“I certainly could not have left my mother behind,” Sophia agreed. “Let alone my little dog, Hunter.” She paused. “Is it possible that her family was the one doing the casting out? Maybe they issued an ultimatum to her—expecting her to comply—and she simply chose not to obey them.”
“She certainly appeared contrary enough to do just that,” Lucy agreed. “But still, it was a big step to take.”
“Well, then, let’s hope the ubiquitous Mr. Clapper can be found to answer all our questions.” Sophia patted Lucy’s hand.
Mrs. Greenwell appeared in the drawing room and smiled at the collection of ladies stationed around the fire. “I have cards set up in the parlor if anyone wishes to play, and the library is at your disposal. At noon I will be taking a picnic luncheon out to the riders, and anyone who wishes to join me is welcome to do so. Otherwise, please make yourselves at home.”
Lucy smiled agreeably at her hostess. With Margaret and her sister out of the house, she fully intended to.
* * *
After Mrs. Greenwell departed with some of the guests and the picnic food packed in large wicker hampers, Sophia confided her need to take a nap and settled into a concealed nook in the library. Lucy made sure her friend was comfortable and then quietly made her way up the staircase to the upper story of the house.
It was very peaceful. The majority of the staff was either busy preparing food in the kitchen or was away from the house, serving the picnic with Mrs. Greenwell. Even Josephine had gone with their hostess, meaning Lucy didn’t have to worry about encountering the girl as she took advantage of everyone’s absence.
It didn’t take her long to work out which bedroom belonged to Margaret Greenwell. Although her maid had obviously been in and had tidied up, there was still an air of confusion in the chamber, with scarves and hats thrown randomly on the bed, along with an afternoon gown that Margaret presumably intended to change into when she returned from the hunt.
From the state of it, Lucy was fairly certain that no one would notice her intrusion in the room. Aware that she might not have too much time before Robert came looking for her, she sat down at Margaret’s dressing table and methodically went through the contents of her drawers.
In the bottom drawer she discovered a journal and placed it on her lap. Was it honorable to open it and read what the younger woman might wish to be kept secret? Robert would certainly be appalled, but this was a matter of murder.
Her gaze was drawn to a piece of paper sticking out of the book. It was not as if she would share anything she read with another person—unless it was pertinent to the death of Miss Broomfield or the discovery of the writer of the poison-pen letters.... She opened the book at the page where the paper stuck out, and quickly scanned the words on the single sheet.
Your daughter is in love with her own sister’s husband. Shame on you and your depraved family. You will all burn in hell.
Lucy gasped and covered her mouth. The note was eerily similar to the ones she had already seen. She had all but forgotten that Margaret had an older, married sister. But what on earth did the note mean, and why had Margaret reacted so strongly to such an obvious lie?
“Margaret couldn’t possibly have written that,” Lucy murmured to herself and then hesitated. “Unless she chose to write something so fantastically wrong that she knew no one would believe it if the note ever came out.”
Was it an attempt to protect herself? To claim that she couldn’t have written the other letters, because she’d received one?
“But this one arrived after Miss Broomfield’s death,” Lucy reminded herself. “This one is an anomaly.”
She glanced down at the journal. Did she even need to read anything else? Wasn’t this ridiculous note a clear indication that Miss Margaret Greenwell was indeed the author of the other anonymous letters?
But it still didn’t explain why.
After carefully replacing the letter in the journal, Lucy slid them both back into the drawer and closed it. If ever she’d needed Robert’s cool head and composure, it was now.
* * *
“So tell me about the pain. Is it in your hip, your thigh, or your calf?” Dr. Fletcher said as casually as if he’d just asked the correct time.
Robert gave his old friend his best irritated glare. “I thought we were discussing the merits of French brandy over champagne?”
“We were, but I can’t help but notice how hard it is for you even to sit comfortably. You’re squirming on your chair like a schoolboy.” Dr. Fletcher raised his clear gaze to meet Robert’s. “So which is it?”
“My thigh.” Robert smoothed a hand over his buckskin breeches. “It feels like a smoldering powder keg is going off in there.”
“That bad, eh? And when were you going to mention this to me? When you lost the ability to walk again?”
“Probably.” Robert shrugged. “I assumed there was nothing that could be done about it.”
“You’re the lord of the manor, not a trained physician, Major. How about you do your job and allow me to do mine?” Dr. Fletcher hesitated. “After Christmas will you let me take a look at you?”
“If I must. But please don’t involve my wife in this.”
“Hard not to when she’s the one who’s been badgering me to examine you.”
“She has, has she?” Robert sighed. “I suppose I should be pleased she cares enough to notice.”
“Lady Kurland is a formidable woman,” Dr. Fletcher said. “And by the way, she looks much improved these past two weeks.”
“Yes, despite organizing the ball, the party, and worrying about Miss Broomfield’s death, she looks remarkably healthy.”
“Then perhaps you should make the effort to regain your health, as well?”
Robert scowled at him. “I’ve said I’ll allow you to practice your macabre profession on me. Now can we change the subject?”
“Of course.” The doctor’s grin contained more than a hint of complacency. “Would you like to wager which one of the Harrington twins breaks his collarbone first today?”
The door into the kitchen opened, and one of the footmen came running in.
“Dr. Fletcher? Can you come with me immediately? There’s been an accident in the upper copse. I have a gig waiting outside, sir.”
“I spoke too soon.” Dr. Fletcher rose and grabbed his large bag, hat, muffler, and coat. “I assume you won’t wish to accompany me, Sir Robert?”
“No thank you. I’ve seen enough carnage to last me a lifetime.” Robert grimaced. “I’ll go and find my wife and assure her that I intend to subject myself to your approval in the New Year.”
He left the kitchen and walked back into the main part of the house. A large grandfather clock ticked away in the hall, but there was no sign of the other guests. As he paused in indecision, a woman came flying down the stairs. It took him only a second to recognize his wife.
“Oh, Robert, there you are. I was just coming to find you.” She grabbed his hand. “Where can we go that’s quiet?”
* * *
“Let me recap. You went into Margaret Greenwell’s bedchamber?” Robert asked.
“I knew you were going to cut up stiff about this, but please listen. I—”
“Lucy, that is trespass.”
“No it is not. Mrs. Greenwell said to treat the house as our own.”
“You know that’s not what she meant.” He sank into the nearest chair. “Go on. Tell me what other horrors you have perpetuated.”
“I happened to see her journal. . . .”
He gave a strangled groan and buried his face in his hands.
“And I saw the letter that was purported to have come from the anonymous writer.”
He slowly looked up at her. “Purported?”
She sank down on her knees in front of him. “It said that Margaret was in love with her older sister’s husband, and that the whole family would burn in hell.”
“Then it sounds remarkably similar to the other efforts.”
&
nbsp; “But it arrived after Miss Broomfield’s death. What if Margaret wrote the letter to avoid any suspicion falling on her?”
“We were hardly suspicious of her in the first place!” Robert demurred.
“The idea that she is in love with her sister’s husband is rather far-fetched, don’t you think?”
“No more so than the suggestion that your father should burn in hell, or that Grace Turner betrayed her family.” He hesitated. “Wouldn’t you agree that there is a grain of truth in each letter? Something deliberately meant to hurt the recipient?”
Her voice wobbled when she thought about the claim that she would remain barren. “Yes, I suppose that is correct.”
“I wonder if we could find out if this particular rumor is true.”
“I am not sure how.” Lucy pursed her lip. “Even I would vacillate about asking that question out loud.”
“And it still leaves us with the conundrum of what happened to Miss Broomfield.”
Lucy put her hand on his knee. “What if . . . Margaret received the letter much earlier from Miss Broomfield and killed her for exposing her secret?”
“And then made sure her mother saw the letter?” Robert frowned. “Why would she do that?”
“To make absolutely sure that no one would think she was responsible for killing Miss Broomfield.”
“Your reasoning is becoming somewhat torturous, my dear.”
“I know.” Lucy sighed and rose to her feet. “You’re right.” She paced the room, her hands locked together at her waist.
Her husband looked up at her. “You’re agreeing with me?”
“I’m agreeing that I do not know what to do about this muddle. Don’t you think that someone should be held responsible?”
“Of course I do. But what if it really is as simple as Miss Broomfield wrote the notes for her own purposes, and someone killed her for reasons connected to her wealth?”
“But nothing was stolen.” Lucy paused. “Maybe because Josephine came back unexpectedly to the school, and whoever it was didn’t have time to search for the jewels? That would also explain why I was knocked off my chair and almost beaten with the flatiron.”
“Yes, indeed,” Robert said slowly. “You might have something there.”
“But why stick the quill pen in Miss Broomfield’s eye if it wasn’t connected to the letters?”
“I don’t know.” Robert stood and came toward her. “Let’s go and join everyone else and see if they know what time the hunt will return.”
* * *
Eventually, driven out by too much female chatter, Robert left Lucy in the company of Sophia and walked out toward the stables. He still had no idea who had killed Miss Broomfield, and Lucy’s snooping had merely addled the pot. As he walked, he lit one of his cigarillos and enjoyed a quiet, contemplative moment of peace.
There was no sign of the returning riders, and Mrs. Greenwell hadn’t come back, either. The flatness of the land in Hertfordshire meant the hunt could cover a significant amount of ground in one outing. Mrs. Greenwell might have to travel several miles out of her way on the winding country roads to locate them.
Robert was almost ready to turn back when an all too familiar sound caught his attention. He stubbed out his cigarillo and turned toward the fields at the back of the stables, his gaze trained on the bushes and hearing the thundering of hooves. His gut tightened as a riderless horse burst through the field hedge and careered across the grass right toward him.
Instantly, the world around him narrowed to that one sight, to the fact that he should run and hide, but his feet were nailed to the ground, and there was no escape. His breath deserted him as he flung out an arm and grabbed the trailing reins. Instinct and well-rehearsed memory made him jerk the horse’s head toward its tail to contain the kicking and bucking steed within the tightest circle he could manage.
He hung on, his shoulder burning, as the horse at first resisted and almost knocked him off his feet. He managed to grab a better hold on the actual bridle and exerted more pressure by throwing his whole body weight forward.
“Hold on, sir! I’m coming!”
The welcome sound of running feet came from behind him. He didn’t dare turn his attention away from the horse and hung on as a second set of hands joined his and brought the horse to a sudden shuddering stop.
“It’s all right, India.” The groom’s calming voice worked its spell on Robert, as well as the horse. “Well done, sir.”
Robert attempted a shrug. “I didn’t have much choice, seeing as the mare was heading straight toward me. Do you know this horse?”
“Aye. It belongs to Miss Margaret.” The groom’s worried expression deepened. “I wonder what became of her.”
* * *
Robert made his way back to the house. Every bone in his body was aching, and he was shaking as images from his past clashed and collided with what he forced himself to remember was the present. He paused before he went into the drawing room, and took several deep breaths. His neighbors already thought he was odd. Displaying his fear in front of them would only confirm their prejudices.
Lucy looked up as he came in, and immediately came across to him, her gaze concerned.
“Is everything all right?”
He took her hand and kissed her fingers. “Is Mrs. Greenwell back yet?”
“No. Why?”
He lowered his voice so that only she could hear him. “Patrick was called out to an accident earlier, and I just found Margaret Greenwell’s horse running for the stables.”
“Without her?”
“Exactly.”
Lucy pressed her fingers to her mouth. “Goodness me. I do hope she isn’t hurt.”
Robert placed her hand on his sleeve and drew her away from the fire toward the large picture window at the rear of the room. “We won’t know until Patrick returns. I suppose Miss Margaret might have grown tired and taken a seat in her mother’s carriage for the return journey.”
“And abandoned her horse?”
“I know.” He grimaced. “It doesn’t look good, does it?” The sound of voices out in the hallway made him look over to the door. “I hear a carriage. Shall we go and see what has transpired?”
They both turned and exited the drawing room, then walked down the long corridor to the front hall. The front door was flung wide open, letting in the cold air. Dr. Fletcher was issuing orders over the sound of female weeping and general upset.
“Bring her in carefully, please, gentlemen. Mrs. Greenwell? Can you direct the men to the correct bedchamber, please?”
“It’s this way.” Mrs. Greenwell was sobbing into her handkerchief as she led the men carrying the inert body of Margaret Greenwell up the stairs.
“Is she dead?” Lucy whispered.
“I don’t know. I’ll have to ask Patrick,” Robert murmured as he tightly gripped Lucy’s hand. “Let’s not give up hope just yet.”
Chapter 14
“Well, at least Margaret is alive.”
Lucy looked up from her coddled eggs to find that Robert hadn’t even opened his newspaper and was instead tapping an impatient tattoo on the side of the coffeepot.
“Dr. Fletcher has been unable to rouse her. He insists that she is best left to sleep for as long as she needs to. I’ve seen such cases before.” Lucy sighed. “Sometimes the patient wakes up and has no memory of what happened to them, and sometimes . . .”
“They never wake up,” Robert said, finishing for her. “I saw the same thing during the war.”
“Such an unfortunate thing to have happened right before the Christmas festivities. We can hardly ask the Greenwell family any embarrassing questions now.”
“Indeed.”
“I wonder, should I cancel the ball?”
Robert raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think us holding a ball will make any difference to Margaret’s recovery, do you?”
“I meant more as a mark of respect.”
“She isn’t dead yet. I’m going to drive over an
d speak to Mr. Greenwell this morning. I’ll ask his opinion on the matter, if you wish.”
Lucy gave him a searching look. “Only if you can ask in a subtle manner that will not place him in a difficult position.”
“I’m sure I can manage that.”
Lucy doubted it, but she had no time to argue the matter through, and gentlemen were often far more blunt with each other than a lady could get away with.
“I’ll write a note to Mrs. Greenwell and ask if there is anything I can do to help,” Lucy said. “I would go myself, but I have much to accomplish today.”
“It’s all right. Rose is going to accompany me.”
“Thank goodness for Aunt Rose. She really has been a godsend.” Lucy sat forward. “Robert, I do wish she would consider coming and living with us permanently.”
“You really mean that?” Robert studied her. “I would certainly like it. Shall I ask her opinion on the matter?”
“Yes, please. She has the ability to get along with everyone—even my father.”
“So I noticed.” Robert poured himself more coffee. “Then that’s settled.” He opened his newspaper and started to read.
“The morning post, my lady.” Foley offered her a silver tray piled high with letters.
“Thank you.” Lucy took a moment to separate out new replies to the ball from invitations from her more general correspondence. “Oh, my goodness. I have a letter from that professor in Cambridge who knew Miss Broomfield.”
She opened the seal and unfolded the sheet of paper. Her frown deepened as she read. “He’s attempting to suggest that he didn’t know Miss Broomfield quite as well as my father thought he did. I wonder why he’s changed his mind about the issue.”
“Mayhap because Miss Broomfield is no longer alive to coerce him into compliance?”
Lucy lowered the letter. “That is an excellent point. She might have been blackmailing him, as well.”
“It seems likely.” Robert turned the page. “It seems as if all our hopes of solving this matter now rest on the mysterious Mr. Clapper, who may or may not have come to Kurland St. Mary to see Miss Broomfield. I assume you have written to him, as well?”
Death Comes to the School Page 19
