by Cindy Anstey
“He was a nice man, Daphne, and did not deserve that horrible fate. I can’t help but be upset. That’s why I need to do something. While Mr. Fraser investigates Mr. Stacks’ death, you and I should speak to Mr. Dankworth about the knife that killed Andrew. I would see the weapons collector on my own if it would not cause parental distress, but it would, so I won’t.”
“Besides, I wouldn’t let you go off without me,” Daphne said with a firm nod of her head.
While Sophia appreciated the company of her cousin, she wondered if Daphne realized that their danger was much higher than they had previously suspected. Someone in the manor had killed Hal Stacks, and had done so with an investigator nearby; the culprit was clearly not intimidated by a Runner’s presence.
The shooting in the conservatory now had a different complexion as well. How many more victims did the killer have in their sights?
“There, miss. All done.” Susan stood back to admire her handiwork; the dress had required a new collar and cuffs. Daphne tugged at her bodice and shook her skirts to straighten them.
“Mr. Fraser might still remember our appointment,” Sophia said, already halfway to the door. She was feeling jittery and needed to keep busy. “Shall we see if he’s here?”
Daphne caught up to her at the top of the grand staircase.
Below, two women waited by the door. Charlotte had clearly just arrived, as she was undoing her gloves. Mrs. Curtis gestured to the drawing room, but they both looked up as Sophia and Daphne descended the stairs.
“Charlotte, what a surprise.” Daphne’s tone was more of indifference than surprise. “You’ve missed the morning meal and Mother has not yet come down. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait. Unless … Who were you hoping to see, Charlotte? William has gone riding.”
“Yes, I saw him leave as my carriage arrived. It’s not William I came to see, but your mother. I imagine she’s greatly upset and I came to offer Mrs. Waverley the comfort of an ordinary conversation. I thought you and your cousin might be too busy.”
“I beg your pardon?” Sophia blinked, nettled by the implied criticism. “There is no lack of company in this house. Besides, Daphne and I are much occupied with catching Andrew’s—and now Mr. Stacks’—murderer.” She glanced at Mrs. Curtis. The woman, while staring above their heads, exuded utter disinterest.
Charlotte nodded. “William mentioned your wish to be an investigator. It’s a rather unusual vocation for a young lady.”
Sophia snorted. “That’s a bit of an understatement.” Sophia turned to the footman standing stiffly by the door. “Has Mr. Fraser arrived, Darren?”
Darren had no opportunity to answer as a rap on the door startled them all.
When the doorman swung the door open, the handsome, but troubled, face of Mr. Jeremy Fraser was revealed.
* * *
Jeremy was well past the Allenton gate when he had finally collected his thoughts, put them to order, and remembered that he had received an invitation to visit Mr. Dankworth at eleven thirty that day. He had spoken to Sophia about it at the dinner before Stacks was … before.
Jeremy had been expected to arrive with his carriage and driver at eleven … Lawks! What a mess.
With a snort of pent-up frustration, Jeremy realized that he would have to walk back into town and hire a driver. But that meant he was going to be late. Sophia would wonder and perhaps worry, if he did not arrive on time, and Jeremy sincerely hoped this would not put Mr. Dankworth’s dander up, refusing to answer questions.
There was nothing for it but to have Benton relay a message about his delay. However, when the door opened to his knock, rather than looking into the grizzled face of the elderly butler, Jeremy met Sophia’s gaze over the shoulder of a footman. He stood staring at her in a semi-stupor for a moment, then Jeremy apologized—or at least he intended to, but he was ushered back out the door before he could utter a word.
He tried to apologize again for the lack of a carriage, but again his words were interrupted—this time by the stamping of horse hooves and the jangling of equipage as a smart coach and four fine horses pulled up in front of them.
“Thank you, Mr. Bradley,” Sophia said to the driver when he jumped down from his perch and opened the coach door. “Shall we, Mr. Fraser?” She lifted her hand to his.
He could feel the warmth of her person through her gloves as Jeremy handed her, and then Miss Waverley, into the coach. It was all done in a tick and they were almost to the gate before any of them found their tongues.
“I thought it best to arrive in style, Mr. Fraser,” Sophia explained. “It’s impressive and more likely to encourage a frank discussion. Papa suggested the use of our own carriage and driver. I thought it most opportune and accepted on your behalf. I hope I did not overstep.”
“Of course not,” Jeremy said, feeling some of his tension sloughing off. “I should have thought of it.”
“You’re much distracted, Mr. Fraser,” Daphne said kindly. “It cannot be helped.”
It took little more than ten minutes to wend their way to the home of Mr. Dankworth, including a quick stop at the inn to pick up the knife they needed him to identify. Once at Ramsey Manor, they were immediately ushered into the front entrance and then led to the back of the house and an opulent conservatory.
An elderly gentleman waited underneath a leafy ficus. He was a small, wizened figure, almost lost in his wheeled Bath chair. The contraption looked comfortable enough, with a cushioned seat and back, but somewhat oppressive with a black leather hood, folding coachlike behind his head, and a stiff handle to steer the small wheel by his feet.
“I thought you might not come,” Mr. Dankworth said after the introductions. “What with the tragedy last night.” Despite his frail form, the gentleman had a robust voice and a twinkle in his watery blue eyes.
“Gracious, news travels fast,” Sophia said with surprise.
“Yes, not enough going on to keep everyone busy, my dear. People have to put their noses into other people’s business.” He smiled, taking away the bite of his words.
Jeremy stood to the side as the young ladies settled themselves on the wrought-iron bench next to Mr. Dankworth’s wheeled chair. Looking around, he saw another bench nearby and dragged the heavy piece of furniture over to the group. Before he was seated, the conversation had progressed from weather to the family’s health to the church’s new pipe organ. When a discussion began on the different conservatory plants under the glass roof, Jeremy grew impatient and interrupted.
“Do you know why we are here, Mr. Dankworth?”
The gentleman startled. He glanced at his knees, then the floor, and then past Jeremy’s shoulder. His expression was that of puzzlement.
“Yes … I believe so. One of my knives was found in Glendor Wood. Mr. Tilter sent me a note.” He laughed; it was a light chuckle but it triggered a fit of coughing that lasted some time. Finally, Mr. Dankworth continued as if nothing had occurred. “Few secrets around here,” he said.
Reaching into his satchel, Jeremy pulled out the knife still swathed in cloth and passed it to the old man.
Unwrapping it with the speed of a dawdling snail, Mr. Dankworth bobbed his head when, at last, the weapon was visible. “Ah yes. I remember this one.” He turned the knife over, running his twitching thumb along the carving. “But I sold it quite some time ago. Yes, yes … maybe three years or so.”
Jeremy fought the urge to react. He leaned forward, listening intently.
“To whom did you sell it?” Sophia asked, the same question on Jeremy’s lips. She leaned forward, too, elbows resting on her knees. Even Miss Waverley looked eager.
“Andrew Waverley,” Mr. Dankworth said proudly. “Yes, my dear, your cousin. I rarely sell things from my collection, but he was quite enthralled by this knife … I think it might have been the figures on the hilt. A kind of primitive art. Said he had a lady friend who liked such things. Nothing like it around here.”
He passed the knife and its tangled wrappings b
ack to Jeremy. “Now, now, my dear, why do you look so downcast?” he said to Sophia.
Jeremy glanced her way and was surprised to see that Sophia did look upset.
“I beg your pardon,” she said. “I was hoping that this might be a clue, that it would help us understand who killed Andrew … But if it was his own knife, it can’t be the murder weapon. It’s a dead end.”
“Not at all, my dear.” Mr. Dankworth sat back in his chair, looking relaxed. “Someone could have taken the knife from Andrew and then killed him. Murdered with his own knife. Quite ironic, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps you have forgotten that Miss Waverley, here, is—was—Andrew’s sister,” Sophia said with no inflection in her voice.
Mr. Dankworth frowned, and he glanced in Miss Waverley’s direction. “Yes. Yes, I’m afraid that I did forget.” He looked uncomfortable. “I beg your pardon.”
“Lady friend?” Jeremy asked, pulling the conversation back to a safer path. “You said that Andrew had a lady friend.” He glanced toward Sophia, and saw her take a deep breath.
“Yes, not sure who the young man was quietly meeting, but the town was full of talk. He used to gather his friends … You might know the boys. I gave your man, the late Mr. Stacks, the names of a couple.”
“You spoke to Stacks?” Jeremy frowned; Stacks had not mentioned Mr. Dankworth when he had given Jeremy the list.
“Oh no. Gracious no.” The elderly gentleman looked affronted. “He spoke to my housekeeper … and I … yes, I told Mrs. Tremor to mention the Rummage boy—son of the squire. He used to go out and about with Mr. Waverley before he went off to Oxford. Mr. Waverley, that is. Todd Rummage would be an unlikely candidate for Oxford.”
“How so?” Jeremy asked.
“Well, the boy was always into mischief from what I heard. Even talk of him poaching. It didn’t and doesn’t bode well for his father. Yes, indeed, young Rummage thinks he is entitled. Wears his father’s rank, if you know what I mean. Trouble follows him around like a bloodhound. And … and … yes, Baxter Temple—he was another one of Andrew’s cohorts, the banker’s son. Still can’t remember the young lady’s name. Not sure I ever heard it. Just that Mr. Waverley was out chasing skirts—one in particular.”
Jeremy took out his journal and added the information next to the names Stacks had mentioned.
With that, the conversation devolved into more of a social visit than an interview. Daphne asked after Mr. Dankworth’s relatives and she offered greetings from her family. Sophia watched, saying little, and Jeremy was itching to leave long before they did.
* * *
Sophia took her place in the coach beside Daphne as Jeremy settled across from them. Mr. Bradley had just closed the door and started to climb back up to the driver’s bench when Daphne looked out the window and gasped in surprise. She opened the door and leaned out, holding on to the hand strap attached to the side of the coach.
“Mr. Phillips?” she called, staring at a shrub near the rear of the coach. Boots were visible below the thick leaves. She half turned, speaking over her shoulder to her companions. “One of our gardeners,” she explained. “Strange that he would be here.” She turned back to the open carriage door. “Glen Phillips?” she called again.
The shrub shook, and then was pushed aside to reveal a tall figure with a bushy beard. “Yes, Miss Waverley.” He had dirt smudged across his shoulder.
“What are you doing here?”
Mr. Phillips frowned and opened his mouth, but said nothing. He shifted his weight, kicked his boots into the ground, and tried again, this time more successfully. “Had to bring George—that be George Band, the under-gardener here at Ramsey Manor … Had to bring George a … a rake handle. Yes, a rake handle. His last one broke an’ he needed a new one. I’m headin’ back to Allenton Park now.”
Daphne glanced at her companions. “A rake handle?” she whispered, her tone incredulous. She shook her head and then lifted her chin. “Do we have room for Mr. Phillips up on your perch, Mr. Bradley?”
Sophia could not hear the answer but assumed all was well, as Mr. Phillips joined Mr. Bradley on the driver’s bench. Soon they were on the road and climbing the hill to Allenton Park. Other than a casual comment about the gardener’s odd behavior, Daphne lapsed into silence, and Sophia appreciated the comfortable lack of conversation. It allowed her to watch Jeremy from the corner of her eye to gauge his mood.
He was disturbed, and certainly didn’t look as calm as usual, but he seemed to have weathered the emotional ups and downs of the day. He met her glance with an upturned mouth—not really a smile as it was laced with melancholy, but the attempt was appreciated.
Unfortunately, Jeremy requested that he be left at the gate, leaving her and Daphne to return to the dreary and oppressive atmosphere of the manor alone. Not alone alone, but a without-a-handsome-gentleman-for-company alone. It was a shame; Sophia was becoming rather fond of said company.
Mr. Bradley held Sophia’s hand overlong when he helped her down the carriage steps. It was a long-understood signal that he wished to speak with her.
“I’ll be right in,” Sophia told Daphne. Her cousin lifted her hand in a backward wave before slipping through the front door.
Mr. Phillips sauntered off in the direction of the stables and gardening sheds. Sophia said nothing, waiting for the privacy Mr. Bradley clearly wished.
“Yes, Mr. Bradley?” she said eventually, turning toward the Thompson family coachman.
“I were that surprised, Miss Thompson. Mr. Phillips were a bundle of questions from the minute we left Ramsey Manor ’til we were back at the Allenton gate.”
Sophia frowned. Mr. Bradley was a calm, mellow sort, and yet here he was complaining about something rather trivial. Unless … “What were his questions about, Mr. Bradley?”
“They were kinda general, and I would have taken no-never-mind, but that they were all about the same subject.”
“And that was?”
“Mr. Fraser, miss. He wanted to know where the Runner were stayin’ in town and if there were any other Runners with him or expected in West Ravenwood. He wanted to know if Mr. Fraser had any idea who killed Mr. Stacks or Mr. Waverley. As if Mr. Fraser would share his theories with me!
“Phillips’ questions were all about the investigation, Miss Thompson. Made me uncomfortable. I didna ask him why he wanted to know, but I sure didna like the expression on his face. All hard and squinty-eyed. I mean, if Phillips was on the up-an’-up, would he not just ask Mr. Fraser?”
“Mr. Phillips might be one of the many who are uncomfortable around investigators, but thank you, Mr. Bradley. I will let Mr. Fraser know.”
The coachman nodded, climbed back up to his perch, and guided the horses around the house to the stables.
As Sophia watched them disappear, she was surprised to see that the gardener had not continued into the stable yard, or even veered off toward the gardening sheds. He stood at the juncture of the two, staring back at her with an expression that was hard and squinty-eyed—just as Mr. Bradley had described.
It was most unnerving.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Tampered Evidence
“Enough!” Sophia said to herself. She was tired of being stared at. There was no call for it, none at all. She was not dressed in a provocative or eccentric manner. This was not a gothic novel. There was no drumroll or other dramatic music to add to the atmosphere, no sense of foreboding whenever she felt unwelcome eyes settle upon her.
There was just a heavily bearded man trying to intimidate her by staring—with menace? Nonsense. She would not be put off so easily. Besides, why would the man be trying to intimidate her?
She stared back at Mr. Phillips, mimicking his narrow-eyed expression and then quickly crossed the drive to where he stood.
His stance was a little less confident as she approached, and his eyes lost their anger and instead grew wide with surprise.
“Why are you staring at me, Mr. Phillips?” Sophia asked a
s she neared his position.
“Didn’t know that I was.” He dropped his gaze to the ground, staring instead at his boots.
“Well, you most certainly were. And I would like to know why.” She frowned at his incongruous brown boots with black toes, shook her head, and continued. “Are you trying to make me nervous? Making a silent threat? It will not work. Or are you merely trying to divine some sort of truth hovering above my head?” Sophia stood with her hands on her hips, looking staunch and authoritative … or so she hoped.
“Just looking at the gate, miss,” he said, turning his head in that direction. His words were hesitant, his expression anxious. “Surprised … yup, surprised to see Mr. Waverley out for a walk. He don’t wander about, regular like. Wonder where he’s goin’.”
Sophia pivoted just in time to see her uncle’s capped head disappear down the hill along with the fading tap of his cane. He was heading toward the Allenton Park gate.
“Yes … I see. That is rather strange.” She turned back upon hearing the scuff and crunch of gravel, only to see that she was now talking to no one. Mr. Phillips had taken the opportunity to rush away.
But rather than follow the gardener, Sophia thought she might follow her uncle. His movements had not been furtive, but Mr. Phillips was right, Uncle Edward usually took the carriage when he went into West Ravenwood. It was a curious happenstance. Yes, indeed, it required the investigation of a novice detective hot on the trail of a … well, looking for the trail of … yes, the trail of a murderer!
Sophia could finally hear a dramatic drumroll in her head, and she smiled as she rushed after her uncle in a quiet, stealthy sort of way.
* * *
Jeremy had not bothered to return to West Ravenwood when he stepped down from the Thompson coach. Time was short and he knew that he would not have made it back in time to meet Mr. Waverley as they had discussed the night before.
