Silence in the Library

by Katharine Schellman

  He crouched down in front of the hearth, peering into the chimney, then turning to examine the bloody pile of cloth in front of him. Lily stepped back, drawing Jack with her and trying to discreetly brush the soot from her clothing.

  Mr. Page rose at last. “How often are your fireplaces cleaned?”

  “The fireplaces?” Frank asked, sounding dazed. “The maids sweep them out daily, of course. I suppose the chimneys are swept once a season? I really could not say; you would do better to ask the housekeeper.”

  Mr. Page eyed him coldly, then turned back to the hearth. “It was bunched up tightly, it seems. The blood has not quite dried.” He glanced up at his audience. “This has certainly not been up there more than a day. Which means this is likely your father’s blood, Mr. Wyatt. And someone tried to clean up and hide the mess of murdering him.”

  “That is … it could not … preposterous,” Percy stammered from the doorway.

  “Have you another explanation?” the Bow Street constable demanded. The younger man went very red, then very pale, and did not answer. Mr. Page turned back to Frank. “I think we may now safely conclude that your father’s death was not natural. Which means that I’ll need to speak to all the servants as well. Are there any other members of the family, in town or otherwise?”

  “An uncle of my mother lives in Lincolnshire, and my father has a second cousin—I think he and his family reside in Oxford?” Frank looked ill as he stared at the hearth. “But other than that, no. It was just us.” Suddenly scowling, he rounded on Lily and Jack once more. “What the devil were you doing in here?” he demanded.

  “Mrs. Adler was feeling unwell and needed a moment to collect herself,” Jack said quickly, lying with a perfectly straight face.

  “And I thought I heard an animal in the chimney.”

  “She was afraid it was a bat.”

  “I cannot abide bats,” Lily agreed, resisting the urge to kick Jack in the shin for such a ridiculous explanation. Instead, she pressed a hand to her heart in a picture of feminine distress. Men, in her experience, rarely questioned a visibly upset lady too closely. She clutched Jack’s arm more tightly, wondering if she should fan herself for good measure. But that might be pushing it too far; she didn’t want Frank to remember that she wasn’t the sort of woman to grow squeamish around small animals.

  She was saved further scrutiny by Mr. Page, who stepped forward. “Gentlemen, Mrs. Adler, as this room is now definitively the scene of a murder, I must ask that we leave it immediately. Mr. Wyatt, we’ll use the parlor that you and I spoke in before.” He raised his eyebrows when none of them moved quickly enough to suit him. “Now, if you please.”

  “Certainly,” Jack said, steering Lily toward the door. Percy and Frank, who were still blocking the way, had no choice but to step out into the hall.

  Mr. Page followed swiftly and pulled the door shut behind him. “Mr. Wyatt,” he said, fixing Percy with a stern gaze. “I’ll need you to fetch the housekeeper. This door must be locked and stay that way until I give leave otherwise.”

  “I say—” Percy began indignantly, only to be cut off by his cousin.

  “Do it, Perce.” Frank sounded weary beyond belief; his expression was dazed, as if he still couldn’t quite believe what he had just seen. “Please.”

  When Percy, with a belligerent look, had trotted off into the depths of the house, Mr. Page turned to Jack. “Captain, as an officer of the navy, I trust I may rely on you? No one is to go into or out of that room until the housekeeper arrives to lock it. And then the key must go to no one but myself.”

  “Certainly.” Jack looked far more serious than usual as he let Lily’s arm fall and took up a post by the door. But Lily caught the quick glance he gave her out of the corner of his eye. “I trust Mrs. Adler will not object to delaying our departure while I do my duty.”

  The pretense was for Percy and Frank’s benefit, of course, since Mr. Page had specifically requested their assistance. And Frank, still looking dazed, nodded. “Of … of course. Lily … Mrs. Adler, would you care to come into the drawing room to sit down?” He ran a hand through his hair as he opened the door across the hall and bowed her in. “I know it is highly irregular …”

  “I will await the captain, certainly,” Lily said, her voice as serious as her expression. “I am so, so dreadfully sorry, Frank. Will you sit down? You do not look well.”

  “I do not feel well,” he said, shaking his head. “In fact, I think I don’t feel much of anything.” But he sank into a chair as she urged, then glanced up at Mr. Page, who had followed them in and shut the door. “What happens now?”

  Mr. Page regarded him without speaking for a moment, his expression unreadable. Lily took a seat of her own, watching the interplay between the two men. “Now I must speak to Lady Wyatt. And your cousin, and the servants who were in the house last night.”

  Frank grimaced. “Unfortunately, Lady Wyatt has informed me that she is not well enough to come down.” There was an edge of frustration in Frank’s voice, and the fingers of one hand drummed against his thigh in a sharp, agitated beat.

  Mr. Page nodded, looking more sympathetic than Lily had yet seen. “Of course, it’s very understandable that she’d resent my presence at such a time. Perhaps if someone she knew, who could sympathize with her position, could speak with her …”

  He glanced around the room, his eyes landing on Lily as if he had only just remembered her presence. Lily kept her own expression impassive, though it took effort. She turned to Frank.

  “Perhaps I might go to Lady Wyatt?” she offered gently, seizing on the opportunity to follow Mr. Page’s request without arousing too much suspicion. “I could help her prepare herself, perhaps sit with her during the interview.” She didn’t have to contrive the sympathy in her voice as she added, “I lost my own husband far too early, and I can well imagine the pain and confusion she must be feeling.”

  “That is very good of you,” Frank said, swallowing roughly. “But she said … she said she is not yet ready to pick over her husband’s corpse. And that was before we knew he was …” He broke off, looking suddenly horrified. “Good God, do I have to be the one to tell her?”

  “Frank,” Lily said gently. “I can tell her, if you wish. It might be easier to hear from a family friend than from …” She hesitated.

  “From someone she does not like? At all?” Frank shook his head. “No doubt she would, but I cannot ask you to … such circumstances …” He trailed off. It was the first time she could ever recall seeing him at a loss for words.

  “The circumstances are very unusual, and very grim. But also not so unfamiliar to me. Were you aware of the unfortunate incident at the home of Lord and Lady Walter this April?”

  Frank looked uneasy. “You mean the …” He hesitated, still clearly unable to say murder.

  “Lady Walter is a dear friend, and I was with her during much of that incident. This”—Lily cast a sideways look at Mr. Page—“this is not my first experience with Bow Street, I’m afraid. I think I may well be able to be of assistance to Lady Wyatt.”

  Frank puffed out his cheeks, hesitating, and it took all Lily’s willpower not to glance at Mr. Page. He had wanted her to speak to Lady Wyatt. What would he do if Frank turned down her offer?

  But at last Frank nodded. “Very well. If anyone can be of assistance to her …” He shrugged again. “I confess I haven’t the faintest notion of what to say.”

  Lily stood decisively. “If you will be so good as to show me to her,” she said.

  As Frank held the door open and followed her into the hall, Mr. Page called, “If you would return as swiftly as possible, Mr. Wyatt, I’ve a few questions to ask you. And your cousin as well.”

  Frank nodded curtly, not bothering to glance back as he allowed the door to swing closed behind him.

  Lily cast a glance at the parlor, then leaned conspiratorially toward Frank, speaking in an undertone as they began to climb the stairs. “Such an intrusion on what ought t
o be a private family matter. One cannot bring these things to a close too quickly.”

  At that, Frank nodded firmly. “Indeed, it is most unfortunate. And to suggest that it might have been one of the servants … It does not bear thinking of.” He sighed and raised his voice. “Ellen?”

  A moment later, the young maid Lily had met the day before appeared at the top of the stairs. “Yes, sir?”

  “Show Mrs. Adler to Lady Wyatt’s chambers,” Frank said. “I am afraid I must …” He gestured toward the parlor and sighed.

  “He does not seem the type to browbeat you,” Lily said, pausing with him at the top of the staircase.

  “We shall see. Thank you for offering your assistance to Lady Wyatt.” For a moment, Frank gazed at nothing; then, meeting Lily’s eyes, he scowled. “I am glad she will have someone else’s backbone to borrow, since apparently she has none of her own.”

  Lily bit back a sharp retort at the unkind words. Frank’s father had just died, she reminded herself. He could be forgiven for whatever petulance or unhappiness he might currently feel. And better he said it to her than to his father’s widow. “I will see what I can do for Lady Wyatt.”

  He nodded. “Thank you, Lily.” Shaking his head, he muttered, “God knows how we are going to get through this.”

  Lily watched him leave. Mr. Page had not, in fact, suggested that it had been one of the servants. He had merely said he wished to speak to them.

  He had also said he wanted to speak to the members of the family. Which meant … Lily held back a shiver. She had known the Wyatts for as long as she could remember. It was almost impossible to believe that Sir Charles was dead.

  It was even more impossible to think that someone in the house had likely killed him.

  Lily watched the parlor door swing closed behind Frank, then turned to the young maid. “Lead on, Ellen.” She squared her shoulders. “Let us see how I might be of service.”

  * * *

  “There must be some mistake.”

  The utter certainty in Lady Wyatt’s voice was heartbreaking. She looked as if she had made it halfway through her preparations for the day before her husband’s death was discovered. She had dressed, and someone had begun fixing her hair, but enough curls were still loose to create a wild halo around her head. Her face was pale and splotchy, and her eyes were red. And though her denial was firm, there was an undercurrent of desperation, almost panic in her expression. She shook her head, her fingers worrying at a handkerchief over and over until Lily wondered if there would be anything left of it but threads before the day was done.

  “I am afraid I saw it with my own eyes, Lady Wyatt,” she said, as gently as possible. “And the gentleman from Bow Street will now need to speak with you.”

  Lady Wyatt shook her head, her expression suddenly furious. “My husband has died, Mrs. Adler, and that man down there wishes—” She broke off, her entire body suddenly wilting, the energy and fury gone. “Does he think I did it, then? Is that why—” She raised her handkerchief to her mouth, unable to cover the sob that escaped.

  “I am sure it is nothing of the sort,” Lily said quickly, taking Lady Wyatt’s hands in her own, wanting to offer some kind of comfort. The rich green fabric of her riding habit suddenly seemed inappropriate, and for a moment Lily wished she were still wearing her mourning colors. “He needs to speak to everyone, not only you. And Frank—”

  “Wants nothing to do with me, I am sure,” Lady Wyatt snapped, pulling away suddenly and rising. She paced around the room, her hands fluttering at her sides, clenching and unclenching as if she had no idea what to do with them. “You needn’t try to pretend that it occurred to him to offer me any comfort or assistance.”

  Lily, thinking of Frank’s unkind remarks, couldn’t argue. Unkind and untrue, it seemed. Watching Lady Wyatt visibly pull herself together, Lily reflected that the woman had plenty of backbone.

  “I am grateful for your kindness, Mrs. Adler, but I will not speak to the man from Bow Street.” Lady Wyatt finally drew to a halt in the middle of the room and lifted her chin. But she wrapped her arms around herself, as if she were trying to hold herself together through sheer force of will. Her fingers dug in so sharply that they dimpled the skin, and Lily feared they would leave bruises. “You will, I hope, be so good as to tell him.”

  “Then he will return,” Lily said gently. “Please, allow me to help you prepare yourself. If you speak with him today, that can be the end of it.”

  “I cannot.” Lady Wyatt turned away quickly, but not before Lily saw tears breaking through her composure. Lady Wyatt sank onto the settee at the foot of her bed. Holding back a sob, she gasped, “I wouldn’t even know what to say. Please.” For a moment she sounded very young. The tears were visible on her cheeks now. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Lily hesitated for only a moment. She barely knew Lady Wyatt. But she remembered what it felt like to be that lost, that overwhelmed. She crossed the room and took a seat as well.

  “Start by letting yourself cry,” she said, taking the other woman’s hands in her own once more. “Hold yourself together in public, if you must. But first, give yourself a moment to grieve.”

  Lady Wyatt dropped her head onto Lily’s shoulder, and her sobs shook both of them for several minutes. Lily didn’t move, not even to brush away her own tears, until Lady Wyatt lifted her head at last.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Adler.” She took a deep, shaking breath, wiping away the tears that lingered on her cheeks. “And I am sorry. God knows what you must think of me.”

  “You needn’t apologize,” Lily said past the lump in her own throat as she stood. On the dressing table on the other side of the room, she found a bottle of lavender water and a handkerchief. Upending the bottle onto the soft cotton, she handed it to Lady Wyatt so the woman could bathe her face. The light floral scent made Lily feel calmer as well, and she took a deep breath of her own.

  Lady Wyatt nodded. “And yet you still advise me to speak to the man from Bow Street?”

  “I do,” Lily said gently.

  Lady Wyatt nodded again. For a moment she stared ahead, unseeing, her fingers again twisting the handkerchief in her lap. Then she stood, gathering her composure around her like a cloak. Lifting her chin, she moved to sit at the dressing table, meeting Lily’s eyes in the mirror. “You said when you came in that you have had cause to deal with Bow Street before?”

  “I have. It was not … It is not something any lady would choose,” Lily said carefully. She had great respect for Mr. Page, but having to deal with the new police force would make anyone uneasy. “But I can say with confidence that Mr. Page is a respectful and respectable man.”

  Lady Wyatt opened a box of pins, her movements deliberate and careful though her hands were still shaking. “What do you think he will want to know?”

  Lily watched in the mirror as Lady Wyatt began to fix her hair. “I imagine he will wish to know where you were last night.”

  “Here, of course.” Lady Wyatt frowned. “Where else would I be? Nothing is happening in town this time of year.”

  “Will you be able to tell him what time you retired for the night?”

  Lady Wyatt’s hands fluttered helplessly for a moment. “Early, I suppose. Does anyone ever know what time they retire for the night?”

  It was a fair point, Lily had to acknowledge. “Likely not. And …” She hesitated, unsure how blunt to be. But Mr. Page had asked her to find out what she could. And Lady Wyatt would be less guarded with a woman of her own class than with her unwanted inquisitor downstairs. “He will wish to know whether you were concerned when your husband never came to bed.”

  Lady Wyatt turned to stare at her, aghast. “Surely he would not expect me to … Not something so private!”

  Lily grimaced, deeply uncomfortable. “I am afraid he will. If it is anything like the …” She hesitated, knowing how odd it would seem if she appeared overly familiar with either the new police force or the investigation of murder. “If it is a
nything like the last time I had to deal with one of the Bow Street gentlemen, he will need to account for the whereabouts of everyone in the family and house at the time of Sir Charles’s death. Merely as a formality, I am sure,” she added quickly. “I am sure he does not believe you will tell him anything untoward.”

  Lady Wyatt’s cheeks were bright with fury. “If he is a gentleman as you say, he would not ask such questions,” she bit off, stabbing pins into her chignon.

  “I do not think he has a choice in the matter,” Lily said, momentarily wishing Mr. Page were there so she could let him know exactly what she thought of his putting her in such an uncomfortable position. But Lady Wyatt’s anger—an easier emotion to express than grief, no doubt—made her realize he had been right to ask. Better for Lady Wyatt to hear such questions from her first, with the chance to bring her emotions under control and prepare herself, than from Mr. Page, likely with her stepson’s eyes on her at the same time.

  Lady Wyatt’s laugh was mostly a sob, and she dropped her head into her hands, pins scattering on the dressing table in front of her. “We keep separate rooms,” she said, her voice muffled by her palms. She was very still for a moment. Then she lifted her head once more, her expression grim as she continued to apply herself to her hair. “Surely this Mr. Page will find nothing surprising in that.”

  He likely would not. It was common among the upper classes for a husband and wife to maintain separate bedrooms—sometimes entirely separate wings of the house, depending on the resources of the family and the size of their home. Mr. Page would have been among them enough to know that.

  “I am sure that is all he will need to ask you, ma’am.” Lily swallowed, remembering how lost she had felt after her own husband’s death. And what Lady Wyatt would now suffer was a thousand times worse—not only was her husband dead, but someone had taken his life deliberately. And, whether she realized it or not, unless the murder could be accounted for, suspicion about his death would always hover at the edges of her life.