talking about it will only make things worse. Now, all of you, drink your tea and eat your cake. Honey will boost the immune system and tea has a most steadying effect on the nerves.”
Amelia caught Phoebe’s eye and smiled. While Grams had faith in the family physician, she saw no harm in adhering to an old remedy or two. Phoebe was about to reach for a second honey cake when she heard Eva’s voice in the corridor.
“Excuse me, Lord Wroxly,” she said to Grampapa. When he moved aside, she poked her head into the room. “Lady Phoebe, Lord Owen and Constable Brannock to see you.”
“Tell them she is not receiving at present.” Grams’s tone brooked no debate. “They may come back tomorrow.”
Phoebe came to her feet nonetheless. “Grams, this is Owen we’re speaking of. If not for him and the constable, we might not have got Amelia and Jane out in time.”
Grams whisked a hand to her bosom. “Good heavens, what was I thinking? Of course you must go down. So must I.” She turned to Grampapa. “Archibald, we must receive them in the library. Eva, see that they are shown in. We shall be down presently.”
“I thought you’d wish to know,” Constable Brannock said minutes later, once greetings and thanks had been dispensed with, “that Ward Amstead has been found.”
“Thank goodness for that. I hope he’s been arrested and put in shackles.” Grams looked for consensus from Grampapa .
“The man is below contemptible,” he agreed with a scowl. “And putting my granddaughter and her friend in danger was a colossal mistake on his part. Be assured I shall use every resource at my disposal to guarantee he never walks free again.”
“Lord and Lady Wroxly,” Owen said gently. He slid to the edge of his chair, leaned forward, and reached across the small distance to take Grams’s hand. “The vicar isn’t going anywhere ever again, nor is he in shackles. You see,” he added quickly when Grams began to protest, “he is quite dead.”
Phoebe gasped. “How?”
Owen regarded her. “At first the constable who found him believed he died as a result of crashing his car. You see, he’d plowed through a stone wall and into a substantial old chestnut tree. But that, we now believe, was a result and not the cause of his death.”
“Oh, I do hope the tree wasn’t harmed,” Grams said.
Grampapa ignored her comment and demanded, “What on earth do you mean, Owen?” Phoebe caught the weary note in his voice and cast him an anxious glance. Today’s events must be taxing for him. As robust as he sometimes seemed, his heart was no longer strong, according to his doctor, who’d given him orders to avoid all undue stress.
Constable Brannock answered his question. “When the vicar and Miss Sedgewick struggled in the chapel, she scratched him. Apparently, she had poured a good amount of powdered cyanide into the pocket of her skirt, and right before she struck she had thrust her hand into the pocket and scooped the poison into her fingernails. The traces of it are still beneath her fingernails as well as in the pocket, but most of the powder ended up in the scratches she inflicted on Ward Amstead’s cheek. So you see, Lord and Lady Wroxly, and you, too, Lady Phoebe, that our culprits were victims of their own villainy.”
CHAPTER 21
Eva listened patiently while the single student in her classroom struggled to reach the end of the paragraph he was reading aloud. She had been surprised to discover, a fortnight ago, that Elliot knew his letters and could even read simple sentences. Calling the garden outside Haverleigh’s dining hall a classroom might be a bit of a stretch, but since they’d begun meeting there in the late mornings, Elliot’s reading ability had grown by leaps and continued to improve dail
y, a fact that brought Eva great pride.
The governing body had decided to keep Elliot on, especially after Mrs. Honeychurch volunteered to become his surrogate aunt and take responsibility for him. With no prospects for the immediate replacement of both headmistress and assistant headmistress, not to mention having lost their own head governor, the governing body had very nearly closed the school for the remainder of the spring term.
A bell sounded inside, quickly followed by the tramp of many feet and the subdued voices of students switching classrooms. The school hadn’t been closed after all, and they had Amelia, Jane, Lilyanne, and even Zara to thank for that, although Eva suspected Zara had needed prodding to come around to the others’ way of thinking.
The development had arisen two days after the events at the chapel. Amelia had done the talking while the others chimed in with agreement and eager nods. By the time luncheon ended that day, Lady Wroxly had agreed to step in as acting headmistress, with Phoebe as her assistant. The other members of the governing body had agreed. Eva smiled at the memory, and at how the countess seemed years younger and so much more energetic since taking on the position. A shame it wouldn’t be permanent....
“Miss Huntford?” It wasn’t the second time Elliot had spoken her name, she realized with a start.
“I’m sorry, Elliot, my mind wandered. What is it?”
He had closed the book in his lap. “Bricks.”
She regarded him blankly, then realized what he meant. “Oh, yes. You have a walkway to repair. All right, then. Good work today. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
He smiled, handed her the book, and walked off to the rear of the house. Odd, how he could read full sentences from a page but still spoke in fragments. Perhaps in time she could remedy that. She wandered in the same direction, planning to enter through the conservatory and visit with Nurse Delacy in the infirmary. She stopped before turning the corner of the building when a voice called out her name.
Even before she turned, she smiled in recognition. “Good morning, Miles.”
He jogged the remaining distance between them and removed his policeman’s helmet. “I have news,” he said in lieu of a greeting. “About Miss Sedgewick and her expensive taste in clothes. It was Mr. Amstead all along.”
Eva released a breath of relief. Lady Zara had denied resorting to bribery in the matter of Miss Sedgewick and her altered school marks, but a small doubt had always remained. Until now. “Church funds, I assume?” When Miles nodded, she asked him, “How did you find out?”
“His deacon came forward. Said he’d noticed some rather unsettling discrepancies in the weekly tithes, but when he mentioned it, Amstead brushed him off.”
“And this deacon simply let it go?”
Miles shrugged. “He’s not exactly what you’d call an intrepid individual, I’m afraid. But now our last question has been answered.”
“Yes.” She gazed down at the book in her hands. Now that all loose ends had been neatly tied up, Miles Brannock would have little reason to seek her out. And that made her a little sad.
“How is your student doing?”
Eva glanced up and smiled. “Quite well, actually. Much better than I thought he would. It seems his mother taught him to read. His skills were rudimentary when we started, but he’s been improving every day.”
“He has an excellent teacher.”
Eva felt the heat of a rising blush and, laughing, turned away. She pretended interest in a row of daffodils nearly ready to open their petals to the sun. “You can have no idea what kind of teacher I am.”
His fingertips grazed her shoulder, prompting her to turn toward him again. “Then why don’t you give me a lesson, say, over lunch at the café in the village?”
“As if you need a lesson in anything, sir.”
“There you’re wrong, Miss Huntford.” He stepped closer, heightening Eva’s awareness of everything about him: the pale smattering of freckles across his nose, the curve of his lips, the thickness of his auburn hair, and the bright, summer blue of his eyes. Everything about him was vibrant and bold and just the tiniest bit disconcerting. “I need a lesson in how to capture the interest of a certain lady’s maid who, I hazard to wager, holds herself to higher standards of honor than many in her position. Tell me, how might a man like me become worthy of such a woman, even if it’s only to share a meal with her?”
His question, his manner, his nearness—these all threw her into a flurry of confusion. No one had ever spoken to her this way. Indeed, few men had ever given her more than a cursory glance, except one, and that had ended in disaster. Was Miles serious, or merely toying with her? Part of her believed it was the challenge of coaxing a yes from her that kept bringing him back.
Another part of her hoped she was mistaken. And yet another voice inside her whispered that no matter how this man made her feel, she must not relinquish the upper hand or she would never have another moment’s peace.
“I will have lunch with you—”
“Today.”
“Yes, today, Miles. On one condition.”
His grin became triumphant—as she knew it would. “Name it.”
“Don’t you dare put me on any pedestal or ever say such ridiculous things to me again.”
He tossed back his head and laughed, but when his chin leveled, something other than humor flashed in his eyes, something that brought on that heated, blasted confusion again. Eva despaired of ever completely understanding him, but she acknowledged that it might be fun to try.
* * *
Phoebe stood at the dining hall window and glanced out as Eva and Constable Brannock drove away in his police vehicle. She smiled. Would something come of this? The constable had proved himself a good man. Eva could do much worse.
“She’ll leave us, you know, if she marries.”
Phoebe turned to face Grams. Her stomach sank, for Grams was right. A woman could not be a wife to a policeman and continue in domestic service, especially not as a lady’s maid. Her duties would, by necessity, keep her away from home far too often.
“I’d be distraught at losing her,” she said truthfully, “but I’d never stand in the way of her happiness.”
Grams patted her cheek and made her way to the very same table where Miss Finch had perished. The students and teachers were filing in for lunch, and the noise level rose to a dull roar like ocean waves in Phoebe’s ears. The prospect of losing Eva robbed her of her appetite, while the thought of making pleasant conversation at a luncheon table left her intolerably weary. She slipped away, glancing over her shoulder as she reached the main hall. Would Grams miss her and come looking? She hoped not. She—
“Hello, Phoebe.” A pair of arms prevented her from walking smack into a serge-clad wall—or chest, that was. Those same arms held her in a loose embrace while she blinked away her distraction and realized with whom she had almost collided.
“Owen. Are you still here?” He had been helping Grams decipher Miss Finch’s bookkeeping records, not an easy task since the woman had devised a system all her own. He had also helped Phoebe plan some new fundraising projects for the RCVF. He’d been especially helpful with the logistics of transporting goods where they were most needed. But that was yesterday. What could possibly be holding him here at a school for young ladies, in a village where nothing particularly interesting tended to happen—when someone wasn’t being murdered, of course?
He chuckled. “Apparently, I am.”
“I should think your mills would require your attention.”
“Are you trying to be rid of me?”
“Well, no, of course not. It’s just that . . . I’d have thought once we solved Miss Finch’s murder, you’d find rather more inspiring matters to turn your attentions to.”
As he drew her out of visual range of the dining hall, his expression turned tender. He bent his face close to hers, until she felt the warmth of his skin against her own. The bracing scent of his shaving tonic set her pulse racing. His gaze traced her featu
res in a most intimate way. “Hmm . . . I rather regret that I no longer have the power to make you blush.”
Her stomach flipped. So he had noticed—how mortifying. There was nothing for it but to raise her chin and meet his gaze dead on. “I never blush.”
“You used to. But you’ve changed in the months since Christmas. Your twentieth birthday passed, did it not?”
His nearness was making her uncomfortable even as her heart rejoiced. “Yes. What has that to do with anything?”
“One may no longer consider you a child, may they?”
“I should certainly hope not.”
“Indeed not, and that, my dear Phoebe, is a circumstance I find most inspiring.”
A Pinch of Poison Page 28
