“It’s the murder weapon used to kill Cecilia Wainwright.”
Eighteen
“When did you last see it?” Darkefell asked his mother.
“I don’t remember,” she said, her face drained of all color and expression.
“This spring?”
She shook her head, but said, “I don’t know! Tony, are you sure this is the murder weapon?”
He watched her carefully. His mother was an intensely private person, and no one shattered her shell. When the news came that Julius, her favorite son, was dead, she allowed one single tear to slide down her face and retreated to her suite. She may have cried a river of tears there, but when she emerged a week later, she was calm. In the year since the news of his death had come to them, only her garden seemed to give her any solace. And now one of her personal garden tools, crafted by her order with her initials on the handle, had been used for such a vile purpose as the murder of an innocent maid.
“Doctor Younghusband,” he said, referring to the family’s trusted physician, “examined Cecilia’s body before she was buried. He told me she was with child, of course, and confirmed what I already suspected—her throat wasn’t savaged by any animal. Someone thrust something directly into her throat to kill her. It wouldn’t take a lot of strength.”
There was silence for a long moment. His mother began, “But that does not follow that my… my… ” She broke off and looked away.
“I know,” he said gently as John still stared in horror at the dibber. “And I can’t say it was used thusly. But something about this size and shape pierced her throat,” he said, indicating the thick wood stake, pointed on one end and with a metal handle on the other. “It killed her quickly, and then her neck was ravaged with a blade of some sort, and all to make it look like an animal attack.”
“In your opinion,” John said hurriedly.
“In my opinion,” Tony agreed. “And that of Dr. Younghusband. So when I found this, where it had no cause to be, and with stains that I believe are blood…?”
He let that hang in the air, but his mother didn’t offer anything else. Osei cleared his throat finally, and Tony turned to his younger brother. “John?”
“What?”
“Where did you last see this?”
“I’ve never seen it in my life. I don’t even know what it’s used for.”
Tony eyed him; that was not what he’d said just a moment ago. He let it pass for the moment.
“Where did you find it?” the marchioness asked.
“The cave above Staungill Force,” he said. “Lady Anne was with me, but I successfully slipped the dibber in my jacket. She didn’t see it.”
“Why did you take that woman anywhere?” his mother said, an expression of distaste pulling her mouth down.
“I thought it best to control her view of the estate,” he said. “She’s quite capable of haring up to the waterfall and across the countryside on her own. I didn’t know the murder weapon would be concealed in the cave, nor did I know someone would be living there.” Damn… he hadn’t meant to say quite so much with his mother there.
“Who is living there?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Darkefell said, exchanging a look with his brother. “That’s beside the matter.”
She stared at him, worry in her pale eyes, so like John’s, then turned her gaze to the dibber, choking back an exclamation of revulsion. She then glanced at Osei and said stiffly, “Tony, does Mr. Boatin need to be here while we discuss this?”
Darkefell gazed at her in surprise. Osei knew every family failing and foible and had helped immeasurably over the last two tumultuous years, providing succor and support to him, his mother, and his brother. He supposed it was her private nature that objected to his secretary’s presence.
Osei got up and bowed, his dark, thin face void of expression, and said, “I will make sure your guests are comfortable, my lord.” He exited without another word.
“That was rude and unnecessary,” the marquess said to his mother.
Her lips tightened. “You coddle him as if he’s family, Tony, but he’s not, he’s your secretary and the source of a great deal of trouble for us.”
“What do you mean by that?”
But she tightened her lips, shook her head, and would not be drawn out further. “Tony,” the marchioness said, putting one hand on her son’s arm. “Just let this alone. Spottiswode has confessed. Can you not leave it at that?”
He stared at her pale face in the lamplight. “If I thought he was guilty, I would, but there are too many unanswered questions. How would he get the dibber? I’ve told Pomfroy I’m going to speak with Spottiswode tomorrow, and if he seems to have no idea of how Cecilia was killed, then I’ll have to tell the magistrate about the tool.”
“Really, Brother, what do you think is going on?” John asked, his fleshy face pallid and filmed with a sheen of perspiration.
“I don’t know,” Darkefell said. “All I know is, young women seem to be dropping all around us, and I intend that it should stop.”
“How reassuring to hear you say that, my lord,” a new voice said from the door. “Excuse me, gentlemen, my lady,” Lady Anne said as she entered, “but Lydia is not feeling well at all and asked me to find her husband.”
Darkefell, behind his back, tried to rewrap the dibber in the canvas but instead knocked it off the table onto the floor.
Lady Anne advanced swiftly and picked it up, glancing down at it as she handed it back to him. “What…” She stopped and stared at the bloodstained implement, then looked up at him with questioning eyes. “What is this?” she asked, and her glance took in each one of them.
“This,” the marquess said, snatching it away from her, “is none of your business.” He looked to his brother. “John, go see to your wife. Mother, I’ve kept you away from our guests long enough.”
Lady Darkefell, with a haughty look at Lady Anne, swept from the room, followed closely by John. The marquess wrapped the dibber back in the canvas then stowed it in the drawer of the folio table against the wall. He turned to meet her suspicious glance.
“You think that may be the murder weapon,” she said, accusation in her voice.
“It’s one possibility. I found it up at the cave today, and I wanted see if my brother or mother had ever seen it before.”
She eyed him. “What is it?”
“Some kind of farm implement,” he said. He took her arm and pushed her out of the room.
“May I see it?”
“Not right now, my lady. I’ve been too long from the others, too.”
“Did Spottiswode have access to a tool such as that?”
“I don’t know. I’ve not told Sir Trevor about this—I don’t want him leaping to conclusions that are not warranted, something I think he does far too easily. Let me handle it, please.”
***
Anne was restless and anxious after the dinner at the castle. Too many ideas, too many possibilities, roiled through her brain. Why had Lord Darkefell hidden the farm implement, if that’s what it was? She was sorry now that she hadn’t examined it more closely when she had it in her hands, but her first instinct was to hand it back to the marquess. Did he know where it was from? He had avoided her when they returned to the others, and there was no opportunity to question him further.
Still dressed but with her hair undone, Anne watched the rising moon from her window seat, with Irusan lolling half on her lap and half on the rest of the cushioned window seat. There had not, after all, been country dancing after dinner. They made up a couple of tables of whist, and Lydia played the piano, but otherwise, conversation, always difficult with such a mixed group, was the order of the night. Darkefell was brooding and morose for the rest of the evening, watching all of them, his dark eyes traveling each face as if he sought answers. Even from her; his gaze rested on her face at times, and she could not fathom him. What did he want from her?
They hadn’t stayed late. Lydia really didn’t seem
well, but whether it was worry or something else, Anne couldn’t tell. The marchioness had not appeared well, either; the reverend’s wife was concerned, but Lady Darkefell claimed a headache. For both reasons, they returned to Ivy Lodge relatively early.
Mary, who had attended her to the castle dinner party, of course, said that castle maids were still nervous about the werewolf sightings. Some had seen a wolflike creature just two nights before and had been scared into staying inside in the evening, despite the improving April weather. Sanderson heard that some boys from the village were egging each other on with a bet as to who would have the grit enough to come up to Darkefell at night and “bag the wolf.”
Anne still had not been able to speak with Ellen, and her earlier conversation with Lydia haunted her. If Lydia’s husband had an affair with Cecilia, and she carried his child, he had a motive to murder her. As little as she could imagine the placid and pleasant fellow committing such a violent crime, it was possible. She feared even Lydia had thought of the awful possibility.
She ruffled Irusan’s thick collar of neck fur. “Why was Lord Darkefell hiding the weapon, puss? Did it have some connection with his brother? And was he confronting him with that evidence at the dinner party?”
Irusan murmured a throaty rejoinder and stretched.
What if John was the guilty party? Lydia loved her husband, but if he was the killer… no, there must be another answer! She got up, dumping Irusan off, and paced, wringing her hands. He watched her with a disgruntled expression.
Something must be done to solve this awful crime. If Ellen had come back from her half day in the village, she would likely be up in her shared bedchamber at the top of the house; it was tempting to go up and demand answers, but Anne was afraid she was just looking for something to do to ease her own anxiety. She returned to the window seat and tried to compose herself. She must wait until tomorrow to speak with the maid.
Just then, through her window, she spotted someone stealthily creeping away from Ivy Lodge. She strained, staring through the glass, the angle awkward; the figure was cloaked, but a wisp of light-colored hair wafted out of the hood. It had to be Ellen slipping out to meet Jamey again. Anne bustled into the dressing room, but though Robbie was there and sleeping soundly, Mary was not. She had said something about going down to the kitchen to get a hot compress to ease her cramps—she suffered from women’s complaints badly at her time of month—and Anne didn’t want to wait, nor did she want to drag Mary away when she was feeling poorly.
She scrawled a note and left it on Mary’s cot, then grabbed her cloak quietly, so as to not disturb the sleeping child, and fled from the room. Irusan followed, swift when he wanted to be. She tried to make him go back, but he yowled. He’d wake the house if she put him forcibly in her bedchamber and shut the door, so he’d have to go with her. She wouldn’t mind the company.
She carried an oil lamp, and hidden under her cloak she had a penknife. Foolhardy it might be to follow the maid, but she did not believe in werewolves. Jamey and his friends were just playing tricks. Ellen knew something, she was sure of it, and Anne wanted to know what she was hiding.
Getting out of the lodge was easy, for the door had not yet been latched. Getting back in might be a problem, but she would deal with that when the time came. Anne held her cloak closed with one hand and the lamp in the other as she sped over the gravel drive, around the lodge, and across the green sward of grass that began to elevate toward the wooded glade that backed the property, being careful to skirt the chasm Lady Darkefell was creating for her rockery. Irusan, a swift gray shadow at her side, seemed delighted with the adventure.
A howl cut through the sound of her own heaving breath, and she skidded to a stop, panting from exertion. If the howl was a dog, as it must be, then surely she was in no danger. She could just make out a movement in the woods; it must be Ellen, for the girl had vanished from sight and was gone by the time Anne topped a rise, yet she could not have gone far. Anne had to continue, for the image of Lydia’s pretty, tear-stained face floated before her. Her friend was depending upon her. Either her husband was an adulterer and murderer—in which case, as difficult as it was, she would be better off knowing than fearing it—or he was incredibly stupid and unfairly maligned. Either way, Anne was going to solve this mystery.
Irusan made a funny little chirring noise of interrogation, and she looked down at him. “Yes, we’re continuing on, my boy, and if you see a dog, I want you to go up a tree!”
She plunged forward, grateful she had at least thought of the oil lamp this time, instead of a flickering candle; the flame was protected by glass and burned steadily. Where on earth was Ellen going this time? she wondered. And where was she now? Anne stopped just inside the edge of the forest and could hear nothing, not a whisper of a sound, not even the howling dog.
But no, she was wrong… there was a faint rustling sound. As her breathing slowed and her heart stopped pounding in her ears, she heard it more clearly. Someone—or something—was creeping through the woods. A trill of instinctive fear snaked down her back, but she refused to pay it heed. She did, however, get out her penknife. It might not kill any creature, but it would give it a surprise and some pain, perhaps enough to stop any attack.
She had been foolhardy, she admitted to herself, plunging into the wood after Ellen. It was imprudent, but now was not the time to flog herself for an error in judgment. However, as much as it pained her to admit it, she should retreat and rouse the household.
And tell them what? That she heard an animal, saw a figure, acted like a flea brain?
She held the lamp higher and looked around, commanding her nerves to calm. Looking about was not conducive to calmness, as all around her were shadows that could too easily be creatures poised to pounce. She shivered. Irusan had paused by her side but now hunched down, his ears flat back on his skull and his neck fur bristled into a ruff, tail like a bottle brush, his appearance when he saw a bird or mouse. The rustling had stopped, but she was not alone. The hairs on her arms under her cloak rose, standing to attention as her cat growled, a low, menacing sound. Her heart pounded, her breath quickened, and she considered backing away, but she was closer to a clearing on the other side of the woods, she knew, from her past expeditions. So she edged forward, listening and watching, determined not to be caught off guard.
Where was Ellen? she wondered, trying to distract herself from her mounting fear. How had she just disappeared as she did? The eerie howl had alerted Anne to Cecilia’s death on the night of her arrival; what did it portend now?
“Come, Irusan,” she said softly. Somewhere in the glade, something took footsteps that matched her own. No animal on earth would do that, she was sure. She sped up, and it/he/she sped up. If she were to be caught by an assailant, she wanted it to be out in the open, though that made little sense. She could be attacked there just as easily as in the woods.
When she and Irusan emerged from the wooded copse, she was near the tower, its dark presence blotting out the moon, leaving her in sullen shadow. She huddled close to its sturdy strength, the cold stone a poor substitute for human warmth. The memory of being clasped in the marquess’s powerful arm crept through her. What she would not give for his warm embrace now!
Why couldn’t she just stay put in her room? Why did she constantly need to push the boundaries of what a lady ought to do or be? The moment her mind said, “That is not what a lady would do,” then her feet began to take her there.
She shook off her moment of doubt. As comforting as the marquess’s stalwart presence would be at a moment like this, she was no wilting flower, needing the shelter of a stronger soul. And she must never forget that he irritated her as often as he pleased her. She held up the lamp and swung it in an arc. All seemed quiet now, and even Irusan’s fur had returned to its normal sleek appearance; she retired the penknife to a pocket on a string that hung inside her cloak. Now what? Ellen had disappeared, as had Anne’s grand notion of finding the solution to present to Lord Darke
fell in the morning.
Aha! She stopped dead in her tracks, mouth open in astonishment. Was the root of her determination a desire to impress the marquess? She hoped that was not her motivation, for it would make her as foolish as Lydia.
A movement caught her attention, and she flattened herself against the tower base again, the cold stone oozing menace. If she had any nerve at all, she would have extinguished her lamp, but instead she tried to hide the light by cloaking it as Irusan huddled by her feet.
Through a pearly gray, moonlit opening in the woods, she saw something move—oddly human, and yet strangely animal. Her stomach clenched, but now was the moment when she needed to decide what she believed. Did she think, as the foolish maids of Ivy Lodge did, that there was a werewolf afoot? Or was she firm in her conviction that a mischievous human was responsible for the werewolf sightings?
It was a human, and he or she was upsetting people and possibly doing violence to a lot of innocent sheep. She had enough of speculation; if she saw it up close, she could destroy the myth. Foolhardy she might be, but she also had confidence in her ability to look after herself. She slipped after the thing, using her lantern to light her footsteps, and closely followed by her cat. The creature moved quickly, and she could catch only glimpses of it.
Should she call out? Show that, whoever it was, they were found out?
No, she decided, her curiosity fully engaged. She wanted to know what came next. If it looked back, it would see her there, following with the lamp, but it seemed dedicated to going wherever it was going.
Back into the woods!
With a moan she kept securely behind her teeth, she followed, anxious and ill but still determined. She was a foolish, foolish woman, but now was not the time to lament that fact. Quickening her footsteps, she plunged deeper into the woods. Voices! Quivering, she didn’t know if she was most relieved or most afraid to hear human voices. It could be good, but given the number of women’s bodies that had ended up being found on Darkefell property, she was not so sure. Danger came more from men than animals.
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