“It’s even worse now. The pregnancy, my lady. It sometimes affects women this way, leaving even the most confident among them at a complete loss. I fear that’s happened to Lady Annondale.”
“I suppose that’s what sent us all the way to the fortune-teller in Cheltenham. Poor Julia. I thought expecting was supposed to be such a happy time. The glowing mother and all that. No one ever talks about the other side of it.”
“No, they don’t, more’s the pity. I’m sure it’s taking your sister quite by surprise.”
“I’ll be patient with her—even more so than usual,” Phoebe amended with a grin.
“I suggested she become more involved with the Haverleigh School or the RCVF. I hope it’s all right that I did so. But it got her thinking. She might create her own charitable activity.”
“What Julia needs—what we both need—is gainful employment. But since that’s unlikely at this point, taking up a cause would benefit her immensely.”
From behind them came the sound of a terrace door opening and footsteps coming down the path. They turned to see Vernon approaching, a missive in his gloved hand. “A message from the constable, for Miss Huntford,” he said formally. He held out the note and, having completed his task, bobbed his head and turned on his heel in that brisk, efficient manner typical of seasoned footmen.
“What does it say?” Phoebe wanted to know.
Eva unfolded the note and bent her head over it. “Miles is coming presently. He wants to see if William shows up to meet Josh tonight.” She looked up. “I suppose he intends to send Josh out with a bundle of food, and he’d like me there to help question William if he’s caught. If you’ll excuse me . . .”
“I’m coming with you.”
“My lady, the constable might not wish—”
“I won’t get in the way. But I’d like to hear firsthand what that young man has to say for himself. Especially with how he knocked you over that day in the head gardener’s cottage.”
“We don’t know that was William.”
“I think we do.”
Minutes later, Phoebe waited near the kitchen garden while Eva went inside to greet Constable Brannock and devise their plan with Josh. By waiting outside she wouldn’t disrupt the servants’ routine, for whenever she appeared belowstairs they always scrambled to make special accommodations for her. Here, she was also shielded from view should William arrive before the others were ready for him. They had learned from Josh that William wouldn’t venture farther than the hedge where Stephen Ripley had died. She wondered, did the spot hold a morbid fascination for him?
A brisk nip in the air had her tightening her cardigan around her. She studied the rows of vegetables stretching along the kitchen garden, some of which had been harvested and gone dormant for the winter. The autumn vegetables continued to flourish: cabbage, carrots, onions, and parsnips, to name a few. Some of them she didn’t recognize in their natural state, used to seeing them cooked and prepared with sauces and glazes. The amount of work and forethought that went into the care and feeding of her family often astonished her. It made her feel regretful, and sometimes rather ashamed.
And that made her think of Julia, who, for different reasons, also felt regretful and rather ashamed. Eva had pointed to the pregnancy as the root of Julia’s melancholia, but Phoebe guessed her loneliness also played a part. Loneliness in a house full of people—Phoebe believed Julia often felt that way, for who else among them could understand the ordeal of being married and widowed in a single day, and then living with the consequences of that marriage—a child—for the rest of her life, a living reminder of a decision she regretted?
What would Phoebe regret? Perhaps not marrying? That was something Julia didn’t understand. Why didn’t Phoebe marry Owen Seabright? Why risk letting him slip away? She was certainly old enough to marry. She certainly had deep feelings for Owen. Yes, perhaps even love. And she trusted him. They’d spent time together last spring and over the summer, happy, heady, enjoyable time. And yet . . . she wasn’t ready; nor, she believed, was he. He, with his aristocratic hands deep into the textile industry, much to the chagrin of his family. Because of his brother’s death in the last year of the war—of the influenza—Owen would inherit an earldom. One he didn’t particularly want. And Phoebe—her expected place was at the side of a nobleman. But like Owen, maintaining family expectations wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted . . .
More. She wanted . . . to know herself fully. To embrace whatever she might be capable of. And marriage, too soon entered into, even with Owen, might thwart that dream, that potential. Might snatch the mystery right out from under her.
She gazed beyond the vegetables to the hothouses, and then toward the hedge that separated the service grounds from the ornamental gardens. The concerns of her uncertain future, she realized, paled when compared to the uncertain fate of Keenan Ripley, and of Little Barlow. A man like Horace Walker would destroy this village. At least in those matters, she knew what she wanted, and what her role must be.
After a quarter hour or so, hushed tones and three sets of footsteps advanced toward her from the house. A moment later three forms took shape in the lights from the courtyard behind them. Eva spotted her and waved. Beside her, Constable Brannock lighted the way with an electric torch aimed at the ground. She noticed his nightstick swinging from his belt and hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. He acknowledged her with a nod, apparently not surprised by her presence.
As planned, Josh carried a bundle wrapped in cloth, its white hue glowing vaguely in the darkness. When he saw Phoebe, he came to an awkward halt on the path. “Lady Phoebe . . . em . . .”
Although Phoebe couldn’t make out much beyond the basic shapes of his features, she could well envision the flames in his cheeks. They had never spoken to each other before. Any time she had ventured belowstairs, which was rarely, he had ducked his head and scrambled away, usually with a mop or coal shovel or other such tool in hand. “It’s all right, Josh. Thank you for helping us with this matter.”
He grimaced. “I don’t like it.” Whatever he said next was lost to a nervous bout of stammering, silenced when Constable Brannock murmured something in his ear.
Phoebe understood Josh’s perplexity. “You feel you’re betraying your friend. But William isn’t helping himself with his actions. He needs to speak with the constable, and we need to hear what he has to say. You’re doing him a favor, though it may not feel like it.”
“It surely don’t,” the youth mumbled with his chin tucked low. Eva put a hand on his shoulder.
“So what happens next?” Phoebe asked the constable.
He exchanged a glance with Eva. “I’m going to wait just behind the hedge, out of sight while Josh waits in the usual place for William. If he shows up, I’ll apprehend him.”
This earned him a scowl from Josh.
“It’s merely police talk,” Eva said to him. “Constable Brannock only wishes to speak with William.”
Josh stared down at the ground. “He won’t be in any trouble? For disappearing and all? And what about me? I stole the food. If Mr. Giles or Mrs. Sanders finds out, I’ll get the sack for sure.”
It was Phoebe’s turn to offer a reassurance. “No one will have to know anything. As far as William is concerned, I’m sure a lot depends on his answers. Isn’t that right, Constable?”
“It is. Now then.” With an air of authority, he turned to address the hall boy. “Josh, you’re to take up your usual place at the hedge to wait. I’ll be close by, so if you think to warn William, I’ll hear you. Lady Phoebe and Eva, I’d like you both to wait here, out of sight. Please.” This last was added with an intensity, almost an urgency, directed toward Eva. “But once we have William, your presence might be helpful. A gentler touch, as it were.” He smiled at Eva, who smiled back, a flush evident in her cheeks even in the shadows.
Phoebe and Eva nodded their assent. Falling briskly into his role of policeman, the constable escorted Josh past the hothouses, the beam o
f his torch bouncing along the shrubbery until it vanished with a click of its switch. All went dark but for the dim gas lighting inside the hothouses.
Eva released an audible breath and bobbed once on her toes, before folding her hands at her waist and affecting a patient air. It didn’t fool Phoebe one bit.
“Is there something I should know?” she asked, careful not to speak above the lowest of whispers.
“Only that we’re not expecting this to go as smoothly as one might hope.” Eva’s reply piqued Phoebe’s curiosity, but she let it go rather than risk being overheard by William and frightening him off. But Eva’s nervous excitement was catching, and let loose a host of butterflies in Phoebe’s stomach.
A shout startled them both. A warning in a boy’s high-pitched voice. Josh. Then another shout, this one lower, commanding. The constable. Footsteps thumped across the grass, echoing against the glass walls of the hothouses. The constable’s torchlight danced wildly against the shrubbery and the undersides of the trees.
Phoebe and Eva each took a step as if to run toward the ruckus, but before Phoebe could start moving, Eva caught her hand. “No, my lady. Let the men handle it.”
Another shout broke through the night sounds, a different voice from the first two. William? It sounded too deep to belong to such a young man. But then, who?
“You said ‘men,’” Phoebe suddenly realized aloud. “Who else is out there?”
“Miles enlisted Vernon’s and Douglas’s help. They took up their positions while Miles and I were in the house talking to Josh. Miles expected to have trouble from William. And from Josh, for that matter. And it sounds as if he was right on both counts.”
Douglas was another footman, a bit younger than Vernon and below him in the ranking of the servants. “You didn’t tell me this.”
“I didn’t know until I went belowstairs and talked to Miles.”
The continued sounds of scuffling, of a chase across the dark grounds, set Phoebe’s nerves on edge. By the sounds of it they hadn’t gone far, were playing cat and mouse just beyond the hothouses, still out of sight. Phoebe found it maddening, not being able to see what was happening.
“Perhaps we should go inside,” Eva suggested.
“No. If they catch William we’ll still be able to help. He’ll be terrified, as will Josh. You and I can set them at ease. The constable won’t be able to do that alone, simply by virtue of his position on the police force.”
“That’s true.” Eva’s tone betrayed her qualms, and Phoebe guessed her maid’s protective instincts were on high alert. That made her grin, but only briefly.
The next moment brought a sharp change in the direction of the footsteps and voices. Someone crashed through the shrubbery beside the closest hothouse, and then with a clatter barreled through the kitchen garden fencing. A cry of pain escaped the individual as he dragged wooden slats connected by wires tangled around his legs. Dirt and plant matter went flying as he continued plowing through the garden. Behind him, two men sprinted after him, their path made easier by the destruction William had already caused.
Yes, Phoebe recognized the gardener’s assistant. She had seen him often enough at Mr. Peele’s side, performing their magic among the flower beds and sculpted hedges and the graceful sweep of the flowering trees.
Eva began tugging on her, urgently. “My lady, come. He’s heading this way.”
They were about to be mowed down where they stood. They scrambled off the path into the low ground cover of fern and ivy, the leaves brushing at their ankles. But as if they attracted him like a magnet, William swerved course and headed directly for them. Eva tried tugging Phoebe farther out of the way, but suddenly he was upon them. He gripped Phoebe’s forearm in one hand, and with the other grabbed hold of her cardigan. He hauled her away from Eva, turned Phoebe so that her back was against the front of his torso, and came to a rigid, panting, desperate halt.
Phoebe could smell his despondency, his fear, like that of a wild animal who finds itself cornered. That, and several days of living rough and not washing. There were now three men coming through the garden, with Josh stumbling after them. Phoebe tried to remain calm and still. She detected no sign of a weapon on William, but as Constable Brannock approached them, William’s arm slid upward to lodge at Phoebe’s throat.
“Don’t come any closer.”
Eva cried out but stayed rooted to the spot. Constable Brannock stopped walking and signaled with a hand outstretched behind him to the other men. They, too, went still. “William, you’re only digging yourself in deeper. Let Lady Phoebe go. All I want is to talk with you. There is no need for this.”
The forearm at Phoebe’s throat tightened. “Is that why you brought Vernon and Douglas?”
The two footmen glanced uneasily at each other. This must be exceedingly difficult for them, Phoebe realized, for it would tug their loyalties in opposite directions. As honorable, honest men, they would want to see the law followed and justice done. But as fellow servants, they wished to protect one of their own. Vernon, especially, would sympathize with William, having been accused of a crime he didn’t commit two years earlier.
“I brought them because I feared you’d do exactly as you have done,” the constable replied. “Come now. You don’t want to hurt Lady Phoebe. She’s always been kind to you, hasn’t she?”
The forearm eased a fraction or two. “I just want to be allowed to leave. Back away and let me go.”
“I can’t do that, William.” Constable Brannock removed his policeman’s helmet, ran a hand through his thick, red hair, and took a couple of easy steps in William’s and Phoebe’s direction. “You disappeared immediately following Stephen Ripley’s murder. We need to know why. What did you see that day? What did you do?”
“I didn’t murder him.” Behind her, William began to tremble, his shivers traveling up and down Phoebe’s spine. From the corner of her eye, she made out Eva’s anguished look, her hands pressed to her mouth.
The constable took a half step forward. “Then why have you been hiding?”
“Because I knew I’d be blamed. And . . .”
“And what, William?” Eva spoke gently, softly. Her hands at her sides now, she came slowly forward, only a few short steps, and stopped. “What are you afraid of, William?”
“I’m afraid . . .” He swallowed and filled his lungs with air. Phoebe didn’t move; she barely breathed.
Eva extended a hand toward him. “Yes, William?”
“I’m afraid the killer will come after me.”
“Why would he do that, Will?” the constable asked.
“Because I saw him. He knows I saw him. He looked right at me.”
* * *
Eva walked Lady Phoebe into Mrs. Sanders’s parlor and wrapped her in the afghan the housekeeper kept on hand. Dora came in soon after with the cup of tea Eva had requested, and she carefully pressed it into Lady Phoebe’s trembling hands. She took several sips, seeming to rally with each one.
“Thank you.” Lady Phoebe leaned back in Mrs. Sanders’s favorite easy chair while Eva perched on the footstool in front of her. “That was something, wasn’t it?”
Eva felt a sudden, unexpected burning behind her eyes and blinked rapidly to prevent any tears from forming. “It certainly was, my lady. I’ve never been so frightened.”
“I think you probably have been at some time or another in these past couple of years.” Lady Phoebe let out a low chuckle and took another sip of tea. “That’s good. Bracing. I needed it. Do you know where the constable has taken William?”
“I believe Mr. Giles’s office.” A knock at the door brought Eva to her feet. Outside stood Vernon and Douglas, peering past her with concern.
The head footman said, “We just wanted to check if Lady Phoebe is all right.”
Lady Phoebe waved at them. “I’m fine. Really. Thank you both for what you did. If not for you, William might have got away.”
Neither young man looked particularly happy about the role they
had played, but they pasted on smiles and went on with their duties.
“I intend to make sure my grandfather knows of their courage in assisting the constable. Without, of course, his learning of my part in tonight’s excitement.” Lady Phoebe winked at Eva, finished her tea, and set the cup aside. When she started to come to her feet, Eva hurried to her.
“My lady, don’t. Sit a while longer.”
“No, I meant it when I said I was fine. William frightened me, but he didn’t hurt me. We should go see if the constable needs our help in questioning him.”
Eva knew better than to argue; once Lady Phoebe made up her mind there was no changing it. But she kept close watch on her mistress every step of the way to Mr. Giles’s office. Miles admitted them with a resigned air as if he, too, knew there would be no use in trying to send them away. He closed the door behind them.
Opposite the office’s walk-in silver safe, William sat at Mr. Giles’s desk in the rolling wooden office chair. His hands were curled tightly around the arms. Eva was happy to see that Miles hadn’t handcuffed or restrained him in any way; not yet, at any rate. William’s eyes were large and glistening with fear, his face leeched of color—except for the fading bruise on his cheek that Josh had described to her. Eva’s heart went out to him, despite the possibility that he had murdered Stephen Ripley.
Her heart told her he hadn’t.
Miles approached them. “Lady Phoebe, are you all right?”
“Quite, thank you. You mustn’t worry about me.”
Miles gave a nod, then reached out and touched Eva’s hand, just a warm graze of his fingers against hers. A wave of mingled pleasure and embarrassment swept over her, and she darted a look at Lady Phoebe. But she needn’t be chagrined about that slight display of affection, as Lady Phoebe had never shown anything but approval toward her growing friendship with Miles.
His expression becoming somber, he perched on a corner of the desk and looked down at William. “Did you murder Stephen Ripley?”
A Silent Stabbing Page 19