“Nigel arrived later, thinking they were still running away. Isabella looked mad with fury, screaming that she knew what he’d done. Nigel denied it at first, but then he broke down and cried. He said it was an accident, that some darkness had taken hold of him. They both seemed mad.
“Nigel finally went to the carriage, and I thought that was the end of it. But he came back with a gun. He warned Isabella and Joseph not to repeat his mother’s lies. I was horrified. I didn’t know what to do. But Isabella was clever. She pretended to forgive him and love him, and when he lowered the gun, she grabbed it and pointed it at him. But your father took the gun from her and set it on the ground…”
“And I picked it up,” I said huskily.
“Oh, Valentine,” Mrs. Henny breathed with whispery kindness. “It was an accident. We all knew that. I’ve always known that.”
And yet, she’d stopped allowing Philly to play with me.
“Why did my mother take the blame? They wouldn’t have hanged me.”
“She wasn’t herself. Hearing about Daniel’s death broke something inside her. She thought she was doing something noble.” Mrs. Henny seemed to hesitate, then said, “Once, in one of her dark spells, she asked me to watch over you if anything ever happened to her. I feared she would jump in the river. Then Nigel moved back to town and started visiting her—just friendly chats, but it lifted her spirits.”
“My father must have been jealous. Was that why he didn’t defend her in court? He wanted her to hang?”
“Goodness, no. He tried to stop her from confessing. He told the sheriff what happened, but his English was so hard to understand back then, and Isabella just said he was lying to protect her.”
My gaze sharpened. “But you knew. You could have told Judge Stoker.”
Tears sprang in Mrs. Henny’s eyes. “I intended to. But Philly was sick, burning with fever. And then I came down with it. I could barely walk. By the time I made it to town, it was too late. It all happened so fast. I would have dragged myself to town if I’d known, I swear. She was my friend.” A sob escaped her throat.
I felt numb. “Where did my father go? He left me alone for three days.”
“To get his cousin, a lawyer. He thought he had time. But he returned a moment too late.”
The man in the green scarf. I’d never heard of this cousin.
“When I heard she’d been hanged, I was heartbroken. I went to your father. I wanted to tell people the truth, but he convinced me to keep quiet for your sake. He didn’t want Mrs. Blackshaw to know what you’d done.”
So, I’d been wrong. Mrs. Blackshaw had never known. She’d given Father a box of money to keep quiet about Nigel, and she’d been paying Mrs. Henny for the same reason.
Only—
My thoughts shifted. Mrs. Henny had watched from her dark garden that night; Mrs. Blackshaw wouldn’t have known she was there. My voice hardened. “You went to her. You’ve been blackmailing Mrs. Blackshaw.”
Mrs. Henny stiffened, her voice dropping to a stubborn low. “I’ve been a widow for fifteen years. How else could I afford to keep my house and garden? Or send Philly to Drake Academy?”
Fury crawled up my throat. “And my father and Mr. Oliver and Birdy? Were they the price of Philly’s fine education?”
Mrs. Henny seemed to shrink in front of me. “I shouldn’t have done that. I know that now. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I am paying for my sins. But Philly—” Her voice caught. “Philly is going to become a great lady. Joseph threatened to tell Mrs. Blackshaw that I’d been disloyal.” Her eyes widened like a terrified mouse. “She would have turned against us. She would have told Rowan to marry Lucy.”
“Lucy? Rowan will marry whomever he likes! And Philly—” My stomach seethed with disgust. “Philly will never become the grand lady you imagine! Not when her mother is convicted of murder and hanged at the gallows! You want to know what Philly will become?” My voice shook. “People will whisper that she’s just like her murdering mother—no matter how hard she tries! Children will taunt her and run away! Women holding babies will cross the road when they see her coming! She won’t feel welcomed in polite society—she won’t feel welcomed anywhere! Philly won’t become a grand lady—Philly will become me!”
Mrs. Henny’s face twisted with rage. She grabbed a kitchen knife off the table and lunged. I moved just in time, and she staggered past me, pulled by her own weight. She whirled, standing between me and the door, her eyes wild.
I stepped back, knocking over a chair.
“I almost poisoned you too,” she hissed, clutching the knife. “The night you found your father. I wasn’t sure how much you knew. How much you’d guessed. I was going to poison your tea. Not monkshood, but something slower.”
My heart thundered in my chest. I moved carefully to the side, trying to draw her away from the door, but she matched my steps, turning with me.
“But I couldn’t do it. You looked so fragile that night—like the little girl who used to play with Philly.” Her voice broke on her daughter’s name, but she shook the weakness away. Her eyes snapped with new temper. “You stupid girl! This is all your fault! Everyone would have thought Mr. Oliver died of a heart attack if you hadn’t showed up.”
I stepped to the side, and my shoe crunched on the broken jar of honey.
“I’ve seen the way you lure Rowan to your house,” she seethed, stalking closer. “You think you can steal him from Philly!”
“Is that why you told Mrs. Blackshaw you saw me entering the stable with Birdy? So I would die at the gallows, no poison necessary?” My back hit the cupboard. I quickly turned and reached up, grabbing the blue tea tin off the top shelf. I turned to face her, clutching it to my chest. “I have the evidence now, Mrs. Henny, and soon everyone will know the truth—that my mother was innocent and you are a killer!”
She lunged with a furious screech. I darted to the side, but my shoe stumbled on the honey, and her knife sliced my upper arm. I cried out, jerking my arm away, and the knife skittered across the floor.
For a heartbeat, we both stared at it.
Then we dove at the same time, our bodies colliding.
Mrs. Henny reached it first, straightening with a triumphant cry. Terror shot through me. I was too close. She swung, and I grabbed her wrist, stopping the knife in front of my face. We struggled for control of it.
“Please—” I begged, gritting my teeth, pushing against her wrist. “You can’t kill me in your kitchen. What will Philly think?”
“That you attacked me! That you confessed to killing everyone before you died!”
My heart dropped. No one would doubt it. With a desperate surge of strength, I shoved her arm. The knife jerked back against her forehead, and she stumbled back with a cry, blood flowing from a deep gash above her eyes. The knife clattered to the floor. Mrs. Henny swayed, looking startled, blinking against the stream of blood—then she snarled and reached for me. I gasped and pushed her with all my strength. She fell backward, her head hitting the stove with a loud crack, then she crumpled to the floor.
I saw the knife and snatched it up. I stood over her, breathing hard, ready for her next attack—almost longing for an excuse to fight.
But she lay still, looking small and frail, like the Mrs. Henny I knew, with gray hair and a faded dress. Only the ghoulish blood told the truth.
And her eyes staring at nothing.
The knife slid from my hand. “Mrs. Henny,” I croaked. I dropped beside her. Her head tilted at a grotesque angle. I tried to straighten it, but it only flopped. I dropped it in horror, staggering to my feet.
My stomach roiled. I stared at my bloody hands.
Overhead, a floorboard creaked.
35
My eyes darted in panic. I saw the broken honey jar; the chair on its side; my slashed sleeve, now soaked in blood; the bloody knife on the floor. Mrs. Henny lay dead, another victim.
I was the one still breathing.
No one would believe me.
&n
bsp; I saw the blue tea tin where I’d dropped it and snatched it up. I had my proof.
But it didn’t prove anything. My chest tightened in dread. They would think the tea belonged to me—that I’d come to poison Mrs. Henny, but she guessed my intention and fought back.
The ceiling groaned. Philly couldn’t find me here, standing over her dead mother. I moved from the kitchen, pausing to listen, glancing up the staircase, then I left through the front door, closing it quietly behind me.
I hurried across the street, my heart racing, wondering what I should do, where I should go. I needed to tell someone, but who would believe that timid Mrs. Henny was a killer? She might have admitted the truth under pressure, but there was no chance for that now.
I walked along the carriage drive, my thoughts darting. No one must know I’d been there when she died. But my head screamed in horror at the thought of another secret.
I turned the back corner of my house—and powerful hands grabbed my shoulders, shoving me up against the wall. I gasped and saw Mr. Frye’s face only inches from mine.
“Now, you’ve gone and done it,” he sneered.
For a heart-stopping moment, I thought he meant Mrs. Henny.
“My wife’s crying, and Sam’s yelling. Think you’re too good for a Frye now that you got some fancy school award? Well, I seen those dead bodies in your stable. You’re the one who’s not good enough for my Sam!”
I blinked, forcing my thoughts from Mrs. Henny’s dead stare to Sam’s broken heart. My mouth opened and closed.
Mr. Frye released me with a scornful push. “You can’t go back on a promise like that. You say you’re going to marry him, and you’re going to marry him if I have to drag you to the church myself.”
I swallowed against the fire in my throat. His fury didn’t make sense. “If you think I killed them, you should be glad I’m not marrying him.”
He smirked. “Maybe so, but you’re an orphan now, so I think it’s worth the risk.” He saw my confusion and laughed. “Seven of us stepping on each other in that poky little cabin, and you all alone on this grand estate.”
I released a weary breath. Sam thought his mother was warming up to the idea of me as a daughter-in-law, but she was really just warming up to the idea of my property.
“You think I’d invite you to live here?”
“You got no choice. Family is family. If the log cabin were to … catch fire, say … we’d have nowhere else to go. I think my wife would look fine sitting in a proper parlor, serving tea to the church ladies. What do you think?”
I cringed at my narrow escape. “Sorry to disappoint you, but Sam and I aren’t getting married.”
“Oh, you’ll marry him, all right; I’ll make sure of that.”
I stepped back, fear running through me. “You can’t frighten me into making marriage vows.”
“I don’t know.” He stepped closer, tall and broad, his fists curling. “I can be mighty frightening when I put my mind to it.”
I turned to run, but he grabbed my arm—right over my wound. I gasped in pain, and Mr. Frye quickly released me, staring in surprise at the blood on his hand. His gaze darted up to my face, curious—
As Philly’s scream rent the air.
I gave a gasping sob.
Mr. Frye’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What’d you do now, pretty girl?”
Philly’s cry turned to a guttural howl of anguish, and Mr. Frye hurried toward the road.
I reluctantly followed, stopping at the edge of the carriage drive to watch from the trees as Mr. Frye entered the Hennys’ house. I waited, holding my breath, and they soon emerged. Philly wailed and tried to go back inside, but Mr. Frye kept her moving forward, his arm around her back. His gaze darted to me, tight with accusation, but he remained with Philly, guiding her down the road to the O’Donnells’ house. I watched as Mrs. O’Donnell ushered Philly inside, then Mr. O’Donnell joined Mr. Frye, and the two of them hurried toward town—Mr. Frye casting a furtive glance back at me.
My body swayed. I hugged myself and felt damp blood on my arm. I looked down, surprised; I couldn’t feel the pain. I knew I should walk to Sheriff Crane and explain what happened—before he believed Mr. Frye’s version of the story. But I felt feverish, my legs shaky. I wavered with uncertainty, then returned to my kitchen.
As I set the blue tea tin on the table, I saw the wooden gun box, and a new wave of despair washed over me. I drank water, trying to soothe my sore throat, then sank to the rocking chair to wait for Sheriff Crane to come for me.
The only sound was the tick of the small clock on the mantel.
I would tell Sheriff Crane everything—about every death, including Daniel Barron’s. I’d finally found all the answers, and there was some sense of victory in that.
But I might still hang for murder.
The sharp knock on the front door came sooner than I’d expected. I stood, waited for the room to stop spinning, then made my way to the front door and opened it.
Mrs. Blackshaw stood in front of me. I blinked, confused.
Her gaze darted to the blood on my arm, and she pushed her way inside, shutting the door behind her. “What happened to her?” she asked in a furious hiss.
She’d seen Mrs. Henny—and immediately come here, assuming I was to blame. “I’m … I’m waiting for Sheriff Crane,” I said shakily.
“Oh, he’ll be here soon enough, make no mistake. Now, quickly—tell me what happened so I can help you.”
My foggy mind tried to keep up. “Help me?”
“I was on my way to make amends with you when I saw Mr. Frye and Mr. O’Donnell on the road, raving about Mrs. Henny being dead. I found her in the kitchen. Did you kill her?”
“No,” I croaked. “At least—I didn’t mean to. She attacked me with a knife. I pushed her. I didn’t mean for her to die—I didn’t want her to die! I need her to tell everyone the truth.”
“And what truth is that?” Mrs. Blackshaw demanded.
I swallowed against my fiery throat. “She killed them—my father and Mr. Oliver and Birdy. She admitted it, then attacked me with a knife.”
I expected scornful disbelief, but Mrs. Blackshaw didn’t look surprised. “Why did she kill them? That’s what I can’t figure out.”
She already knew. My mind swirled, trying to decide if that was helpful or just another secret to be used against me. I couldn’t think. The house felt like an echoing tomb around us. Too warm. Too quiet.
Mrs. Blackshaw pressed a cool hand against my forehead and made a low sound in her throat. “You’re burning up.”
“Yes,” I agreed limply.
“Sheriff Crane will be here soon, and he cannot know you were there when Mrs. Henny died. Do you understand, Valentine? Or you will surely hang.”
I released a laughing breath. “That should please you.”
Emotion flickered in her eyes. “I am not the devil you think I am. Now, quickly—you must change from this bloody dress, or it’ll give you away.”
I swayed uncertainly, and she took my uninjured arm and urged me up the staircase, walking alongside. I felt breathless when we reached the top, hardly believing Mrs. Blackshaw was inside my house.
“This illness suits our purposes,” she said as we entered my room. “You are too ill to have been out. Take off that dress, and I will burn it.” My fingers fumbled over the buttons, and she pushed my hands aside and did them herself. She helped me pull the dress over my head, then handed me my nightgown. “Put this on and get in bed.”
“But—”
“You are not well, Valentine. Stay here. I will return.”
I obeyed with relief, collapsing on the mattress, closing my eyes.
Mrs. Blackshaw returned with an armload of supplies. She arranged the items on the nightstand, then sat the edge of my bed and wiped my face with a damp cloth. She helped me sit up and pressed a cup to my lips. I drank cool water, then sank back.
She pushed up the sleeve of my nightdress and inspected my wound, frow
ning. “It doesn’t look deep. I don’t think it needs stitching.”
Somewhere in my foggy mind, I knew this was wrong … that I shouldn’t trust Mrs. Blackshaw. But her cool efficiency was reassuring. Even comforting. She dabbed tenderly at the cut on my arm, then wrapped a bandage around it with gentle fingers. This was the Mrs. Blackshaw who raised money for orphans and runaway slaves. She’d taken charge of the situation, and I was relieved to give it to her.
“Why are you being kind?” I asked hoarsely.
Her eyes met mine, then returned to the bandage she was wrapping. “We both spoke in temper last night. You were so convinced I was the killer, I realized it couldn’t be you. Which meant Mrs. Henny lied when she told me she saw you entering the stable. Which led me to wonder if she killed them herself. Poison seems her style. And I know—better than most—that she is capable of dark deeds. I just couldn’t figure out why she would do it. I was on my way to ask you when I saw Mr. O’Donnell and Mr. Frye.” She knotted the bandage and looked up to meet my eyes with a grim expression. “Explain to me why a woman who can barely kill a spider murdered three people.”
Mrs. Blackshaw believed it.
I released a shallow breath of amazement. I could have no stronger ally. “It started before Christmas.”
I told her about Mrs. Henny confiding in Mr. Oliver and my father crossing the road to threaten her. “She didn’t want you to know she’d been disloyal. She didn’t want to lose your blackmail money … or your promise for Philly.”
Mrs. Blackshaw’s lips tightened. “I cannot pretend to be sorry she is dead. She has made my life a misery for over a decade, constantly reminding me of Nigel’s mistake.”
“Mistake?” I shifted up to my elbows. “He murdered my uncle!”
Her eyes tightened with impatience. “I am aware of what happened between my son and Daniel Barron—more than you. But it was twenty years ago, and they are both gone. Let them rest in peace.”
“People should know the truth.”
“Should they?” she snapped. “You think people should know that you shot Nigel and let your mother hang for it?”
Girl at the Grave Page 27