by Amy Corwin
Edward and Peregrine shouldered their way through the people. Peregrine’s wide-shouldered back blocked Olivia’s view, but he waved at someone and reached back to pull Olivia forward.
“Milbourn is here. Good to see a familiar face, eh, Ollie?” Peregrine asked.
“Yes.” Her trepidation eased, and she smiled at Lord Milbourn.
He nodded in her direction as Edward and Peregrine grabbed several chairs and placed them near Lord Milbourn in the corner on Mr. Idleman’s left.
When the coroner saw them, he stood. “Mr. Archer, I presume?”
“Yes.” Edward’s dark brows rose, surprised at the coroner’s decision to address him.
“We borrowed Lady Olivia’s key for the investigation.” He fished a key out of his pocket and handed it to Edward, ignoring Olivia. He obviously preferred to deal with another man. “I am returning it, with our thanks.”
“Very well,” Edward said as he accepted the key and held it out to Olivia.
As she accepted it, Mr. Idleman looked briefly at her, nodded, and returned to his chair.
“Glad to see you, Milbourn,” Peregrine said, leaning toward him. “My sister has been beside herself with w-worry.” He shook Milbourn’s hand before sitting down and waving Olivia to the empty chair next to Milbourn.
Olivia flushed as she gazed into Lord Milbourn’s somber eyes. “Peregrine exaggerates, but it is good to see you.”
“I am happy to hear you say that,” he drawled. “I had not thought to see you here, Lady Olivia.”
Her cheeks grew even hotter. “I wanted to hear, well.…” Her voice trailed off before she swallowed and took a deep breath. “I thought it best to discover in which direction Mr. Greenfield was leaning.”
His dark eyes searched her face. “You do realize the inquest only deliberates on the manner of death. The coroner is not responsible for assigning guilt.”
“But they will go over what evidence they have, will they not?”
“Yes,” he replied gruffly. “I merely hope you are not disappointed. It may have been better if you had not attended.”
“Well, I am here now, so that is that.” She glanced past Lord Milbourn to the coroner.
Mr. Idleman must have seen her out of the corner of his eye. He glanced up and nodded before separating her statement from his other notes and placing it on his right.
Was that a good sign or bad? Somehow, her fingers found Lord Milbourn’s hand. He pressed her fingers warmly, and retained her hand as she studied the coroner. What was Mr. Idleman thinking? She tried to read the stark lines of his profile, but except for his bristling brows and appropriately serious expression, she could obtain no clues. He didn’t glance her way again after his initial acknowledgement. After going through his documents, his eyes fixed on the door.
Several men entered, followed by Mr. Belcher. Olivia stared at him in surprise, and he seemed to sense her scrutiny. He smiled at her and flipped his hand up in acknowledgement before making his way over to them. After greeting them, he dragged the last empty chair over to sit next to Edward.
The two of them conversed in low voices, preventing Olivia from hearing them. Apparently Mr. Belcher was satisfying his curiosity about the death of his friend, like all the others thrusting their way into the room. Olivia shifted in her chair in irritation, staring at the worn floorboards and regretting her decision to attend.
Then, to Olivia’s surprise, Latimore walked quietly through the door, followed by Olivia’s personal maid, Alice Farmer. Farmer had her right hand tucked through Latimore’s elbow, and she kept her gaze locked on the floor as they threaded their way to the far edge of the room.
Farmer jerked nervously whenever they came too close to any of the other witnesses or visitors, and her grip on the butler’s elbow was so tight that her fingers pleated his black sleeve. Her sharp nose, always tipped with pink, was positively red and twitched as anxiously as a mouse sensing a dangerous cat nearby. She fished a worn and wrinkled handkerchief out of her pocket and dabbed her nose, her gaze flashing around the room.
When she noticed Olivia, her sallow skin paled to an unhealthy gray, making her nose an even deeper crimson. Farmer blinked her watery, hazel eyes several times and crowded against the stolid bulk of Latimore, dropping her gaze to stare at her feet.
Why was she here? Idle curiosity? Farmer was so timorous that Olivia couldn’t picture her braving the crowds simply to harvest a few seeds of gossip. The maid’s presence seemed to bode ill, though Olivia had no real reason for thinking so.
Curiosity, while annoying, could not hurt her.
She glanced at Latimore and remembered that she was probably responsible for his presence here. She’d told Mr. Greenfield to ask their butler for a list of visitors who could have picked up her note in the days before Mr. Grantham’s death. With a jolt, she realized it could have been Mr. Grantham, himself, who had accidentally picked it up, perhaps believing it was a scrap he could use for his own note, or for some other purpose.
Latimore’s attendance seemed less ominous than the maid’s, although it did bother her that he resolutely refused to glance in her direction. He stared straight ahead at the opposite wall, with the air of a man prepared to stand in one place for hours on end with nothing to do but work through math tables in his head.
Finally, Mr. Greenfield arrived and closed the door softly behind him. Silence washed through the room like a wave clearing footprints off a beach.
Mr. Idleman cleared his throat.
The inquest began. Despite Olivia’s strained nerves, as the coroner went through his introductory remarks, she began to have difficulties keeping her eyes open. The room was overcrowded and the temperature inside grew warmer and warmer in defiance of the occasional icy draft. Mr. Idleman’s voice droned on in a low alto buzz, identical to a honeybee on a drowsy May morning.
The coroner read her statement, and then Peregrine’s, before he called on Constable Cooke to give his account. There was nothing startling in any of it, and the only people who seemed interested were those onlookers who weren’t directly involved. Several of the jurymen stifled their yawns behind their hands. One portly soul listed to one side and nodded off. He wore a well-made blue jacket with elegant brass buttons, brown trousers, and a brown and white plaid waistcoat that was stretched to near-popping over his plump belly, and his double chin rested on his barrel chest amidst the nest of his white linen neckcloth.
When he started to snore, Mr. Idleman looked his way and frowned. His jurymen were supposed to be listening and making their own inquiries, not napping. The equally prosperous man next to the sleepy fellow prodded him vigorously in the ribs.
The interruption seemed to convince Mr. Idleman to bring forward his additional witnesses. Perhaps that would banish the somnolence seeping through the room. Latimore was first. He stared at the ceiling, his hands clasped behind his back, and recited from memory a list of visitors to the Archer’s townhouse.
Olivia stifled a yawn behind her hand. No one on Latimore’s list seemed likely to have stolen the scrap of paper from her desk. They were all friends of her brothers or ladies of her acquaintance. None of them held any particular grudge against the Archers.
There was just no reason for the theft — for any of it.
Latimore’s impressive feat of memory seemed to satisfy Mr. Idleman and his jurymen. They couldn’t think of any questions, and the coroner called Miss Farmer forward.
Farmer paled to a ghostly white. Her mouth worked soundlessly as she tottered forward, her thin, nervous hands clutching the edges of her shawl and wrapping it more tightly around her thin body.
Mr. Idleman performed the necessary adjurations to speak the truth and introduced her, taking care to identify her as Lady Olivia’s personal maid.
“Miss Farmer,” Mr. Idleman said. He picked up something small from the table and held it in his hand, although Olivia couldn’t see what it was. “You recently gave Mr. Greenfield something of relevance to this case. Please expl
ain to this court what you discovered and where you discovered it.”
“W-what?” Eyes wide and glassy, she stared at the coroner, tugging her shawl even more securely around her bowed shoulders.
Mr. Idleman held his hand palm upwards.
Olivia leaned forward, but could not see what he displayed to the maid.
“Is this the item you found?” the coroner asked.
“I don’t know. Yes. Maybe.” Her voice rose shrilly, and her gaze darted around the room. “Is it the button? I don’t know, not for sure.”
The coroner glanced at Mr. Greenfield. “Is this the button you received from Miss Farmer?”
“Yes, sir,” Mr. Greenfield said with a nod.
“Miss Farmer, where did you find this button?” Mr. Idleman asked the maid, impatience turning his face to granite.
“I cannot say, sir!” Farmer covered her bluish, trembling lips with the shaking fingers of one hand, her other hand still abusing her shawl.
“You told Mr. Greenfield that you found the button caught in the ornamental braid on the cuff of Lady Olivia Archer’s pelisse,” Mr. Idleman stated. “Did you not do so?”
“I cannot say, sir! I dare not say!” Farmer screeched before her eyes rolled up in her head. She collapsed into a puddle of shawls and skirts on the floor.
Olivia leapt to her feet and ran to her maid. She dragged the unconscious woman’s shoulders up to cradle in her arms.
When Peregrine joined her, she said, “The smelling salts — they’re in my reticule.”
Her brother grabbed the pouch hanging from a ribbon around her wrist and struggled with it for several seconds until he withdrew the small bottle. “Here, Ollie. T-though why you should d-do anything for her is beyond me.”
When she looked up, everyone in the room was staring at her avidly, as if waiting for the next grand scene.
She felt like a perfect ogre when she realized they most likely expected her to terminate her maid’s employment on the spot. It’s what most of them would do if one of their servants provided the authorities with evidence of their misdeeds.
But it was not what she intended to do.
The button wasn’t evidence of her misdeeds, because she hadn’t done anything.
“She was only doing what she thought was right,” Olivia glared at Mr. Greenfield. This was all his fault. He’d forced Farmer to confess and give them the button.
Then her stomach dropped. Farmer had found the button caught in the gold braid around the cuff of Olivia’s pelisse. How had it gotten there? She hadn’t touched Mr. Grantham after she found him.
But who would believe her?
Farmer coughed and sneezed, wiping her pink nose with her wrinkled, grayish handkerchief as she struggled to sit up.
“Allow me, Lady Olivia,” Latimore said as he kneeled beside them. He slipped an arm around Farmer’s shoulders and gently raised her to her feet.
With impressive gravity, he addressed the coroner, “If you please, sir, I believe Miss Farmer is suffering from hysteria. If she gave her evidence and statement to Mr. Greenfield already, then perhaps the court would be willing to direct its questions to him and allow her to excuse herself?”
“We would prefer to hear her statement from her own lips. However, as you say, she spoke directly to Mr. Greenfield and handed him the evidence. We may therefore excuse Miss Farmer and hear instead from Mr. Greenfield.”
“Thank you, sir,” Latimore said.
Farmer sobbed into the handkerchief she pressed against her face as Latimore tightened his arm around her shoulders and guided her to the door.
Brushing the dust off her skirts, Olivia returned to her chair and sank down gratefully. Her limbs felt weak. For one second, she feared that she, too, would faint. Lord Milbourn covered her clasped hands with his warm palm, and she glanced at him in gratitude. He, at least, was on her side. For now, anyway.
When the two of them disappeared, Mr. Greenfield faced the coroner. He cleared his throat, and then said, “When I questioned the servants at the Archer domicile in the execution of my duties, Miss Alice Farmer came to my attention. She is Lady Olivia Archer’s personal maid, and I felt it worthwhile to question her in light of what had occurred. Miss Farmer was reluctant to speak, but eventually saw the sense in communicating what she knew concerning the state of Lady Olivia’s clothing when she returned home after the discovery of Mr. Grantham’s remains.”
“And what did she say?” Mr. Idleman prompted impatiently. He fingered the button, rubbing it between his middle finger and his thumb.
“She said there was no blood on any of Lady Olivia’s clothing, except for some stains around the hem, and on the soles of her walking shoes.”
Mr. Idleman’s restless fingers moved over the button more rapidly. “And what of the button?”
“Miss Farmer indicated that she had found a button — that button — caught in the braid around the right cuff of Lady Olivia’s pelisse.” He paused when the murmur of voices rose to such an excited pitch that the hum drowned his voice.
Mr. Idleman pounded the table with a gavel. “Silence!” He glared around the room until the whispering died. “Continue, Mr. Greenfield.”
“She did not recognize the button. It did not appear to come from any of Lady Olivia’s garments, so I took the button and compared it to those on the jacket the deceased was wearing at the time of his, em, accident.”
“And what was your conclusion, Mr. Greenfield?”
“The third button down from the collar on Mr. Grantham’s jacket was missing, sir. The button Miss Farmer handed to me matches the remaining buttons on his jacket.”
“Buttons often look alike,” Mr. Idleman commented.
Mr. Greenfield nodded. “Indeed, sir. However, these buttons were fairly unique in that they were brass and had the letter G pressed into their centers. The button Miss Farmer found also has the letter G pressed into its center.”
The coroner held the button between his index finger and thumb and raised it so all could view the evidence.
A bold G was clearly stamped into the center, with a ridge encircling it.
G for Grantham.
But she hadn’t touched him. She gripped Lord Milbourn’s hand.
His broad shoulder brushed hers as he leaned toward her. “Steady, mi niña bonita. All is not lost, though it be as dark as night,” he whispered.
No wonder Edward had been so vehemently against her attending. If she had simply sent her statement, she would not have so many eyes fixed on her, and she would not be in a position to be questioned again. She cast an apologetic glance in his direction.
He caught her gaze and shook his head, giving her a half-smile to show he understood and didn’t wish to dwell on her error.
A wave of thankfulness surged through her. He was such a good brother — he rarely held her mistakes over her head. He, at least, didn’t seem to blame her.
When she looked at Mr. Idleman, considering what her maid had said, another thought struck her.
Someone is attempting to make me appear guilty of murder.
She was sure she had not touched Mr. Grantham. There was no simple way to explain why the button was caught on the braid of her sleeve, unless someone put it there. And the only conceivable motive for that was to make her appear guilty.
For no logical reason, the image of Cynthia Denholm, insisting on her fencing lesson, arose to mind. No one would dare accuse her. They wouldn’t dare.
What would the indomitable Cynthia do?
She was still considering the point when Mr. Idleman looked in her direction and said, “Lady Olivia, if you do not mind, we would like to address a few more questions to you.”
“You have my statement.” She clasped her shaking hands together in her lap. Although she was aware that Lord Milbourn and her brothers were watching her, she kept her attention focused on the coroner.
“Indeed we do, and I thank you for it,” he replied politely. “However, as you must have heard, other questi
ons have arisen that must be addressed.” He studied several of his jurymen before focusing his hazel eyes upon her.
How could she ever have thought his eyes were soft and kind?
“Lady Olivia, as explained by Mr. Greenfield, a button from Mr. Grantham’s coat —”
“A button that may have come from Mr. Grantham’s coat,” Edward interjected.
Olivia flashed her brother a small smile.
“Yes,” Mr. Idleman agreed, although his brows pinched together, revealing his irritation. “The question remains, how did this button come to be found caught on your sleeve?”
Olivia looked at him and kept her voice steady when she replied, “I have no notion. I did not touch Mr. Grantham, and I cannot remember having anything caught on my cuff when I returned home.”
Mr. Idleman stared at her.
She stared back.
“And the blood on your shoes and hem?” he asked at last.
“That information is in my statement.” She smoothed her skirt over her lap. “I did not notice the stain on the floor before I opened the wardrobe.”
On reflection, she regretted her cold response, knowing the gentlemen in the room were expecting her to act more like Farmer in the face of such terrible events. She would have done better to have fainted than respond rationally.
She’d have to remember that in the future. If she were accused, well, that would be time enough to meet expectations and become hysterical. The all-male jury would expect it of her and sympathize with her because of what they would consider to be a normal womanly reaction. Her heart lifted briefly. In fact, a male jury might be to her advantage. They’d find it difficult to believe that any woman, particularly a lady, would commit such a violent crime.
It was a bitter, cynical thought, but not without some promise of hope.
“Lady Olivia has supplied a statement that covers matters to the best of her knowledge,” Edward said before Mr. Idleman could speak. “I don’t believe she has anything more she can contribute at this juncture.”
“The button — how do you explain the button?” Mr. Idleman said, a fleck of spittle forming in the corner of his mouth. His hands moved impatiently on the table, pushing the documents forward and back.
