“It’s possible, but unlikely,” Morrie said. “I think we need to look into this Gerald more carefully. And this goes without saying, but no one mention to the police that would make them suspect we’re doing their work for them. We can’t have them investigating Lydia too closely. I’ll get some records made up for her as quickly as I could. She’s your French cousin, yes? Can I make her a milkmaid—”
“Mina Wilde,” Inspector Hayes interrupted, flipping his pad open again and darting his inquisitive eyes around the members of our group. “I guess you and I aren’t done talking. If you and your suitemate could follow me.”
I grabbed Lydia’s arm and dragged her with me.
By the time Lydia and I had finished talking with Inspector Hayes and Lydia had given me seven heart attacks with all the embellishments she made to our cousin-visiting-from-France cover story (which checked out in their records, thanks to some fast hacking by Morrie), the crime scene team had photographed the door, scoured the area for fingerprints and forensic evidence, and Cynthia had her staff attempt to remove the paint with a stripper, taking half the door with it. It was now past two in the morning, and I was too tired to take a cab back to the shop, even if Lydia hadn’t refused to leave. I crawled into the bed in the guys’ room, nestling into Heathcliff’s shoulder. Behind him, Quoth lay down and touched my arm, his fingers featherlight as they moved over my skin. Morrie lay down on the opposite side of me, kissing my neck. Immediately, my body reacted, sizzling with heat. I thought about telling him to stop, that he hadn’t yet responded to my ultimatum, but I hadn’t the strength to deny him. I longed to drive out the horror I’d witnessed tonight with kisses and caresses. Morrie’s lips found mine, tipping my head back, exposing my neck to Heathcliff’s lips. Quoth’s hand trailed across my chest and brushed my erect nipple—
Lydia bounded through the connecting door and leaped on the bed. “Move over. You need to make room.”
“Ow!” Morrie leaped up, clutching his jaw. “Ah bit mah tongue!”
“What are you doing?” I murmured. Searing pain arced behind my eyes, even though I’d already taken two of Dr. Clements’ painkillers. “You’re the one who insisted on staying at the Hall. Now get back to the murder bed.”
“I cannot possibly sleep alone in there tonight, especially when you insist upon calling it ‘the murder bed’. You shall have to accommodate me in here.”
I glared at Morrie, who was too busy rubbing his tongue with ice from the Champagne bucket. You’re no bloody use. “Fine,” I sighed.
Lydia settled herself in the middle of the bed, spreading out her petticoats around her. “I feel so much better to know I have all these big, strong men around to protect me. Mina, you sleep on that edge. That way, any killer will have to stab you first in order to reach me.”
“It’s nice to know you care.” I crawled under the blanket on the other side of Quoth and pressed a pillow over my head to block out the sound of Lydia giggling.
Cock-blocked by Lydia Bennet. I cannot believe my life.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I stood in the middle of an empty ballroom. Fairy lights twinkled, pinpricks of light piercing the gloom. From somewhere in front of me, a band struck up the first notes of a jaunty Regency dance tune. It took me a moment to recognize the riff from The Clash’s ‘Guns of Brixton’.
I knew I was supposed to be dancing, but if I took a step in any direction, I’d be flailing blindly. I glanced around, hoping someone would bring the lights up. My hands grabbed at thin air.
“Hello?” I called. “I need a partner. I can’t see a thing, and I don’t know the moves.”
DRIP.
Something splashed on my shoulder. Raindrops? But I was inside. How could it be raining? I lifted my hand to wipe away the water.
DRIP DRIP DRIP.
More raindrops fell on my bare skin. I held my fingers up to my face. In the dim light, I could just discern the reddish liquid on their tips. A harsh, metallic smell hit my nostrils. Not water.
Blood.
Panic rose in my chest. The room spun, the band playing faster and faster until the notes blurred into one continuous cacophony. I looked up, my heart leaping in my throat. Instead of fairy lights, bloody swords hovered in the air above me, their blades hanging over my head. With each thump of the bass, they dropped closer, closer…
“Mina… Mina?”
I woke with a start. Bright sunlight pierced the curtains. A soft hand touched my shoulder. Quoth’s anxious face hovered in front of me. There were no swords, no sinister music, no droplets of blood.
“You were shaking,” he whispered. “I was so worried.”
“I’m fine.” I rubbed my eyes. “It was just a nightmare.”
I sat up. A neon-green light flashed in my eyes. As it faded and I could make out the room, I realized I was in the guys’ room at Baddesley Hall, but no longer in the bed. Instead, I lay on the chaise lounge under the window, my back pressed against Quoth’s chest. Lydia sprawled across the bed like a starfish between Heathcliff and Morrie. Even in slumber, a self-satisfied smile played across her face.
“Lydia rolled over in the night and pushed you off the bed,” Quoth explained. “I believe it was on purpose, but of course I could not confirm. I carried you here. You’ve been whimpering and tossing and turning all night.”
I squeezed his hand. “Thank you for staying with me.”
“Always.” Quoth’s lips brushed mine, his kiss sweet and searching. I pulled him on top of me, my hands exploring his body, searching for comfort in his embrace.
“Do you want to talk about the dream? Edgar Allan Poe placed a lot of emphasis on the prophetic nature of dreams, and so must I.”
“I’m afraid this one is needlessly simple. I was alone in a dark ballroom. I wanted to dance, but if I moved from the spot, it would be too dark and I couldn’t see. There was blood dripping from the ceiling all over me.”
“I think that means you’re afraid of stepping into the unknown, but you know you can’t stay where you are,” Quoth said, his face serious. “It means you should talk to your mother. And look at those pamphlets Dr. Clements gave you. And tell the guys about the fireworks.”
“I think it’s about the fact I saw a man stabbed through the heart with a sword,” I declared.
“Well, I think it’s about you running around solving murders so you don’t have to think about your eyesight,” Quoth observed.
I bristled. “That’s not it. What I think is that I want to stop talking about it. And it’s my dream, so I make the rules. What are our plans today?”
“I’m going back to open the shop so we can still pay the mortgage this month. You’re going to stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong.”
“Yes, I know that, but in order to do that to the best of my ability, I need to continue to pretend to be interested in the Jane Austen Experience.”
Quoth picked up the brochure. “As Cynthia said, most of the morning’s events have been canceled. But there’s a pre-breakfast poetry reading organized by some of Professor Hathaway’s graduate students. I thought you might like to attend with me before I head back.”
“I’d love to.” I’d never much been into poetry, but after Morrie had read aloud the erotic work of John Donne the first time we slept together, I discovered a hidden affinity for it. “Should I wake the others and ask them to join us?”
“I told Heathcliff last night and he said, ‘poetry is tough to stomach at any time of day, let alone before I’ve had my kippers’.” Quoth ran a hand through his sleek black hair. “Plus, I thought maybe this was something you and I could enjoy together.”
I smiled. I hated that Quoth had been left out of the weekend’s events, again. It made me think of my dream, how much I’d wanted to dance but wasn’t able to because of my disability. Quoth’s disability always stopped him from doing things he enjoyed, and it wasn’t fair.
Not this morning. Not with me.
I threw on my now-very wrinkled mu
slin dress, Docs, and a pair of socks featuring titles of banned books (in honor of Mrs. Scarlett, may she rest in peace). Quoth pulled on Morrie’s tights, breeches, and topcoat, and hung his lanyard around his neck. As I predicted, he looked stunning. His black hair spilled down his back like a silken waterfall, and the shiny buttons reflected the flecks of orange fire in his eyes. He held out my arm and I took it.
“To Mansfield Park!” I exclaimed.
Quoth and I descended the staircase together. Our footsteps echoed around the silent Hall. Hardly anyone else was awake yet, although Cynthia’s staff darted across the entrance hall, carrying dishes and trays of food into the breakfast area. If not for the police tape roped across the entrance to the antechamber, there was no sign that anything terrible had happened last night.
Unless you counted the horrible image of Professor Hathaway’s slain body that had etched itself permanently into my brain, that is.
When we arrived at Mansfield Park – a pretty yellow drawing room opposite the marketplace – we found a few other morning birds flittering around. David shuffled back and forth from the front of the room, stopping every few moments to dab at his eyes with a handkerchief. Alice sat in the front row. Her notebook rested open on her knees, and she snapped candid pictures around the room, her right index finger mashing the shutter.
To my surprise, Christina Hathaway sat primly in a chair by herself in the far corner of the room, her eyes fixed on the lectern. I nudged Quoth, and we shuffled down the aisle to sit next to her.
“Hi, Christina. I’m Mina Wilde. We met on Friday. I’m so sorry about your father,” I whispered.
She blinked. It took her a few moments to turn her head. “I just can’t believe it,” she breathed, her voice hoarse from crying. “What monster would do such a thing? Daddy was so beloved, so popular in the community.”
“Do you need anything? Can we get you a glass of water or… or…” I stumbled, not sure what to say to someone when their parent had been brutally murdered.
“I’m afraid all food and drink taste like cardboard to me now.” Her fingers gripped the edge of her chair. “I’m only staying on at Baddesley because the police want me to remain nearby while they hunt for Daddy’s killer. Plus, Daddy would want me to attend the memorial service today.”
“If you need anything, please let us know.” I slid away to leave her in peace, but she reached out with a cold hand to grip my arm.
“You were the one who found his body,” she replied in her soft voice.
“That’s right.” At that moment, I was glad I’d found him first and Christina might be spared seeing her beloved father with that horrid expression.
“And you had those ugly words scrawled across your door?”
“Yes, but I believe they were meant for my roommate, not me. She was…” draping herself all over your father like a common strumpet, in the Jane Austen vernacular, and he lapped it up like the creep he was. But that wasn’t something I should say to his grieving daughter, so I settled for, “…friendlier with your father than I was.”
“And she is okay?” Christina dabbed at her eyes. “I’d hate to think this foul person is threatening others.”
“She’s fine. Cynthia had one of her security team guarding the bedroom door all night. No one else will get hurt, and the police are doing everything they can to bring the killer to justice.”
“I don’t know what I shall do now,” Christina said, her eyes glazing over. “I know Daddy would want me to continue his legacy in Austen scholarship, but I don’t know how I should manage when every bonnet and book reminds me of him. If only I had someone to help me, but I’m all alone.”
I thought of Christina and Alice kissing in the darkened courtyard. “I hope you have friends who can support you. Someone you love who maybe you haven’t been able to spend time with.”
Her face blanked. “I don’t know what—”
“Christine, are these two bothering you?” David dropped into the seat next to her. He collected her hands in his and shot me a frown. “Please don’t speak about the incident. Christina has had enough trauma to last a lifetime. She doesn’t need to keep reliving it.”
“I swear I didn’t say anything—” I protested, not wanting him to think I was delighting in recounting the gory details.
“I’m fine, David. Really.”
“Come with me. I’ve saved you a comfortable seat at the front of the room.” Christina’s eyes flicked to Alice, but she allowed David to help her to her feet. I hoped that in time, she’d be able to fully embrace who she was and be open about her relationship, but I guessed the day after her father’s murder was not the day.
“Poor girl,” I whispered to Quoth. “She looks to be in shock. I cannot even imagine what she must be going through.”
“Me neither. Even if the man was horrible, she loved him dearly, and my heart goes out to her.”
The poetry reading began. I couldn’t help but notice that David looked to our corner every few moments, a disapproving expression on his face. He really didn’t like us speaking with Christina. I assumed it was just his protectiveness, but during one of the breaks between performers, Cynthia and two of her friends leaned over and asked Christina about her father, and he didn’t stop them.
Is he worried that I’ll reveal details about the murder? And that Christina might figure out who actually did it?
No, that’s insane. He’s just an insecure boy trying to look out for his friend.
Or is he?
When David’s turn came, he read an ardent and passionate love poem, his voice rising with the meter as he locked eyes with Christina. Every word in the poem he spoke to her.
Well, that’s obvious. He’s clearly smitten with her, and he must’ve planned this poem as a way to declare his love. But considering what just happened, his efforts are a bit crass! I had the feeling his annoyance at us had more to do with his wanting to keep Christina’s mind on the poetry.
When the reading was finished, Christina wandered to the back of the room for another cup of tea. “Did you enjoy the poems?” I asked her. David was already running down the aisle, his face expectant like a puppy.
“I’m afraid I didn’t hear a word of it,” she said. Behind her, David’s shoulders sagged. “I’m so upset by Daddy’s death, it all went in one ear and other the other.”
I smiled despite myself. Probably for the best. She probably doesn’t need to be forced into coming out to David on today of all days. “That’s to be expected. It really was brave of you to come to the reading today after everything that happened.”
David plastered on a brave face and joined our group. “Come with me, Christina, I’ll escort you to the memorial. Cynthia will want to speak to you before it begins—”
“No, thank you,” she said. “I think I’ll freshen up in my room.”
“I’ll walk you there,” he said. She looked ready to protest, but held out her hand and allowed David to take it.
“If you must.”
David fell over himself tripping over the chairs as he went around to take her arm and escort her out of the room. I leaned into Quoth. “It must be strange to act like that all the time.”
“Perhaps she enjoys it.” Quoth offered his arm. I took it, smiling at Quoth as I conceded his point. It had been an interesting weekend retreating into this feminine persona, where I needed a man’s arm in order to get anything done.
I might need a man’s arm in mine for the rest of my life, stopping me from banging into things.
It was hard to dwell on my own personal hell when Quoth’s calming presence was beside me. We went through to the breakfast room and helped ourselves to what little remained at the buffet. Quoth found us a table for two under a window in the darkest, loneliest corner. We poured tea and ate our food while outside, snow blanketed the lawns and parterres in a fluffy white coat.
“You’re doing very well,” I said, buttering my croissant like the heathen Englishwoman I was. “No urges to fly awa
y?”
“Strangely, no.” Quoth sipped his tea. “I wonder if it’s something in the familiarity of the clothing, the speech, the conversation. It’s weird to think that so many years in the future, people look back at our books with such a romantic nostalgia.”
“I have to admit, you look damn sexy in that cravat,” I smiled, sliding my hand up his leg under the table. He did at that. The high, stiff collar framed his perfect face, making his skin appear even paler. It was probably a good thing the Brontë Society ladies hadn’t got their claws into him yet.
“Thank you.” Quoth set down his fork. I noticed he had no eggs on his plate. I guess eating eggs was weird when you were a bird. He cleared his throat. “Mina, I don’t like to tell you what to do, but I think you should tell Morrie and Heathcliff about the fireworks.”
“Nope.” I stabbed a sausage with more violence than I intended. It skidded across the table. Quoth caught it before it toppled off the edge.
“They’re going to figure out that something is wrong, if they haven’t already.”
“I’m not ready to talk about it yet. I just want more time to enjoy being with all of you, being a normal person, before the world turns dark forever and I become an invalid.”
“You’re never going to be an invalid to us.” Quoth’s hand rested on mine. “Ever since I arrived here, I’ve felt less than Morrie and Heathcliff. I’ve known there are things in this world that can never belong to me. But you made me realize that isn’t true. The only disability is in my own mind, and the only thing holding me back is my fear. And now,” he gestured to the spread in front of us, and the smile on his lips melted my heart. “Here I am, eating breakfast in public with the most kind and beautiful woman.”
“It’s different.” It wasn’t different. I stared at my plate, struggling to hold back the tears prickling in the corners of my eyes.
Quoth laughed, the sound like tinkling chimes. “It hurts me to see you like this. Just because the lights are fading in your eyes, don’t let your own light burn out. Please, promise you’ll think about it.”
Pride and Premeditation Page 18