She chewed her lip thoughtfully. Was that the only possibility? The only other piece of information she had was that Mr. Adam and the lady had quarreled, and thereafter she never entered the garden. What if there was another possibility? Perhaps Mr. Adam himself hated Lady Brokeridge for some reason, and had killed the lady himself. Evelyn shook her head, lifting her pen. That option made no sense. If Mr. Adam was the killer without Lord Brokeridge's knowledge, why was he so brashly confident that Lord Brokeridge would never harm him? If Lord Brokeridge had not authorized the murder, then the man would either have fled or been arrested. He certainly would not be so sure he would be protected by his lordship! So. The only possibility seemed that Lord Brokeridge had paid the man to poison his wife. There was only one way to investigate that.
Ask whoever discovered the body.
Who had discovered the body? That was what she had to find out.
Throwing sand on her notes to dry them, Evelyn waited until the ink had finished its setting process and then folded the documents, walking quickly to the mantel and placing them in their hiding place. Waiting a moment to satisfy herself that there was no one about who would see her, Evelyn lifted her cloak and slipped lightly out of the room.
I should stop being so reclusive, she admonished herself. Ever since the notebook had gone missing, Evelyn had taken to remaining in her room. Fortunately, Barrett was very much involved with Lord Sanford and the others in the party, and all she needed to do to avoid their company was to pretend illness. She had overheard Sutton comment that Lady Brokeridge had been like her, and the thought scared her.
Am I catching some malaise that hangs over this house? What if the lady took her own life? Will I be driven to that?
Evelyn shook her head. She was just frightened. Yes, perhaps Lady Brokeridge had also suspected something before her death. In which case, there was all the more reason to investigate it.
I need to speak to Mrs. Brook.
Glancing down the corridor, Evelyn headed to the stairs. She walked along the elaborate front hallway until she reached the entrance to the gardens. Heading through into the cold day outside, she walked down the network of paths toward the kitchens. She banged on the side entrance.
“My lady?” A maid Evelyn did not know answered the door, looking as if she was about to faint away with shock. Evelyn grinned inwardly, realizing she made quite a sight – a lady in a white velvet cloak and printed cotton day dress asking for access to the kitchen!
“I would like to talk to Mrs. Brook?” she began. “She said she had a recipe to discuss with me..?” she trailed off as a voice sang out behind the unknown woman, welcoming:
“My lady! Please! Come in! Joyce, for heaven's sake let the lady in. And take that tea up to Meg before the poor girl expires of the chills...”
The woman called Joyce stood aside for Evelyn, curtseying as she entered and then hurried to do as Mrs. Brook suggested. Evelyn smiled. The woman was not much older than herself – perhaps ten years more, at the very most – but she was clearly in charge down here. She breathed in the delicious scents of aniseed and sweet short-crust pastry, baking, and was so glad to be here. She felt safe.
“My lady! How good of you to come. I was just baking pastries for tea. If you'd care for one? These have almond marzipan, and these are flavored with aniseed...” She hastily fished some samples out for Evelyn to try, and together they sat at the servant's table, a small china plate and some teacups between them.
Evelyn felt her tension finally draining after a week of almost unbearable worry. “Mrs. Brook,” she smiled nervously, helping herself to a folded pastry, like a little pocket of marzipan. “I had to ask you something pertaining to herbal tea?”
“Of course, my lady! Let's have it! I have been so excited following our prattle last week that I have been working even more in my garden, learning more about herbs.”
Evelyn smiled, pleased. “Well, I wanted to ask you,” she said slowly, “if there is a tea for a broken heart?”
“Oh, lass!” Mrs. Brook placed her hands over hers in a tender gesture. “I hope it's not for yourself you ask!”
“No,” Evelyn said cautiously. “And it isn't a matter of a lover. It is for a friend, who is grieving and always fearful.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Brook stroked a hand across her brow, thinking. “Heart’s-ease, as we spoke of last week, will lighten the mood. And St. John's Wort will ease grieving a little. But do you mean sadness, or the heart itself?”
“I wanted to know about a weak heart,” Evelyn confirmed. “Is it possible for someone simply to die in their sleep?” Is it possible to give someone herbs that will make their heart stop?
“I don't know, my lady,” Mrs. Brook admitted. “I know of few people who have, though Heaven knows I can think of plenty who've died while engaged in something. Too many people getting killed on the roadways nowadays,” she murmured darkly.
“I can imagine so,” Evelyn said quietly. “Though people certainly die abed. Lady Brokeridge, for instance,” she suggested.
“Now, then, lass, how would you know she was in bed?” Mrs. Brooke asked, surprised.
“I didn't,” Evelyn admitted. “But I thought that if she had died in a carriage accident, someone would have mentioned it.” She smiled wanly.
“Yes, you're right there,” Mrs. Brooke said fairly. “They would have told you about that, right enough. As you say, she was in bed,” she added. “Oh, it was terrible, that day!” she frowned, clearly distressed by whatever she remembered.
Evelyn wanted to hold her breath. This was the information she needed. “What happened?”
“Oh, I can just remember the wails! Rebecca, when she heard! How she wailed!”
“Rebecca found her?” Evelyn asked carefully.
“Oh, no, my lady,” Mrs. Brook said, giving her an odd look. “The master himself did find her. He called Rebecca to call the doctor. When Doctor Epsom arrived, he went straight to Lady Brokeridge's rooms. He had to calm poor Rebecca down, too. Poor girl was frantic.”
Lord Brokeridge found her? Evelyn shuddered. If he found her, then he was the last person to be with her. If he was the last person to be with her, he probably killed her. Evelyn felt as if she had always known that. She just did not know how.
“So, Lady Brokeridge was not isolating herself then?” Evelyn asked cautiously. “I mean, she and Lord Brokeridge must have been in each other's company?”
“No,” Mrs. Brook said, thoughtfully. “Lady Brokeridge was still keeping to herself, as I did tell you last week. She didn't venture into company at all in those last days. Rebecca was the only person to have seen her for about a week. Then Lord Brokeridge went in one morning, perhaps around ten o' clock. He came out a few minutes later, calling for Rebecca to fetch the doctor. That was when we heard the news. That she was dead.”
The cook shuddered, and Evelyn did too. It was horrible. The fact that Lord Brokeridge found the body, too, was almost a confirmation for her fears. He had done it. But how?
“Poor Rebecca,” Evelyn commiserated. “Had she seen the body?”
“No, thank Heavens! She had not,” Mrs. Brook confirmed fervently. “The poor lass would have never been the same again. She was devoted to her mistress. Never recovered from the death. I think she thought it was her fault, silly dear girl.”
“Her fault?” Evelyn asked.
“She said she should have known. Said the lady had been so quiet, so reclusive. Said she should have insisted that the doctor did something more for her – perhaps it was some sign of whatever was ailing,” she explained, with a long sigh.
“You don't believe that?” Evelyn questioned. “That she was sick, I mean?”
“She was certainly...odd...in the months before her death,” Mrs. Brook agreed. “But sick? I am not certain.”
“You saw her in the grounds, around the house?” Evelyn persisted. “She couldn't have kept to her rooms for a whole year!”
“I scarce leave this place, so no, not often,�
� Mrs. Brooke admitted, smiling. “But I did see her once or twice with young Lord Barrett, playing on the lawns with his kite or at hoop and stick. She always seemed a little sad. Though his lordship made her smile.” She grinned at the memory.
“Lord Brokeridge?” Evelyn was surprised.
“No,” the cook chuckled. “Lord Barrett! He was a little rascal, so he was. Bless him.”
Evelyn felt herself smile. She had not considered that fact that Mrs. Brook would have remembered Barrett as a child.
“He was a playful child?” she asked, not able to resist the impulse to find out more about him, too.
“Oh, aye, a little imp! We all loved him – he could get away with anything as a lad! We would let him steal from the kitchens, tie Mrs. Price up with wool while she was knitting, climb in the trees...anything.”
Evelyn grinned, enjoying stories of the young Barrett and his playful side. He still had an impish, playful streak – it was one of the things she really liked about him. If only she saw that side more often.
“He and his father are close?” she asked, sensing that his father was responsible for stifling Barrett's playful nature.
“Not so you might say, my lady,” Mrs. Brook said, pursing her lips thoughtfully. “Not that they are enemies – not at all. But they are...cool to each other, or so Meg says. I've not seen his lordship together with his son, you understand. I never leave this place!” she said, laughing again. “But I've heard tell that he's a bit harsh with the lad, and since Lady Brokeridge's time, they have grown further apart. They don't see each other very often, as it happens,” she added. “Lord Brokeridge is either about his business in the town or working in his chamber. And Lord Barrett, well, he's hardly ever here. He spends all his time out, and some months every year on the family lands in Ireland.”
Evelyn nodded. That part she knew. What surprised her was that the Brokeridges actually spent so much of their time on the family estates in Ireland. Most English peers she knew treated their Irish lands as investments and occasionally visited them to hold hunting parties. Barrett was probably in the habit of avoiding his father.
“Well, I am glad he thought to come down here for the springtime,” she said thoughtfully, hoping to end the conversation before she started to forget all the information she had gathered already. “Or I would likely not be here and would not have met you.”
“Me too, my lady!” Mrs. Brook chuckled warmly. “And you are dear to say so,” she added, and patted Evelyn's hand. “Anytime you want to talk about herbs or hearts or matters of wellness, you do come down here to talk to me,” she said kindly. “I enjoy our chats too much,” she added.
Evelyn laughed. “Too much?”
“Well, they take me away from my work! Oh, lawks,” she added, ruefully, standing to walk to the oven.
“What?” Evelyn asked, biting her lip worriedly.
“I thought the pastries might have spoiled, but I think we caught them in time. Do take one with you – apple pasties. Lord Barrett's favorite when he were a lad,” she added smilingly, remembering him.
Evelyn thanked her again and left, head whirling.
Upstairs in her chamber, she carefully locked the door behind her. Then she reached into the fireplace for her notes. After taking them to her desk, she sat quietly a while, trying to compose her thoughts.
Lady Brokeridge died in her bed. Lord Brokeridge found the body. Only he seems to have seen it. It is doubtful the doctor even examined it, or at least not properly. Lady Brokeridge had been fearful before her death.
Reading the latest information, laid out so boldly in black ink on the crackling brown paper, Evelyn bit her lip. There was no other conclusion to reach. Lady Brokeridge was murdered. By her husband. But why? And how?
Those were the things she had to find out.
Scattering sand on the paper to help the ink dry, Evelyn made her plans. She would have to find the murder weapon. Speak to Rebecca. Find out why Lady Brokeridge had been so afraid.
And she had to do it soon. Before whoever was responsible found out she was on their trail and tried to stop her.
Evelyn shivered. Someone had her notebook. Someone already knew.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A GHOST
A GHOST
Evelyn was sitting in her room when she heard the screams. It was dusk, the shadows just lengthening, and she had been about to light the lamp when the first wail ripped through the silence.
Evelyn was, as far as she knew, alone in the house besides the servants: The rest had gone out on a ride and had not yet returned. She stiffened, feeling all her hair standing on end. The scream was a woman's, high and shrill. It chilled her blood. The woman screamed again, and then a third time.
When the screams turned into hysterical tears, she could not stay in her room. She ran into the corridor to find out what was the matter.
It was Sutton, her maid. She was huddled in a ball on the floor, crying convulsively. An older woman was with her, one of the staff whom Evelyn did not know. When she walked up, they looked up at her.
“Oh, my lady!” Sutton gasped. “I saw her! It was here! At her rooms...” Her voice trailed off and she started sobbing again.
“There, there, Judy,” the woman said gently to Sutton. “It couldn't have been there. There's no such thing as ghosts. You know that.”
“There are,” Judy Sutton insisted quietly. “I saw one.”
Evelyn felt all her hair stand up as she looked in the direction Sutton was looking. It was clear what she meant: she had seen the ghost of Lady Brokeridge.
“When did you see it...um, her?” Evelyn asked, crouching down to sit beside the two women. By now, other servants had come to join them, and it was only a moment before the rest of the household found out. If she wanted to get information, she had to strike now.
“It was...just as the sun set, my lady,” Sutton gulped. “I was coming to light the lamps, and I saw a movement, there in the corridor,” she pointed to the short passageway between Lady Brokeridge's three rooms. “I squinted and then I saw it again. Something white. I waited, and then...it appeared. The ghost. Drifting out of the corridor, as if it did not touch the ground. It looked at me, and then it vanished at the stairs.”
Evelyn blinked. “Did you see its face?”
Sutton whimpered. “It was shrouded, my lady, as ghosts are. But it was her height, and had her bearing! I never saw the like...” Her voice trailed off. The older woman tightened her arm around her friend’s shoulders protectively.
Evelyn shivered. She herself did not believe in ghosts, but in the last weeks she had had enough strange experiences to start to credit their existence. In addition, if there were such things as ghosts, then Lady Brokeridge was sure to be one. A disquieted spirit, longing for the truth to be told to set her free. She remembered her dream – the one about being unable to move from the room – and shivered.
“You are sure it was Lady Brokeridge?” she asked. The two women shot her angry looks.
“Don't mention the name of the dead!” the older woman said crossly. “You might draw her back.”
Evelyn blinked. “But one day there will be another Lady Brokeridge...” she began, and trailed off as they stared. She guessed what they were thinking. The next Lady was her.
“It's the reason she's back,” the older woman said. “She doesn't want replacing.”
They looked at Evelyn angrily. Suddenly, the motivation of the ghost was clear, and whose fault the apparition was: Evelyn had raised the ghost by daring to take her place.
“But that's preposterous,” Evelyn protested. The women glared at her.
“Come, Judy,” the older woman said. “We should leave her. She'll see sense in the morning. And so will we all.”
The two women stood and walked away from Evelyn, who looked after them, feeling a little sad. All the servants looked at her strangely, and seemed to take a step back.
Evelyn looked around a little wildly. She was pleased to notice Mrs. B
rook among the crowd. She was looking at Evelyn and shaking her head, a little smile on her lips. When the others left, she stayed.
“Don't mind them, lass,” Mrs. Brook said kindly. “They're a superstitious lot. Whatever they think, I know it's not true. If Lady Brokeridge is haunting the place, it's because she's sad. Not because of you. I'll talk them out of this nonsense, trust me.”
Evelyn felt so relieved that she wanted to hug the woman, but settled for squeezing her hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Brook.”
“Not at all, my lady,” Mrs. Brook smiled. “If Lady Brokeridge even knows of you, she would like you. She would want Barrett to be happy, and you make him happy.”
Evelyn swallowed hard. “Thank you, Mrs. Brook.”
When Mrs. Brook had gone, Evelyn was alone in the haunted corridor. Shivering, she briskly walked back to her bedchamber and locked the door.
I don't believe in ghosts, she told herself, though even to her own ears she sounded a little desperate, like she was trying to convince herself. Shaken, she reached for her notes and started writing.
A ghost was sighted in the corridor. The servants believe it is Lady Brokeridge. It apparently resembled her, though it was shrouded. They think it is my fault she has returned.
As she considered those words, Evelyn decided she did not think it was a ghost, but a shrouded woman being paid or somehow convinced to dress up as the ghost. The fact that no one saw the apparition full-face made it seem unlikely that it was really her. It was rather convenient everyone believed ghosts would wear shrouds! Moreover, the fact that it had disappeared up the stairs did make it seem like whomever it was retired to the chambers up there to change their clothes. They were probably still up there, Evelyn thought. If she had any sense, she would sneak up into the corridor and wait for someone to come down.
They probably wouldn't just walk out of the house. After all, no one saw them walk in! She did not relish the thought of sitting out there alone, just in case there really was a ghost in the manor.
An Earl To Remember_The Yorkshire Downs Series_Love, Hearts and Challenges_A Regency Romance Story Page 28
