Silence in the Library

by Katharine Schellman

  She raised her teacup to him in a salute.

  “So.” Mr. Page cleared his throat. There was silence in the room as he scanned the paper in his hands. “Mr. Hammond was understandably reluctant to leave a copy of the will with me. But he did allow me to read it and take notes. It appears that after Sir Charles’s death, Frank inherits half of his wealth and property. Most of the other half is set aside for Arthur’s care, to go to Frank after his death if he should outlive his brother.”

  “Most of the other half,” Lily repeated. She steepled her fingers together, pressing them against her lips as she regarded Mr. Page through narrowed, thoughtful eyes. “What about Lady Wyatt?”

  “As they had no children together, Lady Wyatt receives little of her husband’s estate,” Mr. Page said, his voice even. Lily’s eyebrows shot up in shock, and she could feel Ofelia and Jack shifting with surprise. “She’s entitled to a widow’s jointure until she remarries, amounting to about one hundred pounds per annum.” He raised his head, taking in their stunned expressions, and scowled. “It’s a far greater sum than many in this city have to support entire families.”

  “But far less than she has grown accustomed to living on,” Jack pointed out. “I think that makes Lady Wyatt an unlikely murderer, even if we ignore the physical difficulties.”

  “She mightn’t have known before she killed him,” Ofelia said.

  “She would have to be a very stupid murderer not to find out that information before she did the deed,” Jack said, shaking his head. “And she did not strike me as stupid.”

  “If money was the motive,” Lily said quietly, still watching Mr. Page. Since he had pointed out her blind spot, she had been determined to regard Lady Wyatt with the same skepticism as anyone else in the family, even if her impulse was to sympathize with the woman.

  Mr. Page nodded. “The same could be said for Mr. Percy Wyatt. He also receives one hundred pounds per annum, though he also has his own income left to him by his parents.”

  “Money would be a likely motive for him,” Jack said. “We know he has debts and that he is very stupid about managing them.”

  “And there is the matter of his sneaking out at night,” Lily said. “I discovered when I visited his home that he was not telling the truth about his actions the night of Sir Charles’s death.”

  “Visited.” Mr. Page snorted. “What a charming word for breaking in, ma’am.”

  “The servant let me in,” Lily said, shrugging. “I did not have to break anything.”

  Ofelia laughed, but Mr. Page shook his head. “We’ll have words about your methods later, Mrs. Adler. But what you learned was helpful. He certainly had the opportunity to kill his uncle. If there’s a woman in the case—whether his mistress or one he wants to marry—it could go a long way towards explaining why he chose now to act. Because I doubt his debts are new.”

  “Unless his uncle was going to increase his inheritance,” Lily pointed out. “That would give him plenty of motive not to kill him before the will could be changed.”

  “If he was telling the truth,” Jack said. “Which seems unlikely to me. What man would make the nephew who tried to steal from him his heir? He would be more likely to disinherit him.”

  “Which would give Percy Wyatt reason to act quickly and secure what he could,” Mr. Page agreed.

  “But an extra hundred pounds a year?” Ofelia made a face. “That would not do much.”

  “Plenty of people have killed for less,” Mr. Page said, sounding exasperated. “The three of you have very little idea of how much money that actually is.”

  “But to a gentleman with significant debts, one prone to gambling and horse racing, it is not very much,” Lily pointed out. “We may have our blind spots, Mr. Page, but you have them as well. Which is why you originally asked us to assist you, if you recall.”

  He scowled again, then sighed and returned to his notes. “A few small bequests to other relatives and old servants. And then a bequest I can’t account for, producing an income of about twenty pounds a year, to someone in Kent. Mr. Hammond could not explain it either. The other bequests make note of the family relationships, the servants’ long years of service, Sir Charles’s affection or gratitude, et cetera. But this one simply states who receives it.” He eyed his audience. “Anyone care to venture a guess?”

  The other three shook their heads; Mr. Page nodded, unsurprised, and folded the piece of paper, returning it to his pocket.

  “There was one other odd thing,” he continued. “The last time I was at Wimpole Street, I observed something peculiar. Mr. Frank Wyatt was making what seemed to be a clandestine payment out the kitchen door to an imposing, rough-looking man. According to Mr. Wyatt, the fellow was a laborer whose services were no longer needed—something about repairs not being necessary since Sir Charles’s death. But Mr. Wyatt would have no need to be afraid of a laborer, nor to lie to me about him. And I would swear that both those things are true.”

  Lily frowned. “Who do you think he really is?”

  “I don’t know.” Mr. Page clasped his hands behind his back. “But it’s something odd, as I said. And in a case like this, anything odd might be important.”

  Before any of them could answer, there was a timid tap on the door of the drawing room. Anna poked her head around the door, her eyes wide and fixed on Jack. “Begging your pardon for interrupting,” she murmured as she came in, her voice hoarse with anxiety. “But young Jem just came rushing into the kitchen with a message. He says it’s urgent that he speak to you right away, sir.”

  Lily exchanged a swift look with Jack. Jem had been continuing to spend his time in and around Wimpole Street. If he was rushing to them with a message, there was little chance it was a good thing.

  “Do you want to go down to the kitchens to speak with him, or should I bring him up?”

  Jack hesitated. “Bring him up, if you please. If he is rushing over here with news, it is either very good or very bad. And either way, Mr. Page should hear it as well.”

  “Where has he been?” Mr. Page asked, the question so deliberately calm that it made Lily wince. She had forgotten until now that he didn’t know what task she and Jack had given Jem.

  “I asked him to keep an eye on Wimpole Street, make himself known belowstairs if he could,” Jack said, meeting the Bow Street constable’s eyes as if daring him to object. “He’s an engaging little fellow. And servants are good for news.”

  Mr. Page looked like he wanted to protest. Then he let out a deep sigh, the fight going out of him, and shook his head. “So it seems. I suppose I thank you.”

  “You sound as if it gives you a toothache to say so,” Ofelia said.

  Mr. Page smiled grimly. “It does.”

  Jem’s eyes were wide as Anna shooed him into the room, taking in every inch of the comfortable, luxurious house. He had been in Lily’s kitchen before but never upstairs, and he craned his neck to look around before Anna gave him a gentle tap on the back of the head.

  “Mind your manners. What did you need to tell the captain?”

  The gangly boy planted his feet firmly apart, hands clasped behind his back and chin raised as if he were making a report. But he hesitated, glancing around the room at his larger-than-expected audience. His eyes lingered warily on Mr. Page; and he looked away quickly, shifting his weight with embarrassment, when he realized Ofelia was in the room. Lily would have smiled if she hadn’t been so anxious about the message.

  Jem gave the room a stiff little bow. “Sir,” he said, looking at Jack, but still he hesitated.

  “Spit it out, Jem. I can tell by your face you have no good news for us. And that gentleman”—Jack nodded in Mr. Page’s direction—“is an officer of Bow Street, so the matter concerns him as well.”

  Jem’s eyes had grown even wider, and he gulped audibly before nodding. “It’s no good news, Captain, as you say. There’s been …” Still he hesitated, glancing at Ofelia again, as if unhappy to say what he must in her presence. He low
ered his voice. “There’s been another death at Wimpole Street. She felt ill this morning and went to lie down, then started having horrible pains in her belly. By the afternoon she was dead in her bed. The doctor is saying that she was sick. But Mrs. Harris, the housekeeper, is sure it was not natural. And she remembered Mrs. Adler from her helping Thomas and sent me with the message.”

  Lily’s hand tightened on the arm of the settee; beside her, she heard the rattling of china as Ofelia set down her teacup with a clatter. Jack drew in a sharp breath. Mr. Page showed almost as little reaction as Lily herself, only a sudden tension in his jaw and the muscles around his mouth betraying his unhappiness.

  “Who has died?” Jack asked gently.

  Jem gulped again. “That girl as came here before, sir. The maid, Ellen.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Simon didn’t stay long at the cozy house on Half Moon Street after that. The Wyatts were likely hoping to keep the death of their maid quiet, but thanks to the Captain’s servant boy, he had the jump on them. He intended to pursue it when they were least expecting his interference.

  Mrs. Adler followed him out to the hall when he took his leave, frowning in worry. It was an expression she would never have let him see once upon a time; Mrs. Adler showed her emotions only to those she trusted.

  At the moment, though, he would have been glad to be spared that trust, because it came with an interrogation.

  “Why were you angry?” she asked as she handed him his hat.

  Simon scowled, then quickly resumed his own cool expression. She wasn’t the only one skilled at keeping her feelings hidden. “It’s a murder, Mrs. Adler, and a particularly frustrating one at that, when the family is doing their best to keep me at arm’s length.”

  “But that was not it.” She studied his face. “You are calm and collected when you discuss your investigation. You are even”—a slight smile—“calm and collected when you discuss your annoyance with me. But you were angry when you were discussing your colleagues at Bow Street.”

  “They think the matter has been adequately explained away,” he pointed out. “And I do not.”

  Mrs. Adler was silent a long moment. “And that was all?”

  It took some effort to meet her eyes impassively. He had surprised himself by how much of his professional work he was willing to share with this unusual woman. But she wasn’t entitled to his personal life.

  “That was all. Now, I want to get a jump on the Wyatts, but before I go, was there anything else you could tell me about the maid? Anything she said to you that you haven’t mentioned yet?”

  Mrs. Adler frowned, shaking her head. “There was nothing. I’ve not even heard from her since …” She trailed off, her eyes growing suddenly wide. “Oh no.”

  Before Simon could ask what was wrong, Mrs. Adler had spun around and dashed back into the drawing room; she reappeared a moment later with a letter in her hand, already ripping open the seal even as she moved toward him. As she read it, her face grew pale. And when she lifted her eyes toward him, they were wide with horror.

  “I told her to write me if there was anything else,” Mrs. Adler whispered, holding the paper out to him. Simon took it slowly. “But her letter was mislaid yesterday. I did not …” She swallowed, blinking rapidly as she turned her head aside.

  He looked down at the penciled lines of neat capital letters, feeling a vise clench around his chest.

  DEAR MRS. ADLER,

  I LEARNED SOMETHING THAT HAPPENED THE NIGHT SIR CHARLES DIED, AND YOU MUST KNOW IT RIGHT AWAY, BUT I CANNOT LEAVE THE HOUSE AS I HAVE BEEN SUDDENLY SICK, AND I AM SCARED TO WRITE IT DOWN IN CASE SOMEONE FINDS THIS BEFORE THOMAS CAN POST IT. I AM SORRY TO ASK YOU TO COME TO ME, BUT PLEASE, MRS. ADLER. IT IS VERY IMPORTANT.

  RESPECTFULLY YOURS,

  ELLEN COOK

  “She knew something,” Mrs. Adler whispered.

  It took Simon a long moment to look up from the paper. “Yes,” he agreed quietly.

  “And she …” Mrs. Adler looked away, and he could see her swallow rapidly, as if she were about to be ill. “Do you think someone killed her for it?”

  “Perhaps.” Simon jammed his hat on his head, a sudden wave of anger washing through him. “Whatever happened, I shall find out.” Mrs. Adler flinched at the fury in his voice, but he barely noticed. “If you will excuse me.”

  He was nearly at the door when she spoke, her voice smaller and more pained than he had ever heard it before. “Would she still be alive, do you think, if I had read her letter sooner?”

  Simon turned back slowly. Mrs. Adler stood in the middle of the hallway, her hands clenched into fists by her sides, chin up and cheeks pale as she regarded him steadily.

  “There’s no way of knowing,” he said, surprising himself with how gentle his voice sounded. “But I do know one thing, madam—whatever happened, you aren’t the one responsible. And I intend to find whoever is.”

  Mrs. Adler nodded, her mouth trembling. “That is two things,” she pointed out softly, attempting a smile, though the effort failed. Simon snorted. “Will you tell me what you discover?”

  Another day he might have hesitated to agree. But he could still see her hands trembling, see the brittle stiffness of her shoulders and the guilt that filled her eyes.

  Simon nodded. “I will. We’ll find who is responsible for this. I promise.”

  * * *

  “I do not know how you came to be here or to hear of our private affairs, but your presence is most unwelcome.”

  Simon raised his brows. “Mr. Wyatt, your father has been murdered. And now there has been a second death in your home not even a week later. These are no longer your private affairs. I would like to see the body and the room where she was found.”

  “The girl became ill and died, sir. It is a tragedy, but not out of the ordinary for the lower classes. They often suffer from poor health.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  Frank glanced at the clock, then shook his head. “I am afraid I have other matters to attend to at the moment.” He ran an agitated hand through his hair. Then, changing tactics, he offered Simon a wan smile, as if hoping for sympathy. “My father’s affairs require a great deal of attention. It isn’t as if he had time to put them in order.”

  “Of course, Mr. Wyatt. I’m happy to show myself down to the servants’ hall and ask questions without you accompanying me.”

  “No, that … No.” Frank Wyatt’s mouth drew into a thin line of irritation. The skin under his eyes was dark with fatigue, and his movements seemed jittery, as though he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands and feet. “Wait here,” he sighed. “I will see what can be arranged.”

  “Certainly,” Simon said, forcing himself to be polite even in the face of the young man’s hostility.

  Frank Wyatt returned sooner than Simon had expected, accompanied by a somberly dressed man carrying a large black bag and holding his hat in his hand. His white hair was thinning on top, and his face was creased with a web of cheerful lines. He stood deferentially behind Mr. Wyatt as he entered before stepping forward to shake Simon’s hand.

  “Mr. Page of Bow Street? How do you do? I’m Dr. Shaw. I understand from Mr. Wyatt that you have some concerns regarding the young girl’s death?”

  “Indeed.” Simon planted his feet wide, his expression stern. He had a great deal of respect for professional men, but Dr. Shaw’s posture was too subservient for his taste. It put him on edge. “Given that one murder took place in this house so recently”—out of the corner of his eye, Simon saw Frank Wyatt flinch—“I’m sure you can understand why I’m suspicious of any death occurring so soon afterwards.”

  “Certainly, certainly.” Dr. Shaw nodded, glancing a moment at Frank before continuing. “However, it seems that this particular death is little more than a random act of God. The girl, according to the housekeeper, suffered from some distress of the stomach yesterday and again this morning. Nothing too severe, but enough pain that after the morning’s work, she was very
fatigued. Mrs. Harris—a very competent woman,” he added, beaming. “A most excellent housekeeper, I am sure—Mrs. Harris sent her to bed. An hour later, the girl suffered from intense pain in the stomach and chest, along with a gasping shortness of breath. She died shortly afterwards.”

  “Poor girl,” said Frank, covering his eyes as he turned away. He went to the window and stared out, one hand on the wall, as if his mind were a million miles away. But Simon had the impression he was still listening closely to what was being said.

  Simon kept his eyes on the doctor and his thoughts off his face. “And what was your diagnosis, doctor?”

  Dr. Shaw sighed. “In a case like this, one usually thinks of a problem with the food. But Mrs. Harris tells me the girl had not yet had her half day this week, nor been out of the house for errands. Everything she ate would have also been eaten by the rest of the staff, and no one else showed any signs of distress or illness. One often sees these symptoms—the pain, the illness in the stomach, the difficulty breathing—when there is trouble with the heart.”

  Simon didn’t bother trying to hide his surprise. “I spoke to this girl, Ellen, just the other day. She couldn’t have been older than twenty.”

  “Twenty-two,” Frank Wyatt put in, still looking out the window.

  “Still.”

  “It is rare but not unheard of, even in a person so young. And Mr. Wyatt tells me that this girl—Ellie, you said her name was?”

  Simon could barely keep the anger from his face. For the doctor to not even remember the name of the person he had examined was infuriating. But Shaw continued, apparently unaware or unashamed of his own lack of concern.

  “Mr. Wyatt informs me that she was often sickly.” Dr. Shaw shook his head. “Medicine has made incredible advances, Constable, but so much of the human body remains a mystery to us.”