by Blythe Baker
She had scolded me already for showing up late the previous morning, and again for forgetting my apron. She told me not to make her look as though her household was sloppily run, especially not now. Ever since, thoroughly embarrassed, I had said nothing to her and kept my head down.
I did not wish to awaken her ire once again by inquiring about the mysterious Mr. Newton.
Just when I wondered if this Mr. Newton would ever be mentioned again, he arrived at the manor the day of the funeral, much to the consternation of the rest of the family.
Unusually, Mrs. Montford had chosen to host the funeral in her own home. Perhaps she had feared the event would be too well attended for so many guests to crowd into the little church in town.
“I do not believe it,” Selina said in a low voice beside me as more funeral attendees streamed in through the front doors of the foyer. All entered somberly, adorned in dark clothes, speaking in quiet tones. “Mr. Newton. I do not believe it could be him.”
I watched Mrs. Briar pass through, arm in arm with her husband. Her expression seemed sorrowful, her husband’s grave. I believed in their regret, as she was a constant presence in my lady’s life, a steady and good friend. I was pleased to see her, knowing it would bring Mrs. Montford some comfort now that she had arrived.
“I still am not convinced that the Colonel was deliberately killed,” Selina went on. She looked at me. “Anna, are you listening?”
“Of course,” I said. “When am I not?”
She pursed her lips, her eyes passing over my shoulder. “Somehow you always seem to be paying more attention to…everything around you.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
She shook her head. “You are not only aware of me and what I am saying, but you have also noticed Mrs. Briar, her husband…and have no doubt been watching Mr. Hendrick wrestling with Mr. Reynold’s umbrella.”
“You have noticed those things as well,” I pointed out,
“Yes, but I only saw them when I looked for them, knowing you would have already. I assume you have seen other things that I have entirely missed as I was talking,” she said.
“I did not realize that was so terribly strange,” I answered.
“I did not mean that it was strange,” she said. Her gaze sharpened. “What have you noticed?”
“In regards to what?” I asked.
She looked past me again. “Mr. Newton.”
I turned and looked at the man in question. She had pointed him out when he had come in. He did not stand out in any great way, with his greying hair that helped him blend in with many of the other guests, his average height, and ordinary frame of build. He did, however, have one unique characteristic, and that was a wooden leg.
Selina informed me he had lost the real limb while in the army, and at once, I wondered if it had something to do with the feud with the Colonel that Mrs. Montford and the others in the family had alluded to. Selina dismissed that theory, as well. It seemed that it had happened long ago.
“What have you noticed?” she asked again.
“Not a great deal,” I said. “Apart from his solitary entrance and the gold badge pinned to the front of his jacket, I—”
Selina squinted, looking more pointedly at him. “I had missed the badge. He came without anyone?”
I said, “I think so. Is he married? Does he have children?”
“I do not know,” Selina said.
“Selina? Where are you?”
Mrs. Carlisle’s voice cut through the questions, and Selina and I both looked around. Mrs. Carlisle waved a finger toward us from the doorway of the drawing room where the reception was to begin.
Selina gave me a brief, exasperated look and started away.
I watched her go, glancing at Mrs. Carlisle, but she did not acknowledge me. It seemed I was safe, for now.
Mrs. Montford was not far off, standing near the doorway and greeting guests as they came, thanking them for their attendance. She glanced behind her on occasion to see me but had yet to call upon me for anything.
I looked back at Mr. Newton, studying him for a long moment.
There truly was nothing extraordinary about him, and the fact that he had come to pay his respects made me believe, like Selina, that he may very well not have had anything to do with the Colonel’s death. Why would he show his face if he had? Unless he wanted to turn away suspicion…
“So, you were listening that day.”
I jumped as if I had been stung. I whirled around to find Mr. Jerome standing beside me along the wall, out of the way of the other guests passing through the foyer.
“Mr. Jerome,” I said. “I-I did not hear you.”
He smiled. “It seems I must apologize once again for startling you.”
I looked down. How was it that he had been able to do that twice now?
“I do not mean to overstep my bounds, but I overheard you and the other maid mention Mr. Newton,” he said in a soft voice. With a quick glance toward the door, he continued. “It seems the rumor of his involvement in the Colonel’s death continues to grow and spread.”
“My lady has said it is not possible,” I said. “And I will always believe my lady’s word.”
“A fine thing for a maid to do,” he said. “However, I imagine that has not prevented you from hearing other opinions.”
I followed his gaze toward Mr. Newton, who had just been stopped by Henry Montford, whose moustache wiggled as he spoke to the new arrival.
I looked at Mr. Jerome. What was he trying to say?
He turned back to me, a small smile spreading across his face. “You can rest easy. It was not Mr. Newton who killed the Colonel. I believe any sign of a quarrel between them was nothing more than a jovial rivalry between two men who had been friends for a long, long time.”
“Friends?” I repeated, uncertain.
Mr. Jerome’s eyes narrowed slightly. “How long have you worked for my uncle? No more than a few years, I assume, as I have not seen you around. Then again, perhaps I wouldn’t have seen you anyway, as most of my visits with my uncle have taken place at my home, not his.”
“I have been here four years, sir,” I said.
He nodded. “Yes, well, perhaps not long enough to know the extent of the Colonel’s relationships, yet likely long enough to know that he was quite stubborn but hardly ever meant anything by it.”
“He could be short-tempered at times,” I said in a low voice.
“Precisely,” Mr. Jerome said. “I grew up within my uncle’s shadow and knew him well enough to say that he might have seemed to dislike Newton but truly did not mind him, despite their differences.”
I turned and looked at him. “What happened between them?”
“Ah, you do not even know that,” he said. “Very well. There was an argument over a clock.”
I stared at him. I did not know whether or not to believe him.
He smirked. “I know. It is as preposterous as it sounds.”
I blinked, shaking my thoughts loose like the leaves of a tree in autumn. “And this is what Miss Maryanne believes to be the reason that he might have—”
“Killed the Colonel, yes…” Mr. Jerome said, leaning against the wall, slipping his hands into his pockets as if without a care in the world. Evidently, he had no concerns that other guests might see him and find it odd that he should be conversing so casually with a servant.
Why was he speaking so openly with me, anyway? I was not sure, but it certainly was unusual behavior for a member of the family. Still, it was not my place to end the conversation, even if I had been willing to forgo the chance to learn more about the Colonel and which people might have grudges against him.
Mr. Jerome continued, “Now do you see why my aunt is as certain about Newton as she is? Whoever murdered my uncle, it could not have been him.”
I pondered his words. “Why did they fight over a clock?”
“It was an inheritance,” he said. “From their mutual grandfather. A handsome piece, I
must say. Perhaps you have seen it sitting on my uncle’s desk.”
My heart skipped. “The silver clock with the owls engraved upon it?”
He nodded. “That’s the one.”
I looked down, thinking. It certainly was interesting that he seemed confident the Colonel had been murdered instead of perishing from more natural means. We still had no official word on the subject from the police.
“Mr. Newton spoke of the Colonel often,” he said. “I should know. My mother insists upon attending every family gathering that has ever happened, rain or shine, regardless of health or illness.”
Every family gathering apart from those my lady hosted, I thought. That was not terribly surprising, given the cold greetings the women had shared with one another.
I watched him, seeing his shoulders relaxed, his eyes calm.
How can I know that his words are accurate? I thought.
The story of the clock would be simple enough to confirm. All I would need to do was speak with Mrs. Montford about it at some point. She might not be terribly pleased to hear me ask of it, but it would set my mind at ease.
I shook my head. This man…he is somehow worming his way into my thoughts, making me think of myself more than my lady.
Mr. Jerome suddenly shrugged, moving away from the wall. “I know it was not Mr. Newton,” he said. “He spoke of the Colonel often, as I said. And always fondly.”
I looked across the foyer, seeing Mr. Newton nod his head, a grim expression on his aged face.
“His anger always felt forced, and I learned in confidence that he wanted to make amends with the Colonel. I imagine his appearance here is his way of doing just that,” Mr. Jerome said.
The story seemed feasible enough, but I did not know Mr. Jerome at all. Why should I believe what he was saying simply because he was telling it to me?
Again, the question popped into my mind. Why was he sharing any of this with me in the first place?
When I looked at him, he met my eyes with great ease. The small hairs along my arms stood straight.
“You seem confident that the Colonel’s death was not an accident,” I said. “Is that true?”
He nodded. “Oh, yes. I certainly am,” he said. “The Colonel was a strong man and healthy. To die so suddenly, and at a party, no less.” He shook his head, running his hand through his auburn hair. “It had to have been murder. How, though, is the question.”
He sighed, looking back out over the foyer.
“Once this business with the funeral is at an end, to say nothing of the reading of the will, then everyone will disperse. After that, it is highly unlikely that the culprit will be found.”
With that, he gave me a friendly nod, spun on his heel, and walked off toward his mother, leaving me staring after him, my thoughts churning.
8
Selina and I stood near the back during the funeral. The ceremony had been arranged in the ballroom, which overlooked both the garden and the lake on the far end of the estate, the parts of the property that Colonel Montford loved most. A portrait of him had been set upon an easel near the front of the room, positioned in front of a casket where his body would lie once it had been set into the ground in the churchyard, which would take place soon after the service.
The minister read psalms and prayers that both made my heart ache and filled me with a semblance of peace. His soothing tone and the respect with which he spoke of the Colonel drew many to tears.
I realized that, in my own way, I had been grieving the Colonel as well. I missed his presence. There seemed to be a strange emptiness in the manor now, despite the number of guests. More than anything, I pitied my lady, who sat in a chair just in front of the casket, as rigid as the statue of a praying angel in the fountain at the front of the manor.
It frustrated me that there was nothing that I could do to alleviate her pain. All I could do was watch as she suffered.
The distance from her, however, allowed me to look around the room. My eyes continued to fall upon the back of Mr. Jerome’s head. Try as I might to look elsewhere, he sat so close to my mistress, in the row of seats directly behind her, that it was hardly a deliberate action on my part.
He was tall, certainly, but sitting beside his mother, it was clear how broad his shoulders were. Quite nearly as broad as someone like Mr. Hendrick or Mr. Hose.
My heart skipped. Was not the servant who had served drinks to the Colonel tall with broad shoulders? I thought.
I stared at Mr. Jerome, at the back of his head, my eyes sweeping over the back of his neck. I could hardly see a thing, though, with the high collar of his shirt and dress coat.
Could he have been…?
It was entirely possible, wasn’t it? He could have easily been at the party and I would not have known. There were many guests in attendance, many I would not have been able to name afterwards. As absorbed in my own worries as I had been, I might have assumed many people to be there who were not and forgotten those who truly had been.
Even if I had seen him, I might never have given him a second glance.
My cheeks burned at the thought as I quickly realized that I was lying to myself. In my heart of hearts, I knew that idea was not entirely true. As handsome as he was, I would likely have noticed him the moment he walked in.
The minister had just opened the service to any of the guests who wanted to share their memories of the Colonel when I leaned over to Selina.
“I must ask you,” I said in a whisper. “What do you know of Mrs. Montford’s nephew, Mr. Townson?”
Selina turned to me, a flash in her eyes. “The handsome one, I presume?” she asked.
Clearly, she had not forgotten our previous conversation about him.
“No. Well, yes, but….” My words were quickly negated by the spots of color that appeared in my cheeks. I huffed, breathing through my nose. “What do you know of him?”
“Oh, of him, I hardly know a thing,” she said, as Mr. Henry Montford got to his feet and began recounting some dull tale about the Colonel. “But his mother…I know of his mother.”
“Do you, now?” I asked. “Do you know why she and Mrs. Montford are so terribly unfriendly with one another?”
Selina’s fingers drummed on her arms. She pursed her lips, taking a moment to pause and appear engaged in Henry Montford’s story.
“I know you said that Mrs. Townson is not often spoken of,” I said, trying to keep my voice low, my lips barely moving in case any of the guests turned to look back at us. “But why were they so angry with one another?”
“As the Colonel’s sister, she was welcomed enough times that I became aware of her, but even when I first arrived, the tension between the women was rather clear,” she said.
“Was it nothing more than petty jealousy?” I asked.
Selina shook her head. “No. Mrs. Montford had nothing to do with it. But Mrs. Townson is the Colonel’s sister. That was always the explanation I received. It was as if blood ties alone excused her behavior.”
“What sort of behavior?” I asked.
“From what I have seen, Marjorie Townson is a heartless woman. She cares little for anyone. She also believes herself to be a great deal higher than her station. Her husband was wealthy and a man of importance, as she has a tendency to remind everyone. And her son, Mr. Jerome, inherited her family’s wealth. That is why she believes herself better than Mrs. Montford. She was insufferable to the staff when she visited in the past.”
“And her son says nothing?” I asked.
“When he is around, she seems softer,” Selina said. “He is kind enough, if not a bit mischievous and flirtatious.”
She gave me a small smile. “Why are you so interested in him all of a sudden?”
I gave her a brief account of what he had shared with me about Mr. Newton.
Her mouth hung open when I finished. “He thinks the Colonel was murdered, too?” she asked.
I nodded, glancing toward the front of the room. The minister had to ask the
rambling Henry Montford to sit back down and perhaps give someone else a chance to share their memories.
“He believes that after the funeral is concluded, as well as the reading of the will, the culprit will get away,” I said. “I think he may very well be right.”
Selina frowned, looking up toward Mrs. Montford. “The reading of the will…” she said. “Mrs. Montford has made it perfectly clear that she believes many who are here have only come because they expect to be given some part of the inheritance.”
I thought briefly of the clock sitting on the Colonel’s desk and wondered vaguely if Mr. Newton would now become the owner.
I returned my gaze to Mr. Jerome, and his mother, seated nearer to the front of the room directly behind Mrs. Montford.
As close of a relation as she was to the Colonel, his only living sibling, would she stand to inherit a great deal? How much would he have left for her, and therefore, for her son?
Was Mr. Jerome’s kindness nothing more than smugness misunderstood? Had he come to my lady’s home with the knowledge that he would be leaving a great deal wealthier?
Disappointed, I frowned at the back of his head.
What if Mr. Jerome and his mother were like the other guests, only having come under the illusion of paying their respects, yet with the true motive of hearing what they would receive from the Colonel’s will?
If it were a great deal, then would that not be sufficient motive for murder in and of itself?
The funeral soon came to a conclusion, and I followed at a discreet distance as Mrs. Montford left the room. She adjourned to the nearby drawing room, where she received the condolences of the guests before we would make our way to the cemetery.
I walked past her, toward the wall where I would normally stand, when Mrs. Montford reached out and took hold of the sleeve of my dress. “Anna, please stand beside me,” she said. “I…should not like to be alone right now.”
