Fall From Lace

by Emily Claire

  Were she and Mr. Buxton right? Had Mr. Pemberton made himself ill in an attempt to escape suspicion? Her thoughts vacillated wildly between the possibilities. The more she’d spoken with Mr. Pemberton, the more unlikely it had seemed that he might be a murderer. He’d certainly had opportunities enough to stab her to death and had taken none of them.

  But perhaps whatever impulse drove men to murder was the same one that drove them to irritate ladies. If that were true, Mr. Pemberton had all but announced his guilt on every occasion—and who else could have managed to arrange a non-fatal poisoning so elegantly?

  “He will soon, I’m sure of it,” Diana said, then touched a gloved hand to her lips. “Is it strange that he hasn’t proposed yet? What if he doesn’t? What if the crime surrounding our family convinced him it isn’t safe to marry one of the Wycliffes?”

  Lydia tried, with some difficulty, to keep from laughing and gave Diana a consoling pat on the arm. “I’m certain these brushes with danger can only strengthen the interest of someone so manly and devoted as Mr. Buxton.”

  Diana smiled at this reassurance even as her sister rolled her eyes.

  “The sooner you’re married, the better,” Isabella said. “You’ll be a good deal more tolerable to be around once the bloom is off that particular rose.”

  “Mr. Buxton’s rose shall never fade,” Diana announced, tucking her folder of new music under her arm. “If you are waiting for the day I find him anything less than perfect, you shall spend your whole life in anticipation.” She marched down the street, nose in the air.

  Isabella shook her head and took Lydia’s arm. “We’re going to Caroline’s next,” she said. “She promised to give me some flowers from her conservatory. This February has dragged, and I’m certain I shall go mad if I don’t obtain some reminder that Nature hasn’t given up on us entirely.”

  “Are your own hothouse flowers not good enough?”

  “They’re perfectly adequate,” Isabella admitted. “Their only failing is that they don’t provide a nice long visit with Caroline.”

  “I cannot refute that logic.”

  Down the street, just outside the cobbler’s shop, a familiar figure strode toward them. Isabella, who was waxing poetic on the virtues of daffodils and geraniums, didn’t notice, but Lydia caught the man’s eye. He noticed Isabella and Diana with her and quickly turned away, as if suddenly entranced by the display of boots in the shop window.

  How strange.

  “Izzy, dear, I’ve forgotten an errand I must run,” Lydia interrupted abruptly, patting her friend on the arm. “Go ahead to Caroline’s, and I’ll catch up with you.”

  Isabella shook her head. “Diana and I can wait. I don’t mind.”

  “You will mind when you hear the errand. Father needs me to put in an order for a new pair of shoes, and you know how the cobbler can talk.”

  Isabella made a face. “Tedious man. Escape as soon as you can. Tell him you have an appointment to keep.”

  Lydia veered toward the cobbler’s shop and the man’s back while Isabella and Diana pressed on. A carriage approached, and they darted quickly ahead to avoid being splashed by the wheels rolling through a grimy puddle.

  Once they were gone, Lydia cleared her throat. “Mr. Cooper, are you all right?”

  He jumped, though he couldn’t have failed to see her reflection in the shop glass. He turned around, false surprise written across his face.

  “Miss Shrewsbury, good morning,” he said. “Again.”

  She glanced at the sky; it could scarcely be past noon. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Is Lady Wycliffe still not taking her morning calls?”

  “I believe she is, Miss Shrewsbury,” he said, tripping over the words. “I left a footman to welcome guests as I had some business in town.”

  It wasn’t impossible; indeed, she had run into Mr. Cooper in town on more than one occasion, and she supposed he had as much need to visit the shops as any other man in his position. Something about his manner, however, raised gooseflesh on her skin.

  “It must have been pressing business for you to conduct it personally at this hour,” she said brightly.

  He shifted from one foot to another, and his gaze darted anxiously around, landing first on her face and then scanning the world behind her.

  Disjointed impulses tore at Lydia. On the one hand, the situation was irregular. He didn’t seem glad to see her; indeed, he looked as if he hoped to escape her presence but couldn’t figure out how. On the other hand, what concern was that of hers?

  Then again, one man had been murdered and another had been pushed close to death, all under the roof of one of Lydia’s closest friends. That rather qualified it as being her business.

  A long silence settled between them. Lydia’s skin crawled with the awkwardness of it.

  Mr. Cooper cracked first.

  “Material for Sir Charles’s new waistcoat just arrived at the tailor’s,” he said. “I came to approve the material before it was cut.”

  Silently, Lydia breathed a sigh of relief. “Did it? I thought Sir Charles usually had the tailor go up to the house.”

  Mr. Cooper’s jaw twitched. “You noticed.”

  “He mentioned it to Isabella and me once,” she said. “How he prefers to have people come to the house so as to avoid disruption to his day.”

  “Indeed, he does. As this was only material and didn’t require his direct presence, he sent me in his stead.”

  Lydia searched the butler’s face, but his expression revealed very little. He was uncomfortable, that much was clear—but why?

  She didn’t know how to ask. She didn’t even know what to ask.

  Her conversation with Mr. Pemberton echoed in her mind, and she cleared her throat. She had already pried for information about the night of Mr. Stewart’s murder, but there was another crime to consider now, and another avenue of questioning.

  “I imagine the fresh air is doing you good, as it is me,” she said. “I’m certain you’ve felt the effects of Mr. Pemberton’s troubles, as we all have.”

  He inclined his head. “Yes, Miss Shrewsbury. It’s good of you to think of me.”

  “How are the other servants doing, if I may inquire?”

  Suddenly, to Lydia’s surprise, the corners of his thin mouth quirked up. “You’re still investigating, then.”

  She had no reason to feel embarrassed but flushed anyway. She almost welcomed the warmth; it was a far better defense against the chill in the air than even her pelisse.

  “I know I must seem silly to you,” she said. “A dull little spinster who fancies herself a constable.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I would never think of you in such disparaging terms, miss. If you feel that you can find a remedy to the troubles plaguing Hollybrook House, I wish you good fortune.”

  “In that case, would you be willing to answer some questions?” she asked, lowering her voice.

  He bowed slightly. “I’m at your disposal, miss.”

  She pursed her lips, trying to decide on a plan of attack. It wouldn’t do to accuse him outright. Nor would it do to pretend she wasn’t considering all the possibilities. If Mr. Cooper had acted against Mr. Stewart out of concern for Diana—or against Mr. Pemberton for reasons she could not yet fathom—she owed it to both of them to be frank.

  She waited for a woman to pass them on the sidewalk, then inched closer to the butler. “Where were you when Mr. Pemberton was poisoned yesterday?”

  His expression didn’t change. “I was in the wine cellar, miss, arranging for the storage of a special delivery of wine from Madeira.”

  Lydia furrowed her brow. “Doesn’t Sir Charles already have a good deal of Madeira wine?”

  He allowed himself a small smile. “Ah, but there’s a new vintage every year, and the baronet finds it incumbent upon himself to collect as many varietals and years as a man of his purse can afford.”

  That was true enough.

  “Did you have access to the pot of chocolate?”


  “The one Mr. Pemberton drank?”

  Lydia nodded.

  “I suppose I did. I passed through the kitchen yesterday morning, along with much of the staff.”

  “Who among them could have slipped something toxic into the chocolate without being noticed?”

  He rested his hand at the front edge of his waistcoat. “None, miss. That is to say, none would have done such a thing.”

  She lowered her voice again. “That isn’t what I asked,” she said gently. “Neither you nor I can say for certain who would have done such a thing, only that someone did.”

  His graying eyebrows drew together, and he let out a heavy sigh. “Aye, I daresay there’s more truth in that than I’d like. Very well, if you want to know who could have poisoned it, any of the maids might have slipped something in unnoticed, though I can’t imagine one of them would have it out for Mr. Pemberton.” A sardonic tone entered his voice. “They all find him quite handsome, as you can well imagine.”

  Lydia resisted the urge to roll her eyes in a spectacularly Isabella-esque fashion. “Yes, the gentleman seems to rely heavily on his good looks.”

  “I could have poisoned it, too, if you’re considering all angles,” Mr. Cooper said.

  Lydia tried not to let herself be disarmed by his apparent honesty. “And did you?”

  “No,” he said firmly. “But I get the impression I ought to let you confirm that for yourself, if you can.”

  “You give me a great deal of credit.”

  “I give credit where it’s due, miss,” he said, touching his hat.

  Lydia’s heart warmed at the confidence he seemed to have in her. It was a dangerous sort of warming, the kind that might incline her toward looking elsewhere—even if the eventual clues did start to point in Mr. Cooper’s direction.

  “Would you have been glad if he’d died?” she asked softly. “Were you glad when Mr. Stewart was killed?”

  He flinched. The truth in that momentary, uncontrolled gesture chilled the back of her neck.

  “I lay no claim to perfection,” he said. “But I didn’t attempt to kill either gentleman. Indeed, I wish I knew who had, so that I might nab whichever ne’er-do-well dared commit such a breach of civility under Sir Charles Wycliffe’s roof. I would never cause such grief to the Misses Wycliffe if I could help it, nor would I have put them at risk by poisoning anything at their table. At any rate,” he added, putting his hands in his coat pockets to warm them, “if I had tried to harm Mr. Pemberton, I never would have used the chocolate. Miss Diana is too fond of it.”

  Lydia almost smiled. It seemed nobody had overlooked Diana’s taste for sweets. Behind them, a woman with three young children in tow marched past, and Lydia and Mr. Cooper edged toward the windows to give them room.

  “I wouldn’t do anything to harm them,” he said. “Not a one.”

  “And the other servants? Mrs. Morton and those below you?”

  “I can’t speak to everyone’s feelings for the family in its entirety,” he said. “I can tell you that none of them would have risked harm coming to Miss Diana.”

  Lydia searched his face. “Is she so beloved?”

  “She’s kind, miss,” he said. “Not everyone is to servants, but for all her youth and bickering with Miss Wycliffe, Miss Diana has a gentle heart and a generous spirit. Not one of us would so much as put a pebble in her shoe.” One of his eyebrows crooked upward. “And none of us would risk enraging Miss Wycliffe, as her wrath would be a good sight worse than hanging, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”

  Lydia couldn’t help chuckling.

  Mr. Cooper seemed sincere. The trouble was that nearly everybody else had also seemed sincere. Even Mr. Pemberton, who could be the soul of charming social deceit, had appeared to be in earnest when she’d last spoken with him about the crimes.

  She sighed and adjusted her bonnet. “Thank you for discussing the matter with me. I know it’s likely this will all come to nothing, but I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t at least seek the truth, regardless of whether I find it in the end.”

  Someone came out of the cobbler’s shop behind Lydia, and Mr. Cooper gently took her arm and guided her out of the way. “Miss Shrewsbury, can I trust you?”

  Her heartbeat picked up at the sudden intensity in his tone. “Yes, of course. I hope you will.”

  “I believe I can. You’re a good Christian woman, and you care for the Wycliffe family. That being the case, I feel I ought to tell you I feel somewhat unsettled in regards to Lady Huntington.”

  Lydia’s eyebrows shot up. “Why?”

  “She was the first to breakfast yesterday morning, and she drank only coffee,” he said, the words coming out in a low rush. “Beyond that, I happen to know she was in the sitting room last week, not long before the curate was murdered.”

  Lydia squinted at him. “How do you know? You weren’t there. Or… Were you?”

  She had never asked, she realized. Isabella had questioned him about the blood on his waistcoat, and Lydia had inquired as to whether he’d considered the servants, but she had never asked where he was during the murder.

  “I saw her.” His gaze shifted from Lydia to the reflections in the shop window to the people on the street. Everyone was ignoring them, but that didn’t seem to reassure him. “She didn’t see me, but I was in the corridor when she came out of the sitting room.”

  “She was with Mr. Stewart?”

  “Yes, and him alone.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “I can only speculate,” he said. “The important part of that being that I can speculate, based on good information.”

  His grip on her arm tightened.

  “Walk with me, Miss Shrewsbury,” he said. “We are too conspicuous.”

  She took his arm and allowed him to lead her down the street. When he turned into a small, dingy alley between shops, she hesitated.

  “I don’t intend to harm you, if that’s what you fear,” he said quietly. “I can’t speak of what I know in public. If I were overheard, I would lose my position.”

  “Yet you dare tell me?”

  “If you are truly investigating, this is something you ought to know.”

  Lydia swallowed, then nodded and walked slowly into the shadows of the alley.

  The cold here was deeper and more established; she suspected the sun never quite penetrated between these two walls. A rubbish bin overflowed behind the butcher’s shop, and Lydia was glad for the icy weather’s contribution toward suppressing the acrid smell.

  “What do you know?” she whispered, once they were far from any prying ears.

  “I lied before,” he said. “The blood on my waistcoat—it wasn’t from a pig. It belonged to Mr. Stewart.”

  Lydia’s gloved fingers twitched against the dark wool of Mr. Cooper’s sleeve.

  “I didn’t kill him,” he said quickly. “I bloodied his nose and then left him alive and, I hope, regretting his sins.”

  “What sins?” Lydia whispered.

  Had he known about the curate’s treatment of Diana after all? And did he truly care enough for his young mistress to injure the supposedly respectable man who had threatened to harm her?

  Mr. Cooper’s jaw tightened. “Mr. Stewart stole money from the new girls’ asylum.”

  Lydia’s mouth dropped open. First, the curate’s behavior toward Diana, and now this? She could scarcely wrap her mind around it.

  “What on earth—”

  “He had been embezzling from it for months,” Mr. Cooper said. “Don’t ask me how I know. I can’t tell you, except to say that the asylum administrator, while a good man, is fond of talk and drink alike.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Profoundly. I suspect Lady Huntington was part and parcel of his crimes. She is so deeply involved with the asylum; how could she not be? Her ladies’ maid is a gossip if ever I saw one, and she made it known below stairs that the Huntingtons aren’t as well-off as they like to appear. Perhaps she saw th
e curate’s wickedness as an opportunity to fill her own family’s coffers?”

  Lydia touched a gloved hand to her lips. “I cannot imagine Lady Huntington doing such a thing. She seems so generous.”

  “Generous people often expect generosity back and take it directly if it isn’t offered,” Mr. Cooper said. “Or perhaps she is as good a lady as she appears to be, and she discovered Mr. Stewart’s crimes and became so angry she decided to punish the curate herself.”

  “You’ve gone from theft to murder with scarcely a stop in between.”

  “She cannot be innocent, not entirely,” Mr. Cooper said grimly. “She knew the man too well and worked with him too closely. If I, who am only on the periphery of the asylum’s workings, learned of Mr. Stewart’s treachery, how much more might that lady know?”

  Lydia took a deep breath. The dull scent of frozen waste nudged at her senses.

  If Mr. Cooper was right and Mr. Stewart had stolen from the asylum, it was shocking—perhaps almost as shocking as Diana’s tale about her mistreatment at his hands. How could any man have been so dishonest about not only his actions but his fundamental character?

  How could she have been so foolish as to believe his lies?

  “You’re absolutely certain the curate did as you claim?” she asked, grasping for a thread of hope.

  There was none. The butler nodded, his jaw hard and his eyes shadowed.

  “He was a wretch, miss. I apologize for whatever grief that may cause you, but not for telling the truth of it.”

  “I appreciate the truth,” Lydia said, “much as I may dislike hearing it.”

  “I learned of the affair the night before Mr. Stewart’s murder,” Mr. Cooper said, his voice so soft she had to lean in to make out the words. “I was furious. I tried to control myself, but when I saw Lady Huntington emerging from a dark room I hadn’t thought was meant to be in use, I peeked inside. And when I found Mr. Stewart there…” He trailed off, and his hand closed into a fist and then opened again. “I lost my composure. I struck him with my fist and gave him a bloody nose, then left the room in haste before I could injure him more. I think I might have if I’d stayed.”