Fall From Lace

by Emily Claire

  “You must have been horrified to discover Caroline’s blatant lack of filial piety,” Isabella said with a smirk.

  Lydia shook her head. “Not at all. I’d already seen the way you talk to your mama. Nothing could shock me after that.”

  Justina burst out laughing while Isabella gave the rest of them a series of good-natured, disgusted looks.

  “Papa was always in such a state when he discovered my treachery,” Caroline continued, chuckling. “Up until I was sixteen or so, he was convinced one of the mama cats would suffocate me in my sleep—as if I could possibly fail to wake and notice a great heavy cat blocking my nose.” She pursed her lips over her work, then drove her tiny needle back into the creamy fabric. “So you can imagine my surprise when I came into the dining room this morning to discover that stray gray kitten on the table with a pink ribbon around its neck and Papa carrying on a conversation with the creature like it was a person.” Her melodic laugh rippled through the morning room. “I declare I’ve never seen anything as funny as the expression on his face when I caught him.”

  “I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t talk to creatures like they’re people,” Isabella declared. She leaned forward to peer around the work on her small lap loom. “Do I, Mr. Pepperpots?”

  The small black terrier at her feet thumped its tail, reveling at the attention from its mistress.

  “Yes, sir, I quite agree,” Isabella cooed, leaning forward to scratch behind the dog’s ears.

  Lydia chuckled, but her thoughts were already drifting elsewhere. All morning, she hadn’t been able to keep her memory from straying back her conversation with Mr. Buxton and the way Mr. Pemberton had fixed her from across the room with his gaze.

  There had been a warning in that gaze, she thought—a threat.

  The idea of the vicar’s death being a robbery gone wrong sounded more and more absurd every time Lydia considered it. Everyone had accepted the constable’s opinion as truth, even Isabella, but they were wrong. Lydia felt it in her bones and in the unsettled roving of her thoughts.

  If the murder had been intentional, and if Mr. Pemberton had been telling the truth about the absence of mud near the window, the only people who could have committed the crime had been in the house that night, either at the dinner or downstairs in the servants’ quarters.

  Which meant she had dined under the same roof—and perhaps at the same table—as a murderer.

  A shiver crept up her spine. If she were to resume the investigation Isabella had proposed, the first step would be to speak to the butler. If anyone knew or could find out who had led Mr. Stewart to the drawing room that fateful night, it would be Mr. Cooper. Had the overworked constable even bothered to question him?

  “Lydia, are you all right?” Justina asked.

  Lydia jerked out of her reverie. Justina’s kind, probing gaze met hers.

  Lydia set the pair of child’s mittens on her lap. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to continue working on the lace that had sat for so many hours with Mr. Stewart’s body. She’d meant it to be a present for her brother, but the gift felt tainted now.

  “I don’t think Mr. Stewart’s death was an accident.” Lydia’s voice was softer than she’d intended. Even now, making such accusations, she was a churchmouse.

  At least she wasn’t being a shrew, which, of all rodent-like creatures, seemed to be the one determined to emerge in Mr. Pemberton’s irritating presence.

  Confusion tightened the corners of Justina’s eyes. “No, I daresay whoever killed him meant to do so, upsetting as that thought may be.”

  Lydia cleared her throat. “I mean, I don’t think it was a robbery. I don’t think it just happened to be Mr. Stewart in the room. I think someone led him there on purpose.”

  Justina’s eyebrows shot up, and Caroline’s mouth formed a tiny O.

  To Lydia’s surprise, Isabella clucked her tongue and nodded without looking up from her weaving. “I’ve been contemplating the same thing.”

  Lydia stared. Isabella worked a strand of thread through the warp on her loop, then looked up, utterly calm.

  “The music box was still on the mantelpiece when we found the body,” she said, as if this should have been obvious to everyone. “It’s made of gold and inlaid with mother of pearl and all sorts of precious jewels. I haven’t the slightest notion of how much it’s worth, but it must be a hefty sum. Any thief clever enough to creep into Hollybrook House without breaking a window or being seen would certainly be clever enough to slip that into his pocket before he fled into the night.”

  Caroline tucked her needle into her embroidery and set it aside. “You believe someone had a grudge against the curate?”

  “That sounds more likely than someone killing him and then not taking anything.”

  “Who could possibly think badly of Mr. Stewart?” Justina asked. “He was universally adored.”

  Lydia gaped at her friends in turn. “I thought you’d think I was mad.”

  “Heavens, no,” Isabella said. “You’re only saying what I’ve been thinking. Well done, Lydia.”

  It was just like Isabella to compliment someone for sharing her own opinions.

  “I was wondering if I ought to talk to Mr. Cooper,” Lydia said. “If someone did mean to kill Mr. Stewart, I want to find that person. Perhaps your butler knows something that could point us toward the truth.”

  Isabella immediately picked up the bell on the table next to her. A maid appeared at the door a moment later.

  “Send for Mr. Cooper, please,” Isabella said,

  The maid dipped a curtsy and disappeared.

  Lydia stared. “I didn’t mean now.”

  Isabella resumed weaving. “No time like the present.”

  Caroline raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips.

  “Would you like us to leave?” Justina asked delicately.

  Isabella tamped down the weave on her loom. “Absolutely not. We’re investigating a murder, ladies. Why would I deprive my dearest friends of the best fun we’re likely to have through Lent?”

  Mr. Cooper, when he arrived, looked politely puzzled to have been summoned before the four ladies. A butler was not, as a rule, called upon to wind yarn balls or tighten embroidery hoops.

  Isabella nodded sharply at Lydia, and Lydia frowned and shook her head.

  Ask him, Isabella mouthed.

  This was not how Lydia had hoped to spend her morning. She grimaced.

  Mr. Cooper was still looking at her. Still waiting.

  “I have some questions for you,” Lydia said cautiously.

  He was a butler, while she was the guest of a daughter of the house. She shouldn’t feel so nervous. But how would this line of questioning reflect on her? On her family? On the other ladies who sat around her?

  “I was hoping you could answer some inquiries,” Lydia said, speaking slowly and choosing each word with care. “I’m sure everything was handled quite correctly after poor Mr. Stewart’s passing, but my family was close to him, you understand, and I was hoping you could help me satisfy my curiosity on a few points.”

  She bit her lip, searching for the next words. Mr. Cooper waited, his face a mask of polite patience.

  “Were the servants questioned after Bridget discovered the curate’s body?” she asked at last.

  He nodded. “Thoroughly, Miss Shrewsbury. The constable and Sir Charles spoke to everyone serving the household in the presence of myself and the housekeeper, Mrs. Morton.”

  Lydia twisted the mitten in her lap. Strands of thick wool yarn looped around her fingertips. “Did you learn anything from them about what happened?”

  He glanced at the floor, then up at her, seeming at a loss as to how best to discuss murder with one of Miss Wycliffe’s intimate friends. “The constable is confident none of them were involved, Miss Shrewsbury. Nor could Mrs. Morton or I imagine them harboring any such desire. Mr. Stewart was looked on kindly by all—as a man of God, and, by the maids in particular, as a man of pleasing countenanc
e, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”

  Isabella made a soft choking noise that could have been a smothered laugh.

  “Even had the situation been different, none of the servants had an opportunity to see the gentleman alone before his demise,” he continued. “As you are no doubt aware, several of our staff were unfortunately taken to their beds with colds, and all the footmen were dressed in their livery and waiting in the kitchen by the time Mr. Stewart arrived at the house.”

  “Who let him in?” Lydia asked. “And led him to the sitting room instead of the Rose Room with everyone else?”

  Mr. Cooper glanced at the carpet and shifted from foot to foot. “It ought to have been me, Miss Shrewsbury. I take full responsibility for my error, but I never heard the door. None of the servants know when he arrived; I can only assume he let himself in and speculated as to where the party was gathered.”

  “Speculated wrongly, to his great misfortune,” Justina said.

  “Indeed, Mrs. Audley.”

  “You had blood on your shirt at dinner.”

  They all turned to Isabella, who had spoken abruptly and with considerable volume. Lydia pursed her lips, torn between reminding Isabella to demonstrate a little tact and remembering the rust-colored smear on the butler’s clothing.

  Mr. Cooper froze, and his face filled for a moment with color. “Yes, Miss Wycliffe,” he stammered. “I apologize again for any embarrassment that may have caused you or Lady Wycliffe.”

  Isabella waved a hand. “Never mind that. You had blood on your clothes, and then a man was found dead.” She narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t do it, did you, Cooper?”

  It was clear to Lydia that Isabella was teasing, inappropriate as that was. This wasn’t the first time Lydia had seen Isabella take liberties with the butler. He had served the Wycliffe family for decades now, practically Isabella’s whole life, and she sometimes gave in to the temptation to tease him the same way she did her family.

  Mr. Cooper, however, looked distinctly put on the spot.

  “That was an ingredient for the cook’s blood sausage, if you remember, Miss Wycliffe,” he said, tripping over the words. “A large bowl of pig’s blood was on the table in the kitchen. The kitchen staff were all present before dinner; they would have seen me there. I would never have done anything to harm Mr. Stewart or any of your guests, Miss Wycliffe. I trust you know that.”

  Isabella narrowed her eyes, and Justina rapped her across the knees with a crochet hook.

  “Izzy, stop taunting the poor man,” Justina ordered. She smiled up at the discomfited butler. “Please don’t mind her, Mr. Cooper. Something about this horrid situation has caught Miss Wycliffe’s fancy and made her forget her manners.”

  Isabella shifted primly. “You’re almost as bad as Diana.”

  “I’ll be as bad as your mother if you don’t stop harassing Mr. Cooper,” Justina said.

  Justina seemed entirely convinced of the butler’s innocence, and why shouldn’t she be? They’d all known him for ages as a paragon of decency and commitment to service.

  So why did he look like a naughty child who had just been caught by his governess?

  Lydia watched him carefully, noting the tightness around his mouth and the way his gaze darted from their faces to the carpet to the wall behind their heads.

  He was hiding something.

  It couldn’t be murder. Lydia couldn’t believe he was capable of something like that.

  Of course, she wouldn’t have believed anyone in Lanceton was capable of murdering their beloved curate, so how reliable could her opinions be, really?

  “Would you show me the kitchens?” Lydia asked, startling herself.

  Mr. Cooper stared. “The kitchens?”

  “Yes,” she said, too quickly. “I’d be grateful to get a better idea of where you and the servants were at the time of Mr. Stewart’s death. I know it’s an odd request, but I’ve been in a state of such shock ever since that terrible night. Perhaps being able to imagine clearly what happened will help me understand and put those dreadful memories to rest.”

  He frowned a little and glanced at Isabella.

  She tilted her head. “I think that’s a wonderful idea, Lydia, dearest. Cooper?”

  He collected himself and bowed slightly. “Of course, Miss Shrewsbury. If you’ll follow me.”

  “Would you like compa—” Caroline started to ask, but Lydia quickly shook her head, and Caroline immediately settled back into her chair.

  Mr. Cooper led the way down the corridor, but before he could turn down the stairs, Lydia touched his arm lightly. His eyebrows shot up, and he stared down at her with concern and, she thought, a degree of alarm.

  “Miss Shrewsbury?”

  She stepped to the side of the corridor. An enormous painting of a Wycliffe ancestor on a horse covered the wall. The equestrian’s eyes glared vaguely past them.

  “You weren’t telling me everything back there,” she said in a low voice. “You know more about what happened to Mr. Stewart, don’t you?”

  He hesitated, looking down the corridor toward the morning room they’d just left. Then he glanced over his shoulder in the other direction, shoulders tense.

  “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Miss Wycliffe,” Mr. Cooper said at last, his voice barely more than a murmur.

  “Such as?”

  He considered her. More simmered in his eyes than she usually saw; whatever he knew, he wasn’t going to give it up to just anybody.

  “I only want to know what really happened,” Lydia said. “Every detail. Mr. Stewart meant a great deal to my family. If you know anything, please, I beg of you, tell me.”

  He hesitated, then opened the door to the library and nodded her through. Lydia ducked inside. The chilly room felt neglected; of all the Wycliffes, only the younger sisters were fond of reading, and Lydia knew they preferred to do so in the summer months when they could take their books out of doors.

  Mr. Cooper strode a few steps into the room and looked around, as if someone could possibly have been hiding inside the bookshelves built into the walls. He turned back to her, his aging face sharp with caution.

  “I trust you won’t share this information, or that, if you do, you won’t let it lead back to me.”

  Lydia didn’t dare make promises. She couldn’t risk having to break them. “I only want to know what happened to him,” she repeated.

  This seemed acceptable. Mr. Cooper let out a harsh sigh. “I suppose you were aware that the curate had demonstrated a degree of romantic interest in Miss Diana?” he asked.

  Lydia’s eyebrows shot up. “She preferred Mr. Buxton, but I understand nothing was settled.”

  “I recently overheard Lady Wycliffe speaking about Miss Diana’s prospects with Sir Charles. She said she didn’t want the curate anywhere near her daughter. She sounded…”

  He hesitated. Lydia held her breath.

  “Angry,” he said at last. ”She sounded angry that a lowly curate would submit himself for consideration by a baronet’s daughter. Lady Wycliffe has always had high hopes for her children’s marriages, and since it seems Miss Wycliffe, ah…”

  He trailed off again.

  Lydia said it for him. “Since Isabella is determined to stay a spinster.”

  He nodded. “Lady Wycliffe’s hopes of an advantageous match are currently pinned on Miss Diana. While Mr. Buxton has no title, it doesn’t take a great deal of calculation to realize that his wealth, combined with Miss Diana’s inheritance, would be considerable.”

  A weight settled on Lydia’s shoulders. Poor Mr. Stewart. He had never had a chance with Diana, not really. All the kindness and decency in the world wouldn’t have provided him with a title or a fortune, which meant the woman he adored had been forever destined to remain out of his grasp. It was heartbreaking to consider.

  If only he’d had time to understand his loss and perhaps turn his attentions elsewhere.

  Something about Mr. Cooper’s explanation prodded at
Lydia, like one of Isabella’s dogs nosing at her skirts and asking to play. She stared absently at the shelves of leather- and fabric-bound books, mind racing, until a single dizzying thought landed, fully-formed, in her mind.

  “Are you implying Lady Wycliffe—”

  “I would never,” Mr. Cooper said vehemently. “I could never believe Lady Wycliffe capable of performing such a grisly feat.”

  The thought didn’t go away. She frowned up at the butler, and he shifted his weight to his other foot.

  “It is known, however,” he said delicately, “that people with money are often able to hire others to carry out tasks on their behalf.”

  “You think Lady Wycliffe—”

  “I said no such thing. I would never accuse my lady. Having said that, if you are seeking the truth and are determined to uncover even the unpleasant details, you must at least consider what Miss Diana’s loved ones might be prepared to do to protect her future.”

  Lydia’s heart pounded. Was Lady Wycliffe capable of giving such an order? Or had she intended for someone to merely frighten the curate, and the resulting fight had gone too far?

  “I beg you not to repeat any of this,” Mr. Cooper said. “I speak freely only out of concern for you, Miss Shrewsbury. I do not wish to spread gossip or to risk my own position here.”

  His sharp gaze softened, as did the lines around his mouth. His skin was thinner than it had been once, she noticed, turning papery with time.

  “I’ve known you since you were a little girl,” he continued. “I know you have a tender heart. If the uncertainties around the curate’s death trouble you, I hope you find answers. And I hope you know that I, at least, am innocent of wrongdoing, as is my staff.”

  Lydia relaxed as she looked up at the butler. It was easy enough to overlook the servants at times. They were always there, always in their places, never calling undue attention to themselves—and yet Mr. Cooper’s presence in her life had been steady and reassuring, and she suspected he’d had far more opportunities to observe her than the other way around. It pleased her to know she had his good opinion.