Bayeux shrugged. “I think I may have danced with her a few times at assemblies or balls.”
“Ah.” There was that monosyllable again. “And was there anything…romantic between the two of you?”
“Just what are you suggesting, monsieur?”
Pevensey dropped his pencil to the floor, on purpose, and bent down to retrieve it. Clearly, Miss Swanycke was correct—there had been some sort of attraction between the architect and the mill owner’s daughter. Why else would he take such umbrage at the question? And yet, Bayeux was French, Pevensey reminded himself, and in his experience the French were able to take umbrage at even the most innocuous question or statement.
Pencil back in hand, Pevensey changed his tack. “And so Miss Hastings invited you here to renovate the house?”
“I have already told you as much.”
“And had you finished drawing up plans for these renovations?”
“Yes, I had. The whole face of the building was to be modernized and some of the interior as well. I had also investigated the availability of local stone so that the project might begin in the springtime.” Bayeux seemed more animated now, interested in his work instead of irritable.
“And the morning of the sad event—I understand you left the house on horseback?”
“Yes, I went into the village to see the stonemason. There is a quarry near here, and he showed me the granite and limestone he could come by easily.”
“At what time did you leave Woldwick?”
“Half past seven.”
Pevensey noted that this time sorted well with the groom’s remembrance of when Bayeux had departed. He also noted that Bayeux was the only person so far who seemed to have any cognizance of the clock on the day in question.
“How long did it take you to ride to the village?”
“Forty minutes.”
Again, the architect showed no doubt. Pevensey wondered if the precision was due to his profession or to something else. “So that puts you at the stone mason’s at ten past eight—”
“No. I went first to the tavern and had some breakfast.”
“Which tavern?”
“The only one in existence in this grand metropolis. I don’t recall the name.”
“And after breakfasting, you saw the stonemason at…?”
“Nine o’clock.”
“Had you an appointment?”
“Oui.”
It was refreshing to hear someone chronicle his movements so exactly, but Pevensey was well-versed enough in the study of mankind to know that precision did not always equal veracity.
***
Waiting, waiting, still waiting—Haro looked at the time and realized that tea was still several hours off. He wondered if Eda was still sitting with his mother. He paced before the tall windows in the billiards room. How did he normally pass the time when in the country? He could not, for the life of him, remember.
Reading? He flipped through the pages of a book and then tossed it away just as quickly. No, that was Torin’s province.
Drinking? He eyed the closed door of the liquor cabinet. No, he was of no mind to play the sot like that bosky Frenchman.
Filtering through the cherry wood paneling and the white wainscoting, he heard a few bars of music. Not Beethoven, not Mozart, he thought, but something far older—an intricate sinfonia in three parts written for the harpsichord a century ago.
Haro strode out of the billiards room and went to the music room, across the broad landing. He slipped through one of the double doors and stepped quietly into the room.
No sooner had the earl’s soundless footsteps touched the parquet floor than the music halted on the leading tone of a scale passage.
“Haro, my boy?” asked the piano player, his back towards the intruder. He must have had ears like a rabbit’s.
“Yes,” said Haro, glimpsing the white hair of his great-uncle with a surge of disappointment. “I thought perhaps it was Eda on the pianoforte….”
The old man played the final tone of the scale, then swung his legs around spryly and rose from the bench. “You don’t know your music, lad, if you think Eda would play that.” He gestured to the keys that had just been put through the sinfonia’s paces. His eyes caught Haro’s. “Either that, or you don’t know your cousin.”
“Oh?” Haro walked over to the instrument and ran a hand over the polished wood. “Enlighten me. What would Eda play?”
“This,” said Uncle Haro. He sat down again and began to play a sarabande—slow, stately, and full of minor chords.
“Or this.” He played something much faster, lighter, and brighter, one of Beethoven’s more exuberant creations, but still with the same grandeur of the sarabande.
Haro began to smile. He could well imagine those chords coming from Eda’s fingers. She had an innate understanding of depth, of dignity, of ceremony. But at the same time, she had a vivacity that would never sleep, a tempestuousness that would challenge and change whatever it came across. She would be the perfect queen but also the perfect consort.
“Did your Miss Hastings play?”
Haro’s smile died on his lips. “I…don’t know.”
He did not want to think about Arabella. She had certainly never played while at Woldwick. He imagined that she knew enough about the pianoforte to pass herself off as accomplished. Her father’s money had doubtless procured any necessary tutelage.
But he doubted that she had played music with her heart, the way Eda played it—or that she had drawn pictures as a quest for creating life, the way Eda did. For Eda, these things were not just accomplishments to be learned and paraded before admirers, but a part of herself.
The only time Haro had heard Arabella passionate about a subject was when discussing the architecture—or the revamping of the architecture—of Woldwick. On that cold day, walking back from the pond, she and Philippe Bayeux had gabbled on and on about the components of the building. Haro had been jealous then. Now he was simply perplexed.
“I beg pardon for disturbing your music, Uncle,” said the earl. He stepped out of the music room into the hallway and closed the door.
If the architect had been able to strike that chord in her that brought the soul to life, it should have been his name in the banns beside hers, not Haro’s. Eda had said the architect had a tendre for Arabella. Haro wondered if Arabella had returned the feeling. And if so, was the engagement as much of a burden for her as it had been for Haro? Would Arabella have been as relieved as he was if he had found her that morning alive and called off the match?
23
Pevensey wrinkled his nose as he evaluated his sketch of Philippe Bayeux. All of the face was drawn in detail except for the eyes. Pevensey had always considered eyes to be windows into a subject’s character. He had drawn Mademoiselle Mathilde’s eyes sly and seductive with a definite air of snobbery about them. He had drawn Torin Emison’s eyes as clever, but overly conceited in regards to his own worth, with the spark of idealism that young men possess who have never had to work for their bread. But Philippe Bayeux’s eyes he had not drawn at all, for the Frenchman’s character was, at best, enigmatic.
Pevensey gnawed on his lower lip and looked at the picture once more. He would have to go into the village and find bystanders to corroborate the Frenchman’s story, but as it currently stood, it seemed that Bayeux would have had no opportunity to accost Miss Hastings by the pond and do her harm. If Pevensey had correctly pinpointed the time when Miss Hastings left the house, then Bayeux would have been safely entrenched in his tavern breakfast while Miss Hastings was meeting her unfortunate demise. Yet, be that as it may, Pevensey still did not feel confident enough to add Bayeux’s eyes to the sketch—there was something the clock-conscious architect was concealing. Was it a past relationship with Arabella Hastings or was it something even more sinister?
Closing his book on the unfinished sketch, Pevensey wandered out of the drawing room into the hallway. The scullery maid, her arms full of kindling was coming th
e other way, and her cheeks reddened at the sight of him. Pevensey gave her a wink as they passed by each other like ships in the harbor—more from habit than from any actual admiration—and her homely face colored up completely. She ducked her head and hurried along, lingering at the end of the hallway long enough to send him a lovelorn glance.
“Ah, there you are, Pevensey!”
He turned around to see William Hastings bearing down on him from the other end of the hallway. “Good morning, Mr. Hastings.” Pevensey managed a thin smile. He had hoped to avoid Arabella Hastings’ father until he was reaching the end of his investigation. He should have known from past experience that William Hastings was not a man easily avoided.
“Nearly afternoon by now,” grunted Hastings, “and the second day you’ve been here. Well?”
Pevensey raised an eyebrow, refusing to answer the question until Hastings elaborated on it.
“Do you have enough to hang him yet?”
“Regrettably, no,” replied Pevensey. He used the word “regrettably” loosely, for nothing he had learned, as yet, had convinced him the earl needed to hang.
“What do you think I’m paying you for? To swap civil whiskers with the servants?”
“I think you’re paying me to find the truth, sir,” Pevensey’s tone was careful, in a manner designed to lower William Hastings’ hackles. “Which I will, all in due course. And speaking of truth, I’ve a couple of questions you might be able to help me with.”
Hastings grunted, and Pevensey took that as leave to proceed. He pulled out his sketchbook and began with the most innocuous inquiry concerning the questions plaguing him.
“About what time in the morning would you say your altercation with the earl took place?”
“Shortly after eight o’clock. Why?”
The end of Pevensey’s pencil began to waggle as it scribbled a clock face on the page. “I am still establishing the timeline of the morning in question and cross-checking it with all pertinent parties.”
“Hmm.”
Pevensey nearly grinned, thinking about how little William Hastings appreciated the methodical manner in which he was conducting the case. On the one hand, the man’s insistence on haste was understandable, but on the other hand, it was clearly a hindrance to finding out the whole truth of the matter.
“And another question for you….” Pevensey’s eyes left the sketchbook and came level with William Hastings’ so that he could watch his reaction. “Did you invite Philippe Bayeux, the architect, up to Woldwick?”
“No!” Hastings initial response was emphatic, but it did not take more than a couple seconds before he started to pole his ship backwards through the treacherous waters. “Well, that is to say, yes, I did! He’s worked for me before and I wanted to see what he would come up with for renovating this place.” Hastings’ jowls pulled back into a sneer. “But that’s all in the past now—I won’t be spending any of my blunt saving this gloomy disaster of a country house.”
Pevensey continued to press. “So, Miss Hastings had no part in inviting the architect here?”
“No, certainly not.”
“And this architect, Philippe Bayeux—was there a…romantic attachment between him and your daughter?”
“How dare you, sir!” The mill owner raised his voice, but to Pevensey, the outrage felt almost perfunctory—as if Hastings had been expecting that question.
“I regret seeming impertinent, sir, but as you know, my profession requires me to pursue every avenue of inquiry.”
“Philippe Bayeux was nothing to my daughter. Nothing!”
It was not exactly a straightforward yes or no, but Pevensey forbore from pushing the point any further.
“I expect a full report from you tomorrow,” said Hastings, jamming his thumbs into the pockets of the waistcoat encircling his upper half.
“As you wish,” said Pevensey, sensing that he had just been dismissed. The disappearance of William Hastings down the hallway confirmed this suspicion.
Where to go now? Pevensey checked his pocket watch; it was still a few hours before tea. The door to the library, just across from him, was ajar. And from inside, he could hear the faint snoring of someone asleep.
***
Pevensey’s profession did not require a good deal of sneaking about, but he had a slight build and a quiet step, and it was not too difficult to enter the library without waking its occupant.
Tiptoeing towards the sound of snoring, Pevensey rounded the set of wingback chairs which had their backs to the door. Leaning back in one of them, with feet propped up on a cushioned footstool, was an undistinguished looking woman of indistinct age. Her iron gray hair and worn face placed her at fifty or sixty years of age, but something about her thick figure made her seem younger.
Pevensey searched his mind for who this might be—she was certainly not a member of the family. But then, would a servant make free of the library chairs as a place to nap away a wintry day? He remembered Mrs. Alfred’s comments from a day ago. This must be the duenna who had accompanied Arabella Hastings, a Mrs. Rollo, if he remembered the name aright.
The strange flickering of the firelight on Mrs. Rollo’s immobile figure appealed to him. He was not accustomed to drawing females in their sleep, but his sense of the picturesque outweighed his sense of propriety and he pulled out his sketchbook.
Either the suddenness of the movement or the slight rustling of the pages disturbed the subject of his intended portrait. Mrs. Rollo’s eyelids sprang open. She saw immediately that she was being observed, but instead of making an outcry, she simply lowered her feet from the footstool, crossed her ankles, and folded her hands in her lap, waiting for whatever was to come next.
For a brief instant, Pevensey felt guilt and closed the cover of his sketchbook. He recovered quickly, however, and gave an encouraging smile. “I beg your pardon. I am Jacob Pevensey, attached to the magistrates’ office in London. I stepped inside to look for a Mrs. Rollo…might you be she?”
“Yes.”
This heavy monosyllable might have stopped a lesser man in his tracks, but Pevensey carried on effortlessly. “I have a few questions to put to you regarding the tragic events of two days ago. Would you mind if I sit down?”
Mrs. Rollo simply stared at him.
Pevensey slid into the other wingback chair without waiting for an answer that was not forthcoming, positioning it slightly as he sat down so that he could see the woman more clearly.
She had broad features beneath her gray hair, features too large to be called pretty and more becoming in a man than in a woman. Her shoulders were broad as well, ungainly, some might say, beneath the ill-fitting fabric of her gray dress.
“I understand you came to Woldwick with the Hastings family?”
“Yes.”
“And what…position do you hold in that family?”
“I am, or rather, I was companion and chaperone to Miss Hastings.”
Pevensey was delighted to hear Mrs. Rollo form her first full sentence. He had been afraid she would be no help to him at all.
“What were your duties?”
She shifted in her chair. “I accompanied Miss Hastings to social gatherings when her father was unable to attend.”
“And…?”
“That is all.”
“Ah,” said Pevensey, a little surprised. It seemed a small task. “Did Miss Hastings confide in you?”
“Certainly not.” Mrs. Rollo’s hands twitched in her lap. Pevensey noted that they were almost as large as his own.
“How long had you been Miss Hastings’ companion?”
“Three years.”
“So, even before she was out in society?”
“Yes.”
“Were you her governess?”
The woman smiled oddly. “In a manner of speaking.”
“What manner of speaking would that be?” Pevensey strongly believed that murder investigations demanded forthright questions and forthright answers.
“I tau
ght. Miss Hastings did not always learn.”
“So she was not a bright student.”
“No, she was bright enough.” Mrs. Rollo leaned forward, the broad features of her face filled with intensity. “But she refused to apply herself to anything that required discipline.”
“Music and French, you mean?”
“Quite. Though she had other means of exercising her French besides my tutelage.” Mrs. Rollo’s voice took on a snide quality as if she were making a joke that only she would understand.
“Are you referring to Monsieur Bayeux?”
Mrs. Rollo stiffened. “No, why would I be?”
Pevensey ignored her denial and focused more on the dismay his own question had occasioned. “What was the relationship between Miss Hastings and Philippe Bayeux?”
Mrs. Rollo’s thick knuckles laced themselves together. She made no reply.
“I have reason to believe that this matter has direct bearing on Miss Hastings’ murder.” It was an overstatement, of course, but first Mr. Hastings and now Mrs. Rollo had flimflammed him on this subject, making him more than a little suspicious.
“I am a poor spinster,” she said at last. She would not meet his eye. “With Miss Hastings gone, I no longer have a place in this household. My only hopes for survival will be a small pension and good recommendation to find another position.”
“So Mr. Hastings has forbidden you to speak on this topic?”
She looked away into the depths of the flickering fire. This interview, it seemed, was finished.
24
After extricating herself from the linen closet and exchanging another conspiratorial look with Garth, Eda disappeared into her own bedroom to ponder what they had heard. Walking over to the bed, she turned around, leaned back, and let herself fall against the goose down coverlet with a satisfying thump. Her shape imprinted onto the bedclothes and sent a few stray feathers wafting into the air.
What secrets could the French maid have been speaking of? Were they secrets pertinent to the murder? Were they secrets that could save Haro? A tight knot grew inside her throat. She could barely swallow—or breathe—and she felt her air-hungry lungs begin to collapse in on themselves.
To Wed an Heiress Page 17
