He had been with passionate women. He had been with intelligent women. But one who was both? She intrigued him, and he was a little afraid of her for that very reason.
He descended and strode into his wood-paneled study to find that Osei and the magistrate were still there. It had been hours. Osei was wan and weary, as pale as he ever could be. His gaze, when it slued to his employer, held a hint of desperate entreaty in the dark brown depths glinting behind the spectacles.
“Sir Trevor,” Tony said, stalking to sit behind his desk, “you will allow Mr. Boatin to rest. He’s told you everything he knows.”
“Ah, but that’s the trouble, my lord. He has told me everything he wishes but will not divulge some key points. What am I to think?” Sir Trevor, his mobile, thin-lipped mouth drawn down in a frown, was clearly irritated by Osei’s reticence. He paced to the window and back. “He was with Miss Wainwright just before her death but says that he saw her go into the lodge, and then departed. Now, since the maid was found outside, that is certainly false.”
“Don’t be ridiculous—Osei may well have seen Cecilia go into Ivy Lodge, but that doesn’t mean she stayed there.”
The magistrate was silent for a long moment, his brows drawn down. “I will grant you that point, my lord.”
“Nor, even if she did stay there, does it mean that she was not accosted inside and dragged out! The doors were not yet locked. It was dark. It could have happened that way, though I make no claims to any knowledge on that point.”
“Nevertheless—”
“No,” Darkefell thundered, slamming his fist down on the desk. “Let him be!”
The magistrate, a severe and humorless man, stared at the marquess. “We’re stuck on one point, my lord. Mr. Boatin is refusing to answer a couple of questions.”
Osei turned to Darkefell. “I told Sir Trevor that I will not divulge Cecilia’s private affairs, as she is not here to defend her behavior. It is not my place to speak of such things.”
“I agree with my secretary,” Darkefell said, turning to the magistrate. “He’s defending the reputation of a friend who can no longer defend herself. I think that honorable behavior.”
“If you support his intransigence, then I’m done,” the man said. “If either of you feels like cooperating a little more fully, then I will come at a moment’s notice. I can make no further inroads on the mystery if I’m not given all the information I require. Good day, my lord, Mr. Boatin.” He departed in high dudgeon.
Osei bowed his head for a long moment then looked back up at the marquess. “Thank you, sir. I did not know how else to say I was not willing to answer for my poor Cecilia.”
Darkefell watched Osei for a long moment. “I know you, Osei. I know with what horror you view violence. But others, particularly Sir Trevor, don’t know you. People will look at you with suspicion, yet you will not do what you must to keep from being an object of that mistrust. Cecilia, of all people, would forgive you unveiling her secrets now that she’s gone and can no longer be injured by cruel gossip. She was your friend, you’ve told me—she wouldn’t want suspicion to fall on you. Why not just tell what you know if it will help to exonerate you?”
The secretary stood, his dark eyes behind the glinting lenses of his spectacles full of anguish. “I do not agree that she cannot be injured by gossip, sir. I wish her spirit to rest easy, and the spirit of the life she carried within her, too. My people say that as the mother cries, so weeps the unborn child. Death cannot change that.”
The marquess had known Osei five years, and not once in that time had he ever found him to err when it came to matters of morality. If he could have said the same of himself, he would have felt more easy demanding answers. Darkefell knew from the magistrate that the villagers were perturbed. They had tolerated Osei since his arrival, but with the murder of a young woman and Osei implicated, how could Darkefell protect him if he wouldn’t help? “I won’t try to force you to speak.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But I wish you would.”
Osei inclined his head. “May I go?”
“Yes, yes, of course. Is all ready for tonight?”
“I have everything prepared.”
“Good. You may go. Get some rest—you look dreadful.”
Ten
It had been a disturbing morning so far, but upon attending the breakfast room and expecting to talk about her ordeal, Anne found no one and dined alone. Ellen, busy with her usual tasks, had been able to spare only a few moments to help with her dress, and none for her hair. In a miff and with nerves frayed to the nub, Anne stood staring out her bedroom window. But her mood lifted when she caught sight of her own carriage pulling into the lodge drive and back toward the stables. “Thank goodness!” she cried aloud as she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and descended, then exited the manor house, hastening around back. Mary, her son Wee Robbie, and Anne’s driver, Sanderson, would be invaluable support to her, stranger as she was to everyone else but Lydia.
“Mary, Robbie! How grateful I am to see you both. And Sanderson, of course,” she said, striding toward them as they descended from the coach, Robbie first and then his mother.
“Aye, we’re here. Finally!” Mary said, her steps wobbly. Her son, just nine but with a bright and intelligent gleam in his blue eyes, took his mother’s arm and steadied her.
Then, from the open door, leaped Irusan, down to the gravel drive. Two large dogs, released from the confines of the stable by the grooms opening the door to temporarily house Anne’s coach horses, tore out and into the open drive. Irusan arched his back, hissed, and leaped up into Anne’s arms. She buried her face in his thick, long fur and hugged him. “How I’ve missed you all.” The big tabby’s throaty purr responded in kind.
The stable dogs leaping and barking, Mary trying to talk over them, her r’s rolling in her agitation, and Robbie laughing at the dogs’ antics, made a horrendous din. Lord John opened a window from a room on the second floor. “What’s going on? Poor Lydia is trying to sleep.”
“Come inside,” Anne said, to her maid and Robbie. “Sanderson,” she said more loudly, “the coach and horses will be housed up at the castle, so after you’ve unloaded my trunks and watered the horses, see to it.” Taciturn as always, her coachman tipped his hat and nodded, then went about his work.
Anne edged close to him for a moment and said sotto voce, “Sanderson, when you get to the marquess’s stables, befriend a groom by the name of Jamey—it’s possible he and a confederate are behind the werewolf hoax.”
He gave no hint of hearing her. Robbie and the stable lad eyed each other; the other boy—Bertie he introduced himself as—at the advanced age of eleven or twelve, must have decided Robbie was a harmless child, so he offered to show him around the stables. Mary agreed, and the two boys ran off, his mother shouting a reminder not to stay out too long and not to keep the lad from his tasks, and to go to the servants’ entrance when he was done.
Anne led her maid up to her bedchamber as two sturdy grooms carried up Anne’s trunks and Mary’s more modest bags. Mary unpacked Anne’s clothing and necessities in the dressing room attached to her mistress’s bedchamber while Anne sat on a low chair by the window and related what happened the night of her arrival: finding Cecilia’s body, Lydia’s lack of courtesy in not telling anyone of her arrival, and the odd behavior of Mr. Osei Boatin upon hearing of the maid’s death. She went on to speak of her adventure that morning, being locked into the tower.
“Didya consider, milady,” Mary said, shaking out a shawl, “that the tower door being shut and locked could’ve bin a mistake? P’raps someone, e’en the stable lad, saw it open and thought it should be locked, and did so.”
“But I shouted down—I saw someone disappearing through the brush.”
“If that was my Robbie, he would’ve been afeart that he was in trouble and cut oot. You dinna know how boys are.”
“I hadn’t thought of it being a simple mistake.” She and Mary talked more, an
d all the while Anne stroked Irusan, her enormous, long-haired tabby, a cat renowned for his irritable temper and inquisitive disposition. Idly, she said, ruffling his fur, “I don’t think I mentioned to Mrs. Hailey, the housekeeper, that you would be bringing Irusan with you.”
Mary cast her a knowing look as she shook out a blue camlet gown that had a matching merino shawl. She picked off a couple of cat hairs and carried it over to the wardrobe. “I s’pose that wee task will be up to me, then? I’ll no’ have a moment’s rest if she takes against me, milady.”
Anne sighed deeply. “You’re right, of course. I’ll tell her about Irusan. I need you to be on good terms with the household staff—as much as any visiting maid can be—and find out more about Cecilia Wainwright’s affairs, love and otherwise. Ellen, one of the chambermaids, seems to have been on particularly good terms with Cecilia, so I’d like you to get to know her.”
“Aye, I thought as much—I’ll be your ears and eyes belowstairs, just as I have in the past. Are ya for findin’ out who done the turrible deed, then?”
Anne sighed and shook her head. “Lydia’s upset. I made no promises, but if I find out, it would be a relief for all concerned.”
“Aye,” Mary said as she took a tabby silk dress from the trunk, brushed it, then hung it up. “An’ yer ain curiosity willna stand the suspense ’til you do.”
“How well you know me,” Anne said tranquilly, rubbing Irusan under the chin. He purred loudly and sprawled on her lap. “How did this one behave on the way here?”
“Your feline companion? As well as you’d think,” Mary responded, her tone clipped.
“Rather poorly, then.”
“Aye.”
“That’s odd, he always behaves perfectly for me.”
“He’s no fool, that one. He knows who provides his catmeat.”
Anne was silent as Mary continued with her tasks. Pelisses, capelets, shawls, dresses, bonnets, petticoats, night attire, chemises, stays, stomachers—all were carefully shaken, brushed, fluffed, then hung, folded, or otherwise disposed of. Brushes, combs, jewelry, lace fichus, gloves, fans—these Mary refolded or examined then tucked them back in the confines of the trunk drawer, which she locked with one key on her silver chatelaine. From the other trunk, Mary removed Anne’s drawing paper and tools, and her travel desk, a cunningly constructed, latched mahogany box, fortified at the corners with brass plates, and with a sloped surface for writing. It had inside a multitude of drawers holding ink bottles, quills, sealing wax, seals, paper, a pounce pot, the sand to fill it with, and a penknife. These were dispatched to Anne’s bedchamber on a table to the left of the window, situated perfectly for morning light.
“Your chatelaine reminds me of my discovery this morning,” Anne called out as Mary set up the desk box in the bedchamber. “Or rather, my two discoveries.” Her maid returned to the dressing room, and as she unpacked a case holding toiletries, Anne told her about the hank of fur and the bit of gold chain she found in the shrubbery that morning where Cecilia’s body had been found two nights before.
“What d’you make of it, milady?” Mary asked, proceeding to unpack her own modest baggage, and Robbie’s.
“I don’t know. My first thought was that we were meant to believe Cecilia had been killed by the werewolf.”
“And your second thought?”
“That it makes no sense. No one saw the werewolf that night, so what would be the point of leaving clues to indicate it was he, without a witness to that effect?” Anne retrieved the piece of fur and held it up to the light. “How did this fur get there?”
Mary leaned over and looked at it. “Looks to be cut from a tippet, or some such garment.”
The hank of fur did seem straight cut rather than a tuft ripped from an animal. “And it smelled faintly of camphor, to me, at first.”
“An’ you have the most sensitive nose of any bein’ on God’s green airth,” Mary said with a smile. “So, p’raps from a tippet or stole that’d bin stored?”
“You think it was placed there deliberately, then, along with the piece of gold chain?”
“Seems daft to go to so much trouble, though, milady. How would anyone see that in the drear night?”
Anne slowly said, “But, Mary, no one knew I was coming. The murderer thought Cecilia would be found in daylight and the two items discovered at the same time.”
“You’ve got it, milady!” Mary exclaimed, her blue eyes wide.
“But in that case,” Anne reasoned, “the murderer wanted the household to know that she was not killed by a real werewolf but someone pretending to be a werewolf—perhaps the chain was meant to point to one person directly.” She stood, set Irusan down on the chair, and brushed the cat fur from her skirts. “Therefore,” she said, “if I can find out who the chain and fur points to, then that person is the most likely to be innocent! I need to find out what’s been going on around here.”
“Aye,” Mary said. “An’ I must round up m’boy. I dinna care to have him keepin’ the stable lad from his chores.”
Though she had journeyed north in answer to Lydia’s plea for help concerning reports of a werewolf, the murder of a helpless young woman was a far more serious and distressing matter, particularly as that young woman was so closely associated with Lydia. Investigating the murder might lead to solving the other mystery, Anne decided. Was the murder a passionate crime, or had poor Cecilia merely been in the wrong place at the wrong moment? Perhaps she knew something she shouldn’t have about the werewolf? If Anne was right about the deliberate placement of the tuft of fur and chain, then her murder was planned and allied with the werewolf mystery.
“No one here is willing to talk. I need to go to the nearest village,” Anne said, looking around. She was quite alone, except for the sleeping cat. “Well,” she commented, “one can never be more sure of sensible conversation than when one talks to oneself.”
***
Lydia arranged for a pony cart for Anne and directions into Hornethwaite, the nearest village, located just beyond the marquess’s property. Robbie, garbed in his dark gray livery, was enlisted to go along, both to hold the pony and to carry packages should she buy much. The day was bright, the air sparkling, and Anne was invigorated by new hope that she could find answers in the village. But first she went only a short way, her excellent sense of direction leading her to the house that she had seen from the tower. It was oddly close to the marquess’s property and must be the estate of Mr. Hiram Grover. Anne wondered if the marquess had ever tried to buy it.
She reined in the pony as she mounted the short drive to a square, modern building. What excuse could she possibly use now that she was there? “I can’t think of a single reason to be here now that I have pulled up. What do you think, Robbie, my boy?” she said to her maid’s son, who clung to the cart.
A groom emerged from behind the house. He touched his forelock and took the reins of the pony. Robbie jumped down and said loudly, “Milady was just wantin’ to know, as she’s going into town, does the mister want anything?”
The fellow shrugged. Anne, thanking heaven for Robbie’s abundant good sense and quick mind, stepped down from the cart and said, “Thank you, my good man. I shall ask Mr. Grover myself, then, if you don’t know.”
Robbie took the reins of the pony, stating that was his job, as Anne sailed up to the house and employed the knocker. She was greeted by a maid who curtseyed, awed, it seemed, by Anne’s excellent clothing, plumed bonnet, and riding switch. It was unconventional, to say the least, for her to visit a widower and stranger in such a hasty manner, but this was the country, not London, so country manners would be her excuse. Anne was shown directly into Mr. Grover’s library, where he joined her a moment later, buttoning his jacket over his paunch.
“Lady Anne, how delightful to see you again!” he said, bowing deeply.
“Mr. Grover. What a lovely house you have!” Mendacity had its reward in the smile wreathing his round face. He indicated a chair, but she declined, saying,
“I just stopped on my way into Hornethwaite. I understand it’s the only place nearby to purchase paper and ink.”
“You will find a most helpful stationers. I am sure your ladyship is a prodigious correspondent,” he said with another bow.
She hit her whip handle against her palm and said, “This visit is a little unusual, but I’m a country woman, Mr. Grover, and employ country manners. I thought I’d inquire if you or your housekeeper need anything in the village.”
He stared at her, a puzzled expression on his fleshy countenance. “No, I don’t believe so, my lady.”
She glanced around at the sparsely furnished drawing room. With an arch manner, she said, “How graciously open your rooms are. One can see you have no wife resident, sir, for a woman would have filled every corner with furnishings.” She could see in his eyes some kind of dawning knowledge, but she was astounded by his next words.
“I’m a lorn widower, my lady. If I could find a lady such as yourself, with taste, style, substance,” he said with an insinuating softness in his voice, “I would rush back to the altar with abandon.”
He thought she was husband hunting! As humiliating an assumption as that was, it gave her the opening she needed. Never afraid to show herself in a less than flattering light, she said, “You widowers, sir, are very disarming.” She simpered. “Flattery, of course, is never amiss.” She tapped his arm with her crop in her best imitation of the empty-headed coquette she had once aspired to be, then added in a confidential tone, “Tell me, has any local woman designs on the marquess?”
An expression of distaste fleeted across his fleshy face. “His lordship has had his share of local women fall at his feet, and I say that in a figurative and literal sense.”
She paused, trying to puzzle him out. Clearly he wished to be understood, but she must say just the right thing. Without a lying word, she said, “He is a most arrogant, infuriating man.” He appeared to relish her criticism, so she leaned forward and added, “He alarms me with his violent fits.”
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