“It’s all right, Dora. I don’t think Mrs. Ellison would begrudge you a bit of cheese.”
The girl nodded. “I heard voices from the stairwell, angry ones. They frightened me a little, so I crept along the corridor a ways so I could hear what they were saying. It was Connie and the marquess, and she was begging him to let her go. He was laughing—not loud, mind you, just a mean little laugh, and I heard scuffling on the steps, and Connie saying no over and over again. And the marquess said, ‘Too bad, my dear, you owe me this.’ ”
Eva braced her hands on the edge of the sink. “What time was this? Do you have any idea?”
“Sometime after midnight. I don’t know exactly.”
“And then what happened?”
“I heard footsteps coming down, and a voice—Vernon’s—asking what was going on. That’s when I peeked round the corner. I saw Vernon and the marquess staring each other down like two bulls in a pen, and Connie cowering against the stairwell wall. She was crying, Miss Huntford, and her dress—it was all crooked-like. Finally, the marquess pushed past Vernon and stormed upstairs, and Vernon reached to help Connie. He hugged her and she cried on his shoulder, and she said . . .”
Here Dora compressed her lips and plunged her hands back into the water, searching for the rag that had submerged beneath the suds.
“Please, Dora. This might be vitally important. I promise, whatever you tell me, I shall reveal to no one that you and I spoke.” Her conscience gave another whisper of warning. She seemed to be making questionable promises this morning, so she vowed silently that she would not use any information unless she could verify it herself—however she may. She said again, “Please.”
Dora blew out a breath. “Connie said she would kill Lord Allerton if he ever touched her again.”
Phoebe lightened her tread on the stair runner. No sound came from above her. She could only assume both Fox and Theo had reached their destinations. Where had Theo gone? She hoped not to his room. That would make it impossible to strike up a conversation. But the billiard room or even Grampapa’s smoking room—no longer used for smoking ever since his physician forbade him—would suit her purposes. Before the war, both rooms would have been off limits to Phoebe and her sisters unless Grampapa invited them in, but the preceding years had loosened the old rules. As long as the door stood open and she and Theo didn’t occupy the same settee, no one could raise an eyebrow, or at least not much of one.
Yet murmurs led her, not to either male domain, but to the Rosalind sitting room that overlooked the dormant rose garden and the bare willows scraping against the ice-covered pond. She again muffled her steps, this time along the hall runner, and stopped a door away from the one from which the voices emanated. How familiar it seemed—Phoebe eavesdropping outside a door. But while the feminine voice once again identified Julia, the other held Theo’s deeper, gruffer tones. And unlike Christmas night, Phoebe heard no anger. What she did hear kept her rooted to the spot, albeit tempted to move closer.
“Do you suppose anyone else knows?” Julia said, her voice low and rushed.
“I don’t think so, at least not yet. But as for the evidence—”
“It must be destroyed, Theo.”
“What are you doing?”
Phoebe bit back a cry. She spun about to find Fox lurking several feet away, his eyes glinting with speculation. Wouldn’t she like to hang a bell from that boy’s collar, or better still, put him on a leash.
She seized him by the wrist and dragged him away, down the corridor. “You’re supposed to be in your room,” she whispered. “What would Grampapa say if he discovered you disobeyed him?”
“Tell him and I’ll tell Julia you were eavesdropping on her and Theo.”
She was tempted to twist his arm behind his back. If not for her devious little brother, she might have learned about this evidence Julia and Theo must destroy. Evidence of what? Murder? Something rather less diabolical? Could they have been referring to the secret Henry held over Julia on Christmas night, the one that robbed Julia of her usual cool aplomb?
Had that secret spurred Julia to rash action? Or had Theo finally had enough of Henry’s arrogance and tightfistedness?
It wasn’t the first time Phoebe’s thoughts turned in either direction. But even with Fox’s untimely interruption, she had learned something new: Julia and Theo were somehow in league together. Yes, that touch she’d witnessed yesterday in the drawing room had not been haphazard. Now all Phoebe had to do was discover whatever common interest had joined two people who in the past rarely took the time to acknowledge each other’s presence, much less strike up conversations.
She and Fox turned a corner and stopped outside his bedroom. Phoebe released him and attempted to stare him down, but he only stared back in silent, arrogant challenge.
There was nothing for it but to strike a bargain. “You keep mum and so shall I,” she said. “Besides, I wasn’t eavesdropping. I was on my way into the sitting room when I heard their voices. I hadn’t wished to intrude, and was about to turn around and go to my room when you decided to frighten ten years off my life.”
His cunning smile suggested he didn’t believe her story for a minute. “If you say so.”
“I do, and if I were you, Fox, I’d be in my room minding my own business rather than roaming the house looking for trouble.”
“Is that a warning, dear sister?”
She reached past him and opened the bedroom door. “Merely a bit of advice you would be wise to heed.”
She didn’t wait to see if he took her counsel. She hurried back to her own room and rang for Eva, who came up straightaway, almost as if she had been waiting for the summons. She seemed out of breath, flushed, her eyes lit with urgency.
She and Phoebe spoke the same words at the same time. “I have something shocking to tell you.”
They fell silent, regarding each other, and then Eva said, “You first, my lady.”
Phoebe took her hand and brought her to the little settee facing the fireplace. Eva hesitated as Phoebe sat. Phoebe gestured at the place beside her. “Please, Eva. We cannot speak earnestly with me sitting and you standing. If we are to work together on Vernon’s behalf, we must act as partners.”
“Oh, dear,” Eva muttered, even as she sat beside Phoebe and primly smoothed her skirt.
“Thank you. Now, then. I overheard something only moments ago. Julia and Lord Theodore were speaking together in the Rosalind sitting room, and—”
“You were eavesdropping, my lady?”
“Don’t scold me. But yes. They spoke all in a rush about whether ‘anyone else knew’ and ‘evidence that must be destroyed. ’”
“My goodness! What were they talking about?”
“I cannot say, but Christmas night I quite accidentally overheard Julia and Lord Allerton arguing in the drawing room after everyone else had gone up to bed. She had just turned down his proposal of marriage, and in retaliation Lord Allerton threatened her with some secret he knew about her, something which left her obviously flustered.”
Eva was silent a moment, then let out a breathy, “Oh.” She placed her hand over Phoebe’s. “That was why you asked me if I would tell the inspector if I knew something that might incriminate someone I cared about. You were struggling over whether or not to tell Inspector Perkins about Julia and Lord Allerton’s argument.”
“Did I do the right thing in not telling?” Phoebe searched Eva’s features, which always exhibited such patient kindness. Would she see disapproval there now?
To her relief, Eva’s forehead remained smooth. “I believe you did, at least for the time being. Inspector Perkins has botched this investigation so far, and I doubt this information would change anything for Vernon.”
“I agree, but what about Constable Brannock? He seems an astute fellow.”
“Perhaps . . .” Eva nipped at her bottom lip. “I don’t fully trust him, my lady. I can’t put my finger on it, but I sense he is hiding something of his own.”
“Such as what?”
“To begin with, he seems frightfully whole and unimpaired, at a time when so many men have returned home maimed or scarred or emotionally wounded by the war . . . or simply never came home. I keep wondering why that should be.”
“You think he was a scrimshanker?”
Eva drew back. “My lady, wherever did you learn a term like that?”
She shrugged. “I expect I heard Grampapa say it a time or two. He has little regard for healthy men who avoided their duty during the war. Why? Is it a bad word?”
“No, I don’t suppose so. It’s just not one I would expect to hear from you.”
Phoebe waved a hand in the air. “Never mind that. You seemed agitated when you got here. Have you also learned something significant?”
“I might have. I’ve begun questioning the others who received . . .”
At Eva’s hesitation, Phoebe hastened to reassure her. “You needn’t fear being blunt with me. Not after the breakfast conversation I enjoyed a little while ago. What you mean to say is, ‘the others who received bits of Lord Allerton.’ ”
Eva swallowed and nodded. “Yes, I’ve begun questioning them in an attempt to understand what each had in common. Why them—or us, I should say, since I was among them—and not others. One possibility that came to mind was business dealings. What else could link a workman or artisan with a marquess?”
“Good thinking. We should question the other recipients as well. The ones in town.” When Eva agreed, Phoebe prompted her to continue with what she had learned below stairs.
“The hall boy’s father deals in tooled saddles and tack—items certainly in demand among the aristocracy. Or at least they were before the war. I also spoke with Dora, the scullery maid, but we were sidetracked by another matter. My lady, on Christmas night, in the early morning hours, Dora overheard the altercation between Lord Allerton and Connie. Vernon intervened, and once Lord Allerton had gone back upstairs, Dora heard Connie say she would kill Lord Allerton if he ever touched her again.”
“My goodness! This is far more significant than the matter concerning Julia.” She scrunched up her nose. “At least I think it is. I—oh, hang it.” She hopped to her feet and began pacing. “Vernon, Lord Allerton, Lord Theodore, Connie . . . and Julia.” Sudden insight brought her to a halt in front of Eva. “This would have been soon after his argument with Julia. As if, having not gotten satisfaction from Julia, he went looking for satisfaction of another sort from Connie. How beastly! What a bully! And a coward. A man like that certainly makes it a thorny task to be sorry he’s gone.”
CHAPTER 8
Eva didn’t enjoy riding in motorcars. Never had. They were jarring and drafty and moved at alarming speeds. But today she barely noticed as Phoebe steered her two-seater Vauxhall around the last curve to her parents’ farm at a speed that normally would have had her cowering into her coat collar. She had other things on her mind, namely, her father’s likely reply to the question she intended to ask him. Or confront him with, if the truth be told.
Apprehension overshadowed even her relief at climbing out of the Vauxhall, only to increase when the front door opened on her mother’s quizzical surprise. “Why, Evie, we didn’t expect you today.” Mum’s surprise quickly turned to alarm. “And Lady Phoebe, too. How . . . er . . . lovely.” With only a shawl tossed over her dress, she hurried across the threshold, but a quick word from Phoebe stopped her short on the stoop.
“Mrs. Huntford, don’t you dare come out in this bitter cold. We’re coming in presently.” And with that she and Eva hurried into the house and went directly to the fireplace to warm themselves. After trading pleasantries with Eva’s parents, Phoebe followed a jittery Mum into the kitchen, leaving Eva alone with her father.
“Dad, there’s a reason I’m here today.”
“Any reason’s a good one if it means we get to see our girl. And that Lady Phoebe—quite the young woman she’s becoming.” He waved a finger at her. “I see your influence on her, Evie, and she’s the better for it.”
“Thank you, Dad. But I need to ask you a question. It’s about what happened, and you might not—”
“Ask, Evie, and stop beating about the bush.”
“All right, then. Had the Marquess of Allerton owed you money?”
Sitting in his favorite easy chair, Dad crossed his feet, then uncrossed them, and tugged at his beard. “Why would a marquess owe money to the likes of me?”
“You know very well why.” She sat at the end of the lumpy settee closest to his chair. “There must be some link between all of us who received those ghastly surprises in our boxes. I can think of no other rational possibility.”
“You mean to say, someone might have been paying off the marquess’s debts?” Skepticism oozed from both his tone and his expression. “Devil of a payment, that.”
“Yes, but when you think about it, why does someone commit murder? Jealousy, revenge, and money top the list, don’t they?”
“Perhaps . . . But the box was for you, Evie, not me. Did the marquess owe you money?”
His attempt to turn the question around left her uneasy. From where she sat in the front parlor, she could peer into the kitchen, where Mum was nervously pouring a cup of tea for Phoebe. Eva could understand how having a Renshaw in her kitchen might throw off her mother’s equilibrium, but was there more to it? Had Mum overheard Eva’s question? In an attempt to set her at ease, Phoebe, bless her heart, chattered nonstop about her grandfather’s plans for the spring planting at the home farm and asked Mum her opinion on different grades of seed.
Eva drew a breath and turned back to her father. “The marquess did not owe me money, Dad. But someone knew I would be coming here on Boxing Day, just as he or she knew where the others would be going as well. So I’ll ask you again. Did the marquess owe you money? He was furloughed for several weeks last summer. Perhaps you helped provision his estate during that time?”
Her father’s forehead puckered. He tugged again at his beard.
“I’ve guessed it, Dad, haven’t I?”
“All right, Evie, yes. He purchased several sides of beef while on furlough. What of it? Plenty of noblemen fell into arrears during the war. The toffs are pressured to keep up appearances no matter what. He’d have paid me sooner or later. He promised.”
“Why was that so hard to admit? Did you tell the inspector?”
“It’s none of his business.”
“Then you lied by omission! Don’t you realize how that looks?”
“Shh!” Her father darted a look into the kitchen and gestured for Evie to lower her voice. He whispered his next words. “I do not need your mum scolding me for extending credit during the war years. The man was a soldier, Evie, a commanding officer, risking life and limb for those of us left behind. I couldn’t very well tell him no when he placed his order, now could I?” Rising, he went to the fireplace and took his pipe from the mantel. He didn’t reach for his tobacco pouch, but instead tapped the bowl against his palm as he regarded Eva. “Why are you so interested anyway? What are you and her ladyship up to?”
“We are up to finding justice for George Vernon.”
Dad shook his head slowly, now tapping the pipe’s mouthpiece against his lips. “What if he’s guilty, Evie?”
“You know him. Do you believe he could have committed a crime like that?”
A heavy pause ensued before he answered. “Do you believe I could have?”
“No, Dad, of course I don’t,” Eva said without hesitation.
She and Phoebe left soon after, retracing their way along the same road. With a grind Phoebe shifted gears, and the Vauxhall jerked twice as it slowed. A moment later they passed through the old medieval walls of Little Barlow. Cobbles lined the curving main road, which, when combined with the frigid air inside the motorcar, made Eva’s teeth clatter until she feared they’d crack. To either side stood a few cottages and side streets, then rows of attached shops, followed by more cottages, the village church, the
livery, and the Houndstooth Inn, all fashioned from the Cotswolds’ distinctive, honey-colored stone. Thanks to the generosity of Lord Wroxly, the roads and structures had all once been kept in almost pristine condition. But the war years had created a shortage of men available to do maintenance of that sort, and an air of neglect had settled over the village along with a layer of grit only partially hidden now by the snow.
Phoebe brought the Vauxhall to a stop outside the haberdashery. The tailor shop, which doubled as a seamstress shop for ladies, was two doors down on the other side of the post office. Cloaked villagers, their chins tucked into their mufflers, hurried along the sidewalk, though many took the time to call out their greetings of “Morning, my lady,” when they recognized the motorcar. A cart jostled its way around them, and a lorry rumbled by. Phoebe waved and called out her acknowledgments, addressing each passerby by name.
She set the break. “I think we should split up. You go into the haberdashery and I’ll go down to the tailor.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea, my lady.”
Phoebe buttoned up her fur-trimmed coat and tightened her muffler around her neck. “There is no reason why we shouldn’t. Entering a shop alone isn’t anything new for me, and I have the legitimate reason of wishing to speak with Mrs. Garth. She was so helpful in facilitating our medical supply donations for the army, and I’ve a new idea I’d like to discuss with her. At the same time, I can also speak to her husband under the pretext of checking on some items Grampapa ordered for Fox. Meanwhile, you pretend to be shopping for buttons and ribbons and the like for my sisters and me. In fact, please do so and charge it to our account.”
Eva didn’t like it, but she couldn’t come up with a reasonable explanation why. It simply felt like a dereliction of her duties to allow Phoebe to question a man alone. Of course, Mrs. Garth would be there, and even if Mr. Garth did have something to hide, he wouldn’t dare be anything but polite to Lord Wroxly’s granddaughter. “Very well, but we must be very discreet,” she warned.
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