As the tunnel began to slope upward, I fell into step with Gage, threading my arm through his. I could tell from his expression that he was lost in thought, but his arm still clamped mine in support, pulling me close to his side.
“The valet,” I murmured to him. “We should check the other recesses.”
His gaze dipped toward mine, and I watched as comprehension dawned.
“You mean Mr. Warren, Helmswick’s valet?” Lord Edward asked over his shoulder, evidently having heard me.
“Yes,” Gage replied, for there was no point in denying it. “If Lord Helmswick is our victim, if he is not in Paris, then where is his valet? Surely, after four weeks he would have notified someone that his lordship was missing. Which means, he might very well be dead himself.”
“That, or he’s the murderer,” my brother helpfully provided, raising his voice to be heard. “Probably long since fled to America.” He sounded almost cheerful at this possibility. Maybe because he thought that meant we were now safe.
“I suppose that could explain where his jewelry and possessions have gone,” I speculated. And given what Anderley had told us about Helmswick as an employer, that might give Warren a motive. “But why would he have killed him in the tunnel? And how did he know about this place?”
“Perhaps one of the maids told him.” Lord Edward shrugged. “I know they’re ardent believers in Friar Thatch.”
Recalling the monk Lord Edward had described last night and the hooded figure one of the maids had described to Bree, I felt my lips twist sardonically. “And did you help them to that belief?”
“Why, whatever do you mean?” His voice, as well as the gleam in his eyes when he glanced back at me, was mocking.
Whoever those robed figures were, Lord Edward knew something about it. I would have wagered my specially balanced paintbrushes on it.
“But as to Warren’s reasons for killing him here,” he continued, “I would suggest concealment. After all, he would need time to escape. And the longer it took for anyone to find the body, the better.”
I gnawed my lip in consideration. I supposed it was possible. Though such a scenario would mean the valet had to have killed Helmswick before they were to depart for France. Which meant he had not departed here on December seventh, it had only appeared like he had. Hopefully, Bree could find a servant who could answer this question once and for all.
In any case, I was soon distracted by the stench of decay that still lingered in the hexagonal chamber where the corpse had been laid out in a niche. It seemed to have soaked into the very dirt and stone, as well as the bone and fabric of the neighboring monks, though I knew this was more my imagination at work than the truth. A quick survey of the other recesses showed these bodies were long dead, so we moved on to the next chamber.
When the catacombs branched off in two directions, we split into two groups, with me and Gage following Lord Edward, while Trevor partnered with the other brothers. The temperature grew incrementally colder as we neared the entrance. The wind swirled through the stone chambers, making me glad I’d chosen to wear my winter cloak.
As we regrouped in the outermost chamber, I spied a set of stone steps leading up toward an opening which at one point must have boasted a door, but now stood wide open to the sky. Neither trio had had any luck. From all appearances, the remainder of the crypt had been undisturbed.
I frowned at this discovery—or lack thereof. Not that I’d wished for the valet to be found dead. But his continued absence only seemed to point the finger further in his direction. It answered many of the questions, including one that had just come to mind.
“It must have been cold in early December,” I remarked as I pulled the fur-lined hood of my cloak over my head. “And yet the victim didn’t appear to have been wearing a greatcoat.” I looked up at Gage. “Unless you found one and didn’t tell me?”
“No, there wasn’t one with the body,” he admitted.
Did that mean he hadn’t worn one, and so had come down the tunnel from inside the castle, or had the killer taken it along with his other possessions? But if he’d been wearing it during the attack, it would have been splattered with blood, and so useless and incriminating to the murderer.
“Then Helmswick must have come from inside the castle. The killer must be Warren,” Lord Edward exclaimed, latching on to the explanation just as I’d known the family would. After all, it neatly cleared all of them from blame. And who was this valet anyway? Just a lowly servant, one who wasn’t even answerable to them. A better scapegoat could not have been found.
“Now, let’s pause one moment.” Gage’s brow had lowered in irritation. “We are getting ahead of ourselves. Yes, I agree this Mr. Warren warrants further investigation. But not thirty minutes ago, all of you were still doubtful of the identity, if not adamant the body could not be Helmswick.” He glared at the Kerr brothers. “Now you are sure it is him?”
“I agreed there was a possibility it was him,” Lord Edward protested. “One that’s grown stronger.”
Lord Henry nodded in agreement, though he didn’t seem as certain as his older brother.
“Well, my opinion has not changed,” Lord John declared, pointing his finger back in the direction we came. “That body you found is not Helmswick. It’s not.”
At least, he was consistent.
I studied his features—the hard line of his jaw, the spark of defiance in his dark eyes, as if he was daring us to contradict him. “How can you be so certain?”
“Because I am! You haven’t shown us any conclusive proof. And until you do, I won’t believe it. I’ll go to Paris, and track down my dashed brother-in-law myself, if I have to, just to show you you’re wrong.”
I didn’t know what to make of this display of temper. Did he know something the rest of us didn’t, something he refused to share? Or was he trying to protect someone—most likely his sister—and he thought the best way to do so was by stubborn denial?
“Well, we’re going to pursue all angles until we have enough proof either way,” Gage told the men in a stony voice. “And until then, we’re going to treat all the evidence equally.” He flicked a glance down at me, crooking his arm. “Now, let’s discover what these abbey ruins look like.”
Though the late afternoon sun was blocked by heavy clouds, after the dark of the crypt the sky was almost blinding. True to my prediction, snow had begun to fall. The soft flakes swirled through the air on the stinging breeze, dampening my cheeks. Putting my back to the wind as best I could, I turned to survey the site before me.
Kirkbryde Abbey was but a stony skeleton of its former self. Soaring walls of Gothic arches surrounded a grassy field where Premonstratensian canons once gathered to worship. Here and there sat large chunks of toppled stone, and another random wall or two jutted outward from the main outline, but the remainder of the rubble had been carted away to be utilized elsewhere, probably even in the expansion of Sunlaws Castle.
I had visited my fair share of abbey ruins, for the Borders region was littered with them, and while similar, they had each left me with some unique, but indelible impression. Melrose Abbey possessed a stateliness, a pomposity that seemed to cling to the past like some grand old duchess who refused to give way. Dryburgh Abbey stood draped in ivy and secrecy, a woodland sprite whispering in a language too delicate and ancient for our ears to comprehend. Kelso Abbey, near my childhood home, was stark and stolid, as if a giant had once planted his foot there and left his boot behind.
They were fanciful notions I knew, but I couldn’t help the feelings they inspired. Just as I couldn’t ignore the sense of forlornness overtaking me as I gazed up at the remnants of Kirkbryde. There was a sadness, a loneliness clinging to these stones, as if the gusts whipping through the arches were not merely wind, but the very sighs of the foundations themselves. Stepping closer to the outer wall, I reached up to press a hand to the chiseled limesto
ne, offering it my comfort, my consolation. I’m not sure what I expected, if I expected anything, for all I felt through my glove was cold, solid rock, but it seemed the right thing to do all the same.
Gage stood to the side of where the opening gaped, conferring with Lord Edward about something regarding the entrance to the crypt. From this vantage, gazing at their backs, the hems of their greatcoats whipping about their legs, I would never have realized there were stairs leading anywhere. They had been recessed into the stone, and unless one looked closely, they could be missed. All the same, they were there, and someone could find them, particularly if they’d been instructed to their location.
My husband turned his head to say something to the other men, who were standing a short distance away, but the wind snatched up his words so that I couldn’t hear them. Deciding they weren’t meant for me, I turned to wander further along the grassy former nave, my eyes drawn toward the bleak expanse of the moor that stretched to the south. I imagined in the spring and summer it was a sight to behold with its blanket of purple heather and yellow gorse, but now it was faded to dull greens and browns, dusted with snow. To the west rose the braes I had seen from my bedchamber window, and at the base of the southern hill gathered that icy pool of water.
Had I been in possession of certain stolen items, items I had taken from a corpse to prevent it from being identified, that would be an ideal location to discard them. Those and any bloodstained clothing. In my current condition, across open country, it would be a tiring walk. But a hearty man would have no trouble making the journey there and back in the matter of an hour, probably less, even with naught but the moon to guide him.
My gaze continued sweeping northward, and I moved a few steps to the right, blinking into the swirling snow, to get a better glimpse of the round building several hundred yards away. It resembled a Romanesque folly, but even from such a distance I could tell that it was of relatively recent construction, distressed to look older.
“The mausoleum,” Lord Edward explained, coming forward to stand beside me. His cheeks were pink with cold as he huddled into the collar of his greatcoat. None of the men had brought hats, and so their hair was dusted with snow, the tips of their ears turning red. “Grandfather built it in honor of his mother. And then he joined her soon after. Hasn’t been opened since.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Well, except for George.”
I glanced at him in question, though he never moved his eyes from the building in the distance.
“He was born between Richard and me. Lived only three weeks.” He flicked a glance at me out of the corner of his eye. “Said he had a weak heart. Apparently, it runs in the family, for after Father, Grandmama lost two children the same way.”
I didn’t know what to say to this, so I said nothing. But his words pressed heavy on my heart. To lose a child was a horrible thing, though I knew it happened every day, every hour. Sickness alone carried away so many precious little ones. How many had been lost to the cholera just in the short weeks since it had arrived in Edinburgh? Dozens? Hundreds?
I wrapped an arm around my abdomen, as if I could shield my child, though I knew I couldn’t. Not completely. Because diseases did not care what class you were, or how much money you possessed, or whether you were kind or hateful. They infected indiscriminately.
I had been nervous about becoming a mother, about how I would balance our sometimes dangerous inquiries, my portrait painting, and a child. But now that I could feel the child inside me, I had become attached to his or her presence, and the thought of them no longer being with me stole the breath from my lungs.
Inside my cloak, my hand rubbed soothing circles over my stomach as I forced myself to take deep, even breaths. I thought of the duchess, of the pain and disillusionment she hid behind her gaiety and insouciance. Evidently baby George had been the duke’s son, and the last child they had together before she took other men to her bed. It cast a new light on why she had done so.
As uncertain as I felt about some of her behavior, there was one thing I could say with confidence. The Duchess of Bowmont was a good mother. It was evident in the way her children spoke of her, in the way she interacted with them, and in the manner she rushed to their aid or spoke in their defense when necessary.
But such a fact also generated an inherent conflict. For what would she not do for her children? What would she not lie about?
I wasn’t certain I could fault her for that. But I was certain I couldn’t trust her. Not in this investigation. Not entirely.
A hand brushed against my back, and I turned to find Gage gazing down at me in concern, his pale lashes speckled with snow. “Shall we return?”
“Not through the tunnel,” I insisted, despite the fact that it might be dryer and warmer to be sheltered from the wind buffeting us.
His lips quirked as he apprehended, perhaps for the first time, how anxious that dark, enclosed space underground had made me. “There must be a path leading back to the castle.” He looked to Lord Edward for confirmation.
If he was unhappy to be forced to make a trek through the cold, swirling snow, he was gentlemanly enough not to show it. “Indeed. Follow me.”
Gage guided me forward, his steadying hand pressed against my back. The others fell into step beside us as we passed.
“Thank heavens,” Trevor grumbled, stamping his feet. “If we’d had to traipse back through that bloody tunnel, I might have done someone an injury.”
I smiled at my brother, not having realized he’d been as unnerved as I was. “I wondered why you were so quiet.”
“Yes, well, it isn’t very manly to admit that rats make you want to shriek.”
“You could have blamed it on me,” I told him. “I wouldn’t have denied it.”
The look he cast my way clearly expressed what he thought of the idea of casting blame on his little sister for his fright.
“Well, then, what of Friar Thatch?” I amended, suddenly feeling impish. “He is rumored to haunt that passage. Perhaps he’s known to shriek as well.”
Trevor shook his head. “I’m not even going to respond to that.”
I smiled as he lengthened his stride to outpace us.
* * *
* * *
Dinner that evening was anything but festive. Not only were people noticeably still recovering from their excesses the night before, but all anyone wished to discuss was the body found in the crypt. Well, that and the weather, but for once that topic was less a polite conversational gambit and more an expression of anxiety. Those older servants, who were inclined to know, predicted that the snow flurries of the afternoon were but a herald of what was to come. It appeared the idea of being confined by the weather, even to a palatial ducal estate, was not in the least appealing. Especially with a dead body now in residence.
The duchess, Philip, and Alana had done their best to ease the guests’ worries, and assure them they were safe, but even when Gage and I joined our voices to the chorus, their concerns could not be swayed.
“What am I to say? I can hardly keep them here against their wishes,” the duchess implored us as we stole a few moments to confer in a corner of the regency gallery, which was utilized as an immense drawing room. The walls were painted a pale pistachio green, while the numerous windows were swathed in yards of sumptuous velvet in a slightly darker tone. Sofas and chairs in shades of crimson and beige-pinks with gilded frames shimmered and reflected the numerous mirrors and the light from the three crystal chandeliers hanging overhead.
The duchess’s face was pale with strain and her eyes wreathed in dark circles, made all the more pronounced by the dark midnight blue hue of her dinner dress with blond lace overlay. Given the fact she was never anything but perfectly coifed and highly aware of the effect one’s clothing had upon others, I suspected this was a conscious choice. Though whose sympathy she was hoping to evoke, I didn’t know. I was cynical it was ours.
We’d overheard her giving a baron and his wife permission to depart early the next morning, and wondered how many others she’d granted such consent to. However, I had to admit she was right, and I told Gage so with a sigh.
“This is different than the murder at Gairloch,” I murmured, referencing our first inquiry together at my brother-in-law’s Highland estate. “For one, the guest list is much larger. And for another, we already know that the majority of these people were far from here several weeks ago when the actual murder took place. In truth, they might hinder us.”
Gage’s mouth flattened in annoyance. “Tait did mention a pair of inquisitive gentlemen had to be discouraged from entering the cellars. Apparently, they thought viewing the site where a murder had taken place might be a great lark. How many other curious fools will attempt the same thing?”
Given the number of Londoners, both high and lowborn, who had flocked to see the home of the infamous London Burkers not two months past, eager to see where the notorious murders had taken place, I would not care to wager such attempts to enter the doom were over. Society accused me of being ghoulish, but many of them were no better.
Gage narrowed his eyes at the guests milling about the room, as if he might be able to distinguish which of them had such an exploit in mind. “If possible, I would like to avoid wasting my time searching for imprudent meddlers lost in the warren of chambers down there.”
“Then may I tell the guests they can leave before this snowstorm they’re saying will arrive tomorrow can block the road through the pass?” the duchess asked.
I thought of Anderley on the road to Haddington, and sent up a prayer he would complete his journey before it swept eastward.
“Anyone who was not present at the castle at any point during the month of December may depart,” Gage specified. “And if any of those other people attempt to leave, we’ll be forced to view their actions as highly suspicious, if not pointed evidence of their guilt.”
A Stroke of Malice Page 16
