Murder Most Malicious

by Alyssa Maxwell

  She seemed rather taken aback by the question. “Well . . . yes, sir. He was—is—a guest in this house. I deliver his linens each morning, lay his fire, tidy his rooms. . . .”

  “And beyond that, did you have occasion to speak with the marquess?”

  Her spine went rigid. “I . . . I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

  Eva did. She understood quite well where the inspector was leading with these questions. She herself had already begun to guess the truth. Now it only needed confirmation.

  “I mean, if I may be so blunt, Miss Robson, did the Marquess of Allerton ever engage your services for courtesies other than linens, hearth fires, and tidiness?”

  Connie gasped. Eva pushed back in her chair and jumped to her feet. “Inspector Perkins, your methods of questioning are unwarranted and most unkind. If Connie was a victim—”

  “Victim, ha! I’ll thank you to sit back down and hold your tongue, Miss Huntford, or leave this room.”

  “Well!” Eva remained on her feet another several moments, glaring back at the man as he attempted to stare her down into compliance. Even Miles Brannock no longer looked amused, but had dropped his pencil to the table, slid to the edge of his chair, and appeared about to intervene. Connie made a noise—part strangled sob, part sigh that rang with unmistakable capitulation. Eva resumed her seat. Mr. Brannock retrieved his pencil, his attention riveted on Connie as they all waited.

  “Well?”

  “It’s true, sir. Lord Allerton did make . . .” Her voice plummeted yet again. “Advances.”

  Eva’s breath froze. Even having been certain Connie hadn’t got those bruises cleaning a hearth, she still felt a shock at hearing the truth spoken aloud. Eva’s mind reeled when she considered what the girl had been forced to endure—the fear, the sense of violation, the humiliation. Her gaze dropped to Connie’s lap, where the girl twisted her fingers together with Eva’s handkerchief, the backs of her wrists facing upward and those telltale smudges peeking out from her cuffs.

  “Aha. I thought as much.” The inspector made no attempt to hide his obvious sense of triumph. Or his disdain. He turned to Constable Brannock. “Did I not tell you? It’s always over a girl—always!”

  “W-what do you mean, sir?”

  The elder man’s eyes narrowed within their florid, bloated pockets of flesh. His pocked nose flared. “I mean, girl, that George Vernon murdered Lord Allerton because of you.”

  “No, sir! No!” Connie flattened her palms on the tabletop, her whole body tensing as if she were about to spring over the table and attack Inspector Perkins.

  Eva reached for her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders while with her other hand she seized Connie’s arm. But it was the inspector she addressed. “Inspector Perkins, isn’t that a rather far-fetched assumption? What evidence do you have?” But the evidence lay only inches from her own fingertips—those bruises. Connie had admitted to Lord Allerton’s advances....

  Inspector Perkins ignored her and continued his rant. “Oh, yes, my girl. It’s all too clear that George Vernon discovered what Lord Allerton had done. Either you told him, or he caught Lord Allerton in the act. Which was it?”

  “He saw,” Connie rasped without inflection.

  The admission rendered Eva immobile.

  “And he went for the cleaver.” Inspector Perkins’s hand slapped the table.

  “No! The cleaver had nothing to do with Lord Allerton. I swear! It was—” She broke off, shoving a fist against her mouth.

  “It was what, Miss Robson? Why did George Vernon hide that cleaver in his room?”

  Her tears streamed and she spoke around choking sobs. “Because it broke. He was putting away some trays and knocked it off the counter—”

  Eva gasped. Good heavens, had Vernon taken the cleaver after all? “Connie, what are you saying?”

  Connie shoved both hands into her hair, knocking her maid’s cap askew. “Didn’t you see the handle was cracked? George accidentally dropped it and it hit the floor just so, and the handle cracked.” She raised her clasped hands, with Eva’s handkerchief sandwiched between them, in supplication. “He was going to take it into the village to have a new handle put on this very afternoon, and Mrs. Ellison would be none the wiser. He’s already telephoned the cutler to make sure he’d be open for business today.”

  Inspector Perkins sat back in his chair, a satisfied look swelling his cheeks and making him appear more bloated than before. “A confession, of sorts. That cleaver didn’t make its own way beneath the floorboard in George Vernon’s room. He put it there himself.”

  “Only so he could take it to be fixed. . . .”

  “So you say, Miss Robson. And even if that’s all true, and the cutler expected him today, if you ask me, the handle broke during the heinous crime perpetrated against Lord Allerton.”

  “No, I swear, it fell off the worktable. I saw it happen.”

  “Yes, and what girl wouldn’t lie to save her sweetheart?”

  Eva felt ill. She sat unmoving, not daring to breathe and willing Connie to offer up a more tolerable explanation. None came. The fight had flowed out of the girl, leaving her limp, shaking. She slumped forward onto the table, head on her arms.

  Her muffled voice, strangled by tears, broke the silence. “George didn’t hurt Lord Allerton. He would never do such a beastly thing.”

  “Can you prove that, Miss Robson? And mind you speak the truth or you’ll be charged with obstructing justice and aiding a murderer.”

  Her head came up a scant few inches and she peered through swollen eyes across the table. Even from beside her Eva felt, if not saw, the full force of the loathing contained in her gaze. Then Connie dropped her head to her arms again. “Oh, George, forgive me.”

  “I believe it is your move, sir.”

  At Lord Owen’s patient prodding that Fox make a decision regarding his remaining chess pieces, Phoebe felt as if she might crawl right out of her skin. Just a little while ago Eva had quickly filled her in about Connie’s interview with Inspector Perkins. Phoebe had immediately drawn Grampapa out of the others’ hearing and implored him not to allow Mrs. Sanders to sack Connie, at least not until all the facts were known. He had hesitated over his answer, mumbling, “I don’t typically involve myself in the daily running of domestic matters.”

  “Grampapa, you’re master of Foxwood Hall, and Eva tells me Connie would be quite destitute without employment. It is no exaggeration to say it’s a matter of life and death. And we have no proof either she or Vernon did anything wrong.” She had resorted to slipping her hand into his broad one, like grasping a friendly bear’s paw, and rising on tiptoe to look directly into his kindly eyes. “Please. For me, Grampapa. At least until we know the truth.”

  His capitulation had taken all of another second or two, the time it took to draw a breath. He smiled and patted her hand. “Anything for you, my dear.”

  Inspector Perkins had then entered the drawing room and asked to speak with Grampapa privately. They were still gone now, and with each tick of the mantel clock, she thought she’d go mad.

  “Phoebe, come let’s make etchings on the windowpanes.”

  The idea brought her no pleasure, but she conjured a smile for her younger sister and followed her to the window. Amelia used her thumbnail to trace patterns in the frosted glass and with a sigh Eva did the same, but without much enthusiasm. From the corner card table came the clink of coins as Grams raised the stakes for the round of cribbage the elder ladies were about to play. A glance over her shoulder revealed Theo making a slow circuit of the room, pretending interest in the various paintings along the wall. Julia stood at the piano, absently picking out notes with a forefinger.

  Was she remembering how Henry had pounded on the piano last night as they’d argued?

  “Look, Phoebe, see how I’ve swooped the A in Amelia differently than I usually do? I’m going to embroider this onto my uniform blouse before I return to school.”

  She dutifully admired her sister�
�s tracing. “Yes, that’ll be lovely.”

  “You know something, don’t you?” Amelia said much lower, her entire demeanor changing. Gone was the naïve schoolgirl intent on frost drawings, while before Phoebe stood a much more mature, intuitive young woman she hadn’t known existed. “I suspect you know what happened to Henry.” She peeked over her shoulder. “And ladies Allerton and Cecily have yet to be told. Isn’t that true?”

  It took Phoebe several seconds to overcome her stupefaction. Then she followed her sister’s gaze to the corner of the room, where Lady Allerton was just then tossing down a card with the smug expression of someone expecting to win.

  “It is, but we mustn’t breathe a word until Grampapa decides the time is right.” Phoebe still doubted the wisdom of keeping Lady Allerton in the dark when harm had almost certainly befallen Henry. Now his mother must learn of it all at once, rather than in bits as Phoebe had. She feared the effect the shock might have on the woman.

  After a pause, Amelia whispered, “The cleaver. Dear Lord, Phoebe, Mrs. Ellison’s cleaver!”

  “Shhh!” Phoebe lifted her hand to the window and dragged her fingernail through the icy condensation. “We’ll discuss it later. Alone. Though in all honesty you’ll be better off not knowing.”

  “I am not a child.”

  “Yes, you are.” But even as Phoebe made the claim, her heart squeezed around the truth. Although Amelia had always been perceptive, her relationship with Phoebe had been one of older and younger sister, with Amelia looking up to Phoebe, hanging on her every word and believing all she said. This new Amelia felt . . . Phoebe groped a moment to identify it, then seized upon the only fitting word. Amelia seemed her equal now, with opinions and judgments of her own, no longer reliant on an elder sister’s guidance.

  She should have expected it, should have seen it sooner, and should be proud of her sister. But all she felt just then was sad.

  Presently, the drawing room’s double doors slid open upon Grampapa and Inspector Perkins. If Phoebe had believed she alone had been counting the minutes, she was mistaken. The cards were slapped to the table, the chess pieces abandoned, and Julia closed the piano with a thunk that left the strings rumbling.

  They gathered around the two men, voices jumbled as several questions were blurted simultaneously. Grampapa held up his hands for silence. Anticipation veritably pulsed among them—Phoebe felt it in the pounding of the blood at her temples. Before anyone could speak, however, Lady Allerton pushed her way past the others and stood before the inspector.

  “Have you found my son?”

  “I’m afraid not, my lady.”

  “Then why are you here? You should be out searching for him, not vanished meat cleavers. I must inform you, sir, that I have quite lost my patience.”

  “My lady . . .” Looking mystified, Inspector Perkins trailed off. He appealed to Grampapa. “My lord, have you not explained . . . ?”

  Grampapa cleared his throat. “I thought it best to wait until we knew more.”

  Lady Allerton whirled toward him. “Archibald, have you been keeping something from me?”

  Grampapa looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Lucille, perhaps you and I should speak privately, in my study.”

  Phoebe felt a protest rise up inside her, but she held her tongue. Lady Allerton, however, showed no such constraint. “You shall speak to me here and now, Archibald. I insist! I demand it! I have been quiet long enough. I will know what has happened to Henry.”

  Silence descended, so thick Phoebe thought she might drown in it. Grampapa exchanged a questioning look with Grams, who closed her eyes and nodded. Phoebe marveled at how calm Grams had remained in light of the situation, how in control. If Phoebe hadn’t already known something awful happened today, she would not have gained an inkling from Grams’s stoic mannerisms.

  It was Lord Owen who broke the silence, coming forward like the commander he had been and speaking softly, yet quite firmly, to Lady Allerton. “You are entitled to answers, ma’am. I suggest we all sit down, along with brandies for the gentlemen and sherries for the ladies.”

  “Amelia, go to your room, please.” Grams raised a delicately veined hand to point Amelia’s way into the hall, but Amelia held her ground.

  “Grams, really. I have already deduced that something dreadful has happened to—ouch!”

  Phoebe poked her elbow—hard—into her sister’s upper arm. But at the same time, she took up her sister’s cause. “Grams, forgive me for speaking out of turn, but I believe we should stay together and hear what Inspector Perkins has to tell us. There’s no telling what Amelia might imagine on her own.”

  “And I’m certainly not going anywhere.” Fox drew himself up and widened his stance.

  “Very well, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Grams held her hands out, drawing Lady Allerton and Lady Cecily to her. Together they went to the settee beneath the central window. The snowy garden behind them made an icy backdrop for the chilling news about to be shared. “Owen, would you be so kind as to pour those brandies and sherries? I fear we are going to need them. Julia, you may help pass them around, please.”

  “This had better be important,” Miss Shea griped yet again. She and Eva walked briskly side by side through the butler’s pantry and across the dining room, or as briskly as Miss Shea could manage while carrying a basin half-filled with ice water. Eva couldn’t remember the last time she had been in this part of the house. Upstairs, yes, and along the corridor to the morning room, but there was little reason for a lady’s maid to ever be in the manor’s formal rooms. Only minutes ago, Phoebe had called down on the inter-house telephone requesting both she and Miss Shea come as quickly as possible.

  “It’s certainly must be important, or Lady Phoebe wouldn’t have instructed me to bring smelling salts.” Eva held up the glass vial and looked up at the taller woman. She paused to catch her breath, the quick climb up the steep back stairs having left her slightly winded. “Nor you, ice water and a rag. I do hope Lady Wroxly hasn’t taken ill. Or one of the girls.”

  Miss Shea snorted. “Are we nurses? I’m sure it’s nothing. And it isn’t as if Lady Wroxly won’t expect her gown ironed and her jewelry polished by dinnertime, same as always. Except now I’ll barely have time to complete the tasks I was hired to perform. And you—when do you suppose you’ll find time now to freshen three frocks and dress three young ladies’ hair?”

  “In light of today’s goings-on, I sincerely doubt there will be a formal dinner tonight,” Eva replied.

  “And anyway,” the woman murmured as if Eva hadn’t spoken, “this was supposed to be our holiday. Some holiday, I say.”

  “Quite frankly, I think you’re being unkind.” Eva sped up to walk ahead of the woman rather than endure more of her complaints.

  In the drawing room, she found the family and guests hovering around the long settee, their faces etched with concern. She hastily sought out her girls—Phoebe, Julia, Amelia—and saw that each appeared sound enough. Her relief grew at the sight of Lady Wroxly standing straight and tall by the settee, looking her usual, hearty self.

  “Thank goodness you’re here,” the countess said with enthusiasm, as if lady’s maids could magically remedy any situation. After today, Eva only wished that were true.

  It was Lady Allerton who lay stretched across the cushions, her head supported by a satin pillow. Her eyes were closed and the fingertips of one limp hand skimmed the carpet. She must have been told about her son . . . about the Christmas boxes. Eva hurried across the room, opening the vial as she went. Lady Wroxly moved aside, giving Eva room to kneel beside Lady Allerton’s prone form. She waved the smelling salts under the marchioness’s rather wide nose.

  Lady Allerton snorted and coughed, and after a moment lifted a hand to swat the vial away. “She’s coming to,” Eva said. “Miss Shea, the cold compress if you would.”

  The senior lady’s maid did as Eva bade, but let Eva know she didn’t appreciate being given orders with a severe look that
promised a repercussion or two once they returned below stairs.

  Lady Allerton groaned. “What happened?” She slurred her words, as if she was tipsy. “Where is my maid?”

  “You fainted.” Lady Wroxly leaned over to say, “And as your maid was upstairs, I thought it quicker to send for ours below stairs, where the ice is kept. Are you feeling better?”

  The woman drew her hand up to finger the compress, then thrust an arm across her eyes. “I must have imagined . . . oh, the most appalling thing. About . . . about Henry. But surely it couldn’t be.”

  “What couldn’t be, dear?” Lady Cecily sounded as if she was enjoying a pleasant afternoon’s entertainment. Poised beside the closer of the two hearths, she reached up to press her thumb against the point of a sabre mounted on the wall.

  Eva wondered if they had discussed Lord Allerton’s fate out of his great-aunt’s hearing. But then again, Phoebe and Amelia often giggled together over the odd things Lady Cecily said and did. Eva frowned as she took in her clashing attire—a flowered tunic over a striped afternoon dress. Oh, dear. Clearly Lady Cecily no longer exercised full control over her faculties, but perhaps in this case her infirmity was a blessing in disguise.

  Lord Theodore went to his aunt and gently drew the woman’s arm down to her side. “Come away, Aunt Cecily. You’ll hurt yourself playing with that.”

  At a movement from the sofa Eva turned her attention back to the marchioness. She nearly touched the woman’s shoulder but stopped an inch or two shy. “Ma’am, perhaps you should not attempt sitting up just yet.”

  She pushed Eva’s well-meaning hand away. “No one need fuss over me. I’ll be fine.” She sat upright, but immediately swayed and let out a moan. Lady Wroxly scooted next to her on the settee.

  “Our Miss Huntford is right. You’ve had a terrible shock, Lucille.”

  “Oh, Maude, what the inspector said. There can be no truth in it.”

  “Perhaps not. We shan’t give up hope.”

  At that last, Eva was careful not to meet the marchioness’s eye, for her own hopes for Lord Allerton had dwindled to none. She rose and moved away as Lady Julia approached with a long-stemmed cordial glass. Lady Wroxly took it from her and pressed it into both of Lady Allerton’s hands. “Drink, dear. It’ll fortify you.”