It Happened One Night: Six Scandalous Novels
Page 20
Lest one be pelted with a snuff box and turned off without a character. What a charmer Stoneleigh had been behind the walls of his own castle.
The back of the blotter was covered with tiny, nearly indecipherable figures in tidy columns. In the right-hand corner were two rows of digits separated by dashes.
“Did the colonel even know of his wife’s ailment?”
“One cannot be sure. The colonel and Mrs. Stoneleigh had separate chambers, though to be fair, the colonel was generally solicitous of his wife’s well-being. He fixed her tea at breakfast, he never smoked in her presence, he tolerated no disrespect of her among the staff, not that we would have disrespected her.”
Oh, a damned knight in hunting pinks, was old Gregory. “This is the combination to the safe?” Axel asked, pointing to the top row of figures.
“Indeed. I had some difficulty determining the proper directions, but it’s right-left-right-left, like a platoon embarking on a parade march.”
“Then what’s this second row of figures?”
“I’ve assumed those are the combination to the second safe.”
“What second safe?”
Had Axel Belmont not been on the premises, Abby would still be in the corridor outside the study, shaking with fear. She might have had a heart seizure, she’d been so terrified.
What remained was rage—a great, undifferentiated mass of rage aimed at Gregory Stoneleigh, whose perfidy expanded the longer he was dead.
Beside the rage, choking it tight at the roots, was, incongruously, gratitude.
Axel Belmont had been on the premises, only a scream away, and had insisted on accompanying Abby on this errand. His arms around her had made safety real and trustworthy in the space of a moment. She would find the words to convey her gratitude to him, and his dignity would simply have to endure her honesty.
For now, she needed to begin evicting Gregory’s ghost from her house.
“We’ll need boxes,” she told Jeffries, the head footman. “The staff gets first crack at the colonel’s clothing, then everything remaining can go to the church. The same with the boots and shoes and shirts and… all of it.”
Gregory’s chambers still bore the sweet, tobacco stink of his pipes, so Abby had opened a window. Now the air was cold, still cloyingly acrid, but the fresh breeze kept her from being sick.
Jeffries was an attractive blond fellow above middling height, though he and Abby had typically communicated through Shreve. He shifted from foot to foot, refusing to meet Abby’s gaze.
“What?” Abby asked, pausing in her peregrinations around Gregory’s bedroom.
“The colonel wore London tailoring, ma’am,” Jeffries said, maintaining his position near the door. “Fine workmanship, excellent cloth.”
The second footman, another tall, handsome specimen, this one named Heath, ventured to speak without being addressed.
“Much of it’s quite new, Mrs. Stoneleigh. Quite… new.”
They were trying to tell her something, and not simply that they’d had a look inside Gregory’s wardrobe.
“The lot of it is also quite odoriferous,” Abby said. “I can wear none of it, and Mr. Stoneleigh’s immortal soul might benefit from charitable dispersal of his effects. You two look to be nearly the same height as the colonel.”
Heath shot a desperate glance at his superior.
“Nobody would think the worse of you if the clothing were sold, ma’am,” Jeffries said. “Fetch a pretty penny too, and who can’t use some extra coin?”
Abby’s first thought was that they were worried about the solvency of the estate that employed them, but in the next instant, gazing at two earnest expressions, revelation struck.
They were concerned for her.
“Gentlemen, Stoneleigh Manor is on quite solid footing.” Abby spoke the truth, thanks to a shop girl’s mercantile instincts and her willingness to work hard. “I’m selling off the hounds and horses because I don’t care for fox-hunting, not because we can’t bear the expense. I’m parting with the books in the library because they reek. I’m selling the display of guns and knives because they were purely ornamental.”
Also downright ugly.
“Now, when the hunt season will soon draw to a close,” she went on, “is the time to reduce the size of the stables. Your positions are secure. Please convey the same sentiment to the rest of the staff.”
Relief filled Jeffries’ eyes, while Heath went so far as to smile. “Will do, missus. Shall I fetch those boxes?”
Abby might have said yes, except Axel had asked her to keep the footmen near. Asked her, not ordered, not assumed, not demanded.
“The boxes can wait, but everything in this room will go either to charity or to the staff. The bed hangings will stink for years, the carpets as well, even if we beat them daily for a month. As if the pipes weren’t bad enough, I also detect the odor of canines. One despairs of these rooms ever being habitable.”
And yet, they had the best view of the pastures and the home wood.
“Might I suggest incense?” Jeffries said. “My brother works for Sir Dewey, and sandalwood is frequently burned in Sir Dewey’s library on the theory that it helps deter creeping damp.”
They were deep in a discussion of how best to air out Gregory’s rooms when Shreve appeared in the doorway, looking, small, old, and anxious.
“Mr. Belmont has bid me to make my farewell to you, Mrs. Stoneleigh. He suggests I pay an extended visit to my sister in East Anglia, provided you accept my resignation.”
The footmen’s expressions went blank, while Abby’s relief was enormous.
“I’m sure you miss your sister very much,” she said. “And you can’t depart until we’ve packed up Mr. Stoneleigh’s snuff boxes for you to take along. You’ll want to make your farewells at the Weasel and in the churchyard, and choose a departure day when the weather bids fair.”
She could say that, because when her errands at Stoneleigh Manor were complete, she’d return to Candlewick. She would not have to face Shreve’s sad gaze after today.
“Madam is most generous, but the snuff boxes… I’ve never taken snuff.”
The snuff boxes were valuable, about half of them inlaid with semi-precious stones commonly found in India. The bequest in addition to a pension might be considered extravagant by some.
Extravagant, or intended to buy silence.
Abby never wanted to lay eyes on a snuff box again. “We will make a list of the colonel’s personal effects—cuff-links, cravat pins, watches, anything of value in this room. The staff will each choose items from the list, one at a time, until nothing remains. The snuff boxes will be yours, Shreve. Ambers will have the pipes, but the rest will be shared among the entire staff, right down to the boot boy and the tweenie, as… as mementos of the colonel’s regard for those who served him loyally.”
Oxford probably had more pawnshops than London, Portsmouth, Yorkshire, and Brighton combined. When Abby considered the cracked hand mirror in her bedroom, she could think of no more fitting fate for Gregory’s little treasures. The staff would know how to get good coin for them too.
“Madam is most, exceedingly generous,” Shreve said, bowing. “I will take my leave, with heartfelt thanks, and unending wishes for madam’s continued well-being.”
He was doubtless off to relay the news of this windfall below stairs, but Abby had had a taste of interrogation and wasn’t about to let him go that easily.
“You can accompany me to the housekeeper’s sitting room,” she said, “and answer a few more questions along the way. Jeffries, Heath, you will begin the inventory of the colonel’s effects, find boxes for anything the staff doesn’t want, and for heaven’s sake, open the balcony doors and the rest of the windows. Airing these rooms will take an eternity.”
She left the footmen to their tasks, and preceded Shreve to the head of the main stairs.
“First question, Shreve: Was there anything else you did not share with Mr. Belmont that you wished to impart to
me first?”
They were alone, Shreve was in Abby’s debt, he’d been given leave to flee the scene, and he had no motivation to lie. Still, he glanced about, as if the portraits had ears, or as if he’d promised himself that this question—if asked—he’d answer honestly.
“Madam should put the same inquiry to Mr. Ambers.”
Ambers had been very much Gregory’s creature. Abby crossed her arms. Shreve blushed a shade that would become one of Axel’s more robust roses.
“Madam might ask Ambers where the colonel went,” Shreve said, “the first Wednesday of every month, without fail.”
A mistress? “Where do you suppose he went?”
“Oxford, based on the length of the appointment. If the colonel was unable to go, Ambers went alone.”
If Gregory went on horseback, Ambers would go to attend the horses, presumably.
“Why would Ambers go alone?”
Shreve looked as if he’d prefer to hurl himself down the staircase. “Perhaps to pay for the other party’s time?”
A mistress, then—may heaven keep the woman, whoever she was—but why hire a mistress when a young, all-too-accommodating wife resided on the premises?
“Anything else?”
“No, madam. If I do think of something, might I presume to write to you?”
The look in his faded blue eyes was a shock. Hopeful, worshipful even. Abby was abruptly glad he’d be removing to East Anglia, for such devotion might, indeed, have motivated murder.
“You’re better off writing to Mr. Belmont regarding particulars of the colonel’s death, though I hope you’ll send along a note at the holidays and assure me of your continued happy retirement.”
Shreve brightened. “Certainly, madam. Yuletide greetings by post are a fine old English custom.”
Well no, they were not, not that Abby knew of.
He followed her down the stairs, rather like one of the hounds Abby had evicted from the manor the day after Gregory’s death. To her great relief, Axel was coming up from the kitchen as she would have gone below stairs to chat with Mrs. Jensen.
“Shreve, if you’d have Mrs. Jensen meet me in my office, please?” Abby asked. “And safe journey. My thanks for your years of service to the colonel… and to me.”
Shreve bowed so low as to expose the very top of his shining, pink head, then took himself off.
“Damned if he isn’t smitten with you,” Axel muttered. “Matthew warned me there’s no predicting the course of an investigation.”
“Shreve can be smitten in East Anglia,” Abby said, mentally stripping the walls of Gregory’s blasted hunt scenes. “We’ll manage without a butler henceforth, or I can promote Jeffries to the position. While you interview Ambers, I’ll speak with Mrs. Jensen. The house is falling into a state, which will not do. Before one embarks on a redecoration, a house must be at least clean.”
Something she’d said had Axel smiling with his eyes, while his mouth remained a solemn, straight line.
“Don’t you want to know what was in the safe, Abigail?”
“I’m sure you have that all in hand, Mr. Belmont, though please ask Ambers where the colonel went the first Wednesday of every month without fail. If the colonel could not attend this errand, Ambers went in his stead. Shreve’s guess is Ambers went to pay for ‘the other party’s time.’”
Axel took her by the arm and escorted her—rather hurriedly—into the second parlor. The room was Abby’s favorite of the public chambers, all green and cream, soft velvets and framed cutwork, though today it was also chilly.
“What’s different about this room?” Axel asked, closing the door.
“The air doesn’t stink, for one thing. I redecorated it, for another. I asked Gregory’s permission, and he refused me. By then I’d been married well over a year, and I’d realized my husband had little patience for details. I presented him my monthly ledgers, which always balanced to the penny, and Gregory had no idea that instead of potatoes, I’d bought a few pounds’ worth of fabric.”
“Resourceful,” Axel said. “Resilient, and talented with a needle. Is that your cutwork?”
“I did that the first time Gregory went shooting in Yorkshire with Sir Dewey.”
Axel studied the frame, one of the many treasures Abby claimed to have “found in the attics.”
“Chestnut wood has a beautiful grain,” he said, “but Abigail, when did you plan to tell me that Gregory was poisoning you?”
Chapter Thirteen
Abigail sank like dropped fruit onto an elegant little green chair by the cold hearth.
“Poisoning me?” The words came out in a whisper while her right hand went to her middle. Her left gripped the side of the chair, as if her seat might slide out from under her otherwise.
“You had no suspicion?” Axel asked. “Not the least inkling?”
She shook her head, while Axel wanted to kick something.
“I might be wrong, Abigail.” Except he wasn’t. He’d questioned Mrs. Jensen, who as housekeeper was also the first defense at Stoneleigh Manor against illness.
She’d confirmed Shreve’s assertion that Abby had suffered bouts of severe bowel trouble, along with a waning appetite, lack of energy, increasing pallor, and occasional faintness. Peppermint tea had become Abby’s choice unless the colonel would be served from the same pot.
“He had no opportunity to poison me,” Abby said. “We took breakfast and dinner together, usually. Sometimes luncheon as well. We ate the same foods, more or less, though of course not from the same plates.”
“Those meals were his opportunities, Abigail. Shreve said the colonel often fixed your tea.”
She wrinkled her nose. “And never got it right. A dash of sugar, I told him, over and over, and invariably, he’d heap sugar into each cup, then stand over me, smiling, until I had no choice but to—”
“But to consume poison. Your health doubtless improved when he went off shooting. Did the colonel ever suggest you use arsenic to maintain a pale complexion?”
She jerked to her feet, the movement putting Axel in mind of the night of the murder.
“No, he did not. Cosmetics were for vain women, in his estimation. I’d enjoyed good health until this past year. My spirits always improved when Gregory traveled, and when he came back from Melton last spring, I was predictably… dispirited. Over the summer, my mood did not improve. I began to have problems.”
Not arsenic then, or not undiluted arsenic, thank God. Gregory had chosen a slow poison, and those were the least effective. Had Abby’s symptoms comported with known botanical toxins Axel might have suspected something sooner, but lethal plants tended to kill quickly and with dramatic effect.
“How do you feel now?” For what mattered to Axel most—even more than finding Stoneleigh’s killer—was that Abby live to enjoy her widowhood, that she be well and happy and whole.
She looked around the room, her first successful rebellion against her husband’s tyranny.
“I feel tired much of the time, and as if I’m observing myself live a life I’d never planned. Foggy, forgetful, little appetite, though my outlook and my health seem to be improving the longer I’m widowed.”
Normal grief there—Axel hoped—and an indication that whatever poison had been attempted, Abby was recovering rapidly.
“Any other physical symptoms?”
She took down the cutwork and used a corner of the draperies to dust the glass and frame.
“My appetite is coming back. I’d attributed that to your scolding and your cook’s skill, but my own cook has no lack of ability. I was simply… not well.”
Cutwork required using a tiny pair of scissors to nibble and snip away at folded paper, until what resulted was more light and air than paper. Axel wanted to pitch Abby’s little creation against the hearthstones and wrap her in his arms for the next year. The colonel had been snipping away at Abby, at her health, her spirits, her very life, and the contents of the safe had revealed his motive for doing so.
“When was the last time Gregory spent the entirety of a hunt season here at Stoneleigh Manor?”
“Not until this year, not as long as we’d been married. I’d hoped he’d go north for the shooting as August approached, but no luck. I assumed Sir Dewey had refused to accompany him, or perhaps Gregory had tired of all that haring about. Gregory made a few trips to London, but he was never gone for more than a fortnight.”
During which brief intervals, Abby’s abused body would have struggled to recover from weeks of poison.
She rehung her cutwork, adjusting the frame exactly plumb.
Axel wanted to thank the person who’d killed Gregory Stoneleigh, also to break something. He fell back instead on his classroom skills.
“I’ve a few suggestions, Abigail, if you will tolerate a small lecture?”
“Very small. Violent hysterics have become an attractive possibility, Mr. Belmont.”
Axel rose and studied the painting over the mantel, when he wanted instead to take Abby in his arms.
“I’ve found that in matters of plant toxicity, the body often knows what antidotes are most appropriate. Though your health does appear to be improving, if you crave peppermint, swill peppermint tea without limit. If an odd preference for ginger marmalade befalls you, have it at every meal. Trust your gustatory instincts, and you might come right very quickly.”
Abby wrapped her arms around him, which helped… a little. “I’ve been sleeping much more at Candlewick than I ever did here. Sleeping better too.”
Dreaming even. Axel took comfort from that. “Our investigation has grown more complicated, Abigail. Matthew says that’s an encouraging sign.”
“You’re not encouraged. You miss your roses.” She withdrew and took a seat on the green velvet sofa, though her black velvet skirts against the green sofa was a jarring combination. “I’m sorry, Axel. I wish Shreve had presented you with a signed confession, and you could leave me here, tossing Gregory’s effects and ripping his damned hunt scenes from the walls.”