by Amy Corwin
“In what position did she lie when you arrived?” Alexander asked, guiding them in the direction his thoughts had taken him.
“She was on the floor next to the kitchen table, lying on her left side.”
“I have never seen any fluid run upwards,” he murmured, watching as the men covered up Mrs. Adams’s bloated, gray face again.
“You rolled her over, from right to left,” Constable Cooke interrupted, scowling at Alexander.
“No.” Alexander shook his head and clasped his hands behind his back. “I tilted her face up, briefly, to see the contusion on her temple. Her body remained lying as we found it.”
Cooke’s round face grew florid as he stared at Alexander, anger burning in his eyes. His massive shoulders hunched forward, and his hands closed into fists before he exchanged glances with Greenfield. When Greenfield gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head, Cooke shoved his fists into the pockets of his jacket, pulling the heavy wool fabric down until the hem hung mid-thigh.
In the same calm voice, Greenfield asked, “And what is your conclusion from that, my lord?”
“She was murdered elsewhere and moved to this location. Did you notice the wound?” Alexander asked.
“A single blow to the temple,” Greenfield answered cautiously.
“Oh, so this is where you are,” Belcher interrupted from the doorway. Grinning, he entered the kitchen, only to turn pale and halt. “What is that infernal smell?”
“Mrs. Adams,” Alexander answered sardonically.
“Mrs. Adams? Good Lord, another corpse? This dreary house is positively infested with them.”
“Apparently,” Alexander said.
“And you are?” Greenfield turned toward Belcher and eyed him.
“Belcher, Mr. Crispin Belcher, at your service.” Belcher sketched a bow in Greenfield’s direction as his gaze bounced from one man to the other. “Dreadful affair. Never heard of such a thing. Two bodies in one house.” He finally focused on Alexander. “What is this about a wound?”
“The deceased died from a single blow to the temple,” Greenfield said, although the summary had clearly been addressed to Alexander. “Is that not correct, my lord?”
“As far as it goes,” Alexander replied slowly. Although the room was large, it felt overcrowded, and the odor of death turned his stomach. He turned away to face the open kitchen door, grateful for the faint breeze that carried the musty odors of dampness and bricks from the alley. He took a deep breath to clear away the metallic smell of decaying blood from his lungs.
“Well, if you have anything else to say, do so, my lord. There is no need to be coy,” Idleman said. He frowned at all of them, clearly irritated by the interruptions. However, before anyone could speak, he continued, “It may be that these two unfortunate deaths are related, or they may not be, but each poor soul shall have his own inquest. Mr. Grantham’s shall be tomorrow, and this woman’s shall be held on Monday. If you wish to add anything to either proceeding, then I suggest you attend and do so.”
“Well, what more is there to say?” Belcher asked with a noticeable lack of gravity. Nothing seemed to affect his cheerful mood for long, and his blue eyes sparkled in the dim light of the kitchen. “The poor lady was hit on the head and died.” He glanced down at his fashionable, long-tailed coat and brushed some dust off the sides. “Though it is a pity that whoever did this couldn’t have waited until she finished cleaning. The condition of this domicile is execrable.”
Alexander studied him before drawling, “Do you by any chance know Miss Denholm? I am persuaded the two of you would have a great deal in common.”
“Miss Denholm?” Belcher frowned in concentration. “Should I know her?”
“Yes. Undoubtedly,” Alexander murmured. Neither Miss Denholm nor Belcher seemed unduly upset by the specter of death. If anything, they both seemed inclined to view it as nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
“Well, if you gentlemen will excuse us, we must carry out our sad duty,” Mr. Idleman said, clearly ready to depart with Mrs. Adams’s body. “It is getting late.”
Night had already fallen, and the kitchen windows were dark. The men clustered around Idleman appeared tired and dispirited, as if they personally felt the grief of the charwoman’s pitiful death. The men were all prosperous looking, well-fed individuals, who struck Alexander as the sort who would normally have worn expressions of smiling complacency. But now they stood with bowed shoulders, and their hats clutched in their broad hands, disliking their gruesome task, but resigned to carrying out their duty as quickly as possible.
Three men appeared to be gentlemen, and wore fashionable coats, top hats, and gloves. They glanced around uncomfortably before donning the fatalistic and lugubrious airs of their more commonplace companions. No one wanted to remain there. Clubs, supper, or simply the warmth of their own hearths were waiting for them.
Alexander nodded to Idleman and Greenfield, ignoring the blustering constable, who seemed to want to stay and argue. As Idleman said, Alexander could always discuss the small details that had caught his attention at the inquests.
“By the by, Idleman, did you send someone to search for the button?” Greenfield asked in a quiet voice as Alexander headed for the passageway leading to the front door with Belcher on his heels.
Halting, Alexander glanced over his shoulder at the coroner.
“Button?” Idleman frowned at Greenfield before the lines on his forehead smoothed out. “Oh, yes. The button.” He shook his head. “No. We have not had the chance.”
“Then if you will excuse me, I will go look for it.” Greenfield edged around the table and glanced into the corridor, his gaze resting on Alexander and Belcher briefly.
The considering look in Greenfield’s eyes bordered on a challenge before he gave them a sharp nod in acknowledgement and walked forward. He brushed past them and through the open baize door, heading for the main staircase to the first floor.
That man bears watching. Alexander watched him disappear into the shadows at the base of the stairs. Well, Lady Olivia was innocent — Alexander would stake his life on it — and if Greenfield thought to accuse her, he would find himself in a fight he was ill-equipped to win.
But for now, Alexander needed to see Lady Olivia again and persuade her to send a statement rather than attending the public spectacle of the coroner’s inquest. While he didn’t agree with anything Lord Saunders had babbled earlier, and had been frankly appalled to learn that Lady Olivia might even consider marrying the buffoon, Alexander did agree with Saunders’s advice. No need to step into the inquiry and remind the authorities of her involvement in the affair. It would be best if she could be forgotten, entirely.
If that were even possible.
Chapter Eleven
Icy sleet spattered against the gray windows as Olivia slowly finished dressing in the small dressing room adjoined to her bedchamber. Despite the cheerful fire burning in the other room’s fireplace, the heat couldn’t penetrate the chill in the small dressing room. She felt cold and shaky with anxiety. Today was Mr. Grantham’s inquest.
She didn’t want to attend, and yet she had to. She needed to hear the conclusions of the authorities herself, even though she dreaded doing so. If they thought she were involved in Grantham’s death, then it was best to know. She didn’t want to wait and see the sympathy in her family’s eyes when they broke the news to her, skimming over critical facts she might need to know.
Worse, she couldn’t bear to consider what Alexander — Lord Milbourn — must think. Did he share Lord Saunders’s belief that she’d murdered Mr. Grantham?
She pulled on a demure, dark gray walking dress with a tailored Spencer and after a moment’s hesitation, a small jet broach and matching earrings. Her skin was as pallid as the ice forming in the corners of the windows, and her eyes peered out of bluish-black hollows. She looked like a life-long invalid unwisely rising from her sickbed.
When she finally went to the dining room, she was surprised
to find only Edward and Peregrine there. Her heart dropped as she skirted the table and headed for the sideboard even though the thought of eating the sulfurous smelling eggs or fishy kippers made her stomach twist. Where was Margaret? She always ate breakfast. Margaret was always ravenous in the morning. Nothing ruined her appetite.
She blames me — maybe they all do. Olivia’s hand shook as she hesitated over the warm slices of bread, smelling of yeast. If Margaret thought Olivia had killed Mr. Grantham, then what would the coroner’s court decide? She smoothed some pale, creamy butter on a slice of bread and placed it on her plate, even though she suspected she would never be able to eat it.
“Are you attending the c-coroner’s inquest?” Peregrine asked as Olivia sat across from him at the table. His appetite was apparently intact. A few scraps of ham, a bit of egg, and the last inch of a slice of bread — the heel, his favorite slice — graced his plate. As soon as he finished speaking, he crammed the last of his bread into his mouth and took a sip of coffee.
Olivia caught Edward’s glance. He stared at her with a stern scowl of disapproval.
“Yes,” she said at last. She looked down at her plate and poked at the bread with one finger.
“I thought as much,” Edward said.
“T-there you are. T-that’s t-two guineas, Ed.” Peregrine grinned as he held out his hand toward his older brother. “I knew you w-would go, Ollie.”
The worried ruts worn into Edward’s forehead deepened as he dug into his pocket, extracted a few coins, and threw them at Peregrine. “If the two of you had any decency at all, you would never consider such a thing.”
“But d-decency is not nearly as rewarding,” Peregrine answered with a wink at Olivia. “Don’t look so glum, Ollie. The inquest should be quite interesting. Never been to one. Have you?”
Olivia tore off a small piece of buttered bread and raised it to her mouth. After catching Peregrine’s excited gaze, she lowered it to her plate again. “Why would you even ask me such a thing? Of course I have never been to an inquest. I have never had any desire to attend an inquest.”
“Very commendable.” Edward nodded as he folded his serviette and placed it next to his plate. “I suggest you avoid this one, as well.”
“I would much prefer that alternative,” she said waspishly, staring at the torn bread. “However, I cannot do that, as you well know.” She forced herself to pick up a small corner and eat it. At least the butter kept the bread from being too dry. She finished the slice, swallowing with difficulty through a tight throat. It would have been unladylike and embarrassing to have her empty stomach rumbling at the inquest.
In a small way, she felt very virtuous when she managed to finish her meager breakfast and rise from the table.
“Shall I go with you?” Peregrine asked hopefully, shoving his chair back and standing.
“Stay here. Or go for a walk,” Edward said. He let out a long-suffering sigh as he stood. “I shall go with you, Olivia.”
Thank goodness. She didn’t want to go alone after declining Lord Milbourn’s offer of escort, and while she loved Peregrine dearly, she preferred the calm steadiness of Edward. And he had studied law in preparation to open his own law offices in London, so he would understand the proceedings well enough to offer her sensible advice.
She just hoped she wouldn’t need it. She had already sent her statement to Mr. Idleman, and should be able to attend without directly participating. Unfortunately, she had no faith in her luck.
“But I w-would like to go! Ollie?” Peregrine turned to her with imploring eyes. “You want me to attend, d-don’t you?”
“I’m sorry, but I think it really is enough if only Edward and I go.” She glanced at Edward.
He nodded.
“I doubt it will be very pleasant,” she added.
Peregrine frowned and then straightened, an implacable expression smoothing over his face. It was a measure of his determination that he controlled his stuttering by saying slowly and forcefully, “I was there when we found Mr. Grantham. I am attending.”
Except he hadn’t been there. Not precisely. And that was the difficulty. Olivia and Edward exchanged glances. He nodded and shrugged, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Very well. Then we shall all three go.” She let out a long breath. The single slice of bread she had choked down felt like a ball of lead in her stomach. But it had been the sensible thing to do, and she had the satisfaction of accomplishing that much.
The prisoner dined well. Scratch that. She hadn’t dined well, and she wasn’t a prisoner. Not yet, anyway.
Peregrine seemed to be the only one eager to leave. He strode ahead of them into the hallway and paced in front of the door.
“Edward, may I speak to you for a moment?” Olivia asked as her brother headed for the doorway as well.
He turned toward her and raised his brows. “Yes?”
“Did you speak to Mr. Greenfield about your conversation with Mr. Underwood?”
“That is none of your concern, Lady Olivia,” he said with a heavy, disapproving frown.
“It is my concern. They suspect me!”
“So you would rather they suspect Mr. Underwood?”
She flushed and gripped the back of a chair. “No! Of course not. I just —” She halted. What could she say? In truth, she did want them to suspect Mr. Underwood instead of her.
Anyone but her.
“Yes?” he asked unhelpfully.
“I am afraid they will not discover the truth, that they will blame me,” she said lamely.
“They do not blame you.” He dismissed her words with an impatient wave of his hand.
“They do!” Her grip on the chair’s back tightened. She could feel the elegant carving on the wood biting into her palm. “They think I killed Mr. Grantham, and I did not!”
“Of course you did not. Don’t be a fool.”
She took a deep, calming breath. “I only want them to have all the facts so they can discover the truth. Why will you not help me?”
“I am assisting you. Trust my judgment.” He smiled ruefully and held out his hand. “I will not let them accuse you, believe me. No one in our family wants that.”
“I do trust you, but.… What did Mr. Underwood say to you? He spoke of Mr. Grantham — I heard him.”
Edward nodded and moved a step closer to the door. “He did. And his words would only lead to more confusion, not less. I will question him again to make sure, but I don’t believe he had ought to do with Grantham’s death.”
“But I saw him!” she exclaimed.
“You saw him?” Edward studied her with a frown. “Where?”
“I saw him walking past the academy. He was in the vicinity when Mr. Grantham was murdered — it could have been him.”
“You must be mistaken.” He dismissed her words with a shrug.
“I am not mistaken. I spoke to him — asked him to fetch the watch.”
The impatient disbelief hardening his eyes faded. He grimaced and said, “I will look into the matter and consider what you’ve told me. Now if you are planning on attending the inquest — against my advice — then we really should leave.”
She nodded and followed him out. As they neared the door, they discovered that Peregrine had already requested their wraps from Latimore. Her brother impatiently paced to the door and back to them, as if trying to shoo them forward.
Apparently Olivia moved too slowly because Peregrine grabbed her pelisse and bonnet from the butler and shoved them into her hands. Before she was ready, she was walking between her brothers, watching their breath puff out in steamy clouds in the chilly February morning air. The untied ribbons of her bonnet fluttered under her chin until she drew her hands out of her brothers’ grips and tied them.
Edward strode along on her left, nearest to the curb, while Peregrine walked ahead with a fast, long-legged pace. He kept getting ahead of them and darting back to encourage them to go faster. Edward ignored him, maintaining a thoughtfu
l silence. A tiny frown formed a V between his brows.
Once or twice, he looked so serious that Olivia’s nerves jangled in anticipation of some terrible revelation. If Edward was worried, then the situation might be worse for her than she thought. Surely, he didn’t think she’d bashed Grantham on the head and shoved him in the wardrobe without Peregrine realizing what was happening? He said he didn’t, but could she believe him? He might think Peregrine was protecting her, and that she had really committed the murder.
The fact that she was sure that Peregrine would protect her, even if he saw her murdering a family friend, made his position as a witness unreliable at best. And Edward would obviously know that. No wonder he looked so somber.
If only Lord Milbourn were striding along next to her instead of Edward. He could be so annoying with his mocking mi niña bonita, but in some indefinable way, he strengthened her confidence. He made her feel more sharply intelligent when he was teasing her. A worthy opponent — someone to be taken seriously, not simply dismissed with a smile because she was a woman.
All too soon, they arrived at their destination. The inquest was held in one of the larger rooms of an old hostelry, and the allotted chamber was already stuffy and overflowing with people jostling to get a view of the coroner, the jurymen, and most of all, the body, which rested on a trestle table in the corner, behind a hastily erected curtain tastefully drawn halfway around the corpse. After one swift glance, Olivia kept her head turned away from the pitiful remains of Mr. Charles Grantham.
Mr. Idleman was seated at the head of a large table and seemed impervious to the jostling crowd. He had several sheets of paper on the table in front of him, and he was methodically picking up each sheet and glancing over it before returning it to the pile.
Olivia noted that her statement, written on a sheet of her thick, ivory paper, was one of the documents. A cold trickle of unease slipped down her back when he picked it up and studied it. His thin face gave her no sign of his thoughts.
