by Cindy Anstey
“What was that?!” Sophia cried, staring at the mess of glass shards strewn across the tiles.
Shaking the glass out of her hair, Daphne stared past Sophia’s shoulder at the window.
Sophia pivoted and frowned. She reached across to the window but her hand slipped through the frame. The glass was gone, broken at their feet. Had a rock gone through the glass? A branch? Or … had someone shot through the window?
“Get down!” Sophia shouted, suddenly fearful.
She grabbed an embroidered cushion off the bench and swiped it through the glass, making a patch for them both to hunker close to the floor without being cut further. She pulled a wide-eyed Daphne down beside her and then lifted her finger to her lips.
A rhythmic pounding echoed in the silence, growing louder. Sophia swallowed her fear and fought to regulate her breathing. She looked around at the potted plants, searching for something to use as a shield.
Just before slipping behind a dwarf palm planted in a strong brass pot, Sophia realized the cause of the thumping—feet, running feet. She sat back on her heels and breathed a deep—very deep—sigh of relief. The sound was coming from inside the manor. Within moments, Aunt, Uncle, Papa, and a collection of servants burst through the conservatory door.
“What was that?” Papa asked immediately. He saw Sophia and Daphne hugging the floor, and ran across the tile to help them up, kicking aside glass as he did so.
“Are you all right?” he asked. His expression was fraught with dismay.
“What a mess!” Uncle Edward said, stating the obvious. “What were you young ladies doing to cause such destruction?”
Sophia stood, straightened her shoulders, and glared. “This was not our doing.” She did not appreciate the inference!
“The window smashed on its own, Father,” Daphne said, supporting her indignant cousin.
“Nonsense. Windows do not spontaneously break into”—Uncle Edward glanced around—“a thousand pieces.”
Staring at the collection of servants crowding the doorway, he frowned. “Mrs. Curtis!” he bellowed. The crowd parted but Mrs. Curtis did not step to the front.
“Oh bother and blast!” Uncle focused on the butler standing by Cook. “Benton, get this cleaned up.” Uncle Edward pointed at the glass with his cane as if there would be some confusion if he did not specify. While the servants organized the cleanup, Uncle harangued Sophia for her carelessness and not taking responsibility for her actions.
Papa tried to interject a voice of reason, but Uncle had worked himself into a frenzy; it was best to let him vent before trying to set him straight.
Sophia huffed, ignored her uncle’s temper, and shifted her gaze to one of the wooden columns that supported the glass roof. It was some time before her adrenaline eased and her eyes cleared of their anger. But when they did, Sophia noticed something odd.
The support column was marred—not by the glass at its base but by an embedded lead ball. The force had splintered the wood. The lead ball was mere inches from where they had been sitting.
Someone had shot through the window. Someone had tried to kill them.
* * *
“No one would shoot through a window on purpose, Sophia. That’s dangerous. Could have hurt anyone—even killed them. No, no, it was an accident.” Aunt Hazel nodded, agreeing with herself.
They were waiting in the drawing room, dressed in their finest, ready to go in to dinner. Daphne’s cheek bore evidence of the day’s upset: a thin irregular red line of a cut that was thankfully not deep. Sophia had donned a long-sleeved gown to hide the bandage on her arm, but her wound was also not deep.
“Hunters nearby … or someone cleaning their rifle without care. Yes, indeed, there are countless possibilities,” her aunt continued.
Sophia glanced at her father and shook her head. No, not countless. Two. Aunt Hazel had mentioned two possibilities—and they were flimsy at best.
Uncle Edward glared at the unlit fireplace, as if blaming it for the upheaval. When he spoke, it was more bluster than conversation. William glanced around the room with a bored expression. He was not concerned in the least, nor was he interested in the company or the topic of discussion. Daphne appeared to have come to terms with their assault in the conservatory. She smiled in return to Sophia’s furrowed brow and lifted her shoulder in a halfhearted shrug.
However, Papa casually, too casually, sauntered to Sophia’s side.
“I think I’ll stay a little bit longer,” he said quietly, giving her a look rife with meaning.
“The most important question here seems to be, ‘Why?’” Sophia said, noting it was becoming a recurring theme. “I’m not at all certain it was an accident. And if the shot was not an accident, why did someone shoot into the house? Was the rifle aimed at Daphne and me? Though we were hidden from the door into the house, someone outside would still have known that a person sat on the bench. And if it was Daphne or me … why? I think I’d better start my list.”
“What list?” Aunt Hazel asked, scratching at her neck.
“I thought I might make a list of everyone who is here now and was also here at the time of Andrew’s death.”
“Andrew’s murder.” Aunt Hazel swallowed with difficulty and then continued. “Might as well call it what it is, Sophia.”
“Yes, and speak to Marley about your whys and suspect list.” Uncle Edward had turned to face the room again. “He’s the one to help you.”
“Actually, Uncle, I was going to ask Mr. Fraser’s opinion.”
“Yes, you could, but do not use up too much of the Runner’s time. He is on a mission and a commission, you know. He was hired for one purpose and one purpose only: to find Andrew’s murderer. Don’t distract him.”
“I was hoping to help.”
“Wonderful sentiment, Sophia. Just don’t get in the way.” Uncle nodded as if something had been decided, though his tone was one of doubt. “Excellent. Now, let’s talk of other things.”
Despite his words, Uncle Edward did not look relieved. “Haunted” was the word Sophia would have used to describe his expression.
* * *
Jeremy was in a terrible state when he learned of the accident … incident … shooting, whatever it was going to be called. He had spent the evening writing up a list of suspects, jotting down his impressions, and condensing his notes from his interviews, completely oblivious to the harrowing scene being played out in Allenton Park. He would not have learned about the smashed window and its cause had he not overheard a conversation at breakfast at the inn.
Jeremy could barely breathe until he learned that Sophia was going to be fine—a few cuts and bruises, but otherwise fine. It was miraculous that Daphne suffered no major ill effects, either, of course.
Stacks, without any diplomacy, suggested that the news of the young ladies’ injuries was the true cause of Jeremy’s distress, not being left in the dark about the shooting. Jeremy did not like his driver’s reasoning but upon examination, he realized, it was true. As a result, Jeremy had left Stacks at his breakfast and hurried to the main road out of town. He wanted to see Sophia—and Daphne, of course—to verify that they were as hale and hearty as the rumors said them to be.
When he arrived, Allenton Park looked none the worse for wear. No blood spatters on the front door or bodies piled up under the ornamental shrubs. His knock was answered within a reasonable amount of time, though the butler did give him a strange look. Still, there was a blanket of normalcy wrapped around the manor and Jeremy breathed a sigh of relief … until the grandfather clock in the grand entrance chimed nine in the morning.
Horrified, Jeremy stared at the clock. He blinked, willing the short hand to move to eleven or even twelve, but it did not cooperate. Jeremy felt a sudden flush of heat race up his cheeks as they turned bright red.
He had arrived early, much too early to demand an audience with any members of the family without prior arrangement; they were likely still abed. He could throw his weight around, demand to
see Mr. Waverley—after all, he was a Bow Street Runner here on business. Social niceties did not always fit within the time frame required of an investigator. Still, needless antagonism was not required, either.
“I shall examine the conservatory from the outside,” Jeremy said to the butler, Benton, trying to hide his faux pas. He pivoted, leaving Benton on the threshold of the front door, staring after him.
As he rounded the corner of the east side of the house, Jeremy could see the glass roof of the conservatory. A lovely, tall wrought iron fence prevented him from continuing next to the wall. He followed the perimeter of the fence, around various plants and trees, never getting any closer. He spent the better part of fifteen minutes—he had checked on his watch—looking for the gate. The lovely wrought iron fence was looking less lovely by the minute.
“Just there, Mr. Fraser.” A voice drifted over Jeremy’s shoulder.
He turned to see one of the gardeners pointing at a shrub with clippers in his hand. Dressed in browns and sporting a thick bushy beard, the man was almost invisible against the flora.
“What is?” Jeremy frowned, uncomfortable with the idea that he had been concentrating too hard. He hadn’t seen the man halfway up a ladder trimming one of the hedges.
“The gate, sir. It’s hidden back there. You wanted to get to the conservatory?”
Jeremy smiled. “Yes, indeed. Thank you.” His expression might have been brighter than necessary, as he was not used to helpful treatment; most folks in West Ravenwood had been downright obstructive.
Pushing back the branches of the indicated shrub, Jeremy found the gate and the latch. The hinges were well oiled and the gate opened soundlessly. Once inside, the shadowed light gave way to a brighter, open space. There were no formal gardens on this side of the house; lawns, ornamental trees, and shrubs were the decorations of choice. The area was expansive, far larger than he had expected.
Jeremy could now see into the conservatory. Other than a missing window, it looked normal. He continued to scan the scene. On closer inspection—squinting—he could see a post behind the empty glass frame where an embedded lead ball had splintered the wood. Just as he was about to approach the glass-framed extension, Jeremy heard a rustle in the bushes next to him and a soft female voice from deep within.
“Let go,” she whispered, “or I will have to…” A branch snapped. “There, warned you.” The bush shook. “Oh bother!”
“Miss Thompson? Is that you?” Jeremy asked. He took a deep breath, calming his suddenly stampeding heart.
“Oh, Mr. Fraser. How opportune.” A branch shifted next to his head, and a face appeared. “I seem to be caught on something; a stem, a twig, an offshoot of some sort. It’s … it’s … well, it’s caught behind me, and I cannot reach it. If I move forward the chance of ruining my gown is fairly high. Might you … might you free me? I would so appreciate it.”
Although Jeremy could not yet see the offending branch, the way Sophia’s cheeks turned a pretty shade of blush led him to believe that the treacherous branch was clinging to her skirts in the area of her … um, posterior.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Watching from the Shadows
Stepping forward, Jeremy parted the leaves of the … the … “What kind of shrub is this?”
Sophia frowned, leaning closer to study a leaf. “Green,” she said finally with a grin. “I really have no idea. A knobby one with lots of tangled branches that grab at you if you try to pass through.”
Taking that as a hint to approach from the other side, Jeremy rounded the plant and saw that Sophia’s posterior was indeed caught. He grabbed the branch at the base, bending it away from her skirts and guided Sophia backward through the tangle.
“There,” he said when she was free at last and her skirts were undamaged. He watched as she brushed the dried leaves from her gown, paying great attention to the front of her bodice. He swallowed, and then half turned so that he was now facing the conservatory. “Why, if you don’t mind me asking, were you trapping yourself in a plant?”
“Believe me, it was unintentional. I was curious; I was looking for a place from where the rifle might have been shot. Where the person hid before firing. I thought there might be some sort of clue.”
“Such as?”
She pointed back at the plant whence she had come. “A bit of cloth caught on a branch. A trampled spot, a footprint … anything really. Anything that might inform us about the shooter.”
Her list was very similar to his own. “And did you?”
“Did I…?”
“Find anything?”
“No, and I was rather diligent. I searched every aspect of every bush and, as you saw, I even crawled inside a few … but nothing.”
“Interesting,” Jeremy said, for want of something better to say. He stared at the unoccupied conservatory, noting the position of the bench below the marred wooden post. “Has the bench been moved?”
Sophia, hand still swiping at her gown, stilled. She brought her eyes up and studied the placement of the furniture and potted plants inside the glass room, and then straightened. “I know the bench was moved for the cleanup, but it looks to be back where it was. Even the palm has been returned to its proper place.”
“The bench is clearly visible from out here,” Jeremy observed quietly. “Even with the plant partially blocking the view.”
“Yes, the palm only hides the bench from the door to the manor, otherwise it is visible from outside at almost every angle. It is a private garden that requires little upkeep and affords the family lots of privacy … or so we thought. If, however, someone were within this enclosure, they would have had no problem seeing the occupants. And the shooting happened midafternoon—full daylight. I was dressed in a buttercup yellow gown and Daphne was in a soft pink. There would have been no mistaking that someone—two someones, actually—sat upon the bench. If it had been an accident, a rifle misfired from the woods or some such, then the shot would never have made it that far, let alone shattered the glass. And an accidental shooter would have rushed to verify that no one had been hurt.”
“So the possibility that it was an accident is small.”
“Very small.” Sophia watched Jeremy pat at his jacket and then the sides of his pants. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for my journal and pencil. I think this discussion is worthy of jotting down.” Jeremy pulled said objects from the pocket of his jacket, and then watched her frown and pat the sides of her gown.
“I have no pockets,” she said. “But I can see how they would be useful. Best not rely on memory alone. Yes, indeed. I’ll have to have the seams picked out of my gowns and pockets added.”
“Pockets—especially pockets full of paper—will spoil the lines of your skirts.”
Sophia turned to stare at him with an odd expression; it was part annoyed, part confused, and part surprised. “You think appearances matter while investigating?”
Now it was Jeremy’s turn to be embarrassed. He could see how very serious she was about becoming a Bow Street Runner. He wished, for her sake, that her dream was possible.
“No, not important at all,” he said, and then cleared his throat to hide his discomfort. “However, what might be of importance”—his segue was a bit rough but it served its purpose—“is that whoever shot out the window, had to know the manor and … Is it your habit to be in the conservatory at the same time each day?”
“No, not at all. Seldom, actually. I prefer to wander the gardens if I’m in need of fresh air.”
“So, this is a crime of opportunity—one that had no time for planning. It cuts down the possible suspects considerably. How long were you and Miss Waverley seated before the incident?”
“Not long; we had only just begun our conversation.”
“Interesting.”
“Is it?”
Jeremy blinked in surprise. It was a word of habit; few called him out in it. He quickly continued. “Who did you see on your way to this room? Who saw you?�
�
“I’m not really sure … I wasn’t paying attention; I was talking to Daphne at the time. I remember seeing the housemaid. Benton held the door for us to enter the conservatory, and Mrs. Curtis flit about, fixing the vases and whatnot. One of the gardeners was raking just beyond the fence. And … why are you smiling?”
Jeremy tried to wipe the grin from his face until he noticed that Miss Thompson was grinning back. “This is how you observe when you are not paying attention?” he asked with a laugh. “I believe you do have a head for investigation, Miss Thompson.”
“I’m a natural,” she said, trying to maintain a serious expression. “As I’ve been saying all along.”
Jeremy glanced around the enclosure. “The shooter would have needed to be inside this enclosed part of the garden to have any expectation of successfully shooting through the window, and few people would know of the gate.”
“Gate? What gate?”
“Exactly.” Jeremy led Sophia to the gate hidden in the bush. “Even you, one of the family, was unaware of its existence. I shall ask Mrs. Curtis who knows about it … or would Benton be a better source?”
“I think the head gardener would be more informed about something on the grounds.”
“Very good.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “I don’t believe you or Miss Waverley were the intended target, unless the shooter has terrible aim. You were visible and yet the shot sailed above your heads.” The statement was meant to offer comfort, reassurance, but it brought to mind another question. “So then, what was the purpose of the shooting, if not to injure?”
Jeremy gazed at Sophia, seeing not the person but rather the horrible damage that could have happened, and he shuddered, swallowing against the lump in his throat.
“To scare us … and the family?” Sophia suggested.
“Quite likely. But if the intention was to scare you, Miss Thompson, was it to frighten you away or simply persuade you to stop investigating? Is this a serious threat, or have you merely stepped on the wrong toes and caused an affront?”
