Murder Most Malicious

by Alyssa Maxwell

  True, the British government hadn’t extended military compulsion to Ireland, but Eva would swear, given the man’s Anglicized accent, that he had spent the war years and possibly more right here in England. Perhaps his heart and loyalty had neglected to follow where his feet had brought him.

  “Are there no trails from here into the woods?” he asked.

  “Not from here, no,” Phoebe said. “The riding trails begin about a half a mile off to our right.” She glanced in the general direction of the stables, whose pitched slate roofs poked up above the surrounding oak and pine. “No one uses the trails much these days, though.”

  “And why is that, my lady?”

  Sadness shadowed her features. “Most of the horses are gone. Grampapa sent them to help the war effort, along with the hounds.” She shrugged. “They would have been conscripted into service eventually.”

  “I see.” To Eva’s relief, Constable Brannock didn’t comment further, offered neither commiseration nor approval for what had been a sacrifice of a most painful nature. Phoebe had been inconsolable the day the horses were led away, including her own gray hunter, Stormy. An eleven-year-old Amelia had cried, too, though her pony, Blossom, had been spared, too small to be of any use to the army. Eva had cried, secretly, for the dogs, taken to be trained to deliver messages and supplies between the trenches.

  Once again Eva couldn’t help but wonder if Miles Brannock had made any sacrifices for the war effort.

  After a lengthy pause, he asked, “Are there any other trails or paths?”

  The question seemed to shake Phoebe out of her melancholy and brought her back to the present. “The gamekeeper’s paths. They begin some several hundred yards beyond the stables, at the gamekeeper’s cottage.”

  “I’d like to speak to the man.”

  “I’m afraid you cannot,” Phoebe replied flatly. “He’s gone.”

  “Gone where, my lady?”

  “To a grave in France, sir. He died during the war.”

  “I see. I’m sorry.” Sorry, perhaps, but he seemed to dismiss the matter quickly. He craned his neck to see past the birch copse into the forest. The dense canopy had prevented the snow from accumulating at the bases of the trunks, and patches of bare earth and dead undergrowth formed murky shadows between shallow pools of white. Constable Brannock pushed heavy boughs aside, releasing a shower of snow, and stepped between the trees.

  “Do you see anything, sir?” Phoebe called after him. “More footprints?”

  “That I don’t, my lady,” he replied after a moment. He pushed farther in, setting off more powdery cascades as he himself disappeared into the embrace of the forest. “But I wonder . . .”

  Presently, he returned, brushing the snow from his shoulders. “The bare ground is too frozen for anyone to have left prints, but the patches of snow are smooth and undisturbed, but for occasional animal tracks. You say there is nothing beyond this point unless one heads either toward the stables or the gamekeeper’s paths?”

  “Nothing but empty forest for several hundred acres, until one emerges at the home and tenant farms,” Phoebe said. “The trees are thick here and Grampapa, like his father before him, was opposed to clearing them. He maintains there are too few old forests left in England.”

  “Very wise of him.” The constable contemplated the ground another moment before flicking his gaze back to Phoebe. “It does appear as if Lord Allerton—or someone—walked to the edge of the woods, perhaps stopped and looked about, and then retraced his steps. A brief morning stroll. However, the inspector will no doubt organize a search party to inspect the riding trails and gamekeeper’s paths.”

  “And the stables and the gamekeeper’s cottage?” Lady Phoebe suddenly became animated. “There’s a storage room attached to the cottage. Lord Allerton could be there.”

  “We’ll check of course, my lady.” Constable Brannock spoke with rather less enthusiasm than Phoebe had. “It does seem doubtful, though, considering these footprints indicate whoever came out here went no farther than this point before returning to the house.”

  “I just thought of something.” Phoebe turned to Eva. “Has Lord Allerton’s valet checked his employer’s boots for dampness?”

  Eva had wondered about that herself. Poor Nick Hensley would bear the brunt of the investigation, at least until the authorities had gathered the facts and devised a theory. “I’m quite sure he will, if he hasn’t already.”

  Constable Brannock concurred and then let out a long, frost-tinged breath. “Inspector Perkins and I had hoped to avoid this—hoped another scenario might present itself. But I’m afraid the house will need to be searched from top to bottom. Every square inch.”

  Those last words sent Eva’s stomach plummeting as she considered their precise meaning in relation to the contents of the six Christmas boxes. She looked to Phoebe and realized she, too, understood the implication. Her cold-pinched cheeks paled, and at that moment she appeared very much a young girl, no more worldly than Amelia.

  “You believe Lord Allerton is somewhere in the house right now?” Phoebe said. A soft hissing filled the momentary silence. It had begun snowing again, tiny flakes that drifted through the air like fluffs of down. “Somewhere without his fingers? Somewhere . . . dead . . . and perhaps no longer whole at all?”

  Eva stroked her arm. “It doesn’t do to speculate, my lady. We don’t even know for sure that these are Lord Allerton’s footprints. Please, let’s go back and leave this to Constable Brannock and Inspector Perkins, shall we?”

  If she expected further argument, it didn’t come. Phoebe merely nodded weakly and let Eva lead her away. They had passed the fountain when Phoebe suddenly dug in her heels and turned. She peered over her shoulder at the constable, and Eva expected her to call out to him.

  Instead, she spoke barely above a whisper. “Oh, Eva . . . if you knew something . . . something that might incriminate someone you cared about . . . or at least cast doubt over their recent actions . . . would you tell the authorities?”

  Eva didn’t reply right away. It was a question that deserved thought and an honest answer.

  Whom did Phoebe mean? Surely not Fox or Amelia—they were children. Her grandfather? Eva hesitated over that one, but no, Lord Wroxly never allowed anyone or anything to perturb him to any great extent. What argument could he have had with Lord Allerton, the man he expected his eldest granddaughter to marry?

  Lady Julia?

  Again, she paused. Julia and Lord Allerton. . . . She searched Phoebe’s face for clues, but found none.

  All right, then, the question. Her father had been interviewed—alone—and that had left Eva . . . well . . . worried. Not that her father could be guilty, but that the inspector might assume guilt where none existed. If she had known of some argument between Lord Allerton and her father, would she have confessed it to Inspector Perkins?

  She knew her father. She believed in the kind of man he was, believed in his good character, his honesty, his gentle nature. She knew—knew—that even if some resentment had existed between Vincent Huntford and Lord Allerton, the man who had raised her would never lift his hand to another person in anger. So then . . .

  She smiled gently at Lady Phoebe. “My answer is no, my lady. In all honesty, no. If I believed wholeheartedly in that person, if I trusted beyond a doubt that the person I cared about could never commit such an act of violence, then I would hold my tongue.”

  Phoebe thought it over a moment. “Thank you, Eva. I thought that would be your answer.”

  They started once more toward the house, and Eva couldn’t help noticing that Phoebe continued to look less than reassured.

  CHAPTER 3

  After shedding her coat and boots in favor of velvet house shoes and a lamb’s wool shawl, Phoebe met Henry’s valet outside the morning room.

  “Yes, my lady, these are Lord Allerton’s boots.”

  “Are they damp?”

  “They are, my lady. The soles have dried, but the leather of the vam
ps still shows traces of moisture. And here”—he turned them so Phoebe could view them from the side—“here are traces of the salt Mrs. Sanders sprinkled about the service courtyard.”

  “This is very odd, Mr. Hensley. It means Lord Allerton did indeed walk out through the servants’ entrance sometime between midnight and dawn. He obviously returned to his room, removed his boots, and promptly disappeared.” She tightened her shawl, tapping her foot as she considered. Surely then the police would not find him at either the stables or the gamekeeper’s cottage.

  “Not all of him disappeared, my lady.”

  Her gaze snapped to the man’s face, to nicely formed features drawn tight with distress, tinged with sorrow. And then she remembered. When Henry had gone off to serve as a colonel in the Royal Fusiliers, his valet had gone with him. From what she understood, Henry had given orders mostly from behind the lines. Mr. Hensley walked with the slightest of limps, one he usually kept well hidden but which she had noticed just now as he’d traversed the corridor toward her. A sniper’s bullet had got him, perhaps, and likely in times of distress and great fatigue, the wound made itself known. Whatever had occurred in France, Henry and Mr. Hensley had served together, creating, no doubt, a bond that far exceeded that of nobleman and servant.

  “I am so sorry, Mr. Hensley. This is obviously deeply disturbing for you. The inspector should have asked one of the footmen to retrieve the boots.”

  “No, my lady. Lord Allerton’s effects are my responsibility. It is just that I can’t help feeling somewhat responsible for . . . that is . . . if he is indeed . . .”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Hensley! You mustn’t blame yourself. Lord Allerton released you from your duties last night. Of course you assumed he put himself to bed and all was well.”

  “I did, my lady.” He stared down at the black half boots in his hand and breathed in sharply. “Well, I should bring these in to Inspector Perkins.”

  “Is he still questioning the staff?”

  “I believe so, my lady.”

  “All right. But, Mr. Hensley, if there is anything I or my family can do for you, please let us know.” It did not escape Phoebe’s understanding that if Henry was really and truly dead, Mr. Hensley would now be without a position, unless Theo were to hire him on. That seemed the most likely course, yet one never knew with Theo.

  “Thank you, my lady.” His face suffused with color. “That is most generous of you.”

  With that he tapped on the morning-room door and, at a reply from within, went inside. Phoebe, having received the answer to her latest question, made her way back to the drawing room.

  The others were all there. Grams and Grampapa sat with Lady Allerton and her aunt Cecily over a game of bridge. Lady Allerton was leaning over Aunt Cecily’s hand and pointing to the card she should play next. The old woman merely smiled and nodded passively.

  Neither woman had been told yet. They knew only that Henry was apparently missing, and the inspector had come to help search for him. Grampapa, who had weathered the news splendidly earlier, thought it best to wait until Inspector Perkins discovered something concrete. Phoebe doubted the inspector’s ability to do that, but she had little choice but to respect Grampapa’s decision.

  The younger set—Julia, Amelia, and Theo Leighton—were gathered on the settee and easy chairs beneath the central floor-to-ceiling windows, speaking quietly. That is, Amelia seemed to be doing most of the talking. Julia fidgeted with a tassel on the pillow beside her, while Theo stared down at his hands, flexing and unflexing his fingers as he so often did. Did they ache beneath their scars? Or . . .

  Was Theo contemplating his brother’s fate, those ghastly surprises in the Christmas boxes? He glanced up and Phoebe looked quickly away.

  Fox and Lord Owen sat in two armchairs facing each other across the chessboard. Fox hunched forward, elbows on his knees and chin in his palms as he studied the pieces. Thank goodness someone remembered to keep Fox occupied—and blessedly quiet. Lord Owen lounged back in his chair with a patient half smile as he waited for Fox’s next move.

  Neither of them had noticed her yet, and Phoebe allowed her gaze to linger. Even sitting, Lord Owen towered over Fox, and her brother might have fit twice within the breadth of Owen’s shoulders. And the depth of subtle color in his hair, dark upon darker even in the brightness of the electric lamps . . .

  Phoebe sighed. Obsessing over the man’s hair color, indeed. A ridiculous indulgence, this fascination of hers. But to be sure one that would slip by unnoticed. A man such as Owen Seabright would see her as little more than a child, one of scant experience and even less wisdom, whereas he had commanded men, led attacks, and survived battles so that such as she might continue in her safe, comfortable existence. They all owed Lord Owen, and Theo and even Henry, for such cozy, familial scenes as this, complete with vigorous fires in the room’s two hearths and a snowy backdrop glittering through the expansive windows.

  Only the glaring absence of one significant guest belied the tranquility of the afternoon.

  That tranquility shattered further still with the pounding of approaching footsteps. A frantic cry of “Lord Wroxly! Lord Wroxly! My cleaver has gone missing!” destroyed any further illusion of this being an ordinary winter’s day.

  The elders around the card table looked up from their game. Grampapa sprang with a youthful surge to his feet. “What the devil?”

  The drawing-room doors burst open and Mrs. Ellison, Foxwood Hall’s cook since before Phoebe was born, appeared on the threshold, her face as blanched as her apron. “My cleaver. It’s gone, milord. Gone!”

  Mrs. Sanders, the housekeeper, came running up and stopped directly behind her. “I’m so sorry, Lord Wroxly. I couldn’t stop her.”

  Phoebe’s breath caught. A cleaver missing from the kitchen, and those awful Christmas boxes . . .

  The rest of the gathering came to their feet as well. The men—Grampapa, Lord Owen, Theo, even Fox—rushed forward while the women held back, trading alarmed glances. All except for Aunt Cecily, who remained seated and continued to contemplate her cards. “It is most irregular for kitchen staff to appear above stairs, don’t you think so, dear?” she asked her niece.

  Lady Allerton shushed her.

  Grampapa went to the cook, took her pudgy hand in his, and coaxed her to sit in the nearest chair. He dragged another close and sat facing her. The way he gave her the whole of his attention told Phoebe he took her most seriously. “What is this all about, and please explain from the beginning as calmly as you can.”

  The woman’s ample bosom rose as she filled her lungs. “Well, milord, since our holiday was cut short I set Douglas to sharpening the knives I used to prepare Christmas dinner yesterday. I’d had to carve up the joints of venison and beef, as you know, sir, and I used my largest cleaver and . . . and now it’s nowhere to be found! I distinctly remember Dora washing it and returning it to me last night, so it had to have disappeared sometime after midnight. . . .” Her hands went to her mouth, and she whispered behind her fingers, “Milord, do you suppose someone used my cleaver on . . . on . . .”

  “Shhh!” Grampapa leaned closer to the woman and spoke in her ear. Her eyes went wide as her gaze darted to Lady Allerton. She whispered something to Grampapa in turn, and he shook his head.

  “What is going on?” Amelia murmured to Phoebe.

  Phoebe replied with a shake of her head, but inwardly she cringed. First the footprints and now this. More and more it appeared that Henry Leighton had been attacked . . . dismembered. . . killed . . . in this very house, and might still be here now, somewhere . . .

  Good heavens—moldering!

  She shut her eyes, but that did nothing to banish the gory images from her mind. She had never particularly liked Henry, and after last night she downright abhorred him for the way he had treated Julia—but this! This she would not wish on anyone.

  Oh, Henry....

  She stole a glance at her elder sister. Julia looked on impassively for all appearances, un
til Phoebe studied her more closely and detected the anxiety sparking in her dark blue eyes. Theo Leighton stood beside her—when had he retreated from the other men?—and moved his scarred hand to touch the back of her arm, just a slight graze before he let his hand drop to his side again.

  Phoebe watched them another moment. Odd, that physical contact. She had never observed much of a rapport between them. If Henry had met his end, Theo stood next in line to inherit the title, the estate—everything. Phoebe might be staring at the new Marquess of Allerton. Julia would be aware of that fact as well.

  Could Julia’s rejection of Henry have something to do with Theo? Or was Phoebe reading too much into what had been, after all, a fleeting touch in the face of yet another shock.

  Grampapa pushed out of his chair and bellowed to no one in particular, “Where is the inspector? I must speak to him immediately.” To Mrs. Ellison, he said more gently, “I need you to return below with Mrs. Sanders and see that the staff is assembled in the servants’ hall. No one is to leave. Tell Giles these are my orders.”

  “Yes, milord.” It was Mrs. Sanders who spoke, her tone brisk with authority.

  Like the old-school gentleman he was, Grampapa offered a hand to help Mrs. Ellison up from her seat. He walked her to the door, offering a pat of reassurance on her shoulder just before she disappeared into the corridor, her footsteps muffled on the runner but her sniffles still audible. Mrs. Sanders swept out after her.