Deadly Curious

by Cindy Anstey

  Turning her head to glance at William, Sophia saw that his cheeks were flushed and he wore a sullen expression. He looked ready to make a caustic remark that would ruin the evening entirely.

  “Who was Howard Tuff?” Sophia asked quickly, turning to her father.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Charlotte sighed deeply. “Howard Tuff was the head groundsman here in Allenton Park,” she explained in a soft voice. “He disappeared nearly twenty years ago.”

  “Before you were born,” Jeremy interrupted with a casual shoulder lift. “How did you come to know of it?”

  “Last year, after Andrew was killed, parishioners started talking about Howard Tuff and his disappearance again. Most folks were certain that Tuff had returned to his life at sea. But some were not so certain, and they wondered if Tuff had suffered the same fate as Andrew. Or rather, Andrew had suffered the same fate as Tuff.”

  “Twenty years apart? Hardly seems likely,” Papa said, frowning. “Were there any similarities?”

  “A few,” Charlotte answered, her eyes shifting from person to person. “Tuff was seen entering Glendor Wood, likely to meet someone. Andrew was seen doing the same.” She dropped the level of her voice, drawing those around the table closer. “But no one knows what happened to Tuff. He was never seen again. And while it was assumed that he was dead”—she sat back, inhaling deeply—“his body was never found.”

  * * *

  Jeremy stared at Charlotte, wondering if she was getting too much pleasure from the effect of her tale on the company, particularly the Waverleys. Her words were clearly hammering at the family—Edward Waverley stared out at the hills with vacant eyes, while Mrs. Waverley found the spoon beside her plate was of great interest.

  “This might not be the best time to discuss a murder.” Jeremy looked at Sophia for support and was grateful that she understood his expression.

  “You’re right,” she said firmly. “Let’s change the subject. Tell me, Charlotte, do you have any favorite shops in London that you would recommend to Daphne for her coming-out?”

  Charlotte stared at Sophia as if trying to understand her words. “G. Sutton has a silk shop in Leicester Square that is well worthwhile,” she said finally, in a monotone. It was clear that the subject was more of a distraction than a welcome dialogue.

  Before Sophia could ply Charlotte for more useless information, Charlotte turned to Jeremy. “When is the best time, Mr. Fraser, to discuss murder?” she asked as if genuinely curious. “I’m surprised by your hesitance. I would think a Runner comfortable with the subject.”

  “No one is ever comfortable discussing murder, or at least they should not be, Miss Dewey. Besides, it is not a topic for the dinner table.” Jeremy sat back in his chair, adopting a casual posture. “If anyone wishes to add to my knowledge of Andrew’s murder, please do so after dinner.” He attempted a smile, but he knew it had the appearance of a grimace.

  The silence up and down the table was resounding. Charlotte nodded as if agreeing with a thought and then turned to her father, Reverend Dewey, sitting to her right. They began a whispered conversation.

  The dishes were cleared, and a large silver teapot was placed in front of Mrs. Waverley. Tea was poured, little cakes were nibbled, and the conversation became far more general and far less controversial.

  A shallow calm settled over the company. But it was a false serenity, easily destroyed, as they soon learned.

  Just as the sun started to dip below the horizon, and the sky turned a riotous combination of red and lilac, a tall footman in livery rushed through the French doors and over to where Mr. Waverley was seated. After a brief hushed conversation, Mr. Waverley stood and gestured toward Jeremy. “Would you come with me, please?”

  Puzzled, Jeremy jumped to his feet. He bowed to the company and followed Mr. Waverley back into the manor.

  “Is something amiss, Mr. Waverley?” Jeremy asked as soon as they stepped across the threshold and their conversation could no longer be overheard.

  “Yes. Your man has taken ill. Apparently it was sudden and severe.”

  “Stacks? Ill? He was just fine a few hours ago.” Jeremy increased his speed, catching up to Mr. Waverley with several long strides.

  “Be that as it may, Darren”—Edward Waverley lifted his hand, indicating the footman leading the way—“Darren says Mr. Reyer, the surgeon, has been called, but Stacks—that’s his name?”

  “Yes,” Jeremy said in a toneless voice. His heart raced and he would have run the rest of the way, if he knew where they were going. “Hal Stacks from Smithfield.”

  “It would seem that this Stacks fellow is not doing well, not at all. He complained of a numbness in his mouth and throat, and then of a fever. He was in the servants’ hall with the others when he became ill, gasping for air.”

  Darren continued to lead them deeper into the maze of Allenton halls, but the corridors were narrower now and not carpeted—no paintings on the plaster walls, and the rooms leading off the corridor were small and abundant. Jeremy knew that they were in the back of the house, nearing the servants’ hall. He could hear strident voices up ahead, getting louder.

  Jeremy could also hear footsteps, hard heels rapping sharply on the tiles behind them. He whirled around, hoping to see the surgeon rushing with them.

  But it was not the surgeon.

  “What are you doing?” Jeremy asked in a harsh tone, not hiding his anxiety.

  “I wanted to know what was amiss.” Sophia glanced at her uncle and then back to Jeremy.

  Jeremy frowned. “This is not a game. My man is very ill, Miss Thompson. Go back to the patio.”

  A scream echoed down the corridor, and they all turned toward it. Jeremy raced past Mr. Waverley and down the hall. Darren was still ahead of him and Sophia was at his side.

  They burst into the servants’ hall and into a chaotic scene.

  Stacks lay atop the long table; his face was gray, his body motionless. On the floor beside him was a foul-smelling bucket. Surrounding him, the staff of Allenton Park wore shocked expressions that had nothing to do with the group bursting through the door.

  Cook stood on the far side of the table; she reached over, touching Stacks’ neck, and then rested her hand on his shoulder. She shook with the force of her sobs as she nudged his arm, over and over. But Stacks did not protest; his arm flopped lifeless at his side.

  There was little doubt that Stacks was either fully unconscious … or dead.

  * * *

  Sophia looked over Jeremy’s shoulder and gasped. “Mr. Stacks?” she said, trying to push past two maids standing beside the table.

  Jeremy grabbed Sophia’s arm to prevent her from going closer. “No, Miss Thompson. I will take it from here.”

  “I’m fine,” Sophia protested, feeling anything but fine. Her stomach churned, threatening to cast up her lovely supper. “If I’m to be an investigator, I need to be able to handle seeing a dead body.” Her words were spoken in a whisper and Sophia knew horror was written on her face. “He is dead, isn’t he?”

  The tallest maid, wearing a crisp white apron, glanced at Cook before she nodded tearfully.

  “That is a lesson for another day,” Jeremy said, shifting so that her view of the table was obscured. He nudged her closer to her uncle.

  “But—”

  “Another day,” Jeremy repeated, visibly upset and distracted.

  Then he nodded to Uncle Edward and Sophia was led from the room. Halfway down the corridor, Sophia came out of her stupor and she planted her feet.

  “No,” she said. “How can I learn anything if I’m shunted away when something untoward happens?”

  She tried to duck under her uncle’s arm, which was draped around her shoulders, but he held fast. “No, Sophia. Leave it for the Runner to deal with. This is not a show for your entertainment. A man has died. Have some dignity!”

  “That is greatly unfair, Uncle. I’m not seeking entertainment. I wish to help.”

&
nbsp; Startled by the sound of quickly approaching footsteps, Sophia looked up the hallway hoping to see the surgeon racing toward them. But it wasn’t the surgeon who neared.

  “Sophia does not suffer from a lack of dignity, Edward, but an overabundance of curiosity,” Papa said as he neared. “And I will admit to being the one from whom she inherited it. What is going on?”

  “Mr. Stacks is dead, Papa. I think he might have been poisoned.”

  Uncle Edward snorted his derision. “Poisoned, indeed! Your imagination runs wild.”

  “Mr. Stacks vomited into the bucket by the table, and his clothes were twisted around his body as if he had been convulsing.” Forcing her mind back to the scene in the servants’ hall, Sophia tried to remember everything that she had seen before being led from the room. “And his pants were soiled.” Sophia scowled, the memory of Jeremy’s rush to get her out of the room loomed large and she bridled, recalling his dismissive attitude.

  Uncle Edward shook his head. “That’s still a huge leap of thought into the realm of murder, my girl.”

  Sophia glanced at her father and was relieved to see that while he was shaking his head as well, Papa’s reaction was one of frustration with Uncle Edward’s attitude, not agreement. Still, he apparently believed Sophia was better off farther from the scene. “Best we wait until Mr. Fraser is done, Sophia dear. I’m sure he won’t be long.”

  He offered Sophia his arm. “Did you really want to examine the body?” he asked quietly, so that Uncle Edward was not privy to their conversation.

  “No, not really … But I have to become accustomed to such things eventually.”

  “Why on earth would you say so?”

  “I was not jesting when I told you I was determined to become a Bow Street Officer, Papa.”

  “Oh dear. I was holding on to the thought that you were teasing.”

  “I was not teasing, as I’ve said before. And right now, I’m excessively angry with Mr. Fraser.”

  “Why?” He gave Sophia a puzzled glance. “Do you think he killed Mr. Stacks?”

  “No, of course not. But Mr. Fraser scooted me out of the room before I had a chance to examine the body. I’ll have to rely on him for information now.”

  “Oh, that’s all right then.”

  “No, it’s not! I should be able to make my own inquiries, examine and observe, on my own! I’ll have to have words with Mr. Fraser about his dismissal of my abilities.”

  “The fellow has just lost a colleague, my dear. You might want to be gentle with him.”

  “Oh,” Sophia said, instantly regretting her temper. “Yes, quite right. I forgot about that. Mr. Stacks was a kind man … Jeremy will miss—I mean, Mr. Fraser will miss him.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  “Indeed.”

  * * *

  Sophia shifted her chair so that she could see the French doors from where she sat on the patio. Lamps had been set out to help with visibility. She wanted to know the minute Jeremy returned.

  It took a fair amount of time, but eventually, as the evening settled around them and the bugs began to hum about in the cooler air, Jeremy stepped out onto the patio once more.

  “I apologize for the delay,” he said, looking haggard. “Mr. Reyer, the surgeon, only just arrived.”

  Rather than sit, Jeremy walked over to the short wall that lined the patio and leaned on it for a moment, then straightened and began to pace. “I must be going. I have to write Bow Street and I have to write Stacks’ family … and…” He scratched at his forehead. He turned, scanning those seated nearby until his eyes met Sophia’s. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Sophia dredged up a smile from somewhere. “Yes,” she said with a nod.

  Jeremy turned back to the group. “I must be going,” he repeated. Then he paused, emotions of a chaotic nature flitting across his face. “I’ll have to walk.” He lifted his chin and spoke to the dark sky. “Never driven a large coach before on country lanes in the dark. Wouldn’t want an accident. Wouldn’t do. No, indeed, I’ll walk. Do me good. Fresh air and all that.” He dropped his eyes to stare at the tiles beneath his feet and stood still for some time, barely breathing.

  “No need, Mr. Fraser,” the reverend said, standing and gesturing for his wife and Charlotte to do the same. “We have room in our carriage. We can take you home this evening and you can return tomorrow for your coach.”

  Lifting his head, Jeremy started at the trio and blinked. “That would be most kind.” Then he looked toward the French doors. “Mr. Reyer will see me in the morning to discuss Stacks’ … situation.”

  Sophia followed Jeremy and the Deweys to the front door. It was a subdued and melancholy send-off.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A Pall Across the Estate

  Jeremy rose the next morning, read the first paragraph of his letter to Mr. Stacks’ parents, and tore it in two. He should not have attempted to write such an important letter when he was beyond exhausted. The letter had been too abrupt. It was impersonal and did not truly convey his deep sorrow and sympathy.

  His second attempt was much better. The letter would not be an easy read for the Stacks family, but at least this letter wasn’t full of self-recrimination as his first had been.

  Questioning the staff of Allenton Park the previous night had led Jeremy to no easy conclusion. Instead, uncertainty was heaped on top of confusion. Had the poisoning been accidental, or had Jeremy’s investigation contributed to Stacks’ death? Stacks had been sent to ask questions and the inquiries might have pushed the killer into a corner. Did that mean the killer was on Stacks’ list, or that the killer feared he or she might be added to the list?

  It certainly meant that the killer … or a killer, at least—had been walking among them the previous evening.

  Jeremy scowled, frustrated that someone so twisted could remain undetected. He would have to watch people more closely.

  Jeremy was almost certain that Stacks was poisoned. The surgeon had said as much, even going so far as to identify the poison as wolfsbane. A common enough plant found in many ornamental gardens. At first Mr. Reyer had simply identified the poison as plant based: strychnine, wolfsbane, or cyanide. He had narrowed it down to wolfsbane because of the burns in Stacks’ mouth.

  At first, it was puzzling that Stacks had been poisoned while the rest of the staff were fine. However, with a little digging, Jeremy had discovered that Stacks was the only person to take tea with his meal. The other staff members had had small beer. But as to who had passed that tea to Stacks, no one could agree. It had taken many hands to get it to the end of the table.

  They had also found a small flask of brandy in Stacks’ pocket—another possible vehicle for the poison. Jeremy had given it to the surgeon for testing. If it or the teacup tested positive for wolfsbane, it would be clear that Stacks’ death had been orchestrated.

  Why? It was a question that kept bubbling to the forefront of Jeremy’s mind. Why kill Stacks? If the murderer intended to hobble the inquiry, why not set his sights on the investigator himself? Why kill the investigator’s driver?

  Perhaps not thinking as clearly as he would otherwise, it took Jeremy several sleepless hours to acknowledge a gruesome possibility. The murderer thought to remain hidden, to kill without any consequence. The killer knew that more Runners would arrive in force were one of their own found dead, whereas the same could not be said for a Runner’s driver. Stacks’ death was a safer proposition … or so it was thought.

  Jeremy clenched his jaw in anger. The killer was wrong. They didn’t know that they were facing off against a very determined Runner.

  Jeremy would not stop until this twisted piece of rubbish faced justice.

  Before going to breakfast, Jeremy folded the new letter with his note to Bow Street, asking for it to be forwarded, and sealed it. He was reluctant to break his fast in the common room as he had been doing, because it had been his habit to eat with Stacks. Jeremy grabbed a roll instead—pointedly refusing tea�
��and asked the front desk to post his letter. He was about to walk out the door when the innkeeper addressed him.

  “Yer coach were brought back to the stable this morning, Mr. Fraser,” the large man said, lifting his soiled apron to wipe his hands. “Mr. Stacks’ bags were gathered an’ placed in the storage room.”

  Jeremy frowned, displeased that Stacks’ belongings had been handled.

  “Need the space, ya know,” the innkeeper explained upon seeing Jeremy’s frown. “Gotta have me rents.”

  Jeremy nodded and rushed for the door, needing air. He would visit Allenton Park and interview the staff yet again. But in truth, he only wanted to see Sophia. Against all logic, he knew her presence would clear his racing thoughts and offer him a modicum of comfort and calm.

  * * *

  Sophia was not calm, not in the least. She was itching to investigate, to get to the bottom of Stacks’ murder. The likelihood that it would lead to an answer about Andrew’s murder, too, seemed high. And so it was that as Daphne slipped into her day dress with Susan’s assistance, Sophia paced her cousin’s room—having dressed and breakfasted hours earlier.

  “You’re going to wear out the carpet, Sophia, if you continue to pace. I’ll be ready momentarily. Sit, relax. Besides, Mr. Fraser has not yet arrived.”

  “I’m not certain that Mr. Fraser will remember our plans, Daphne. He was quite disturbed when he left last night.”

  “Murder is part and parcel of his job, Sophia. He must be used to it to some degree.”

  “Perhaps, but it is a new post and the victim was someone he worked with, someone he knew personally.” Sophia dropped onto Daphne’s bed with a thump. “Did you see his face last night? It nearly broke my heart.”

  Daphne frowned at her reflection in the mirror, straightening a ribbon tied at her elbow. “I agree that he did look upset, but if that were not the case I would think him terribly hard-hearted. But there is no need for you to be upset as well, Sophia. You had nothing to do with the man’s death.”