“Did he accompany you back there?”
“Most of the way, but before we were in sight of the house someone called to him,” she said. “We parted then so he could talk to his friend.”
“Who was this friend?”
“I didn’t recognize his voice.”
“It was a man?”
“Yes.”
“Did you then go straight home?”
“Of course,” she said. “What else would I have done?”
“I thought you had gone to the farmer’s widow?”
“Yes, yes, how stupid of me to forget.”
“Miss Fitzgerald,” I said, “I am not sure what to make of any of this. You didn’t admit previously to having seen Archibald the night of the murder. Now that someone else saw you, you admit it, but then you forget your alibi. What do you want me to think?”
“What are you suggesting?”
“You may very well have been the last person to see Archibald Montagu alive, and you have not been honest.”
“You think I murdered him?”
“I think it is possible, yes,” I said, “and I should prepare to have a frank conversation with the police if I were you.”
“They’re not going to arrest me, surely?”
“Why shouldn’t they?” I asked.
“Because I didn’t kill him!”
“Your story hangs together with the barest of threads, Miss Fitzgerald. You need to tell me the truth. All of it.”
“I have, Lady Emily. Yes, I omitted some detail before because I was frightened. Is that so surprising? What if I had told you straightaway about having met with Archibald? Now that you know about it, you’re all but threatening me with arrest. It seems I was right to withhold the whole truth. I didn’t kill Archibald, but I don’t know how to prove it to you.”
“It is not your place to prove your innocence,” I said. “I am only worried that as more comes out about that night, you may find yourself in a position where others are trying very hard to prove your guilt. If you do not tell me everything that happened, I cannot help you, Cora.”
“There’s nothing else to be said.”
“Why did you go to the widow’s house so late?” I asked. “I can’t imagine you make a habit of visiting parishioners at such an hour.”
“I didn’t want to go home.”
“Why not?”
“I was floating, Lady Emily, filled with love and wonder and more kisses than I could count. I felt so fortunate to be loved by Archibald, and it was that feeling that spurred me to go to the widow’s. She has not been so lucky as I, and I thought I should see if there was anything I could do for her.”
“Did you know before you got there that her son had been ill?”
“Yes.”
“Were the children awake when you arrived?”
“No.”
“Why did you lie about this?”
“I thought I might need an alibi. I may have been one of the last people to see Archibald alive, but not the last, as you suggested. I had to take action to protect myself.”
“So you went to the farm because you thought you might need an alibi?” I asked.
“No, Lady Emily,” she said, “you will not find me quite so easy to catch out. I went to the farm because I didn’t want to go home, and I did know that the widow should be checked on. Once I knew Archibald was dead, and once you came around asking questions, I came to understand the concept of ‘alibi,’ and didn’t see any harm in blurring the details. I didn’t kill Archibald, and I was, in fact, at the widow’s.”
It was possible, of course, that Miss Fitzgerald was now being wholly candid with me. Yet the innocent, if they have not been accused directly of a crime, rarely worry so much about looking guilty. They assume the truth will protect them. Which made it all but impossible for me to take what Miss Fitzgerald said without a great deal of cynicism. I could not trust her.
Downstairs
xv
Rain always meant more work. More mud tracked through the house, more smudges on the windows, and more wet coats leaving a trail of drips through the great hall. Lily often felt on rainy days that she ought to keep a mop and a bucket fastened to her side. Today was like that, gray and wet, but the house, so far, was quiet. Lady Emily had gone out early, dressed in a waterproof coat and the odd-looking boots she had ordered specially made for her, insisting they be both sturdy and comfortable. She must have been doing something more to investigate Lord Montagu’s murder. Lily had watched her from the library window as she crossed the parterre and started down the steps to the grounds below and out of sight. Lily turned back to her work, preparing the fire, and she wondered, just for a flash, what it must be like to be the mistress of Anglemore, to walk across these grounds, knowing they were yours. It must be grand. She shook off the fantasy and returned to her work.
She had just lit the fire when she heard the door open. She thought her heart might stop and was almost afraid to look up and see if it was Lord Flyte.
“Lily.”
It was he. His voice, so elegant, made her flush.
“Good morning, Lord Flyte,” she said, a shy smile on her face.
“That will never do, Lily,” he said. “You must call me Simon.”
“Oh, sir, I couldn’t—”
“And we shall have no more of that, either. Simon.”
“I shall try,” she said.
“I know you are busy, and I do not mean to distract you, but I wanted to ask if you would like to join me for a picnic on your afternoon this week. I am hoping the weather will improve.”
“That would be lovely, sir, I mean Simon.” Simon. The word felt foreign and forbidden, exotic and delicious.
“I look forward to it,” he said. Then he did something Lily would have never expected in all of time. He picked up her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it.
*
“I almost fell over dead, I did,” Lily said, telling Alice every delicious detail as they carefully returned the Sèvres dinner service to its shelf, each piece back in its place. “He kissed my hand. Me—a maid. It’s unthinkable.”
“I’m starting to think I might not be fine enough to talk to you,” Alice said. “Isn’t it grand?”
“You know, when Jones, the old head housemaid, retired, she had been in this house more than thirty years. She worked for Mr. Hargreaves’s father. She was the one in charge of this dinner service that we’re putting away now, and she never would let anyone else touch it, because she was sure someone would cause a chip. In all those years, not a piece was broken. I think of that every time I handle it, and I always used to believe that it would be so nice if I could call Anglemore my home for all my life, like Jones did, and make sure the service lasted another thirty years without a chip.”
“And now you’re wondering what Lord Flyte’s estate might be like?”
They collapsed into giggles.
“What’s all the commotion in here?” Pru asked, stepping through the door, a scowl on her face.
Lily and Alice fell quiet. “Nothing that concerns you,” Alice said.
“You should watch yourself, Miss Lily,” Pru said. “You know I’m watching you. You think you’re so high and mighty, but I’m onto the truth about you. I know what you’re up to.” She turned to go, and as she did, she paused, looked directly at Lily, and flicked a teacup off the counter, smiling as it shattered on the floor. “Guess you won’t be getting those thirty more years out of that now, will you?”
16
In recent years, breakfast had become a favorite meal of mine. When I was younger, I had considerably less appreciation for it, viewing it primarily as the evil instrument that prevented me from a nice lie-in. Now, though, I had more control over both the time it was served and the hour at which I retired in the evening, particularly when we were not in London for the Season, and I had grown fond of the soft morning light with its golden waves. Today the sun was fighting a meandering mist for control of the gardens, and had
already reached its inevitable victory before Colin had appeared. While a gentleman’s toilette took considerably less time than a lady’s, he was much slower moving than I in the morning. When his schedule permitted it, he preferred to linger in bed, reading the paper and taking a cup of tea before coming downstairs. This morning, I had grown impatient waiting, wanting very much to discuss Miss Fitzgerald’s dishonesty. I felt it boded very ill for her continuing freedom, and, ready at last to face the world, my husband agreed.
“Not,” he said, spooning a creamy heap of kedgeree from a silver dish on the sideboard, “that it would have made much difference in the end. She hasn’t done herself a service, though. If she is charged and stands trial, her lies will not earn her any mercy.”
“What do we do now?” I asked.
“Try to confirm the bits of her story we can. Go back to Montagu and see if any of the servants remember seeing her. One of the grooms will have handed the pony trap back to her. He may be able to give us a time, if nothing else.”
“Anything new on Miss Gifford?”
“The woman we suspect to be her traveled to Lyons by train after arriving in Calais.”
“Alone?”
“Alone.” He took a seat at the round table next to me. “There is something else as well. The Yard has informed me that Matilda recently deposited a sum of money into a bank account belonging to none other than Cora Fitzgerald.”
“Money?” I asked. “How much?”
“Not an enormous amount, but enough to feel significant to someone in Miss Fitzgerald’s position.”
“I shall speak to Matilda about it today.”
My mother came into the room. “Do you know, Emily, that I think little Tom is trying to speak French. He distinctly said Maman today.”
“To you?” I asked.
“Yes, to me.” Though I am sure she would never have admitted it, she looked rather pleased with herself, all plumped up with pride.
“He must have taken quite a liking to you,” I said. “What a compliment.”
“You know I do not approve of him,” she said, “but I am doing my best to accept your stubbornness on the matter.”
“It is much appreciated,” I said.
“Do not think for a moment I will alter my broader views on the subject. Children of murderers do not belong in polite society.” She could be severe when she wanted to. “No matter how charming they may be.”
“So you find him charming?” Colin asked.
“I suppose anyone would,” she said. “He’s rather cherubic.”
“Perhaps a good English education could redeem him from the misfortune of his birth,” Colin said. “Eton works wonders.”
“Hrmphf.”
They continued to banter, and as they did, an idea struck me. It would require my mother’s assistance, but I could think of no one better qualified for the job. First, however, there was work to be done at Montagu, work Colin was leaving to me. His plan for the day was to dart down to London to go to Scotland Yard in order to follow up on the lone traveler we believed to be Fanny Gifford.
Yesterday’s rain had been swept away by blue skies and puffy clouds, leaving us with one of those rare days when a person knows, in her heart, there is nowhere in the world more beautiful than the English countryside. Given the fine weather, I decided to ride to Montagu, and set off soon after finishing breakfast.
Matilda had already been up for ages, cataloging family treasures. The butler brought me to her in the great hall, where she was writing down critical information for each tapestry and every sword, shield, and spear hanging on its walls.
“I need to make sure that wretched Mr. Scolfield doesn’t get rid of anything,” she said. “Which would, of course, be difficult if one doesn’t have accurate records of everything. How would I ever know what was missing?”
“How can you stop him regardless?” I asked, glancing through the heap of papers she had left on a table. She had already done all of the paintings on the ground and first floors. “He does legally have the right to do whatever he wishes.”
“I can attempt to shame him into keeping everything just as it is,” she said.
“Do you have reason to think he wants to sell anything? Does he have financial problems? It certainly didn’t appear that way to me. He’s able to fund his numerous expeditions.”
“Do not, Emily, force me to be rational. I need something to keep myself occupied or I shall go out of my mind.”
“It is never a bad idea to keep orderly records,” I said. “These country houses are full of art and precious objects often lost because no one realizes what they are.”
“Thank you,” Matilda said. “I do appreciate the support, even if it is nothing more than veneer.”
“Quite the contrary,” I said. “I spent more than a year doing just what you are now, only I was cataloging art at a number of estates. It’s a tragedy, really, the number of valuable and significant pieces all but lost in country houses. I thought it important to track down as many as I could so that scholars would know where to find them. It drove my mother to distraction. She found the whole project mortifying. She could not imagine inviting herself into someone’s home and asking to go through their things. What could be worse?”
“She would think just that.” Matilda gave a little laugh.
“The National Gallery and the British Museum did not agree with her,” I said. “They were delighted when I sent them my archives. I managed to locate two Michelangelo drawings, a cache of Greek pottery, and at least seventeen Old Master paintings that would have gone moldy if they had been left in attics much longer.”
“I imagine their opinions did nothing to sway your mother,” Matilda said. “What are you embroiled in today? Can I offer any assistance?”
“I have some new information about the murder and was hoping I could speak to your grooms and some of the other servants.”
“Of course,” she said. “The grooms will be in the stables, and the butler can help you find anyone else. What have you learned?”
“Archibald met with Cora Fitzgerald during your party,” I said.
“The vicar’s daughter? She wasn’t invited.”
“No, and she was quite put out about that. They rendezvoused in the grounds and went for a walk after dinner.”
“And you want to know if anyone saw them?”
“Precisely.” I stacked her papers neatly on the table. “I don’t suppose you did?”
“Alas, no. There was a chill in the air,” she said. “I never set foot outside. Hardly anyone did.”
“I thought as much,” I said, remembering I had thought it exceptionally warm that evening. Was Matilda misremembering or deliberately attempting to hide an excursion she had taken from the house that night? “Now I must ask you something else, something quite awkward. It has come to my attention that you gave Miss Fitzgerald a sum of money.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Matilda said. “It was for her charity work. I thought she could use it however she saw fit to assist the parishioners.”
“You had it deposited into a bank account in her name, rather than one in her father’s? Or the church’s?”
“What difference does it make?” she asked. “Miss Fitzgerald is evidently the person who will put it to use. Why shouldn’t she have direct access to it?”
“I see,” I said, and I did. Still, it was odd. Definitely not the ordinary way to handle such a thing.
“I suppose you think it makes me look guilty, don’t you?” She was smiling now. “Perhaps I paid Miss Fitzgerald a miserly sum in exchange for murdering my wicked cousin so I might inherit Montagu myself, but then my evil ways were undermined when Mr. Scolfield turned up. This narrative could be rather useful, you know. If you would let Mr. Scolfield know all the sordid details of the plot, he might decide to flee in order to preserve his life.”
“It is not funny, Matilda.”
“It most certainly is,” she said. “If I were going to pay someone to commit
murder on my behalf, I would choose someone much more competent—and much stronger—than Miss Fitzgerald, and I would pay him much better. You can’t be too careful when it comes to these things.”
“I suppose not.” I decided not to press the issue at the moment, partly because her explanation, while unusual, was not impossible, and partly because I thought it unlikely I would be able to get anything else out of her. “I shall leave you to it, Matilda, and will let you know if I discover anything.”
I left the great hall. Originally, I had been determined to head directly to the stables, but now I had a desire to search Matilda’s room. An uneasy feeling about her had crept into my mind, fueled, I suppose, partially by the knowledge that in our last case, the murderer had turned out to be someone close to me. I did not want to make the mistake of ignoring suspicions because of friendship. Matilda had given me free run of the house, but it felt wrong to march into her room and comb through her possessions, even if, technically, it was the correct thing to do. The friend in me wrestled with the investigator, the friend wanting a better excuse for what I knew I had to do.
There was a commotion on the steps, and I heard a footman talking to the butler, imploring him to do something about a laundry issue that had become heated below stairs.
“The housekeeper will have to take that up with Lady Matilda’s maid,” the butler said, reaching the bottom step near where I stood. “She’s upstairs now, dealing with some of her ladyship’s clothing. When she is finished, I will ask her to address the trouble.”
This was the perfect opportunity. Speaking with the maid, which was something I had wanted to do that day, was the salve the friend in me needed to feel better about going to Matilda’s room.
“Did I hear right?” I asked. “Lady Matilda’s maid is in her room?”
“Yes, madam,” he said. The footman scurried off.
“Splendid. I’ve a few questions to ask her, so I shall need to go up straightaway. Lady Matilda told you, I believe, that I would be working here today?”
“Yes, madam, she did. I shall take you there at once,” he said. I followed him to the bedroom, where Matilda’s maid was returning a stack of recently mended gowns to a tall wardrobe. Before leaving us, the butler explained to her that Lady Matilda wanted all the staff to assist me in any way possible.
Behind the Shattered Glass Page 20
