A festive atmosphere still filled Montagu Manor when I arrived, no one inside knowing yet of its owner’s demise. I asked the butler to take me somewhere where I could speak privately to Matilda and informed her of the tragedy in the gentlest way I could. Her countenance did not change as I spoke, but a slight gasp escaped her lips. Maintaining her composure in the manner of the best Englishwomen, she went to the drawing room, explained to her guests what had happened, and asked for their patience when the police arrived. I bundled her into my carriage, and we returned to Anglemore, where Cook sent up a tisane for her. She sipped it slowly and did not speak, still shocked by my horrendous news.
Eventually Colin, returned from his dealings with the police, sent for me. I left Matilda in a drawing room and went to his study, where he had placed a carefully wrapped bundle on his desk. He opened it and showed me a heavy chunk of carved stone that I recognized as having come from the ruins of the old abbey near the lake on our estate. A sticky mass of blood and hair clinging to the object told me it was the instrument of Archibald Scolfield’s demise.
“The ground is soft enough after all this week’s rain for him to have left footprints,” Colin said, “but even without them I wouldn’t doubt the abbey is where the murder occurred.”
“Were there any signs of a struggle there?” I asked.
“Not particularly, but you know what the place is like. There are bits and bobs of stonework all over. It always looks a mess. I have contacted Scotland Yard and told them I will handle the investigation. Where is Matilda?”
“I’ve put her in the cinnamon drawing room,” I said. “She’s rather stunned, but quite upset beneath the surface.”
That particular drawing room, hung with cinnamon silk after some long-ago resident of Anglemore had returned from a trip to India, was decorated with family portraits and Eastern artifacts and filled with a suite of Chippendale furniture upholstered in cream silk embroidered with small gold flowers. When we entered, Matilda was standing in front of one of the long windows, where she had pulled back a curtain to reveal bluish darkness lit by an enormous full moon.
“This ruins everything, you know,” she said, not turning to us. “Nothing will ever be the same.”
“I am so terribly sorry,” Colin said. “It is a dreadful loss. Emily tells me you and your cousin were close.”
“We grew up together,” she said, her voice trembling. “It is a crushing blow to lose him. He was so good, like a beacon of light. Montagu won’t be the same without him.”
“But he did not live at Montagu?” Colin asked.
“No,” Matilda said. “He came to shoot every year and at Christmas. There were no better times.” Her hazel eyes pooled with tears, but her face was like stone. “I suppose my guests have all been tormented with questions?”
“No more than necessary, I assure you.” Colin sat her on one of four delicate chairs surrounding three sides of a small rectangular table and took the seat beside her.
“Should I be pleased by that?” she asked.
“Tell me about tonight’s party,” I said, sitting perpendicular to her. “You threw it in your cousin’s honor?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Why did he wait so long to take possession of the estate?” Colin asked. “Your grandfather’s death was—”
“Nearly a year ago, yes,” Matilda interrupted. “My cousin has always preferred London, while I have always loved it here. I could not bear the thought of living anywhere else, so Archie agreed to let me stay on at Montagu and manage the estate for him. In exchange, he was living in my London house. It was quite convenient, as his parents did not much like him insisting on them keeping their house in town open year-round.”
“So this was a pleasant arrangement for you both?” I asked.
“Quite.”
“And who will inherit now?” Colin asked.
Matilda lowered her eyes. “Archie was supposed to live long enough to have a surplus of sons.”
“Does he have any brothers?” I asked.
“Five sisters.”
“Do any of them have sons?” Colin asked.
“None,” Matilda said. “Which I suppose leaves me next in line. There are no more males, you see, and when there are none, the title goes to the first female.”
“That’s considerably more fair than letting the line die out,” I said. “Although what would be even more fair would be to let females inherit in the first place.”
“Better yet, halt the archaic practice altogether and let people earn what they can through their own merits,” Colin said.
I stopped him before he could set off on an antiaristocracy tirade. Right or wrong, his views on the subject would not be helpful in the present situation. “Had Lord Montagu any difficulties this evening, Matilda? Any arguments?”
She shrugged. “Not that I saw. He was as amiable a man as you could ever hope to meet. Altercations did not come naturally to him.” The new Marchioness of Montagu shifted her weight with an awkward movement. “Do you need anything further from me at the moment? I must confess to being rather exhausted. It has been a trying night. I should like very much to return home.”
“Of course,” Colin said, rising. “I shall send for the carriage at once.”
He offered to accompany her home, but she refused, insisting that what she needed now was solitude. We respected her wishes, and stood and watched as the carriage pulled away. “A peeress in her own right,” I said. “Imagine that.”
“Her grandfather would no doubt be pleased,” Colin said. “If he’d had any faith in young Archibald he would have left him the fortune.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “Everything seems to have worked out very nicely for Matilda, don’t you think?”
“Already focusing on who benefits from the murder, my dear?”
“Naturally.”
“You suspect your friend?” he asked.
“We have never been much more than acquaintances, and even if we were, it wouldn’t keep me from considering her motives. I’ve learned through experience the dangers of overlooking suspects I trust.”
“Matilda did not leave the party all night,” Colin said. “There was never a time when any of her guests reported not seeing her.”
“I never suggested a lady of her means would deign to sully her own hands in such a matter.”
“Would she have cared so much about a mere title? She already had the money, and she was going to be able to continue to live in the house she loves.”
“Not everyone, Colin, shares your disdain for the aristocracy,” I said. “Understand that or it could prove your undoing. Matilda may have wanted the title very much. It would be a mistake to underestimate the desire most people have to rise in the ranks of society. You are far too well educated to need me to remind you of all the wars fought over the subject.”
He glowered and raised an eyebrow. “I shan’t argue with you now,” he said. “But do not expect me to remain silent on the subject forever.”
Downstairs
i
Lily was applying herself to her work that morning with more vigor than usual. Always a conscientious girl, she valued her position as a housemaid to the Hargreaveses. They were a generous and fair family, not expecting their servants to hide themselves from sight, and they hosted regular servants’ balls every month. Furthermore, unlike so many other employers, they allowed their staff to marry instead of giving notice to a maid at the first hint of her having a follower. Not that they would tolerate indiscretions, of course. Nothing like that. They were reasonable, and Lily respected them for it. What she liked the most about her position, however, was the way her labors showed immediate results. Feathers swept away dust, leaving gleaming wood. A crisply made bed pulled together an entire room. Blacking and polishing a fireplace revealed a shine that was like nothing else. Lily felt that, in a way, it was she who kept the day moving along for the family. She opened their shutters in the morning and closed them at night. She prepare
d their dressing rooms so that everything was ready when it was time to make one of their frequent changes of clothing. She lit fires before sunrise and tended to the coals after the family had gone up to bed. The routine suited her, as she liked rules and order. They gave rise to a feeling of ritual, and that was something Lily had craved from the time she was a tiny girl.
Last night, though, a man had died in the library. Work was more than just satisfying today, it was also a welcome and necessary distraction. She scrubbed hard, blacking the fireplace, but it was not enough to remove thoughts of the poor dead man from her head, so she began to sing, softly, “Ave Maria,” a favorite hymn that transported her from Derbyshire to the Welsh parish church of her childhood, where she had sung in the choir. Father Michael had always said her voice was like an angel’s, but her Irish mother only frowned, reminding her daughter of the evils of pride. The simple melody calmed Lily’s nerves a little, and she let her voice grow just a bit louder until it filled the room.
The sound drew the attention of a guest of Mr. Hargreaves’s. Lord Flyte knew breakfast wouldn’t be laid for some hours, but he made a practice of rising early as he enjoyed the quiet time when the rest of the house was asleep. The habit had started when he was a young boy and would accompany his father—a much-admired eccentric—on his morning inspection of his Yorkshire estate. The old Earl Flyte had never liked London so stayed in the country, where his tenants swore he was the best landlord England had ever seen. His son emulated his father in every way but one. He did go to London, but only to sit in the Lords, feeling a deep obligation to contribute whatever he could to the parliamentary process. He considered it an extension of looking after his tenants.
He followed the sound of the song coming from the drawing room and stood in the doorway, watching the wisp of a girl from whom it came. She was a housemaid, but her luminous beauty would have been more fitting in a London ballroom or on a Sargent canvas. Her skin, smooth and pale, glowed as her cheeks colored at the realization she was no longer alone.
“Lovely morning,” Lord Flyte said, smiling at her. “I do hope I haven’t disturbed you.”
“Of course not, sir,” she said. “I shall be out of your way in just a moment.”
“No need to rush,” he said and walked to the window. The view was a striking one, over the gardens with the peaks in the distance. “It would be difficult to find a house more pleasantly situated than this one, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.” Her voice was soft and husky, not ringing with the clarity it had when she was singing.
“Have you worked here long?”
“I came with Lady Emily,” she said. “I’d been with her in London before she married Mr. Hargreaves.”
“So you are used to being spoken to instead of being ignored?”
This drew a smile from the girl. Her mistress was notorious for talking to her staff. Just last week Lady Bromley had stormed into the servants’ hall and demanded that they stop replying to her daughter when she tried to engage them in conversation. Mr. Davis, the butler, had handled her well, letting her think her request would be honored, but making sure, once she had gone back upstairs, it was clear that they all were to obey their mistress, not her mother. “Quite right, sir.”
“And singing is tolerated in the house?” He grinned but then saw the wave of panic cross her face. “I am certain it is. Lady Emily may not be particularly musical herself, but she admires the talent in others, and you have that in spades. I apologize if I alarmed you.”
“Not at all, sir.”
“Do you sing often?”
“I suppose I do, sir,” Lily said. “Nobody’s ever minded, and it does pass the time ever so pleasantly.”
“You have an enchanting voice. There’s something almost ethereal about it.” He paused, wondering if she knew the word. “Ethereal is heavenly or—”
“Yes, ethereal,” she said. “I’ve always thought it a beautiful word. It sounds like it means, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does,” he said. “What is your name?”
“Lily, sir.”
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lily.”
Lily watched him. He had moved away from the window and was standing near her, smiling. She couldn’t decide if it was unnerving or a compliment to be paid such attention. She nodded her head in acknowledgment of his words and turned back to her work, feeling heat flush her cheeks. She narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing the room, making sure she had left not a single speck of the fireplace short of gleaming.
“I am Simon Lancaster, Earl Flyte.”
He was still hovering over her. Having not the slightest idea what to do, she gave him a small smile, unwilling to meet his stare.
“You’ve lovely eyes, Lily.” He was quite taken aback, in fact, to find such a stunning girl hard at work. It seemed wrong, an offense against beauty itself.
Her whole body stiffened and she looked away, attacking a small dull spot on the fireplace with renewed vigor.
“I don’t mean to alarm you,” he said. “It was an inappropriate comment. Can you forgive me?”
“Of course.” Her voice was barely audible.
“You will find I am even worse than your mistress when it comes to chatting with the staff. I rarely entertain at home, and my servants are more like friends than employees.”
“That’s very odd, sir.” Lily bit her tongue, worried that she’d overstepped her bounds. But Lord Flyte laughed.
“I am quite aware of it,” he said, a warm smile on his narrow face. “Fortunately for me, one benefit of being an aristocrat is that everyone around you is forced to accept your eccentricities. Do you like these early morning hours?”
“I do, sir, I do,” Lily said. “It’s almost like magic opening the shutters and watching the light pour in. Lovely is what it is. It’s like waking up the world.” She clamped her mouth shut. She hadn’t meant to say so much.
“Good girl. I shall leave you to your work. I’m off for a constitutional. Best way to start the morning.”
“Yes, sir.” She smiled at him as he retreated from view. A nice-looking man, she thought. Not like the master, but then no one was as handsome as him. Lord Flyte was shorter, and thin, but he carried himself with dignity despite a slight limp. Lily admired dignity. Lost in thought, she let her brush clatter to the floor just as Alice pushed the door open.
“Cook’s having a go at that useless kitchen maid again. Don’t know why she bothers. Pru will never amount to anything.”
“I heard she went upstairs last night,” Lily said, pushing the image of Lord Flyte out of her head.
“She did. Wanted to see the dead body. Morbid thing.” Alice flashed a wicked smile. She had been self-conscious about her crooked teeth when she first came to the house, but had started to let herself smile once Lily had convinced her no one else noticed anything but her contagious sense of fun. Alice organized every amusement for the staff and was the only one of them who had ever spotted a ghost at Anglemore. It was a nun, she had told the rest of the junior servants, murdered by one of Cromwell’s men when they’d overrun the old abbey. Lily had always thought that she, a devout Catholic, would be more likely to encounter the ill-treated sister who had shared her faith, and half suspected Alice of inventing her stories wholesale, but they were so entertaining she wouldn’t say anything that might make her stop telling them.
Lily’s eyes widened. “Did she see it?”
“Heavens, no. Mr. Hargreaves marched her straight back downstairs. Cook near thrashed her, and I can’t say I would have regretted it if she did.”
“Flirting with Johnny again, is she?” Lily asked. Alice had been sweet on him, one of the grooms, for months.
“I suppose you could call it that.”
“He’s not worth it if he lets her,” Lily said. “A gentleman should stay true to his lady.”
“Johnny’s no gentleman any more than I’m a lady,” Alice said. “Which is just as it ought to be. But that girl had better k
eep her distance unless she wants there to be a second murder in the house.”
“What are they saying upstairs about last night?” Lily asked. “Do they know what happened?”
“Lady Matilda could’ve been in on it, that’s what I hear. Lady Emily said near as much. But I don’t see how a lady like her could whack someone the size of that corpse and leave much of a mark.”
“She’s not so little,” Lily said. “Her shoulders are as broad as a boy’s. Still, I wouldn’t think she could kill a man.”
“Anger makes for strange strength,” Alice said. “If he trifled with her—”
“Ladies like that don’t get trifled with,” Lily said, rubbing the last bit of blacking off the now gleaming fireplace. “It’s girls like us who do, if they’re not careful.”
“I know, I know. Don’t start lecturing on that count again. I must admit I could do with a bit of trifling just now. That would show Johnny a thing or two.”
“That is not something to joke about. I’ll tell you—watch Lord Flyte. He’s up too early every morning for a gentleman, and he has far too much to say to a housemaid.”
“Was he bothering you?” Alice asked.
“I don’t let myself be bothered, and you shouldn’t either.”
“Lord Flyte doesn’t seem like a bad bloke. Can I do the fireplaces tomorrow? I wouldn’t mind a chat.”
“Alice!” Lily flushed. “How can you say such a thing?”
“I’m only half serious,” she said. “Though I do know a girl who worked with someone who married a son of the house. A younger son, mind you, but a son nonetheless. She’s a proper lady now.”
“Things like that only happen in fairy tales, Alice, if they even do there. In real life, the endings are much worse.”
Alice rolled her eyes. “Dismissed without a character.”
“Keep that in mind next time you’re tempted to talk to Lord Flyte.”
“So far as I can tell, you’re the only one he’s talked to, Lily. Maybe you’re the one who should take care.”
Behind the Shattered Glass Page 2
