Silence in the Library

by Katharine Schellman

  “There used to be a different one,” Percy said, shrugging. “She moved into a different position when my uncle married. She serves as Lady Wyatt’s maid now.”

  Wilkes. Lily suddenly remembered seeing the lady’s maid searching frantically through Sir Charles’s study. She exchanged a glance with Mr. Page, who frowned, then nodded.

  Percy Wyatt was watching them. “Is there anything else you need from me?” he demanded, surly again. “Or may I continue with my day?”

  “With your assignation, you mean?” Mr. Page said, his expression stern. He shook his head. “I will never understand men like you.”

  Percy Wyatt gave him a pitying look. “The middle classes can never hope to,” he said dismissively.

  “Yes, there is something else,” Lily said quickly, interrupting before the argument could escalate. “Mr. Wyatt, you seem to deal very well with your cousin Arthur.”

  “Well, why should I not?” Percy said, looking defensive. “Do you think everyone dislikes me just because you do?”

  Lily raised her brows. “I never said I dislike you, Mr. Wyatt. And that was not the point I was making. But now you bring it up, it is surprising that you should have so much more patience with him than his own brother.”

  “Well.” Percy hesitated, scowling, a blush sweeping up his neck and face. “It is rather nice, isn’t it, to be the person someone likes best?”

  Lily suddenly understood. “You mean because he didn’t like Frank? You wanted to be the person Arthur liked best, once it was clear that Frank dealt so poorly with him.”

  Percy’s scowl grew. “Frank is always the favorite one,” he muttered. “Everyone likes him best. And why not? He’s handsome, and cheerful, and he never has to beg off going out because his allowance doesn’t cover his debts. But Arthur likes me better, and I understand him better than Frank ever has. My uncle was always pleased to see me getting on well with him.”

  Lily couldn’t help laughing, in spite of the gravity of the situation. She understood, better than Percy Wyatt could likely imagine, what it felt like to be second to Frank.

  “Well, whatever the reason, I think Mr. Page could use your help.”

  Mr. Page looked horrified. “His help?”

  “Yes, his,” Lily said firmly. “Do you think, Mr. Wyatt, you could help persuade Arthur to speak to Mr. Page? If he did see or hear something about his father’s murder, Bow Street needs to know what it was.”

  “Arthur does not like strangers.”

  “Which is why your assistance would be so invaluable.” Lily managed not to grimace as she said it. She had no interest in playing to the vanity of a man like Percy Wyatt, but desperate times … “Please. You may be the only one who can help to keep him safe.”

  Percy hesitated, then nodded. “And if you truly think he is unsafe, we ought to think about removing him from the house,” he added, surprising Lily with the suggestion.

  But it was a good idea. “We will think of something,” she promised, glancing at Mr. Page, who nodded his agreement. “In the meantime, do you think you can return to your uncle’s house without exciting too much comment?”

  “Certainly, since I am staying there,” Percy remarked dryly.

  Mr. Page’s eyes narrowed. “Since when?”

  “Since yesterday.” Percy sighed. “Arthur needs someone to keep an eye on him.”

  “Then will you meet us in the kitchen of your uncle’s house—”

  “The kitchen?” Percy interrupted, looking horrified.

  “The kitchen,” Lily said firmly, thinking of Mrs. Harris, the housekeeper. There was every chance Frank and Lady Wyatt wouldn’t let Mr. Page through the front door. And … she shivered a little, remembering Frank’s odd nighttime visit to her home. She didn’t want to see him again. Not yet. She glanced at Mr. Page. “Let us meet at …”

  “One o’clock,” Mr. Page said, taking her arm as if to lead her away. “And if you are not there, Mr. Wyatt, I will know where to find you.”

  “Yes, very well,” Percy said sharply. “If my cousin’s well-being is at stake, you can be assured I will be there. Now, if you would be so good as to let Mrs. Preston know she is free to go about her business?”

  CHAPTER 21

  “I don’t see why you needed to be here as well,” Simon grumbled, eyeing Mrs. Adler out of the corner of his eye as they waited belowstairs in the Wyatts’ home.

  The housekeeper, Mrs. Harris, had been expecting them—Mrs. Adler had sent a message through the captain’s boy, Jem. After sharply telling two maids to go on with their business and keep their mouths quiet, Mrs. Harris had shown them to the housekeeper’s room, where they could wait out of sight.

  “They won’t say anything,” Mrs. Harris had said confidently, speaking in a whisper as she brought them a tea tray. “Ellen’s death has left everyone that spooked. And no one will come out and say it, but there’s a whisper of a feeling that Mr. Frank must be the one as is responsible.”

  Lily had poured for them as soon as Mrs. Harris was gone, then eyed Simon over the rim of her teacup. “Do you think they are right?”

  Simon had frowned into his own cup. He wasn’t thirsty, but there was, as always, something deeply comforting about the familiar ritual of serving and sharing tea. He saw a lot of ugliness in his work. He wasn’t about to say no to a moment of comfort.

  “He seems the most likely,” Simon had said at last. “He had the opportunity to poison Ellen, especially as her room was apart from the rest of the servants. No one would have questioned him coming and going there; they would have just assumed he was visiting his brother. And he had the most to gain from his father’s death. If he is the one spreading those rumors about Arthur, he potentially has even more to gain.” Mrs. Adler hadn’t tried to hide her grimace at his words. “But you disagree, and you know him better than I.”

  He saw her hesitate and thought she shivered a little, as though she was remembering something she would rather not. “He does have the most to gain, certainly,” she had said at last, while he wondered what she was not telling him. “But when I try to imagine him increasing his inheritance, it is almost … to prove that he was indeed his father’s favorite. Not for any material gain. And I could never imagine him killing for money. Especially not his father. They were so close. They agreed on nearly everything.”

  “Nearly everything?”

  “Well.” Her smile had been a little grim. “As we have seen, he was not terribly fond of his father’s second marriage.”

  Simon had stirred his tea, thinking. “That could be reason enough. If Mr. Wyatt saw Sir Charles’s marriage as a betrayal—of him, of his mother’s memory, what have you—might he have wanted to punish his father?”

  “What a horrible …” Mrs. Adler had trailed off at that point, her expression growing almost fearful, before she shook her head. “If his father’s marriage was indeed enough to arouse such fury, he had a much easier target to set his sights on. One that would not have required him to harm a parent.”

  “You mean Lady Wyatt?”

  “I do.” She had shivered again. “Horrid thought. But as she is well and unharmed …”

  It was a reasonable point, if one considered murder reasonable. And in Simon’s experience, murder was often at least logical, if not reasonable. Very few people were driven to kill. Those who were rarely did it for no reason.

  “Where does that leave us?” she had continued.

  That was when Simon turned to give her what he intended to be a sharp glare but suspected had more of a grumpy pout to it than he’d wanted. When he had asked Mrs. Adler for her assistance on that first day of his investigation, he hadn’t expected that she would take it as an invitation to include herself in the rest of it. But now he had no idea how to get rid of her—and even more, he suspected he didn’t want to.

  Still …

  “I don’t see why you needed to be here as well.”

  She raised her eyebrows at him. “Do you want me to go?”

&n
bsp; “Yes.”

  “Shame. You will have to make quite a scene to remove me from the premises, and I somehow doubt you want to do that.” She lifted her teacup to her lips again.

  He had expected, after the first time she was forced to encounter the ugliness of murder, that she would never want anything to do with it again. But here she was, still insisting on being involved, no matter how many opportunities he gave her to leave. “This is not a game, Mrs. Adler.”

  “No, it is not.” She replaced her cup sharply on its saucer, the clatter of the china loud in the quiet room. “Two people have died. And forgive me, sir, but I recall being of rather significant help a time or two in the last few days. Who’s to say I will not be again?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Why do you?” she demanded. It was a question she had asked him before, the last time they’d found themselves on the same side of a murder, and it made him look away, embarrassed, just as it had then. “I may not have seen Sir Charles in years, but I knew him as a child. But you? Your magistrate has given you the perfect excuse to be done. Your colleagues think you’re wasting your time. So why are you still here?”

  He met her eyes. “Two people have died.”

  “You want to believe that because your father worked for a living and mine was a gentleman, we can never see the world the same way. In some respects, you are certainly right. But I would have thought that in your line of work, you would see that people are just people, the ugly and the good and the cruel and the kind all mixed up together, no matter where or how or to whom they were born.”

  Simon stared at her, unable to think of a reply. He believed that with all his soul, and it was why the way men like the Wyatts treated him rankled him so deeply. It had not occurred to him, seeing the respect they gave a woman like Mrs. Adler, that they looked down on her as well. But of course they did. He had too, once upon a time.

  “The world has told you that because your father worked for a living, your worth will never be but so high?” She shrugged. “Well, it has told me the same thing because I was not the child my father wanted. You do not want to admit that we are alike, you and I.” She poured herself a second cup of tea, and Simon noticed that her hands were shaking. She, who always seemed so cool and calm, was trembling with emotion. “But one of these days, you shall have to.”

  She looked back up at him, a firm smile on her face. “And until that happens, you’ll not get rid of me easily.”

  Simon cleared his throat. “I should have learned the last time not to argue with you.”

  She patted his hand. “Everyone learns not to argue with me eventually. Except my father. That man will never learn.”

  “He was disappointed you were not a son?”

  To his surprise, she blushed. “That was the part of my rant that you want to talk about?” she snapped, exasperated. “Yes, he wanted a son. He has never—”

  “Then he’s a fool.”

  Whatever else she might have said was lost as she stared at him, mouth still open in an argument, shock in her eyes. For a long moment, neither of them knew what to say.

  Mrs. Adler glanced up at the ceiling, clearing her throat. “It is rather chilling to realize there is likely a murderer in this house with us, is it not?”

  Simon nodded, grateful for the change of topic. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now, but it never becomes more normal,” he said. “Although, until we find out exactly what happened to this maid Edie, I’m not ruling her out.”

  He was about to wonder out loud when the irritating Percy Wyatt would arrive when the man himself suddenly burst in, slamming the door behind him and staring at them with wide eyes. His normally impeccable appearance was rumpled, and his hair stood on end, as though he had been pulling at it in frustration.

  “I tried to talk to Arthur,” he announced. “I think you were right. He knows something.”

  Simon and Mrs. Adler had both started to their feet with surprise; they now exchanged a look that was equal parts excitement and alarm.

  “What did he say?” Simon demanded.

  Percy Wyatt strode around the small room, as though he couldn’t bear to keep his feet still. “I asked him if he remembered anything from the night his father died. If he had told Ellen anything. And he said …” He glanced at Mrs. Adler. “He kept repeating, ‘Ellen says I’m to be quiet like a mouse. I’m not to talk about it; I’m to be quiet like a mouse.’ But that was all he would say. He stopped talking to me when I tried to press for more.” Percy sank into one of the chairs. “Do you think I should tell Frank? He always says Arthur is a half-wit, which is not true, but if he knows something about my uncle’s death, even Frank would believe him, don’t you think?”

  “No,” Simon said quickly, and perhaps a bit too loudly. Both Mrs. Adler and Percy looked at him in surprise. He cleared his throat. “We don’t want word getting around. This has to stay as secret as possible, for Arthur’s safety, until we can discover what he knows.”

  “Then we ought to remove him from the house,” Mrs. Adler said briskly. “Somewhere he will not be in danger. Do you think your cousin or aunt will object?”

  “Lady Wyatt will have no objections; she dislikes having him around.” Percy sighed. “And Frank—he may object, but he doesn’t often take much interest in Arthur’s care. I think I can bring him around easily enough.”

  “You could even tell them you are returning home and taking Arthur to stay with you, just as a precaution,” Simon suggested.

  He didn’t add in case it is one of them that means him harm, though he thought it. He wasn’t convinced that Percy Wyatt had realized that either his cousin or his aunt could very well be the guilty party. Instead, he crossed to the door and pulled it open. To his relief, Mrs. Harris had remained nearby, going through household inventories in the room just across the hall while she kept an eye on them. As soon as she saw Simon looking for her, she set down her pen and hurried to him.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Simon gestured her inside, then closed the door. “Master Arthur Wyatt will be spending some time away from the house,” he said quietly. “You will need to have a maid you trust begin preparing his things. Immediately. His cousin will go to him and explain the situation.”

  Mrs. Harris cast a worried glance toward Percy, who nodded impatiently. “Yes, sir,” she said. “How long a visit will he make?”

  “Until it is safe for him to return,” Mrs. Adler said quietly. Mrs. Harris looked stricken, but she nodded again.

  ”But where can he go?” Percy demanded. “It will need to be somewhere with the space to accommodate him, and staff with enough patience to care for him.”

  “And somewhere with no connection to the Wyatts. Which means none of us can take him in.” Simon raised an inquiring brow at Mrs. Adler. “Do you have any ideas?”

  She looked thoughtful. “I believe I know somewhere that might work.”

  Simon shook his head. “Of course you do. In the meantime”—he turned back to Mrs. Harris—“I need to speak to Lady Wyatt’s maid, Wilkes, immediately.”

  “Wilkes?” Mrs. Harris frowned, looking unhappy. “Begging your pardon sir, but Wilkes isn’t here. She was dismissed this morning. And …” Mrs. Harris’s expression grew puzzled. “Mr. Wyatt just sent one of the footmen to Bow Street with a message for you, Mr. Page. He wants you to call as soon as can be.”

  For a moment, all of them stared at her in silence. Simon exchanged a surprised look with Mrs. Adler.

  “Well,” she said slowly. “You ought not to keep him waiting.”

  CHAPTER 22

  “Mr. Page.” The greeting was the most polite Frank Wyatt had yet offered him. In fact, the young man sounded positively relieved when he entered the drawing room and found Simon waiting for him. “Thank you for calling so quickly.”

  “I was surprised to receive your summons,” Simon said carefully, his face giving none of his feelings away.

  Frank grimaced. “I know you have not found me p
articularly forthcoming,” he said quietly. “I hope you can understand that this entire situation has been so very … so very distressing. So very confusing. One does not know what to think. I just wanted the whole business to go away.”

  “And now?”

  Frank wavered for a moment, glancing around the room as if he wanted to look at anything but the constable in front of him. Then his expression firmed, and he met Simon’s eyes. “I am worried I know who is responsible for my father’s death.”

  It wasn’t the last thing Simon had expected him to say, but it was close. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I have had to dismiss Lady Wyatt’s maid,” Frank said, starting to pace around the room as though he was too agitated to keep his feet still. “The official reason is that we have cause to suspect she was spreading rumors about my family. But I believe …”

  Simon couldn’t stop the skeptical lift of his eyebrows. He had met Wilkes, and she barely reached his shoulder. “You believe she killed your father?”

  “No, I …” Frank glanced out the window, then snapped the curtains shut and spun back around. “You saw me down there, did you not? With that man with the scar? That is how you knew about him. You saw us out the window.”

  “I did.”

  “And then I told you he was a laborer whose work we no longer needed.”

  “You did.”

  “I lied.” Frank swallowed, lifting his chin. “I think he may have killed my father.”

  Simon stared at Frank, not speaking, while the words hung in the air between them. “What reason would he have to do that?” the Bow Street constable asked softly. “And what does that have to do with your aunt’s maid?”

  Frank resumed his distressed pacing around the room. “He’s married to a girl, a sordid little thing, who used to work here. She …” Frank hesitated, fiddling with an ornament on the mantel, his face flushing. “You are a man of the world, I suppose. You know the sorts of things maids get up to.”