by Beth Byers
Mrs. Stevens placed her hand on her stomach as if she were ill. “That’s why I’m so confused.” Her mouth trembled. “We aren’t perfect, but we aren’t a bad family. Olly was always so proud of how close we have been. By how much the children loved each other. By how much we knew and cared for each other. But now…my goodness, what has happened? Why, why did someone kill my brother?”
Before anyone could answer, Mrs. Stevens hurried from the dining room. The clatter of her heels down the hall, up the stairs, and the slamming of doors was followed by silence.
“Oh my,” Mrs. Oliver Rees murmured.
Her husband, Oliver, said, “I know it’s rather awful. But perhaps we had better adjourn for the evening.”
His gaze was fixed on the guests over the family. Mr. Baldwin rose and handed Miss Allen to her feet. He glanced around the room and said carefully, “Regardless of how he died, he loved you all. Being with you was the great joy of his life, and he died a happy man.”
The condolences fell flat given that Olly was dead. Surely as he’d died, if he had struggled, he’d woken up and realized that someone was murdering him. Delilah whimpered and then cried into her handkerchief. Jack stood next, and Violet joined him immediately. Jack nodded and then stepped from the room with Violet on his arm. They were silent as they left. Mr. Baldwin and Miss Allen had already disappeared giving them the chance to reach back and almost close the door.
Vi gave Jack a silent squeeze and they both paused for a moment, listening. There was no sound of anyone else shoving away from the table in the dining room and they waited.
“I don’t understand,” a man said. Violet guessed that was Harold. “Why is everyone so convinced that Grandfather was murdered? It’s not like he had some wonderful fortune that was left behind. We’re all carrying on as we were before but for missing him.”
The reply was only the sniffling of several of the family members. Others had succumbed beyond Delilah and it sounded as if most or all of the women were crying. The fact that the family had drawn together made Violet want to weep herself. She pressed her face against Jack’s chest.
Perhaps it wasn’t a murder? Perhaps it was something entirely different? Maybe it was just an apoplectic fit? Violet had heard a story of quite a young man dying from one of those. Perhaps Mrs. Stevens didn’t want to believe that she’d lost her brother and would spend the rest of her days without her expected companions of husband and brother.
She pulled back, distracted by a preternatural awareness and barely kept in a scream. Her start made Jack glance in the direction she was looking. Smith was mere inches from them. He placed a finger of his lips and jerked his head down the hall.
They followed him since the family was only silently crying and would no doubt leave the table soon. There was nothing more to learn there. Smith led them through halls they had not seen and into the library. Beatrice was standing just behind the door. He locked the side entrance behind them and then silently crossed the floor, locking the main entrance.
“We’ll have to be quick if someone comes to the door,” Smith said. “But after all of that overwrought emotion, I think we’ll be safe.”
“It is not overwrought emotion,” Beatrice hissed, “when you are grieving someone who was a right old gent and a good man. It’s what he deserves.”
Smith didn’t argue. He crossed to the desk and opened a drawer. Inside was an account book along with the will. They were just there in the top drawer as though they would be nowhere else.
“It’s like they have nothing to hide,” Violet said low.
“They don’t,” Beatrice said. “I made a good few enemies today trying to ferret out secrets. Mr. Olly Rees was a good master, a good man, and a good grandfather, father, and brother. He seems to have been a saint.”
“No one is a saint,” Jack said flatly.
“Agreed,” Smith said, nodding once at Jack and then lighting a cigarette. “Everyone has done something that makes them ashamed. Everyone has a day where they lash out at their friends. Or makes a mistake and has to apologize.”
Beatrice elbowed Smith and muttered, “I didn’t say he was perfect. I said he was a right old gent. I think we’d all have liked him.”
Violet rubbed her brow and asked, “Did you read these?”
Smith nodded.
Violet glanced at Beatrice who nodded as well.
“Nothing overtly off?” Vi asked.
“It’s all very reasonable,” Smith said. “The accounts are all right. There isn’t a mass of money, but what there is split between the two sons with the greater portion going to the eldest. The house is in the care of the sister. The grandchildren all received a nice bequest, but it wasn’t enough to do anything more than have a good holiday.”
“There was nothing at all?” Vi demanded, pressing her fingers against her temple. All of the emotion and tension had left her with a powerful headache.
“The only thing I found was the beginnings of a letter,” Smith said. “It was started the night Mr. Rees died and was entirely unfinished.”
“Who was it addressed to?” Jack asked.
“Joseph.”
Violet frowned. She was back to rubbing her brow as she wondered if that meant anything at all.
Jack groaned. “That’s useless.”
“I know,” Smith muttered.
“I talked to Mr. Rees’ man. He cleaned up the bedroom after Mr. Rees died,” Beatrice said quietly. “He was the only servant who didn’t seem to mind my questions.”
“And,” Violet asked.
“He, too, thinks Mr. Rees was murdered.”
Chapter 13
“Let’s go back to our bedroom,” Jack said, “and assess what we know.”
Jack gathered the will and the accounts. He followed by going through the desk and pulling everything that looked like private papers. There was no remorse on his face when he took them and the only one who seemed surprised by it was Beatrice, who said nothing.
“You don’t have to be part of this,” Violet told Beatrice.
She paused, staring between them and then down at the paperwork before she tidied the stack nervously. “I want to help find the killer too.”
Smith’s cold smile was chilling as he looked with unmasked approval at Beatrice. Violet glanced at Jack, but he only shook his head. It was like she had said before, Violet thought, Beatrice’s choices were her own to make and Violet’s job was to be a friend and advise if Beatrice wanted help. Violet wasn’t even sure what she’d say if she were asked for advice. Perhaps something like ‘I can understand why you have feelings for him, but his personality is so big and his morals so ambiguous that I’m worried you’ll lose yourself.’
Instead, Violet took the paperwork from Beatrice.
“No,” Vi said quietly.
Beatrice opened her mouth to protest, but Vi shook her head, regretting the motion when her headache flared.
“If you were found with these, the family could charge you with theft, or worse,” Violet told Smith and Beatrice. “They can’t really hurt Jack and me. I need you to eavesdrop on the most suspicious of those who leave the dining room and see if you can find out what they truly believe. Bea, in your servant’s garb, you can probably linger outside of a bedroom with a tray and listen. Smith, we all know that you probably can crawl up the side of the building and hear with some sort of preternatural ability.”
He snorted.
“I will dig through this because if they notice it’s gone, well, this is why I was invited even if Macie Stevens isn’t saying so.”
Violet turned to Jack and what she said next surprised even her. “Talk to Emily. She must know something. We’ll meet back in our rooms after the house is quiet and we’ll compare notes.”
Jack’s shock was palpable as Violet pushed up on her toes and kissed his cheek.
“You aren’t jealous?” Smith demanded as if he wanted her to admit the truth.
Violet wasn’t shocked when she answered. “No. Not
really.”
“Liar,” Smith said.
Violet fixed her gaze on him, her head still throbbing, and thought a lie would be just the thing. “Did you know that Beatrice was once engaged when she was a girl? Just before I hired her?”
Smith’s face was unmoving.
“She loved him like the day was long and when they were over, she cried for weeks over mending my stockings.”
Beatrice’s squeak didn’t pull Smith’s gaze from Violet. She had always thought him impassive until she saw the cold fury emanating from him. Jack must have seen it too, for he shifted to be closer to her as if to ward off an attack. Or warn her off continuing.
“She might love you or she might still be deciding on her feelings, but she’s in something with you now. Whatever that is, until you are resolved, she won’t ever step out on you. Do you know why?”
“She has the rare virtue of being an honorable and trustworthy woman.” Smith’s tone was completely devoid of emotion, which was more unsettling than if he’d been shouting.
Violet just kept herself from rolling her eyes at him. “Rare? Yes. But honorable and trustworthy? Also yes.”
“I—” Beatrice squeaked again. “I…stop, please. Vi—”
Violet offered Beatrice an apologetic look before she added, “If Beatrice were to run across an old love of hers and they were to confer in private, you could be sure that all they would do is confer.”
Smith nodded once. His jaw was clenched tight and his angel’s eyes burned with an unholy light.
“Because she is Beatrice.”
Smith nodded again. Given his expression, Violet knew she’d thrown open the tightly contained box where Smith buried his feelings.
“And Jack is Jack,” she finished. “I am not a flighty minx ruled by emotion any more than you are an unfeeling bastard incapable of love.”
“I have never been engaged,” Beatrice finally ground out.
Smith shot Violet a dark glance, full of terrible promises before he told her lightly, “Touché.”
Violet snorted and Jack said with some relief, “We have our orders.”
Smith and Beatrice left first, Smith seeming to fade away while Beatrice’s straight shoulders curled in on herself and she adjusted into a guise of humble servant, one that no longer quite fit, Violet noticed with pleasure. Violet nodded at Jack and went to slip away herself, but he took her arm.
She looked up at him in question.
“I adore you, Mrs. Wakefield.”
“And I you,” Violet returned. “Emily Allen is our best bet on the next step, and she’s a brilliant woman. You do have excellent taste that way.”
Violet kissed his chin. She thought about making some quip, but she really thought it might ruin the mood. Instead she winked at him devilishly and left him behind to run up the stairs towards their room and dump all their stolen paperwork on the bed.
How had they gotten pulled into this? Violet thought about the anonymous letter and who might have sent it. Someone in that family who had been weeping around the table believed that the grandfather had been murdered with enough fervency to draw Violet in. Anyone with a handful of wits and a history of Violet’s involvement in murder cases would have to know that drawing in Violet would draw in Jack. And drawing in Jack was drawing in Scotland Yard.
Violet took a few aspirin with a large glass of water, then read through the pile of documents and found nothing that would indicate Olly had been murdered for money or for an inheritance. Whatever had killed Olly Rees wasn’t what had killed Aunt Agatha. Violet breathed easier knowing that.
Looking at Aunt Agatha’s family, they were a slew of cousins who could expect to inherit something from the woman who had partially raised them. Her death had been, almost from the first, a clear act of greed. For Olly, however, it was not so clear. He hadn’t been murdered for his money. They’d already established that. Violet rose and left a note for Jack and then she found her way to Mrs. Stevens’s rooms.
Violet knocked on the door and was allowed inside a moment later. The woman was alone and dressed in a frayed flannel nightgown and wool robe. Her gaze was, however, sharp and calculating when she looked Violet over.
“You’re rather unexceptional, you know.”
Violet snorted and then said, “Yes, I know. Nothing all that remarkable about me except perhaps the fortune I inherited.”
“And the respect that so many people have for your ability to ferret out secrets. That’s the problem here, I think,” the old woman said, diving straight into the matter. “I’ve been thinking about it since he died. Olly didn’t have enough money to murder over. He didn’t have enemies. He wasn’t a monster whose death made the world a better place. He was just a kindly old man who loved his family.”
Violet rubbed her hands down her arms. “It’s terrifying, isn’t it?”
Mrs. Stevens glanced at Violet sharply. “What is?”
“Knowing that someone you love is probably a murderer. That you trust them and they might kill you next.”
Mrs. Stevens stared at Violet and then the old woman shuddered, shriveling down into a chair. She nodded like a puppet on a string and then pulled a crumpled handkerchief from the pocket of her robe and dabbed it against her eyes.
“There’s a part of me that is terrified I’ll be next.”
Violet nodded. She could see why Mrs. Stevens would think that. If there seemed to be no reason to kill Olly then there didn’t need to be a reason to kill her. It must be an overwhelming load to carry. Grief for her brother and closest companion, worry for her family, fury against his killer, and fear for herself and the others she loved.
“Why do you think your brother was killed?”
Mrs. Stevens shook her head. “I have been asking myself that over and over again.”
“But you do believe that he was murdered?”
“When I first went into his room and saw him dead,” Mrs. Stevens said, openly weeping now, “I thought that the worst had happened and the worst was that he died. Only later as I relived it over and over did I realize he must have been killed. My brother was a sound sleeper. The kind of man who didn’t move at all. It was a joke between us as we were children. Or rather, he terrified me with it. I’d think he died. Sometimes he slept with his eyes open. It was awful. I had nightmares about his pranks on me for years after we were separated and sent to different schools.”
Violet could guess what came next. “But that morning was different.”
“It was more than merely ruffling his bed. If he’d gotten quite ill you could say that, but it was the second pillow on the floor near his bed that was so disturbing.”
“A pillow?” Violet felt suddenly that Mrs. Stevens was wrong and their time had been utterly wasted.
“Yes,” Mrs. Stevens said flatly.
“Perhaps he knocked it off,” Violet suggested. If that was all the reason Mrs. Stevens had to believe her brother had been murdered, Violet was going to be quite put out. Her disbelief was becoming more and more apparent.
“No, you don’t understand. He only slept the way he did—perfectly. He didn’t move. He didn’t roll. When he woke in the morning, he could flatten his blankets out with one simple tug. He was all about the ritual and the stillness. He did everything the same every single night. He’d crack his window, he’d take the extra pillows from his bed and stack them on the chair in his room. He could tolerate only one pillow under his head.”
“And?” Violet prompted, but she was beginning to get an image of why the scene was bothering Mrs. Stevens. “Perhaps that night he needed two pillows because he wanted to sit up and sleep in bed. He might have been restless.”
“But he had a routine for that as well.” Mrs. Stevens sighed. “He would make himself a hot cup of milk and he’d write out his thoughts. He said if you could get your thoughts out of your mind, you would be able to sleep fine.”
Violet frowned. “So he was upset that night, wasn’t he?”
“There was a cu
p of milk.”
“Something he would have gotten for himself?”
Mrs. Stevens nodded. “We only have our housekeeper and a daily maid when it’s just family here.”
“When he was able to sleep, what did his room look like?”
Mrs. Stevens pressed the handkerchief to her eyes again and it took her a few moments to answer. “His sheets would be military tight and flat on a good night or a bad night. He wouldn’t toss and turn. If he was upset, he would have his milk, think about what was bothering him. He’d work it through in his mind on paper and then he’d lay in the same position and turn to a series of meditations until he slipped into sleep.”
“Was there nothing in his journal?”
“His journal is missing,” Mrs. Stevens stated.
And there it was, the proof Violet needed that it was, truly, murder. A man as precise of Olly Rees would not misplace his journal, not when it was of such value to him.
“When you found him in his bed, which was normally very neat, it was a mess.”
Mrs. Stevens nodded. “His bed was a mess, an extra pillow was on the floor next to him—that would have never happened no matter how sleepless he was. Even after his wife’s death, when he was struggling to sleep well for weeks, he did the same thing. I know what he did. I was here. I would have hot milk with him when I heard him wake. I would let him talk about her to me, so he didn’t have to write in his journal alone.”
“What did he do after she died?”
“He missed her so much he wept daily for months. At night it was the worst, but he’d get up and drink his milk and write about her in his journal or talk to me, and then he’d go to bed.”
“I toss and turn when I can’t sleep,” Violet said. “I wish I didn’t.”
“The very fact of his odd sleeping habits are why I think he was murdered,” Mrs. Stevens told her. “Even at the worst of times, my brother would lay down on his single pillow, and cross his fingers over his stomach and remain still until he slept. It was his pattern from a seven-year-old to a seventy-year-old.”
