A Silent Stabbing

by Alyssa Maxwell

Eva shook her head. “I don’t believe so.”

  Across the room, closer to the cheerful fire lapping away in the hearth, the Earl and Countess of Wroxly were speaking in hushed tones. The countess had taken the news with the same stoicism with which she endured all ill tidings.

  “Let’s not tell her until it’s necessary. There’s no point in upsetting her.” Lady Phoebe shuddered. “It wouldn’t be good for the baby.”

  “No, indeed, my lady. But your grandparents have telephoned the chief inspector, and once he arrives there will be no keeping anything from anyone. Here.” Eva gestured toward the glass of sherry. “Keep sipping. It’ll warm you.”

  “I never thought I could be so cold, especially on such a pleasant day. I’ve seen death before—we both have—but not like this. This was so unbearably . . . violent. Even if it was an accident.” Eva was nodding at the sentiment when Lady Phoebe added in an undertone, “Which I’m quite sure it wasn’t.”

  Eva stood as the countess approached. Her black silk skirts swept against her ankles, for no matter what the Paris fashion houses dictated, the countess would raise her hems no higher than that. Nor would she put off the mourning she had donned the day her only living son had died, more than four years ago now, during the war. Maude Renshaw, Countess of Wroxly, bore her grief as she bore all of life’s adversities, with a steady gaze, a sure stride, and her slender frame pulled up to its full height of nearly six feet.

  With a glance over her shoulder at her husband, who was speaking quietly now to Vernon, she bent lower to address her granddaughter. “How are you feeling, child?”

  Lady Phoebe showed her a feeble smile. “Better now. I was just so taken aback.”

  “Of course you were.” The countess sat beside her granddaughter on the settee and Eva moved aside to allow them a modicum of privacy while remaining readily on hand. “I’m only glad you weren’t alone, that your grandfather was with you.”

  “I’m not, Grams. I wish he hadn’t seen. The shock of it can’t have been good for him.”

  Lady Wroxly patted her hand. “He’s all right. He’s stronger than you think.”

  But Eva detected the worry behind the countess’s assurance. So did Lady Phoebe, for she said, “I never should have spoken to him about Stephen Ripley.”

  The countess looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  With a sigh, Lady Phoebe explained everything they had learned about the head gardener in the past two days.

  “And when were you going to tell me any of this?” Lady Wroxly demanded, though not unkindly.

  “Grams, don’t you have enough to do worrying about Julia?”

  The countess couldn’t deny it. “Well, I’d like you to keep out of it. You and Eva both.” She glanced up at Eva with a knowing glint. “You both know what I mean.”

  Eva nodded and cast her eyes at the floor, but Lady Phoebe said, “If we had kept out of it last spring, where would Julia be now?”

  Lady Wroxly compressed her lips and swallowed whatever emotion threatened her stoic poise. “That was different. Julia is family.”

  “And so is Keenan Ripley.” Lady Phoebe’s retort drew a nod from Eva and a frown from her grandmother. Lady Phoebe hurried on. “The Ripley family has lived in Little Barlow for . . . well, forever. Some of his ancestors served in this very house. He and his brother fought in the war. Doesn’t all that make them family as well? Don’t we at Foxwood Hall have an obligation to ensure the well-being of the local population—those less well off than we are? I know Grampapa believes so.”

  Lady Wroxly held up a pale, blue-veined hand. “Yes, yes. What you’re saying is true. But that doesn’t mean you should go putting yourself in danger. I can assure you your grandfather doesn’t believe that’s what you should do. Leave everything to the police, Phoebe. Please.”

  That final plea, a simple word voiced in a calm manner, held a world of urgency that gripped Eva’s conscience. Already she could feel sharp tugs in opposite directions. Whatever Lady Phoebe asked of her, she would do without hesitation. Yet she understood the countess’s fears, her desperation to keep her granddaughter safe. Eva had the same obligation. She had been hired to attend the wardrobe and personal effects of the Renshaw sisters, but she was also expected to watch over them, advise them, and gently guide them out of harm’s way. So far, especially in regard to Lady Phoebe, she had made a poor job of it.

  She looked on as Lady Phoebe pinched her lips together and nodded. “All right, Grams.”

  Eva knew a fib when she heard one. But apparently the countess did not, for her countenance cleared and she embraced her granddaughter before rising to rejoin her husband.

  The earl, too, had got to his feet. “Vernon tells me William hasn’t turned up.”

  Lady Phoebe accepted Eva’s help to stand. “His bed has been checked?”

  “That’s the first place we looked,” Vernon replied. “No one saw him at breakfast this morning. We all assumed he grabbed some food and went out to work.”

  “Thank you, Vernon, that will be all for now.” Once the footman left the room, the earl said, “William must have seen something—perhaps how Mr. Ripley died—and ran off, terrified. Perhaps he fears he’ll be blamed.”

  Eva traded a look with Lady Phoebe. “Vernon’s right,” said Eva. “William was nowhere to be seen this morning. Like the others, I assumed he started work early to avoid another unpleasant scene with his new superior.”

  Lady Phoebe appeared to consider this, then turned back to her grandparents. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to go upstairs and lie down.”

  “That sounds like an excellent idea, my dear. I’m sure the chief inspector will wish to speak with you when he arrives, but for now, do rest.” The earl held out his hand to her. Lady Phoebe went to him and took it. He kissed her cheeks, then drew her into an embrace. Over her shoulder he met Eva’s gaze. “Take care of her.”

  “I will, my lord.” But as Eva crossed the room to leave with her lady, the countess conveyed, with a lift of her eyebrow, both a warning and a sense of resignation. She knew her granddaughter would not sit idly by in her room when there might be something she could do to help.

  * * *

  Phoebe did indeed stretch out on her bed after Eva removed the satin throw pillows and turned down the coverlet. But while Phoebe leaned back against the headboard, she didn’t crawl under the covers. She was too jittery to sleep, and too eager to find out what happened to Stephen Ripley. And to William, too.

  She didn’t like voicing the thought foremost on her mind, but she found no way to avoid it, not if she wished to be realistic. “This won’t look good for Keenan Ripley, you know. I’m sorry to say it, but his behavior in town yesterday is going to reflect poorly on his character. And it being his brother who died . . . Well.”

  Eva perched at the edge of the mattress and squared her shoulders. “I hate to believe it, but you’re right. Keenan struck another man and expressed his anger toward his brother in front of witnesses. I don’t think that makes him guilty—in fact, I’m sure he’s not—but I’m afraid others will be quick to condemn him.”

  By others, Phoebe knew she primarily meant the chief inspector. “If Keenan has a good alibi for this morning, he can’t be held to blame.”

  “But what if he doesn’t?” Eva looked glum. She was silent a moment, then asked, “What exactly did you see when you found Stephen?”

  “His ladder had been pushed over and he lay on the grass. And the clippers . . .” She shivered.

  “Was there a lot of blood?”

  “Of course there was a lot of blood. What do you think happens when a man is stabbed in the gut?” Taut silence stretched between them before Phoebe reached out. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  Eva took her hand. “It’s perfectly understandable. But what I meant was—and I should have asked more clearly—was the blood still coming out of him when you arrived? Because that can help determine how long he’d been deceased before you found
him. And how long it took for him to die,” she added in a lower voice.

  “Of course.” Phoebe sat up straighter, putting space between her spine and the pillows behind her. She tried to think back. If only she could envision the scene without the horror of it. That wasn’t possible, but she must try to focus on the basic facts. “It was like latticework in the grass beside him. A pattern. Yes, there was a good deal of blood. Which means he didn’t die immediately.”

  Eva nodded her agreement. “How awful to have lain there knowing the end was coming, and perhaps hoping against hope someone would happen by and help him.”

  “I don’t expect anyone could have helped him. Those clippers—they were in too deep.” Phoebe shut her eyes against the memory.

  A knock sounded at the door. Eva rose to answer it, revealing one of the chambermaids, Connie, on the other side. “My lady, the chief inspector and the constable are here. I was asked to fetch you.”

  Phoebe found the chief inspector in Grampapa’s study, sitting at the heavy desk. Constable Brannock sat off to one side, notebook and pencil in hand. Though Grampapa’s physician had forbidden him to smoke his pipe in recent years, the rich, woodsy aroma lingered among the books and furnishings, and the familiar sensation wrapped Phoebe in comfort. Constable Brannock offered her a nod as she came into the room. Chief Inspector Isaac Perkins tersely motioned for her to take the chair across the desk from his own.

  He sniffed and took her measure as if he considered her a suspect. Phoebe stared back, taking in the broken blood vessels in his cheeks and nose, and the sunspots that made patterns on his balding pate.

  “Tell me what you saw,” he said in way of a greeting.

  Phoebe told him everything: the ladder, the spectacles, the flat cap, the hedge clippers. And she described the pattern of the blood oozing into the blades of grass. Here, he cut her off.

  “It’s for the police surgeon to examine the blood and determine what it means.”

  She said nothing and awaited his next question.

  “What did you witness between Keenan Ripley and Horace Walker yesterday? And don’t go trying to hide any facts, Lady Phoebe. I’ve got plenty of other witnesses to the scene.”

  “Keenan Ripley and whom?” she asked in all earnestness.

  The inspector’s thin lips pulled down in a grimace. “Really, Lady Phoebe? Are we going to play that game?”

  “What game?”

  “Lady Phoebe, I warn you—”

  “Eh-hem, sir?” Constable Brannock leaned forward in his chair. “If I may, Lady Phoebe, Horace Walker is the American who wishes to purchase the Ripley orchard.”

  “Oh, that man.” Or fiend, she thought. She turned back to the inspector. “They argued over whether or not Mr. Ripley would sell. He doesn’t wish to.”

  “But his brother, Stephen, did,” the inspector remarked.

  Phoebe nodded. She waited. Chief Inspector Perkins waited. He lifted an expectant eyebrow, and then he scowled. “Blast it, Lady Phoebe, what did you witness?”

  She glanced over at Miles Brannock again. He shrugged once and gave her another nod. She sighed. “I heard their voices raised in anger, and at one point, Mr. Ripley struck the other man. This Mr. Walker. But I don’t know what Mr. Walker might have said to provoke Mr. Ripley’s temper in such a way, because I’d moved to the other side of the road by then. Mr. Ripley has always seemed to be an amiable, reasonable man. As you should well know, Chief Inspector.”

  “Humph. Constable, did you get all that?”

  “I did, sir.”

  “All right, Lady Phoebe, you can go. But I may need to speak with you again.”

  Without another glance, he summarily dismissed her. With a sinking feeling about what was going to happen once the chief inspector finished questioning the staff, Phoebe went to find Eva.

  * * *

  As Lady Phoebe brought the Vauxhall to a stop, Eva gratefully unclenched her fingers from the edges of the seat. She kept telling herself that eventually she would grow used to traveling by motorcar, but so far it hadn’t happened.

  She got out and took a moment to straighten her sun hat, unpinning it, smoothing her hair, and then pinning it back in place. She looked about her. Though not unkempt, Keenan Ripley’s front garden lacked the care that lent her parents’ farmhouse its welcoming charm. A few halfhearted chrysanthemums occupied the window boxes on either side of the front door, while scraggly wildflowers circled each gate post. On the other hand, the cottage, outbuildings, and brew house all appeared in good repair. What was lacking was the touch of a woman—a mother or a wife—who would have taken pride in a colorful flower bed and brimming window boxes.

  “Do you think he’s at home?” Lady Phoebe took a few strides along the garden path toward the front door. “It’s frightfully quiet.”

  Despite several windows being open, no sound came from inside the cottage, and to Eva the place felt deserted. “I suspect he’ll be out in the orchard this time of day, my lady.” At least, she hoped he would be. Unless, of course, the chief inspector was right in his suspicions and Keenan Ripley had already put miles between himself and Little Barlow to escape arrest. The thought that Keenan could have murdered his own brother made the hair on Eva’s forearms spike.

  “My lady,” she said in little more than a whisper, “perhaps this isn’t a good idea. What if Keenan did murder Stephen? We could be putting ourselves in danger by being here.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “Well, no, but . . .”

  “Neither do I. To the orchard then. Good thing we wore comfortable shoes.” Lady Phoebe led the way past the cottage, but suddenly stopped as if changing her mind. A ridge formed above her nose. “On second thought, let’s just . . .”

  “Just what, my lady?” Eva hurried to follow her mistress around to the front door. “But, my lady, didn’t we just agree Keenan would be out in the orchard this time of day?”

  “We did.” Lady Phoebe knocked twice, waited, and tried the door latch. It yielded to the pressure of her hand. It was, after all, a rare villager who locked his doors by day or by night.

  The door opened silently on well-oiled hinges, and they stepped into a front room furnished in serviceable pine and durable, dark fabrics. Exactly what Eva would expect in a man’s home. A sitting area occupied one side of the rectangular room, and on the other, a dining table that looked little used, judging by the papers, books, and other odds and ends piled on its surface. Again, not surprising in a home inhabited solely by a man. In the corner beyond the table, a staircase climbed several steps before turning and continuing up to the first floor.

  “My lady, we came to deliver the unhappy news about Keenan’s brother and warn him the chief inspector will be coming. But now we’re trespassing.”

  “Just give me a moment.” Lady Phoebe moved into the sitting area. On a low table before a faded, floral settee sat two cups and saucers. A few dregs of tea gleamed up from the bottom of each. A single large plate lay between them, bearing crumbs and a few stray dots of preserves. As Eva watched, Lady Phoebe lifted the plate to inspect the crumbs more closely. “He had company this morning. A woman, I’d say.”

  “Why a woman?”

  “These crumbs. Scones, yes?”

  Eva took a closer look at the plate. “Hmm, I believe you’re right.”

  “What working man eats scones for breakfast unless a woman makes them for him?”

  “A good point, my lady.” Eva felt a sudden apprehension when she remembered how friendly and familiar Alice and Keenan had become at the church. Would her sister, a married woman, have come for breakfast, alone, at a single man’s home?

  Then again, if Keenan had had company, it might provide an alibi for the time of his brother’s murder.

  She only hoped it hadn’t been Alice.

  “Let’s take a quick peek in the kitchen.”

  Eva knew better than to argue and followed at Lady Phoebe’s heels. In the large country kitchen, very much like her
parents’, the remnants of a much more sensible breakfast of porridge cluttered the sink. Eva felt half inclined to grab a dishrag and begin washing. Instead, she did as Lady Phoebe was doing, scanning the room and searching for anything unusual. The gleam of glass sent her to the mantel of the wide stone hearth. There, she picked up a bottle and an earthenware cup. One sniff told her all she needed to know. The sweetly potent vapors made her cringe.

  “It appears Keenan’s been drinking. Probably late into last night, judging by the traces of whiskey left in this cup.”

  Lady Phoebe came to her side and took the bottle from Eva. She glanced at the label. “Probably attempting to drink away his anger at his brother. That’s not a good sign.”

  “No,” Eva agreed, “but if he had breakfast with someone today, he can’t have been at Foxwood Hall at the time his brother died.”

  “Let’s hope not.” Lady Phoebe regarded the bottle again, then the cup in Eva’s hand. “Would it be terribly wrong if we . . .” She didn’t finish the thought, but Eva easily guessed. Before she could shake her head and advise against rinsing out the cup, Lady Phoebe replaced it on the mantel. “No, I don’t suppose we should tamper with what might be evidence. Come, let’s try to find Mr. Ripley before the chief inspector arrives.”

  At the sound of a motorcar pulling onto the property, they both froze. “Perhaps it’s too late, my lady.” Eva scurried into the front room to glance out the window. It wasn’t a black police sedan that rolled to a stop, it was a farm lorry much like her father’s. “It’s Keenan, my lady. He’s home.”

  She hurried back into the kitchen intending to guide Lady Phoebe out the garden door, but Lady Phoebe stood her ground. “The door was unlocked, after all. And we have good reason for being here.”

  Eva didn’t share Lady Phoebe’s rationale, but it was too late to argue. The front door opened and heavy boots thudded on the wide-board flooring in the front room. The footsteps went abruptly silent. “Is someone here?”

  CHAPTER 4

  Eva’s heart pounded. Would Keenan take issue with finding uninvited guests in his home? She believed in his innocence, but based on what? An old friendship, and not a very close one at that. What if she were wrong, and she and Lady Phoebe were standing in a murderer’s kitchen?