A Study in Silks tba-1

by Emma Jane Holloway

  Dora began to cry again, losing her power of speech.

  Evelina squeezed her hand. “Sh. You stay here and help with Maisie. Has someone told Bigelow?” The butler—pillar of all things respectable—was just what the staff needed.

  Dora nodded quickly. “He’s gone to tell the master.”

  “Good.” With that, Evelina went through the cloakroom doorway. The gas was turned up, as if someone had tried to banish what was in the middle of the floor.

  That sight made her forget every other detail of her surroundings.

  Evelina stared at the crumpled lump, gradually making out the still form of a woman in a plain jacket and skirt. Not the rags of the poor, but not much above that, either. Her face was turned away from Evelina, giving a view of the back of her head. Her pale brown hair had been torn from its pins, the long tresses trailing around her. A well-worn hat lay a little distance from the body. Someone had carelessly stepped on it, crushing the crown. From the looks of her wardrobe, it had probably been the only one she owned.

  It was the last detail that struck home, clogging Evelina’s throat with a trembling ache. As a child, she had never gone hungry, but there had been days when the proverbial wolf howled just outside the door. She knew what it was like to have few clothes, and how precious each item could be. It was something the Roths, for all their kindness, could never understand.

  Slowly she came to terms with the fact that she was looking at a dead body. Not just dead, but violently dead. The straggling hair was matted with blood. A flutter of nausea worked its way up from Evelina’s stomach. She’d seen plenty of funerals and even helped with the laying out, but this was different. Someone had clubbed this woman over the head with casual brutishness.

  And Evelina was utterly alone in the room. The soul of the girl was gone. Sometimes the dead lingered, but this time Evelina’s magic would be of no use. Death reigned over the tableau. Her nausea soured to a chill anger as questions began crowding in—a babble that threatened to turn into a roar. Foremost among them: Why was this dead woman here, at Hilliard House?

  Anger thawed the first shock, and Evelina began a slow circuit, looking at the fallen figure from different angles. Suddenly the room itself came into focus, and what had been irrelevant noise turned to important details.

  Clearly, the woman’s life had been ended here, at this very spot. It was a good thing that the rows of hooks and hangers along the wall were empty of costly garments that night. The simple white paint in the room made the sprays of blood stand out in gaudy contrast.

  Evelina’s path took her past the victim’s feet. A broken candle lay on the floor, as if it had dropped from her hand during the struggle. Wax stuck to the floor, still soft enough to feel greasy when Evelina poked it with her finger. How long ago did this happen, then?

  When she finally caught a glimpse of the woman’s front, Evelina gave a stifled gasp. The dead woman’s face was obscured by the tumble of her hair, but Evelina could see the throat had been slashed from ear to ear. What was left of Evelina’s dinner began rushing up her throat and she was suddenly aware of the sticky, meaty smell of flesh, thick with the coppery tang of blood.

  She turned away, gulping. She had to skitter to avoid the slick of blood pooling under the body. Someone had already stepped in it—the partial arc of a shoeprint had been left just beside the dead girl. It was small—maybe it belonged to the girl herself.

  Narrowing her eyes, she studied the skin of the victim. She knew blood pooled inside the body once someone died, leaving bruiselike marks. But there were other faint shadows—very slight abrasions, perhaps—around the chin and along the jaw as if the killer had grabbed her there. Perhaps in order to cut her throat? The fatal injury angled a tiny bit downward from left to right, seeming to trail away at the end. Did that mean the killer was right-handed? She was too inexperienced to be certain, but one thing was clear. Whoever had done this had strength. The wound was so deep that it had cut clear through the trachea.

  “Evelina? What the blazes is going on here?”

  She whirled to face the door. Tobias Roth, Imogen’s brother, leaned against the wall, his posture as bonelessly indolent as usual. He was handsome, golden-haired, and dissolutely rumpled, as if he’d redressed himself while leaping out a paramour’s window. Even from where she stood, she could smell tobacco, brandy, and sweat. He’d been out at the clubs again and was probably half drunk. He’d also been in a fight, judging by one eye that was starting to purple and the tears in his waistcoat and trousers. His jacket was gone.

  Nevertheless, Tobias still looked like the Archangel Gabriel. And even here, the sight of him made her breath hitch, betraying a weakness she refused to surrender to. Angels weren’t always as advertised, and Tobias would definitely be of the fallen variety.

  But now he stiffened, his face turning pale as he gazed at the corpse in naked horror. “Dear God, that’s Grace Child.”

  “What?” Shocked, Evelina looked at the corpse again, this time seeing past the dreadful wounds. Gingerly, she pushed back the lock of hair that had fallen over the top part of the face. She hadn’t recognized Grace out of her maid’s uniform and away from the pots and pans. No wonder Maisie and Dora were so upset.

  And death had made a strange mask of the features, robbing them of expression. The hazel eyes were mere slits, the mouth slack, the cheeks splattered with blood. She was barely more than a girl.

  “You wouldn’t know her to look at her, would you? She was so.…” Tobias trailed off.

  Evelina said nothing, still astonished by how different the girl looked.

  “Who would do something like this? And why?” His voice had gone quiet, a thread of anger giving it a darker edge.

  “I don’t know.” Evelina shook her head. Despite the fact that she was suddenly cold enough to shiver, sweat trickled under her arms and between her breasts. She swallowed hard for the fortieth time, forcing her stomach back down her gullet. “But I think I know how they did it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Someone hit her over the head, most likely when her back was turned. That would have made sure she didn’t cry out. Then he cut her open while she was down. You can see her hairpins have been pulled out. If I’m right, the murderer grabbed her jaw to hold her head steady.”

  Tobias went utterly still. “Bloody hell.”

  Evelina could see it in her mind’s eye—but what about what came next? Or before? “Someone must have seen who came and went from the house tonight. There has to have been a witness.”

  Tobias was silent. Then he seemed to pull himself together. His silvery gray gaze lifted to search Evelina, taking in her unbound hair and torn hem. “Are you all right? How did you come to be part of this?” He stepped into the cloakroom, coming far too close.

  “I’m fine,” she said shortly, all too aware of his nearness. “I came to see if I could help.” As if to prove it, she drew close enough to bend over the body, to touch it. She would never, ever play the vulnerable woman with Tobias. That was a trap she might never have the will to escape.

  But, oh, it was hard. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, his collar gone. She could see the smooth pale arc of his throat. Beneath the scent of brandy, she could smell smoke, as if he’d been standing next to a steam engine. What had he been doing? The question dissolved—one detail too many to absorb.

  He crouched next to her. He was so near, she could feel the heat of his body, and it was all she could do not to lean even closer. And if Tobias is a fallen angel, what does that make Nick? A handsome creature of the shadow world, come to tempt me with visions of lost love? Both men were desirable, and both were dangerous.

  “What happened to you?” He frowned at the grimy stains on her clothes.

  Evelina looked away. “What happened to you? You look a fright.”

  He made a noise that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Touché. Nothing happened. The commotion woke me, so I came down to see what was the matter.”

  Evel
ina looked up. Tobias met her eyes, as if defying her to contradict him. And yet there he stood, with the black eye and rumpled clothes, the very picture of a rake fresh from his late-night carousing. The question crept into her mind like some hideous subterranean beetle: Did he have anything to do with Grace’s death?

  No, I don’t believe it. I don’t want to. She lowered her eyes, wondering if it would have been easier if he were guilty. Anything would be simpler than the hopeless longing she felt whenever he was close.

  He must have read her expression. “I can promise you on everything I hold sacred that I had nothing to do with this. I might be a rascal, but I’m not evil.” His tone was gentle, almost apologetic, but she saw a flash of anger flit under the surface of his gaze.

  It took every ounce of strength to keep her own voice level. “I know.”

  “Thank you.”

  How many women, she wondered, had been tempted to reform Tobias Roth? “You startled me in the upstairs hall,” she said.

  “When?” His white, drawn face didn’t change.

  “Never mind.”

  If it hadn’t been Nick, or Tobias, then whom? Her stomach lurched. Dear Lord.

  “Do you know what to look for?” he asked, jerking his chin at the body.

  “Are you asking me to name the murderer by looking at the body?”

  “Why not?” His eyes were bright with emotion. “If anyone could do it, you could. You’re smart enough.”

  There was his redeeming grace. He didn’t treat her like a fool.

  Evelina shook her head. “I’m not a consulting detective like my uncle. And be careful. You’re nearly standing in the blood.”

  Tobias drew back with a sharp oath, then noticed the footprint. “Is that yours?”

  “No. And I can’t be certain it’s Grace’s. Maybe it belongs to the girl who found her. I need to look more closely.”

  “Well, I would suggest that you be quick about it. The police are on their way. They couldn’t find their backsides with an ordinance survey, but you can be sure they’ll toss everyone else out of the room.”

  “Someone called the constables already?”

  Tobias spoke low, through gritted teeth. “Bigelow did, before my father could stop him.”

  “Stop him?”

  “Someone crept into our house and committed murder. The scandal will be ferocious if it reaches the papers, so you can be sure the event will be buried faster than a plague victim.”

  His words stalled Evelina’s brain. “How can you say that?” And then she realized that she was being naive.

  Tobias made an impatient sound. “You know my father. Best to get on with your work.”

  What work? What am I looking for? And why?

  There was no good answer, outside the fact that it was impossible not to look. Partially it was curiosity. Partially it was respect. This woman had died. She deserved attention.

  Carefully, she ran a hand down Grace Child’s arm, feeling for broken bones but not finding any. The limbs were still loose and slightly warm, the blood tacky enough to stick to Evelina’s fingers. She shuddered, wondering if it would be bad form to wipe herself clean on the victim’s skirts.

  A small cross hung at Grace’s neck, the gold paint chipped. A purse with tattered fringes still held a few pence. Not robbery then—though any thief in this house would be after a bigger prize. Mended stockings. A hem and boots with fresh mud.

  Grace had been out before this had happened. Errand? Assignation? Just a night off work to visit with friends? Evelina sniffed near Grace’s mouth. No telltale stench of gin. No scent of cheap perfume. Just a burned smell, as if clothing or hair had caught fire, but she saw no scorch marks on Grace’s clothes.

  She lifted the hem of the skirt slightly, trying to gauge the depth of mud the girl had tromped through. Not too bad. Probably paved streets, then. Moving the skirts revealed a long, careful mend in Grace’s right stocking. And, oddly, a brand-new petticoat trimmed in Brussels lace. Where had she come by that?

  Evelina had a sudden, sinking feeling. A girl clinging to the edge of society, one with no protection, one tempted to seek affection in the wrong places. But for the grace of God, it could have been Evelina.

  She squeezed her eyes shut for a long moment, fighting back tears, imagining the terror Grace had felt and no doubt falling short of the real thing. Then she drew out her handkerchief and covered the girl’s face, giving her some dignity. She tried to remember some detail about the girl, but knew woefully little about the servant who slept under the same roof.

  She arranged Grace’s skirts, smoothing them over the edge of her petticoats. I’ll do what I can for you. It would be little enough. As she’d said to Tobias, she was no detective.

  There was the stomp and shuffle of men’s boots, and Tobias left Evelina to greet the newcomers at the door. A glimpse of tall, distinguished Lord Bancroft told her that time was running out. Even in a dressing gown, he had the look of a man ready to slap an unruly colony back into obedient servitude.

  But he was a man with secrets. She knew that now. Dark magic, Your Lordship? Now there’s a tale you’ll keep close at all costs.

  Evelina slipped her fingers under Grace’s jacket, questing for anything the servant might have hidden. Too many assumed a woman always used her bodice as a hiding place, but there were other options. Sure enough, there was an envelope tucked in the waistband at the small of Grace’s back, still moist with sweat. Evelina retrieved it and checked for the address. It was blank. Something hard was inside.

  An unpleasant sensation swept up her arm. Magic. It had a strange, double-layered flavor, as if the envelope’s contents had come into recent contact with not one, but two spells. Some substances, occasionally stone but more often metal, could absorb magical residue. Where were you, Grace? These were dark spells, unlike anything her Gran Cooper would have spun. Evelina squeezed the envelope, trying to guess what it held.

  She was suddenly all too aware of the constables standing with Lord Bancroft. Her pulse began to speed. There is evidence of murder and dark magic on your cloakroom floor, my lord. With a little careful management, the death of a servant might not arouse undue interest, but a scandal involving magic would be ruinous. There would be jail, or worse, and the courts were swift to find a culprit whenever and wherever magic was found. Every year, the penalties grew harsher, and a lordship was no guarantee of safety.

  And if Lord Bancroft were destroyed, his family would be, too.

  The thought made Evelina stiffen. Faces flashed through her mind: Tobias, Poppy, gentle Lady Bancroft, and even Lord B himself. They had been good to her. And Imogen was her only real friend. She slipped the envelope into her pocket and out of sight. Guilt flushed her cheeks, but she wasn’t handing it over until she understood what was going on—or, more precisely, until she was sure Imogen and her family would be proven innocent.

  “What is Miss Cooper doing here? And not properly dressed?” Lord Bancroft asked in a brusque tone. A slight sibilance betrayed the fact he had been enjoying a late-night tête-à-tête with the whisky decanter. “Do I need to point out the obvious and say this is not a suitable scene for a young woman?”

  “I invited her,” Tobias lied coolly. “You know she has an excellent head for details.”

  “I fancied I heard something earlier,” Evelina interjected, thinking about the voices she had heard while in the tree. The clock had struck eleven, drowning them out. And then there had been the figure in the hallway. “I thought I might prove helpful.”

  “Is that so, Miss Cooper?” Lord Bancroft lowered his brow. “It has nothing to do with your taste for sensational novels? Perhaps you should return to your bedchamber.”

  She was about to protest, to say he had to listen, or at least the police did. But, with a lift of his chin, he effectively dismissed her.

  Anger fired along her nerves, bright and sharp as lightning. She barely stopped herself from making a gesture unbecoming a lady—or shouting that he should
be quiet and let her help him, because she might be the only one who saw the full danger his family was in. Instead, she turned back to the body, continuing with her inspection despite her seething.

  Uncle Sherlock very rarely gave in to emotion. Now she saw why—she needed a clear head. It was impossible to concentrate when she wanted to snarl like a tinker’s cur.

  There wasn’t a whiff of magic on the body itself, which meant someone, not something invoked by sorcery, had wielded the blade. That meant Grace Child had been killed by a purely human agency. Or did it? In Evelina’s limited experience, it took time for magical residue to stick, especially to flesh, so was it safe to make an assumption?

  That raised an interesting question. Was there a connection between this murder and those trunks in the attic? Two unusual events in one night could be coincidence, but it seemed unlikely.

  Lord Bancroft gestured to the man on his left. “This is Inspector Lestrade.” The former ambassador’s voice was dry as he addressed his son.

  Evelina started. Lestrade. She knew the name from her uncle’s cases, but she’d never met him in person. She studied him carefully, thinking that Dr. Watson had described him well.

  “I’m sure you and Miss Cooper will leave him and his men to do their work,” Bancroft added.

  All eyes were on Tobias, who had his mouth set in a defiant frown. Evelina was invisible, just a girl who had accidentally strayed into the affairs of men—even though she was the one getting her hands bloody. Piqued, Evelina rose to her feet.

  The motion of her standing drew the eyes of the inspector. “Miss?”

  He was a wiry man of middling height with dark hair, a sallow complexion, and the sharp, pointed features of a rat. He had dressed with the look of one eager to impress, but something in his air made Evelina uneasy. This was no fool. She wondered, with a sick feeling, if Nick had finally found the wits to leave the house.