Murder Most Malicious

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “All of you are to remain here, please.” Grampapa’s order was soft-spoken but firm. His gaze honed in on Phoebe. “And that most especially includes you, my dear. No more tracing footprints for you.”

  “What did he mean by that?” Julia demanded when Grampapa left in search of Inspector Perkins.

  Phoebe shrugged. “No idea. I merely went out for some air earlier.” But she longed to run and find Eva and discuss this latest development.

  Across the room, Lady Allerton huffed loudly. “All this fuss over a missing kitchen utensil? Is no one the least bit concerned about Henry?”

  CHAPTER 4

  “You know they’ll be rummaging through our things,” Douglas, the under footman, murmured with no effort to hide his resentment. His Cornish accent became more pronounced the angrier he became. His finger traced nervously back and forth over the wood grain of the oak tabletop. “Probably emptying our drawers onto the floor this very moment and toeing through our personal things.”

  “I doubt very much they’re using their toes,” Eva told him in an effort to alleviate the tension in the servants’ hall. It did no good, didn’t raise so much as a half smile among the servants sitting around the long table.

  “Doesn’t matter how they search. There’s nothing we can do about it,” Connie said with a furtive glance at the others before sinking down into herself, her shoulders stiff and angular beneath her black dress and starched pinafore. A plain girl about the same age as Lady Phoebe, Connie had come to Foxwood Hall only two months ago. Eva thought she had sensed a loneliness about her, or perhaps a painful shyness, and had tried to draw her out with friendly conversation only to discover the girl seemed to prefer being left alone. By all accounts she performed her duties with competence and no complaints, despite being a few minutes late earlier this morning. Though not disliked by anyone, she had yet to form close ties with any of the other staff members.

  “No one is in a position to protest,” Mrs. Sanders reminded them in clipped tones. “The inspectors have a job to do and we’ll stand aside and allow them to do it. And anyway, Mr. Phelps and Miss Shea are with them to ensure the search is conducted in an orderly manner.”

  Mrs. Sanders referred to Lord Wroxly’s valet and Lady Wroxly’s personal maid, respectively. Eva doubted Mrs. Sanders’s claim, an opinion Dora, the young scullery maid, apparently agreed with, for she said, “Miss Shea and Mr. Phelps think lower servants don’t deserve any privacy at all.”

  “The inspector believes it’s one of us, doesn’t he?” This observation came from Douglas. He absently toyed with the braided trim on the cuff of his livery coat. “No one ever thinks to suspect the fine folk upstairs. No, it’s always the servants—”

  “You’ll mind your tongue, Douglas. You, too, Dora.” Mrs. Sanders snapped to her feet in a blur of black bombazine, high-necked and floor-sweeping in the old style. While most every other woman in England had raised her hems above her ankle bones, Mrs. Sanders still insisted on covering all but the tips of her shoes. “You’ll mind, or you’ll both find yourselves trudging down the high road with your suitcase in hand.”

  Douglas muttered something under his breath.

  “What was that?” the butler demanded.

  “Nothing, Mr. Giles, sir.”

  Eva could easily guess what he’d said. With her dark gray eyes and wiry, peppered hair, Mrs. Sanders had earned the nickname of Old Ironheart from some of the staff. Eva found that unfair. The running of a house like Foxwood took discipline and order, and Mrs. Sanders certainly commanded both. But true, at times like these she often showed a decided lack of sympathy. If there were sides to be taken, Mrs. Sanders’s opinion unwaveringly favored the family above stairs.

  Douglas apparently couldn’t help himself. He jerked his chin at Vernon. “You’re awful quiet about this. Don’t you have anything to say?”

  “I, er . . .” Vernon glanced first at Mrs. Sanders, then Mr. Giles, and remained silent. Newly made head footman, George Vernon straddled a fence between the upper and lower servants, desiring the acceptance of the former without alienating the latter. It wasn’t an easy position to be in, as Eva knew from experience.

  Douglas flashed him a look of disgust. Murmurs of discontent broke out around the table.

  “That will be quite enough. If I hear one more complaint out of any of you—” Mrs. Sanders didn’t finish. She didn’t need to for everyone to understand her meaning.

  “Everyone calm down, please.” Mr. Giles stood up at the head of the table, prompting Eva and the others to jump to their feet in one swift motion. It had been ingrained in them: When the butler stands, everyone stands. He held up his hands and made patting motions at the air. “Sit back down, all of you. I only wish to make a point. And that is that no one here has any reason to fear, as long as none of you has broken any rules . . . or worse.”

  By worse the butler referred to Lord Allerton. The faces around Eva registered every emotion from apprehension to suspicion, frustration, and out and out fear. By that last sentiment, Connie seemed most affected, sitting stiffly and staring down at her lap as if afraid if she looked up some terrible fate might befall her. Had she something to hide? What about Douglas? Or Vernon, who seemed to be avoiding meeting everyone’s gaze.

  Any of them might harbor a secret they dreaded revealing, a happenstance that could send them out into the street this very day. Never mind what happened to Lord Allerton. Any broken rule, from a liquor flask or forbidden reading material hidden under a pillow to some evidence that a member of the staff had sneaked out after curfew . . . offenses other people never gave a second thought could threaten a servant’s livelihood.

  She began to worry, not for herself, but for her fellow domestics. She’d grown fond of them all in these last few years. She didn’t wish to see any of them cast out without a reference.

  Sitting next to Eva, Mrs. Ellison kept clasping and unclasping her plump hands. Eva reached over and stilled them. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Ellison. Your cleaver might turn up innocently enough.”

  “I do hope so. How I loathe to think a blade from my kitchen could have been used in so fiendish a way. It’s almost blasphemous! Lord knows, if it was used to . . . to . . . Well, I should never be able to chop chickens with it again, shall I? The very thought . . .” She shivered.

  “If that is indeed the case, you’ll have a new cleaver, to be sure, Mrs. Ellison,” Mrs. Sanders said.

  “What’s taking them so long?” Dora spoke with a groan, yet not one of distress or worry, Eva deduced, but, judging by the light in her eyes and the vivid color in her cheeks, anticipation. The girl found something exciting in all of this, the kind of vicarious adventure one gleaned from reading sordid details in mystery novels.

  Mrs. Ellison must have noticed this, too, for presently she compressed her lips and then said, “Dora, I think you might return to the scullery and start polishing the copper pots used for last night’s dinner. If the inspector needs to speak with you, I’ll let you know.”

  “But Lord Wroxly said—”

  Mrs. Sanders cleared her throat. “It is irregular for you to be in the dining hall at all, Dora. I’m quite certain Lord Wroxly would have no objection to you restoring the shine on the sauce pots.”

  She had a point. As the lowliest servant in the household, Dora took her meals in the kitchen with the hall boy rather than here in the servants’ hall. With another groan the girl scraped back her chair and pushed to her feet. Like a child being sent to her room, she dragged herself away.

  Rather odd behavior for a girl who had found a severed finger in her Christmas box only a few hours ago, in her case accompanied by a gold watch chain. In her mind, Eva lined up each recipient of Lord Allerton’s appendages: herself, Dora, Mr. Phelps, Josh the hall boy, and Rupert Garth and Myron Henderson from the village. Many others had received boxes today, of course, but only these six contained the ghastly surprises.

  Each had little in common with the others. True, the first four all worked
here at the Hall, but while Josh and Dora worked exclusively below stairs, Eva, as a lady’s maid, and Mr. Phelps, as Lord Wroxly’s valet, enjoyed a much higher status among the servants. The two men from the village each owned a business, the tailor shop and haberdashery, respectively.

  There must be some connecting factor among them, but what?

  “I don’t see what you’re all worried about.” Nick Hensley leaned back in his chair with a somber expression. “If anyone should be suspect, it’s me. I’m the one who deals with—dealt with—” He shook his head, the corners of his mouth pulling taut. He began again. “I am Lord Allerton’s valet. If they wish to blame one of the servants, they’ll likely blame me, won’t they?”

  For the briefest moment a horrible thought chilled Eva’s heart. As Lord Allerton’s valet, Nick certainly had access to the marquess’s person. Could he have had some reason to want his employer out of the way?

  Nodding heads around the table shocked her out of her own thoughts and prompted Eva to speak up. “No, Nick, you mustn’t think that. And neither must any of you. We must stick together. Support each other. Nick is no more guilty than any of you.”

  He met her gaze with a gleam, and she realized she had called him Nick, not once but twice—not Mr. Hensley as she had insisted on doing only that morning.

  The significance of that gleam made her feel as if they were the only two people in the room. It warmed her even as it left her disconcerted and fumbling for an appropriate response. It made her glad she had used his first name, even as she longed for the comfortable formality of his surname again.

  And then, remembering they were not the only inhabitants of the room, she blinked and looked away, but too late. The others had seen and would speculate. Let them, Eva decided, even as she resolved not to give them further cause to gossip. A strained silence settled over the room, all the more nerve-racking for the clunking and clattering coming from Dora in the scullery.

  Finally, Douglas broke the silence. “It’s not like we’ve given the toffs any reason to suspect us. They should look to themselves.”

  Mr. Giles reared his head. “Whatever do you mean by that?”

  “I mean . . .” Douglas swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing sharply. “Things weren’t exactly all roses last night between Lord Allerton and a certain member of the Renshaw family.”

  Mr. Giles slapped his hands on the tabletop. “I will not suffer this staff to spread gossip or speak ill of our employers. Nor will I countenance footmen eavesdropping on private matters when they should be concentrating on their work. Whatever you overheard last night, Douglas, you are to put out of your mind this instant. Is that clear?”

  Douglas gave a petulant nod. At the same time, a wash of scarlet stained Vernon’s neck, and he dropped his gaze.

  Mr. Giles was not satisfied. “Is that clear?” he repeated with the full boom of his baritone.

  Connie flinched, and even Mrs. Ellison pressed a hand to her breastbone. Douglas raised his chin. “Yes, sir. Quite clear, Mr. Giles, sir.”

  Footsteps sounded in the stairwell. Everyone around the table, Eva included, tensed, sat up straighter, and craned their necks to see who was coming. A moment later, Constable Brannock entered the hall. He scanned the room, his gaze falling on each of them in turn. Eva’s pulse quickened when his regard lingered on her longer than the rest.

  He pointed. “Mr. Vernon.”

  Another crimson wave swept over Vernon’s fair complexion. “M-me, sir?”

  Brannock nodded and pointed again. “And you, Mr. Hensley. You both need to come with me.”

  Eva gasped, and it was all she could do to keep from jumping up in protest. The others stared with saucer-like eyes as Nick quietly came to his feet, but before he stepped away from the table, Mr. Giles stood. “Not to interfere in police business, but Vernon is under my direct supervision, as is Mr. Hensley while he is here in this house. Will you please explain the nature of this summons?”

  “Inspector Perkins has further questions for these two men,” Brannock said, looking almost bored and giving away nothing in his manner.

  “Was something found during the search?” Mr. Giles moved to stand behind Vernon’s chair, his hand coming to rest on the young man’s broad shoulder. “Was the murder weapon discovered?”

  “Did you find my cleaver?” Mrs. Ellison squeaked.

  “Good heavens, did you find Lord Allerton?” Mrs. Sanders laced her fingers together as if in prayer.

  “I cannot discuss anything at present. All I can say is the rest of you are to remain here. We might have more questions for some of you.” He regarded first Nick and then Vernon with an expression approaching pity, or so Eva thought. She liked this man less and less with each passing moment. “Gentlemen, please follow me.”

  Vernon stood up shakily from the table and looked so much like a lost child Eva wished to offer him a reassuring hug. She remained where she was, hearing other footsteps and then two sets of murmurs from the corridor. Constable Brannock led Nick and Vernon out as Harlan Phelps and Fiona Shea entered the hall.

  Around the table, a barrage of questions drowned out even Dora’s clashing of pots and pans.

  Mr. Giles held up his hands. “Silence, all of you. That’s better. Now, Mr. Phelps, what can you tell us?”

  The man, tall and thin with a full head of silver hair neatly slicked back from his brow, shook his head. “Officially, we can tell you nothing.” He cupped his palm behind his ear and raised his head to listen to the retreating footsteps on the stairs. “But unofficially . . .”

  “Did they find Mrs. Ellison’s cleaver?” Douglas demanded.

  Miss Shea and Mr. Phelps exchanged a glance and a nod, and Mr. Phelps said, “Indeed they did.”

  “Where?” Several voices spoke at once.

  Her dark hair parted in the middle and pulled back into a severe bun, Miss Shea puffed up with self-importance, as the lady’s maids of countesses were apt to do. “I don’t know if we should say. Inspector Perkins might disapprove.”

  “Hang Inspector Perkins.” Douglas drummed a fist on the table. “Tell us what you know.”

  “Douglas, a modicum of patience, if you will,” Mr. Giles counseled. “I’m sure the inspector has his reasons for being reticent on the matter. However, we all have our reasons for wanting to know the truth. Vernon is a valuable member of this staff, and a decent bloke all around. I don’t believe there is a one of us here who has ever had a gripe against George Vernon.” He aimed a significant glare at Douglas, who could not always make the same claim. “And as for Nicholas Hensley, why, the senior staff such as Mrs. Sanders, Mrs. Ellison, and myself remember when he worked here, before Lord Allerton took him on as his valet. Mr. Hensley is family, and so is Vernon. So please, Mr. Phelps, Miss Shea, if you know something of consequence, do not leave the rest of us in the dark.”

  “The imagination is always more detrimental than the truth,” Mrs. Sanders added.

  Mr. Giles turned to her as if she had just imparted the greatest wisdom. “Indeed.”

  “All right.” Mr. Phelps dragged a chair from against the wall over to the table. “Make room for us.” Loud scraping filled the room as the others scooted aside. Mr. Phelps held the chair as Miss Shea primly sat, then brought another one over. Once situated, he leaned over the table in a conspiratorial hunch. “The cleaver was found.”

  Gasps were followed by exclamations of “I knew it” and demands as to where the item had surfaced. With all the drama of stage actors, the valet and lady’s maid once again traded knowing looks and nods. In fact, Eva believed they might have missed their calling. Her patience was wearing thin when Mr. Phelps gestured to Miss Shea, and said, “I’ll allow you to do the honors.”

  The woman moistened her thin lips, dragging out the moment until Eva wanted to scream. Then she said, “Beneath a floorboard in the room shared by Vernon and Mr. Hensley.”

  Another barrage of gasps followed. Eva remained silent, her mind reeling. What did this mean? Th
at one of them had attacked—perhaps killed—Lord Allerton? Vernon or Nick?

  She rejected the notion. It simply wasn’t possible. Someone else must have planted that cleaver in their room. When or how, she didn’t know, although the servants’ bedrooms were never locked, so anyone in this house might have found the opportunity to sneak in.

  “Why was Mr. Hensley sharing with Vernon anyway,” Douglas asked, and several others nodded their concurrence with the question.

  “Well, certainly I shouldn’t have been expected to share my room with him,” Mr. Phelps replied, “even if Hensley does technically outrank me as the valet of a marquess. I am, after all, valet to the master of this house. As such I have always enjoyed a room to myself. I saw no reason to change that now, even temporarily.”

  Mr. Phelps’s arrogance and the smugness of his tone penetrated the veneer of gentility Eva had cultivated over the years, and she wished nothing so much as to throw something—for instance, the kerosene lantern in the middle of the table—against the wall for the simple satisfaction of watching it shatter. “How can you go on so?” she demanded. “Have you no compassion at all?”

  Even as she confronted the valet, she knew her anger wasn’t truly directed at him, but at the situation, the awful revelation that her childhood friend—they had been friends of a sort—might be implicated in a horrific crime.

  “I am merely explaining the situation to Douglas, who did ask, Miss Huntford.”

  Eva clamped her lips around the point she longed to make, that if Mr. Phelps had observed proper etiquette by allowing the marquess’s valet to room with him, Nick might not be undergoing questioning at this moment. Might not be a . . . She could barely bring herself to think the word: suspect.

  An argument wouldn’t have done anyone any good. But she did have a question. “Mr. Phelps, you are among those of us who received the Christmas boxes in question. Can you think of any reason why you or any of us should have been singled out?”

  His upper lip curled in disgust at the reference, and for this she could not blame him. “Indeed I cannot, Miss Huntford. I believe perhaps it was random. That whoever performed the dreadful deed disposed of . . . of the . . .” His lip curled again, baring his teeth. “The you know what . . . in the first boxes available.”