“It’s a list of where everyone was when you heard the commotion in the barn.”
He rubbed his chin in a movement that reminded me of Mycroft. “Who is Chanda?”
“Miss Meredith’s Indian maid. She would have been with the other servants in their upstairs quarters.”
“No she wasn’t. When I told everyone to go to the barn, Uncle Siger told Mummy to stay in the house, and she took me upstairs to my bedroom and scolded Miss Bowen for letting me go outside. On the way, I saw that foreign woman run toward the kitchen from the greenhouse.”
“You’re certain it was her? And she came from the greenhouse?”
“She had on a gray coat, but I saw her yellow dress underneath it. And there’s nothing else down the hall that way, is there?”
I stared at him, and he blinked back. He was more observant than I’d thought. He’d accurately described what the woman had been wearing when Mr. Simpson had caught her outside the barn. I noted his information on the slate.
When I raised my head, he beamed at me. “I helped you?”
“Yes. Thank you. Anything else you can remember? Maybe about the noise from the barn?”
He screwed up his face, pushing his mouth to one side in deep concentration before shaking his head. “Just that the horses were all making a lot of noise, whinnying and stamping their feet.”
I sighed. Except for Chanda’s whereabouts, I wasn’t sure I’d gained any new insights. Adding her reaction on the stairs, I felt there was more to her story than she had shared to this point, but what?
As much as I wanted to share my thoughts with Mother, Father’s prohibition on further exploration of the issue made it clear we were not to interfere with an official investigation.
I gave a final sigh and wiped the slate clean. Any further effort on my part was only going to frustrate me and possibly be accused of obstructing justice. Better to forget it and leave it to the professionals, regardless of my or Mother’s concerns about their conclusions to date.
“Let’s go to bed,” I said, rising from the chair. It’d been a trying evening, and I was suddenly quite weary.
A wide smile spread across his face. “I think I shall be able to sleep with you in the room.”
The nursery was quite large and furnished with three narrow beds, a table for playing and eating, a bookcase, and a chest for toys. Coals glowed a deep crimson behind the fireplace screen, and the heavy drapes shut out the night’s cold.
After changing into my nightshirt, I crawled under the covers, and Trevor gave a sleepy “good night” from the next bed.
“I’m so glad you’re with me,” he said with a yawn. “All the noises in the corridor are quite terrifying.”
My eyes popped open. I turned to ask him what he meant, but his steady breathing told me I was too late. He must have fallen asleep right after that remark, and I had no desire to wake him and deal with his questions once again. Better to let sleeping chatterboxes lie.
That, however, didn’t stop me from lying awake, listening for movement outside the room. At some point, my eyelids grew heavy, and I dropped off myself. If anyone did pass the bedroom, I missed them.
Chapter Three
When I went down to breakfast the next morning, only Colonel Williams was at the table. He hid behind a newspaper, acknowledging my presence with a single grunt.
Despite our rather uneven sleep, Trevor rose too early as far as I was concerned and had tried to get me to stay and breakfast with him. I’d excused myself, explaining I was expected downstairs, but promised I would return and play a game with him.
“Has everyone else eaten?” I asked and took a plate from the dishes on the sideboard.
My uncle’s friend now lowered his paper to fix his gaze on me. “I don’t know about everyone, but your parents and aunt were here. Your aunt said something about visiting some neighbors, old friends I believe. Your mother went to the greenhouse, and your father is meeting with your steward. Ernie hasn’t come down yet.”
For a guest, I found the man more informed of the household’s goings-on than I expected. He had, however, missed a few.
“And my brother? Miss Meredith?”
“I haven’t seen Mycroft. My niece requested breakfast be sent to her room. Something about a headache.”
I frowned. More than a mere creature of habit, Mycroft was steadfast in his routines. I’d never known him to skip a meal. If he hadn’t arrived for breakfast by the time I finished, I vowed to visit him and confirm he was all right.
Taking a seat, I checked the headlines on the paper Williams held in front of him. “I see Mr. Dickens is still across the pond.”
“What?” The man bent the newspaper over and checked the front page. “Oh. Yes. Dickens.”
“Have you read any of his works?” I asked before he could hide behind the paper again.
“Don’t really have much time for such drivel,” he said and raised the gazette only to fold it down. “Military history is my passion.”
“Then you’ve read L’art de la guerre.”
The man’s two bushy eyebrows formed a V over his nose. “By some Frenchman?”
“The Japanese general Sun Tzu penned it, and it was translated into French almost a hundred years ago. I understand Napoleon studied it.”
“Didn’t seem to do him much good, did it? We taught him a lesson at Waterloo.”
“Wellington’s tactic was actually warned of by Sun Tzu—not to engage the enemy on a territory they know better than you. I’m afraid Napoleon failed to recall that.”
He gave a little hurrumph. “Where did you learn all this?”
“Uncle Ernest. Mother thought it was important Mycroft and I learn military strategy, and so Uncle Ernest had us study various battles.” I decided not to mention the part of how we would line up lead soldiers as a way of studying formations or how Mycroft always insisted on being the victorious army.
The V deepened in the man’s forehead. “Your uncle teaching military strategy. That’s—” He appeared to catch himself before saying something inappropriate.
I was forming a question about his obvious disapproval of my uncle’s ability when he rose.
“I suppose I should check on Meredith. I’ll leave you to your breakfast.” He pulled a page from the newspaper, folded it, and stuffed it into his breast pocket.
Once I was alone, I drew the paper toward me, still intrigued by the article on Dickens’s visit to America. As I did so, the interior pages spilled onto the floor. The chair’s arm dug into my ribs when I leaned over to pick up the papers. Only when I settled back into my chair did I notice not all were from The Times. Rather, one page was an advertisement listing from The London Gazette.
After a glance toward the door, I studied the announcements, from individuals selling various items to legal notices. The colonel must have left the page behind by mistake. Why would he feel the need to hide it behind the other paper? And what had led him to keep part of it?
My curiosity piqued, I took note of the date and missing page numbers and reassembled the papers. Afterward, I went in search of Mrs. Simpson to request she send the stable boy to get another copy of The London Gazette.
On the way back from the kitchen, I considered my options for the rest of the morning. Forced inactivity played with my thoughts, causing an unnerving disquiet. I found myself calmer when doing something. But what?
While I was considering the possibilities, Trevor spoke behind me. “There you are. I’ve been waiting for you.” With my back to him, I sighed and then composed myself before turning around. His brow puckered when he continued. “I finished my breakfast ever so long ago, and I’ve been very patient. Miss Bowen gave me permission to search for you.”
More likely, he’d tried Miss Bowen’s patience to the point she’d suggested the boy seek me out. The colonel’s reading material had pushed my promise to play with my cousin from my mind. I shrugged. Social convention required me to fulfill my promise, and it would solve the issue
of what I was to do with myself.
“Right. Let’s go to the nursery. Do you know how to play chess?”
When we arrived at the third floor, Miss Bowen was nowhere in sight, but I found a board in the schoolroom and set it on the table.
We had just set up the pieces when Trevor stared over my shoulder and said, “Hello.”
Expecting to see his governess, my mouth dropped open when I discovered Constance Straton instead. The oldest daughter of our assistant steward and I had become close friends in the past few months. But at the moment, her crossed arms informed me I’d done something wrong.
I gasped as the reason hit me and leapt to my feet, knocking over the board as I did so. “It’s Friday, isn’t it?”
She gave a tight nod, her lips pressed together in a thin line. Her stare shifted to the chessboard. “It seems you have somethin’ more interestin’ to do.”
“No. I was just—” A quick glance at Trevor’s turned-down mouth suggested my next words might evoke a similar response from him.
Turning to Trevor, I planned to explain how I had a standing appointment with Constance to practice the pieces Mother wanted us to play for Christmas entertainment—not to mention the girl’s instruction in reading and writing. His downcast eyes, however, froze the words in my throat. I saw no way to proceed without causing a scene from one of the two.
An upended pawn still on the chess table rolled onto the floor, its landing breaking the silence and affording me a few precious moments to think. I stooped to pick it up as well as others already on the floor. With my head bowed, I braved a glance toward the doorway. She remained in place, arms crossed and foot tapping.
The last pawn retrieved, I struggled for a plan to appease both or at least stall for more time. I straightened up and placed it on the board. Turning to my cousin, I said, “Trevor, this is my friend Miss Constance. Miss Constance, my cousin Trevor.”
I shifted on my feet, the awkwardness in the room pressing upon me.
Apparently oblivious to the resentment Constance displayed, Trevor gave her a bow. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” Before she could respond, he added, “You’re very pretty.”
Although such a remark fell outside the bounds of etiquette, I agreed with his assessment. Her auburn hair and freckles were quite endearing, and his remark seemed to have set well with her. Two bright spots appeared on her cheeks, and a smile played at her lips. At that, my dilemma was settled.
Facing Trevor, I spoke in the calmest voice I could muster. “I know I promised you a chess game, but Constance came over to practice. She’s going to sing, and I’m going to accompany her on the violin. We’ll have our match later.”
To my surprise, he didn’t protest but asked instead, “Can I listen?”
“I’m afraid you’ll find it boring, like last night. We’ll be stopping and starting.” The mention of last night’s practice caused me to draw in my breath. My violin and music were still in my uncle’s workshop. I turned to Constance. “I need to get my things from the workshop. Do you want to wait here while I get them, or do you want to come with me?”
“Stay here,” Trevor said before she could answer. “We can play a game while we wait.”
“I don’t know chess,” she said, glancing at the board. “But I do know another game called ‘hot and cold.’ I’ll explain it to you while Sherlock’s gone.”
With a nod from Constance to send me on my way, I rushed down the two flights of stairs and on to the workshop. As I entered the house on my return, Mrs. Simpson called to me.
“The boy is back with the paper you requested,” she said, holding out a copy of the Gazette.
My fingers itched to open it and study the pages missing from the other copy, but I knew Constance was waiting for me and probably at the end of her patience with Trevor. I stuffed the folded paper under my arm and returned to the schoolroom.
To my surprise, she and my cousin were giggling when I entered.
“I like this game hot and cold,” Trevor said. “You see, you hide something—we used this pencil—and then the other person has to find it by you telling them if they are hot or cold.”
“I used to play it with my mum,” Constance said.
Her voice dropped, and she became quiet. The reminder of the loss of her mother less than half a year ago slumped her shoulders. She put up a strong front most of the time, but I knew the burden of helping care for her younger brothers and sisters was a lot for my friend. I sought to change the subject and distract her from her memories.
“What piece should we practice first?”
She raised her gaze to mine, and a small smile formed. “I haven’t tole you yet. The vicar has asked me to sing at church on Sunday.”
“That’s wonderful. Which piece? ‘Adeste Fideles’?” When she nodded, I said, “Then we should practice it first.”
I set down my case, music, and the newspaper on one of the school desks nearby. For a second, I paused and stared at the Gazette, the temptation to study the advertisements returning. Constance sang a scale as Mother had taught her, to warm her voice, and I knew I had no time at the moment to indulge my curiosity. With a great deal of effort, I retrieved my violin and turned my back to the paper on the desk. The rehearsal went well for the first run-through. At the end, Trevor applauded, and another set of clapping hands sounded in the threshold.
“Please excuse the intrusion,” Miss Bowen said with a broad smile. “I heard the music and had to come. You have excellent pitch and a very clear voice.”
“She’s singing in church on Sunday,” Trevor said.
“I’m so glad you’ll be sharing your gift,” she said. “I’ll be there for certain. At the moment, however, Trevor, it’s time for your nap. Let’s leave these two to their rehearsal.”
My cousin turned to me with a wide-eyed plea for an invitation to stay. When I responded with a quick raising and lowering of my shoulders, he dragged his feet after his governess. After they left, Constance shut the door and faced me.
I swallowed, fearing whatever she felt she needed to discuss with me in private. Her crossed arms signaled I was about to receive her displeasure about something.
“Sometimes,” she said, glaring at me, “I think I’m not important to you.”
That remark raised my chin, as I took offense at the observation. I had no doubt of how I valued her. She seemed to be asking for reassurance, so I gave it to her. “Of course you’re important.”
She relaxed slightly, and I congratulated myself for providing the response desired, and then added, “I’d appear rather silly playing my violin without your singing.”
Her jaw dropped, and she blinked rapidly. What had I said to bring her to the point of tears?
“Constance, are you all right?”
She turned her back to me, but I could tell from her straight spine she was fighting off some emotion. Anger? Sorrow? Something else? And was I the cause?
“Please, tell me if I did something. Whatever it is, I apologize.”
She took a shuddering breath, and when she turned back to me, her countenance was composed, but her voice had a detached tone to it. “Let’s do it again, shall we?”
We proceeded to run through the first piece again and then continued with a second, but I found her performance, while adequate, offered less enthusiasm than she’d displayed on the first attempt.
I also found my own attention straying, my gaze drifting from my music to the periodical lying on the table near my elbow. When I hit my fifth wrong note, my friend stopped and threw up her hands.
“What is so fascinatin’ about that bloody paper?”
My face grew hot as I searched for an explanation that didn’t make it appear that Colonel Williams’s behavior was more important to me than she. When I didn’t answer right away, she marched to the table and studied the front page.
“Colonel Williams, my uncle’s friend, was reading this, and I—”
She pointed to a word in the headline.
“What’s that say?”
With a teaching moment apparent, I asked, “Can you sound it out?”
“This ain’t no lesson time,” she said, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling.
Her syntax and diction, much improved when she sang, always reverted whenever she grew upset, and at the moment, her huffing warned me to tread carefully and not irritate her further. To avoid exacerbating the tension between us, I chose the briefest answer possible.
“Catastrophe.”
She studied the paper again and asked, “Where’s the f?”
“Sometimes, words use ph instead of f, remember?”
“That makes not a whit of sense. Why not just write it the way it sounds?”
I shrugged. She had a point. But if she thought English was hard, I didn’t even want to explain German or Latin to her.
“It just is,” I said without much enthusiasm.
Her shoulders slumped, and she blinked several times. “You must think me terribly stupid.”
Once again, all the bravado was gone from her voice, and I feared she was going to cry. This time, however, I had an answer ready and enthusiastic. “Never. You are one of the cleverest people I’ve ever met. What you know about lifting, taking things without anyone knowing, is beyond superior.”
“Is that all you think of me? That I’m a good thief?”
The sharp edge of her voice warned me her anger was back. I had somehow offended her once more, but how, I had no idea. “Of course not. You also sing quite well. And you’re good with children. Playing with Trevor like that—”
“I’m not that good. Otherwise, that Emily Gibson wouldn’t be takin’ care of ’em so much. She’s with ’em right now.”
“Isn’t she—?”
“She works in the kitchen,” she said with a nod. “She’s always comin’ over to the house. Bringin’ things left over from your supper.”
The tone of her voice had an edge that told me she didn’t approve of the effort.
“You don’t like what she brings? I can see about—”
“It’s not what she brings. It’s her bringin’ it.”
I didn’t know much about our cook’s helper beyond her name, but she appeared to be a hard worker, always busy whenever I passed through the kitchen. Feeling I should at least defend my parents’ choice in employees, I said, “She seems nice to me.”
The Adventure of the Murdered Gypsy Page 5
