by Paula Paul
All the time she was awake waiting for Nick she’d had to listen, through her open door, to the other guests making their disgusting night noises, none of which a lady could even mention, except, perhaps, Eddie’s coughing.
She recognized that cough. She’d awakened to it more than once in that sunny bedroom of his London house. This time she’d lain in bed for a while, listening, and then, finally she’d gotten out of bed and padded silently down the hall to his room. No one had seen her, she was sure of it, so there was no need to mention it when the constable, who had been sent for, came asking questions. Everyone was convinced it was that dotty kitchen maid who had stabbed him anyway, so why make things confusing for anyone?
Isabel was sure that all the guests felt as she did, as if they couldn’t wait to get away from Montmarsh and back to London. In fact, she would have been gone already except that Nick and Jerry and Lord Winningham and all of the others had said it would not be good form to leave before the constable arrived. Isabel could not, for the life of her, see what difference it made whether or not they stayed to talk to the constable when everyone thought they knew who the killer was, but her attempts to convince anyone else of that had been in vain.
She saw a shabby carriage approaching the house. It was the constable in his equally shabby uniform.
Isabel watched as the officer alighted from the carriage, brushed at his uniform, squared his shoulders as if he had just been ordered to attention, and marched toward the entry to Montmarsh.
It would be over soon then, and she and Jeremy could be on their way back to London. They could leave the constable to worry about the fact that everyone assumed there was a murderess running loose in the area, as a result of the Gladstone woman’s negligence.
Isabel turned away from the window and was about to ring the bell to summon a maid to help her pack for the journey home when she thought she heard footsteps in the hall, and then voices. When she went to her door to peek out, she saw that the constable, along with Nick and the Gladstone woman, were in the hallway, and they all seemed headed for the bedroom where Eddie’s dead body lay.
It was out of the question that she should wait in her room and not know what was being said in Eddie’s room. She realized it was not likely that any of the other guests would see her, since they were all still in the drawing room where they had gathered after breakfast to express their individual horror and to mourn poor Eddie after the chambermaid found him this morning.
When she stuck her head out into the hallway again, there was no one in sight. Removing her slippers quickly, she walked down the hall with such stealth and lightness she imagined that she might appear to be an apparition.
The door to Eddie’s room was slightly ajar, and she found that if she pressed herself close to the wall in the dark hallway several feet back from the door, she could see everyone in the room reflected in the mirror across from Eddie’s bed.
A spot the size of a small melon on Eddie’s sheet had turned an ugly dark crimson, and Isabel could see that his face was a ghastly shade of white. For a moment she thought she might lose her breakfast because of the horrible sight. His eyes bulged, and his tongue protruded slightly. She had never actually seen what happened to a body after it had been dead for a while. Never realized how truly undignified death was and how improper the human body was in such a state.
But she forced herself to remain where she was. It was important that she know what they would say.
Miss Gladstone appeared intent upon her examination and oblivious to the indecency of death. The constable, with tail feathers spread, stood with his notepad and pen poised, waiting for her to speak, while Nick, fool that he was, stood back with an expression of such admiration on his face, one might have thought he was waiting for the Gladstone woman to raise Eddie from the dead.
Alexandra removed her hands from the cool, pale body of Edward Boswick and wiped them on a towel. She glanced at the constable, who waited expectantly, and when she spoke, her voice was low and confident. “It is my opinion that the earl died of strangulation.”
The constable’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “Strangulation you say?” There was a condescending chuckle. “Certainly, my dear woman, you did not miss the blood or the obvious wound on his chest.”
“And neither did I miss the mark on his throat nor the fact that his eyes bulge and his tongue protrudes. He was strangled, sir, with a ligature of some sort, and he was stabbed later.”
Constable Snow eyed her with a questioning look. “Would you mind explaining, Dr. Gladstone?”
She did her best to keep her voice even and not to allow her impatience to show. “I’ve formed my opinion about the cause of death based on a few facts. First, there is relatively little blood, which suggests that by the time Lord Dunsford’s chest was stabbed, his heart had stopped pumping and that some of the blood, following the laws of gravity, had begun to pool in the bottom of the body, which indicates that he was already dead when his chest was stabbed. Second, there is a mark at his neck suggesting strangulation, and, as I mentioned, the protrusion of the eyes and tongue. It is logical to assume, then, that death came by strangulation and he was stabbed, perhaps sometime later, as an afterthought. Not in the heart, as Mr. Forsythe assumed, but slightly below the heart.”
The constable frowned. “Are you suggesting, Dr. Gladstone, that the killer came back into the room to stab Lord Dunsford after he was already dead?” Constable Snow had measured his words in such a way as to make it sound as if he thought that idea was preposterous.
“It is possible,” Alexandra said. “Or it is possible that someone else came in and stabbed him after the first intruder had strangled him.”
“Hmmm,” Forsythe said.
The constable frowned and shook his head as if to dismiss her hypothesis all together. “I see no reason anyone would commit such an act.”
She scarcely gave the constable time to finish his sentence. “In the first instance, to make it look as if someone else had killed the earl, or in the second instance, because the second intruder did not know the earl was already dead.”
The constable’s eyes widened in surprise. “What?”
“Hmmm,” said Forsythe again. “In your first example, someone might have wanted to make it look as if the scullery maid had killed him.”
Alexandra nodded silently, and the constable immediately protested. “My good woman, you can’t be serious.”
Forsythe was still ruminating. “The poor lunatic could be the perfect pawn.”
Constable Snow raised a hand and shook his head as if to ward off any more of Forsythe’s words. “It is my understanding that Elsie O’Riley, a kitchen maid, threatened to kill Lord Dunsford and others with a knife last night at dinner, and that she has now disappeared. That was the message conveyed to me by the servant who was sent to fetch me. If the servant got his information wrong, then I must know immediately.”
“The servant was correct,” Alexandra said, “but—”
“Then we have a suspect,” Snow said.
She shook her head. “I’m not so sure. It could be that the girl fled simply because she was frightened that she would be accused, which may be precisely what the real killer wanted.”
Constable Snow considered her remarks for a moment with a finger to his pursed lips. “Very well,” he said at last. “I shall question each of the guests as well as the servants. No one is to leave the premises until I give permission.”
The constable then pulled the sheet up to cover Lord Dunsford’s body, which was clad in an elaborate red silk night shirt, and gave instructions that Alexandra and Forsythe were to wait for him in the library downstairs and that everyone else, guests and servants, was to be instructed to be there as well.
Alexandra gathered up her medical bag and stepped into the hall, along with Forsythe and Constable Snow, just in time to see Isabel Atewater hurrying away. The constable called out to her.
“Madam! Madam, could I have a moment, please?”
Isabel kept walking, and Alexandra sensed that she was only pretending not to hear. In the next second Forsythe called out to her as well.
“Isabel, my dear.”
Isabel stopped walking and slowly turned around with both hands over her heart as if she were trying to hold in some emotion.
“Isabel,” Forsythe said again as he walked toward her. “I’m afraid the constable has a favor to ask of all of us.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling well.” There was a tremble in her voice that Alexandra was certain was not artificial. “I was just going to my room to lie down.”
“You’re quite pale.” Forsythe’s tone was solicitous.
Alexandra saw that she was, indeed, very pale. “Perhaps I can help.”
Isabel’s eyes darted toward her. “Oh no, it’s nothing. I’m just a little tired. No, what I mean is…I, well, I’m…”
She continued to stammer until the constable stepped forward. “Forgive me, madam, but I must ask you to forego your rest a bit in the interest of police business.”
Isabel’s eyes widened. “Well, I…”
“I can understand how distraught you all must be, especially the more delicate among you,” the constable continued. “And I’m certain you’d like to see this matter resolved as quickly as possible. I beg your cooperation to facilitate the matter.”
Isabel hesitated a moment, then spoke in a voice that had lost its tremble and had become cooing. “Well, if it won’t take long. You see, I really am distraught, and I must get back to London as soon as possible. My physician, a man of true skill, is there,” she gave Alexandra an accusing glance, “and I simply wouldn’t trust anyone else to attend me. My condition is really quite delicate.”
“Oh, I’m certain it is, madam.” The constable offered her his arm and led her toward the grand stairway. “And you can be sure I will keep that in mind, and that I will complete the investigation as soon as possible.”
Alexandra watched as Isabel breathed what seemed to be a sigh of relief. She gazed into Constable Snow’s eyes and gave him a demure, yet flirtatious smile.
Chapter Three
Lord Henry Charles Scargrave, Fourth Earl of Winningham, watched as the guests gathered in the library while he held the hand of his whimpering wife, seated next to him. Around them, the air was golden, gilded with sunlight streaming through the long windows that overlooked the front gardens.
He had an almost uncontrollable longing to be outdoors, to allow that golden light to engulf him and baptize him with its splendor. If he could, he would run among the trees shouting and singing, disturbing their silent green meditation on this fine morning.
But he could not. He must follow the holy ritual of Decorum. He had been with the other guests earlier when they gathered en masse in the drawing room, each of them shocked and bewildered by the horror of what had happened. He had commiserated with each of them, being solicitous to his wife and the other ladies, expressing his own shock in low, murmured tones with the gentlemen, and being equally vocal about the culpability of Miss Gladstone, who, of course, should have had the good sense to sedate the kitchen wench appropriately until she could be properly dealt with this morning. That was, after all, what they all thought she’d done.
He could not admit to anyone, least of all his wife, that he was, in truth, immensely grateful that Elsie O’Riley’s temperament had displayed itself in the very public and threatening way that it had, and that Miss Gladstone had not sedated her. Because of those events, the matter of Eddie’s death was sure to be put to rest quickly, and that alone made him want to shout like a Nonconformist zealot.
Of course there would be the formality of questioning by the constable, but that would most certainly be over in short order. The constable would not seriously suspect any of the guests.
So here he sat in the library, watching as the other gentlemen led the ladies in, everyone looking appropriately shocked and sorrowful. Young Forsythe entered, deep in conversation with that odd Gladstone woman, to whom he seemed to have taken a liking. Atewater entered alone, grief cutting deep grooves in his paler than usual face. His wife, presumably, was too ill to accompany him, since she had excused herself early from the assembly in the drawing room this morning.
Ah, but he was wrong, here she came now on the arm of the constable, looking anything but grieved. She appeared to have mesmerized the poor bloke. But that didn’t surprise Winningham. He knew her reputation among the aristocracy. Eddie had not been exactly discreet in his descriptions of their affair, and Winningham had witnessed her shameless flirtations with others many times before. He had even thought he might have a go at her himself one of these days, in spite of the fact that he was a good twenty years her senior. She seemed to be rather indiscriminating so long as the fellow had a few pounds in the bank and possessed a title. It did surprise him, however, that she would flirt with someone of the constable’s class who had neither title nor money. For the moment, though, he had other interests and concerns. He wanted to get this little formality of talking with the constable behind him.
As he continued to watch and to pat Lady Winningham’s well-cushioned hand, the golden light, communing with dark clouds, faded to blue and lurked in the curtains. The new gloomy light made him think again of Eddie. Foolish, cruel Eddie.
Winningham had known him since he was a child, long before the boy’s father, the Fourth Earl of Dunsford, died and Eddie inherited his title. Their families were, in fact, connected by a common ancestor several generations back. Winningham had made some discreet contacts on behalf of the young Boswick when it appeared he could not pass the entrance exam to Eton. As his association with the future Earl of Dunsford increased and their friendship deepened, Winningham quickly saw that the boy was no dunce. True, he had no intellectual bent, but he possessed a sharp, quick mind and a level of cunning that rendered him both attractive and formidable.
Winningham had fallen prey to both traits. Edward Boswick’s knack for increasing his already sizable fortune by shrewd investments was indeed attractive. Winningham had invested some money of his own more than once at Eddie’s behest and had benefited handsomely.
He had even seen something of his younger self in the man—his daring, his willingness to experiment, his unabashed eagerness to indulge himself. What Winningham lacked that Eddie had, however, was a level of narcissistic cruelty.
Winningham would never have guessed that his own self-indulgent willingness to experiment would bring him face to face with Edward Boswick’s formidable, cruel opportunism. The astonishing unfairness of what Eddie had done to him had been a bitter surprise. Gentlemen simply did not do to their peers what Eddie had done. It was clear the younger generation had no sense of honor.
Winningham prided himself on the fact that his fifty-two years did not show on either his face or physique. He looked to be, he was told, and so he believed, a good ten years younger. Even the degree of corpulence he had attained had done nothing but improve his bearing, he believed.
Yet, in spite of that, one did have to keep in mind one’s mortality. There could be, perhaps, fewer than ten years left. There was so much of life to live, so many experiences to partake of, and so little time to do it. Winningham thought that what he felt was a certain healthy joie de vivre, and that what he had done was nothing more than an attempt to add one more worldly experience to his ever shortening life.
What was damnably unfortunate was that Eddie had caught him and the rather pretty young man in the act, and what was even more unfortunate was that even before Eddie had arrived, Winningham had determined that the experience was not particularly to his liking, and that he would not be likely to repeat it.
How Eddie had known the address of their tryst or how he managed to obtain a key to the room would forever remain hidden from him now. He could only attribute it to Eddie’s cunning. Blackmail he attributed to his cruelty. It had done no good to try to explain to Eddie that it had been only an experiment, that it was not likel
y to become a habit. It certainly did no good to speculate that it was something Eddie might have tried himself at one time or another.
It was very expensive blackmail, already wiping out all of the investment gains he’d made as a result of his alliance with Eddie. But he had to pay, didn’t he? He had to pay or lose his seat in the House of Lords, the respect of his peers and his family. He had to pay or lose himself. The only other alternative was to get rid of Boswick.
He had planned it so many different ways, none of them satisfactory. And then Boswick had invited him to his country estate for no other reason than to embarrass him and to goad him further, he was certain. But he couldn’t refuse the invitation could he? His wife would certainly be unhappy about a refusal and would demand an explanation, and what excuse could he give? He’d felt trapped. At first. And now that it was over he wanted nothing more than to run through the meadows shouting his joy of salvation. Or perhaps to collapse into tears at his relief for having been saved.
But he could do neither now. He must play the role of Lord Winningham with his mask of shock and grief, and he must wait, quietly, patiently.
The constable cleared his throat and began. “Ladies and gentlemen…”
The man had assumed a Napoleon-like stance, one hand tucked into his coat, the other resting on the table. Winningham was fascinated. He studied the man, his scuffed boots, badly in need of a blackening, the fabric of his uniform, grown shiny with wear and frayed at the cuffs, his full head of hair, slightly too shaggy to be fashionable, and a large pitted nose that dominated his countenance like a boatswain.
“…the servants’ accounts of the kitchen maid, Elsie O’Riley, and her threats last night with a large knife…”
The constable—hadn’t he said his name was Snow?—had a voice that was too nasal, giving it a whining quality as if he’d been caught in a blizzard and come down with a good case of grippe. The voice was irritating, the kind of voice that Winningham found difficult to listen to. His own hot and distracted thoughts melted the substance of the man’s words.
