by Dawn Brower
When he walked into his house, however, all thoughts of Cordelia and Arthur were swept out of his head. Victor had precisely two servants, a maid and a middle-aged man called Brian that took care of the house, and it was Brian who met him at the door with an envelope in his hand.
“Good morning sir,” he said. “Did you have a good evening?”
“Not really, no,” Victor said, walking past him. Brian had been with him since before he moved to Greenley so he had long since become accustomed to Victor’s coming home at all hours. “One of my top clients got murdered at the party I went to and I spent the night trying to keep the police from arresting his widow.” It was a strange word to use in relation to Cordelia but he supposed that’s what she was now. “How was your evening?”
“Quiet as always,” Brian said. “I read a book and when it became apparent you weren’t coming home for dinner, I went to bed.” He followed Victor to the bedroom. “Your dinner is in the icebox, by the way. I didn’t bother making breakfast.”
“Thank you,” Victor said, taking off his jacket and throwing it across his bed. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been offered his dinner for breakfast, but he’d already eaten at the Whittemore manor and didn’t think he could get a second meal down so soon. Brian lingered in the doorway watching him undress and Victor raised an eyebrow at him. “Something the matter, Brian?”
“This letter came for you yesterday,” he said, and Victor realized he was still holding out the envelope. “It’s from Surrey.”
“Surrey?” Victor stopped in the middle of unbuttoning his shirt and grabbed the envelope. There was only one person who sent him mail at home and they didn’t live in Surrey. He tore the letter open and unfolded it while Brian very politely made himself scarce.
Victor’s eyes moved over the letter once, then twice, and he cursed as he threw it on the nightstand. There was nothing he could do about it at the moment, though, so he vented his frustration by taking off his clothes as if they had done him a great personal wrong and throwing them into the hamper. He snatched a fresh suit from his closet and dressed quickly, then brushed his hair and stuffed the letter into his jacket pocket.
“Is everything all right, sir?” Brian watched him from one of the wing-back chairs in the living room and Victor scowled at him. “Oh, the news was that good then. Have a good day, sir.” He was just as used to not hearing a farewell from his master as he was to him turning up drunk in the middle of the night, and Victor wondered sometimes if Brian didn’t do a bit of drinking of his own when he wasn’t there. It wouldn’t surprise him. Being the valet to a single man was probably fairly boring.
I don’t have time for this, Victor thought as he went to his office. Surrey? How in the hell did she get herself to Surrey?
“Mr. Pembroke,” a voice said as he walked up the steps to his office. Victor turned to see the chief of police coming up the walk. “I’m glad I ran into you. Your assistant said you hadn’t come in yet.”
“I was speaking to my valet about a personal matter,” Victor said cautiously. This wasn’t one of the officers from the night before, this was the chief of police. If he was coming to see him, something was definitely going on. “How can I help you, Chief?”
“The final cause of death on Lord Whittemore was exsanguination due to multiple stab wounds to his torso,” he replied. “Ten stab wounds, to be precise.”
“Ten?” Victor’s eyes widened. “Good Lord. I can’t think of anyone who would want to stab Arthur Whittemore once, much less ten times.”
“It was definitely someone with a lot of anger toward him. You were his attorney,” the chief said, his casual tone putting Victor on alert, “do you know of anyone who had a grudge against him? Maybe someone he’d made a bad business deal with?”
“Not that he ever mentioned to me,” Victor said carefully. “I only became his attorney recently, though, after my partner passed away. We never spoke about business matters really, just the late Lord Whittemore’s estate. There were a few strange things about the will that I was working on for him.”
“What sort of strange things?”
“You know perfectly well I’m not allowed to discuss that with you,” Victor said. “Just because everyone who’s had a hand in the damn thing is dead but me doesn’t mean I’m going to start telling you all about it.”
“If it has something to do with his death, you can be compelled to tell us, Mr. Pembroke. Surely you realize that.” The chief’s tone was still conversational but the threat beneath the surface was there all the same. “Anyhow, I just wanted to pass along that information. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t spread that around.”
“I would hope you know me better than that,” Victor said, opening the door to his office. “Please keep me informed of any developments.” Not waiting for a reply, he went inside and closed the door behind him.
“Good morning, sir,” Bradley said as he walked past his desk. “The police chief was looking for you. Did he find you on the way in?”
“He did, thank you. Did anyone else come by?”
“No sir. It’s been quiet this morning so far.” Victor could tell it was quiet from the men’s magazine Bradley was reading, but he couldn’t really fault him for it. There wasn’t much he could do without Victor. “Is everything all right?”
“Fantastic,” Victor said sarcastically as Bradley gave him his mail. “I suppose you’re going to hear about it soon enough but Lord Whittemore was murdered last night.”
“He what?” Bradley’s eyes widened. “After the party?”
“During the party it seems,” Victor said. “The police came out after Lady Whittemore and her lady’s maid discovered the body.” Bradley looked like he was going to ask more questions and Victor held up a hand. “I’ll tell you more later. For now I just need to be alone to think.” He looked around. “Where’s Miss Wright?”
“I’m not sure,” Bradley said. “I must confess I assumed she was with you.”
“For God’s sake, Bradley,” Victor said. “What kind of man do you think I am? No, never mind, don’t answer that.” He went into his office and closed the door, then took out the letter and opened it again as he leaned against the desk.
Dear Victor, it read. I know this is rather sudden but I wanted to send a letter to let you know that I’ve moved to Surrey. I thought I’d found a gentleman who could overlook my situation but I seem to have found myself in even more of a predicament. I’m going to need a bit of assistance so if you could send some money as soon as possible to this address we would really appreciate it.
All my love, Catherine.
“Damn it all,” Victor said, refolding the letter. He didn’t have time to deal with it at the moment As much as he loved Catherine, he had his own problems to worry about. He frowned as he tried to think about what his next move should be.
Victor had a pretty good idea of why Arthur was killed. Whether it was a jealous lover or a fight that had gotten out of hand didn’t matter. The question was who had done it. According to Cordelia, he’d brought his lovers in and out of the house before but she’d given him the impression that there was no one he saw regularly. There was no way to start trying to figure out which of Arthur’s lovers had killed him if he didn’t even know where to begin looking.
Had Arthur’s parents been alive, Victor supposed he would have to be much more careful in his investigation to make sure he didn’t offend anyone or dirty the Whittemore name. With everyone but Cordelia in their grave he was free to be a bit more open, but he didn’t want to embarrass her in front of the entire town. He knew from experience that there were people who would somehow blame her for Arthur’s indiscretions, and that was the last thing he wanted.
He supposed the best place to start looking was the pub where he’d first heard the rumors about Arthur keeping company with men. It wouldn’t officially be open for another hour yet but he knew there was usually someone there earlier, and it would probably be for the best if he started askin
g his questions before the patrons started to stumble in.
Still deep in thought, he picked up his satchel and stuck the letter into it. There were too many things on his mind and he knew he needed to focus if he was going to be any use to Cordelia at all. He hadn’t been lying when he said he wanted to be with her, hadn’t even been stretching the truth. If she were to lose everything tomorrow, he wanted to be there to help her pick up the pieces. Before any of that, though, he had to make sure she stayed out of jail.
“Where are you off to?” Bradley met him at the door to his office with a cup of tea.
“Pub,” Victor said. “I need to talk to a couple of people and see if I can figure out who might have been sharing Lord Whittemore’s bed besides his wife.” He picked up the tea and drained the cup, needing the boost it would give him. “Thank you, Bradley.”
“Shouldn’t you leave that to the police detectives?” The boy followed him to the front door. “That’s their job.”
“At the moment I know a few things they don’t,” Victor said. “And the police last night seemed determined to place this on Lady Whittemore. Seeing as how she’s the only client I have left in that family, my priority is keeping her out of jail.”
“I can’t believe they’d try and blame her,” Bradley said. “I’ve only met her once or twice but she seemed like a nice, quiet lady. Very proper.”
“Yes, quite. I shall return in a little while.” He went out the front door and down the steps, brushing past Miss Wright on the way. “Good morning,” he said absently as he passed. She smiled at him and returned the greeting, and for a moment he had the feeling that he’d seen her at the party the night before. “Where were you last night, Miss Wright?”
“Me?” She looked surprised. “My mother has been ill, so my brother and I were making dinner for her and cleaning her house.”
“You weren’t at a party?”
“Me? Oh goodness, no,” Miss Wright said. “Apart from never being invited to any, I don’t have time for that sort of thing.”
“I see. Thank you anyway. I’ll be back in a little while, so if anyone comes for me they can either wait or come back in a few hours.” Miss Wright nodded and went into the office and Victor went down the stairs, his mind half on the pub and half on Cordelia. He hoped things were going all right for her at the manor.
Chapter 13
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Birdie looked closely at Cordelia as she stared at the blank sheet music in front of her. At a loss for what else she should do, she had taken out her music to start copying it the way Maurice had told her, but she hadn’t been able to focus.
“Yes,” Cordelia said. “As well I can be, anyhow.” A large part of her was angry, and it was that rather than sadness that was making it hard for her to concentrate. She’d made love to a man who truly cared about her the night before, she should have been reliving those wonderful memories in her head instead of seeing her husband murdered in his bed. Now instead of playing the piano she was wearing the black dress she’d worn to her father-in-law’s funeral and trying not to think about how this was all Arthur’s fault.
It was obvious to her that Arthur had been killed by one of his lovers but she couldn’t exactly tell the police something like that. For one thing it sounded so sordid and dirty, never mind that she now had a lover of her own. Also, admitting that Arthur had preferred men to her made her feel guilty somehow, as if it was through some failing of her own that he had sought them out.
There was a knock on the door of the conservatory, and with Mrs. Richmond gone it had fallen to Arthur’s former valet to announce the presence of a guest.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said. “There’s a gentleman here to discuss Lord Whittemore’s funeral arrangements.”
“Oh?” Cordelia looked up with a frown. “I thought Mr. Pembroke was going to take care of all that for me.” The valet nodded.
“Yes, but there are still a few things you’re going to need to settle with them.”
“All right, send them in,” Cordelia said with a sigh. She put her sheet music back into its folder and set it aside. “I don’t know what all they want or what I’m even supposed to be approving. I do wish Mrs. Richmond was here. At the very least she would know what to do, seeing as how she had to make the arrangements for her husband.”
“Good morning, Lady Whittemore.” The door opened again and a gentleman in a police officer’s uniform came through the door with his hat in his hands. “Forgive me for the intrusion.”
“Good morning,” Cordelia said cautiously. “I was under the impression that I was meeting with someone about my late husband’s funeral arrangements.”
“I’ll leave you to speak to them in just a few minutes,” the officer said. “Provided I get the information from you that I’m looking for.” He extended a hand to her and Cordelia shook it without getting up. “I’m Arnold Christianson, one of the police detectives from Elston.”
“Elston?” Birdie stood up. “What are you doing here, then?”
“Greenley doesn’t really have much in the way of detectives,” Mr. Christianson said. “Seeing as how this is a very important case, they asked me to come down here and look into it. Fresh eyes and all that, you know.”
“I’ll tell you whatever I can,” Cordelia said, motioning to one of the chairs that sat around the small table where she and Birdie had been sitting. “Please feel free to have a seat.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Mr. Christianson remained standing. “I only have a few questions. I’ve spoken to a number of people this morning, and they said the same thing your guests told the police last night. No one at the party saw you after your performance until you discovered your husband’s body. It seems rather convenient, wouldn’t you say?”
“If I’d murdered my husband in cold blood while my guests were dancing downstairs, don’t you think I would have had blood all over my clothes? Besides that, my lady’s maid was with me when I found him. I wasn’t alone.” There was something Cordelia didn’t like about this detective. He seemed different from the officers the night before. Colder.
“According to the report, Lord Whittemore was stabbed to death. There were multiple wounds, which suggests that someone was very angry with him. If it was a crime of passion rather than premeditated murder, the courts might go a bit easier on whoever committed it.” He tilted his head slightly. “Arguments get out of hand sometimes. You can’t really be blamed for something that happens in the heat of the moment.”
“I hope you’re not suggesting that my sister had anything to do with Arthur’s death,” Birdie said, taking offense on Cordelia’s behalf. “That’s absolutely ridiculous.”
“Clothes can be washed or thrown away,” the detective said, ignoring Birdie. “A lady’s maid isn’t much of an alibi. She’s going to say whatever you tell her to say, and she might even be the one who helped you get rid of the evidence. If that’s the case, then your defense that it was committed in the heat of the moment goes out the window.”
“I’m not putting forward a defense because I didn’t do anything wrong,” Cordelia said. “I didn’t kill my husband.” She realized that in talking to the detective she was doing exactly what Victor had warned her against but it was too late to stop, otherwise he would really suspect her.
“How can you stand there and accuse a grieving widow of murdering her husband?” Birdie’s face was a mask of anger and she folded her arms across her chest. “This is ridiculous. I want you out of this house immediately.”
“I’ll leave as soon as your sister tells me where she was when Lord Whittemore was murdered,” Mr. Christianson said. He turned to Cordelia. “If you don’t tell me the truth about what you were doing, you’ll be leaving with me.” His eyes were cold as they moved over Cordelia’s face. “You can spend the night in the comfort of your own home or in a jail cell. It’s up to you.”
“This is ridiculous,” Birdie said again. She turned to her sister. “Just tell him where you were, D
elia. Before he tries to make up some sort of horrible lie about you.” Cordelia’s heart sped up as both the detective and Birdie stared at her. Victor had said not to talk to the police unless he was with her but there was no way for her to get in touch with him and the detective was threatening her with jail. She didn’t know what else to do and there was nowhere to run.
“I was here,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “After my performance I came upstairs with Mr. Pembroke.”
“Your attorney?” The detective looked at her closely. “What were the two of you doing?”
“What do you think?” Cordelia knew she should be polite but she couldn’t help being cold to the man. “Use your imagination if you must.”
“You were having an affair with your attorney,” Mr. Christianson said. “While you had guests in the house? That was rather bold of you. How long has this been going on?”
“It hasn’t been,” Cordelia said, afraid to look at Birdie for fear of the disappointment she would see. “Last night was the first time.”
“And Mr. Pembroke will admit to this as well?”
“Yes,” Cordelia said. “I’m sure he will. Is that all? Are you finished with me?”
“For the moment, yes,” the detective said. “If Mr. Pembroke corroborates your story, we’ll start exploring other avenues.” He looked her up and down and Cordelia narrowed her eyes at him. “Before I go, do you have any idea who might have killed your husband if it wasn’t you?”
“It wasn’t me,” Cordelia snapped. “And of course I don’t know who might’ve done it. Don’t you think I would tell you if I did?”
“Good day to you, Lady Whittemore,” the detective said, putting on his hat. “I shall send in the gentleman for the funeral arrangements.” With that, he left the conservatory and Cordelia stared at the place he’d vacated. She was halfway afraid to turn to her sister, afraid to see what was in Birdie’s eyes. She’d never lied to her little sister before she’d married Arthur. Taking a deep, shaky breath, she looked at Birdie.
