With a Little Bit of Blood

by D. E. Ireland

  “Er ist ein verrückter,” Count Rudolf warned. “A madman. Stay back!”

  A shocked Philippe sat on the floor watching all this unfold. Higgins felt shocked himself but was helpless with his arm in a sling.

  “If I only had one of my pistols with me,” Sir Anthony grumbled.

  “I could really use that brandy I asked for,” Lily said from the drawing room doorway.

  “Mr. Batur, I must ask you to stop before someone is injured.” Richard took a few steps forward. Clara stood behind him, clinging to Eliza’s arm. “I will see to it that the police do not distress Madame Evangeline further.”

  “Stay out of this, Lord Ashmore.” Brakefield’s eyes never left Batur and his dagger. “This is a police matter.”

  “And this is Banfield Manor and I am its lord.” Richard’s voice took on a new gravity. “I would advise you not to forget our respective stations.”

  If the situation hadn’t been so tense, Higgins might have clapped the young baron on the back. Someone needed to defuse this situation; Ashmore had a better chance of doing that than the agitated policemen. And while Higgins had no regard for class distinctions, his countrymen cared far too much. Chief Constable Brakefield knew his own position in Kent would be in jeopardy if he offended the new lord of the manor. Some things hadn’t changed at all since Jacobean times.

  “Fine, sir,” Brakefield said. “Let’s see you handle this angry savage.”

  “He is no savage,” Evangeline protested. “Mr. Batur is only trying to protect me.”

  “She’s right,” Eliza said. “After all, the man is her bodyguard. And he heard her scream.”

  “Madame Evangeline also shouted that you were hurting her.” Richard frowned at Brakefield. “The chap ran up here and saw you restraining the young woman. How do you expect him to respond? Please remember that he is paid to guard her.”

  “It appears that everyone is just doing their jobs.” Higgins walked closer to the assembled group. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a terrified chambermaid pressed against the wall.

  Batur stood frozen in the same position, dagger raised.

  “Put your knife away.” Richard told him. “No one will harm you or Madame Evangeline. You have my word.”

  Zoltan Batur scanned everyone in the entrance hall, his gaze uncertain. He began to lower the knife when a flurry of footsteps sounded behind him. As he pivoted, two footmen ran through the doorway leading to the servants’ quarters. Before he could raise the dagger once again, both men grabbed him. The knife clattered to the tile floor. Brakefield snatched it up.

  “Thank heaven that’s over,” Lady Annabel murmured.

  Higgins thought her declaration premature, since Batur still struggled with the footmen. Higgins recognized one of them as the young man called Charlie, a friend of Eliza’s from the old neighborhood.

  The butler emerged from the servants’ stairway. “My lord, I heard the commotion and thought it best to ask Charlie and Albert to be of assistance. Both men have had boxing experience.”

  “Thank you, Baxter. But I believe we have the situation in hand.” Richard nodded at the two strapping footmen who had a firm grip on the Turk. “Release him.”

  The footmen looked as skeptical as the police constables, but Charlie and Albert stepped back. A disgruntled Batur straightened the sleeves of his jacket.

  “Can someone explain what the devil is going on?” Higgins asked.

  “I told the police it was a mistake to arrest Monsieur Corbet,” Madame Evangeline began. “He is not guilty of the death of that American. It is an impossibility. Such a fine, sensitive man could not be moved to violence.”

  “Merci mille fois, Madame Evangeline.” Philippe finally got up from the floor. He brushed at the dirt on his trousers.

  “The police handled Monsieur Corbet most roughly.” She shot an accusing look at them. “As if he were a wild animal. When they threw him on the floor, I screamed. They might have hurt him. So I picked up the vase and hit it against that.” She pointed at the marble-top table behind her. “I had to make them stop. To pay attention to what I must say.”

  “Why do you care so much about the Frenchman?” Constable Stevens asked her. “Are you and he old friends? Relatives?”

  “Your lover perhaps?” Brakefield narrowed his eyes at her.

  She lifted her chin. “Absolutely not. I only met Monsieur Corbet two days ago.”

  “You seem to be awful upset up over the fate of a man you barely know,” Stevens said.

  “Everyone should be upset to see a miscarriage of justice. He is innocent of any crime. My spirits have told me.”

  Brakefield looked suspicious. “I think there’s something you’re not telling us.”

  “And I think you and your men have behaved like brutes.” She went to Philippe and gently touched his arm. “Did they harm you?”

  “No, madam. But I am most grateful for your assistance and your faith in me. Merci encore.” Philippe took her hand and kissed it. She smiled.

  Higgins and Eliza exchanged curious glances. If there hadn’t been a young woman called Nathalie in Trieste, he wondered if Monsieur Corbet might have lost his heart to the lovely spiritualist with the haunting blue eyes.

  Her bodyguard must have felt the same. “I believe you care so much because he reminds you of another Frenchman.”

  She stiffened at his disapproving tone.

  “Hold on.” Sir Anthony chuckled. “Is there another Frenchman we have to worry about?”

  “Who is he referring to?” Brakefield asked Madame Evangeline.

  She remained silent.

  “Maybe you can tell us.” Higgins turned his attention to Batur.

  “The Frenchman was called Aristide Robichaud.” He stared at Madame Evangeline, who averted her gaze.

  “Was?” Eliza asked.

  “He died eight years ago,” Madame Evangeline said in a voice barely above a whisper. “He drowned. I had known Aristide since childhood. It was a great blow.”

  “Madame blames herself for his death,” Batur added. “She is wrong to do so. It was an accident. But she has never forgiven herself.”

  “He would not have been on the river that morning had I not asked him to meet me. Aristide was in love. He always did as I asked.” She bit her lip. “His death was my fault.”

  “Were you in love with him?” Eliza asked.

  Madame Evangeline shut her eyes, as if the memory was too painful.

  “Of course she was in love with him,” Batur said in a gruff voice. “No man will ever compare to Aristide Robichaud. Not even the man she ended up marrying.”

  “So Robichaud wasn’t your husband? The one who died?” Eliza looked almost as sad as Evangeline.

  She shook her head. “Aristide and I planned to marry, but fate had other plans. My spirits said not a word to warn me, to prepare me for the tragedy. Perhaps they knew my heart would be so broken, I might die before he did.”

  Higgins glanced at Corbet. Young, handsome, and full of life. “Does Philippe resemble Robichaud, by any chance?”

  “There is a great resemblance,” Evangeline said, her voice breaking.

  “That is why she carries on about this Frenchman.” Batur waved a hand at Philippe.

  “A touching story,” Brakefield said. “But not touching enough to make me forget Corbet tried to escape in his aeroplane.”

  “Yes, why did you leave without telling us, Philippe?” Richard asked.

  Philippe glanced at Higgins. “Please tell them.”

  As Brakefield gave a sigh of exasperation, Higgins quickly told everyone about the telegram and Philippe’s love for Nathalie. When he was done, Lily remarked, “Sounds like the plot of my first motion picture, Love’s Struggle.”

  “A pretty tale,” the countess observed. “But how do we know it is true?”

  “I can prove it.” Philippe unfastened his leather flight jacket and pulled out a crumpled paper. He handed it to Higgins. “This is the telegram I receiv
ed at breakfast.”

  Higgins looked over the telegram, written in French, from a girl called Nathalie. “It asks him to hurry back to France before she is forced to marry.”

  “Do you mind?” Brakefield took the paper from him. “This is police evidence.”

  “Evidence of what?” Higgins asked. “Why do you insist Pentwater was murdered?”

  “Because he was a fugitive from justice.”

  “Does that mean he couldn’t also die in a hunting accident?” Higgins avoided looking at Eliza. He knew she believed the ghostly prognostications of Madame Evangeline.

  “Herr Higgins, you surprise me.” Count Rudolf said. “We spoke an hour ago about the death of the American. And I told you why Corbet had a good reason to want him dead.”

  “What in the world do you mean?” Richard wore a perplexed expression.

  “Enlighten us, count,” Brakefield ordered.

  Instead of replying, the count gestured for Higgins to inform the chief constable. Bloody hell, how had he become the resident teller of tales? Trying to keep his own temper in check, Higgins explained how the death of Philippe’s friend Henri occurred because of the defective aeroplane parts manufactured by Pentwater’s company.

  Philippe seemed as pained to relive his friend’s death as Madame Evangeline had been over the drowning of Aristide.

  After Higgins finished, Brakefield nodded. “As I thought,” he said with an air of satisfaction. “Motive and opportunity. Add to that his attempt to escape just as the police arrive on the scene.” He snapped his fingers at the other two constables. “Arrest him.”

  Madame Evangeline cried out in protest.

  “But I did not kill Monsieur Pentwater,” Philippe said as the detectives came to stand beside him. “Je suis innocent.”

  “Do you deny Pentwater’s company was responsible for your friend’s death?” Brakefield asked the Frenchman.

  “I do not deny that. When I hear his name announced at dinner, I know it is the man who owns the company called Argo. But I did not expect to see him. How could I know?”

  “Maybe you didn’t know ahead of time, but here he was. The man who basically killed your best friend. It must have put you in a blind rage.”

  “But Henri dies two years ago. His friends, his family – we are angry to learn it is the fault of a greedy man’s company. A company that saves money by making machine parts that fail. A lawsuit is brought. The company goes bankrupt. We mourn Henri. But we move on. We must.”

  “Only here is the man behind your friend’s death,” Brakefield pressed. “Brought right to the dinner table. The next day there’s a hunt, and everyone has a gun. Including you. The perfect chance to deliver justice.”

  He shook his head. “It would not be justice. I am not a gendarme. Or a judge. It would be revenge. I am not a vengeful man.”

  “Leave him alone,” Madame Evangeline spat at the police. “He has done nothing. It is you who are the monster, Constable Brakefield.”

  Brakefield looked at his detectives. “Until we’re finished here, keep this woman away from the pottery.”

  Higgins crossed his arms. “See here, I must agree with the lady. First, I am not convinced Pentwater was even murdered. Second, anyone in the forest could have shot the American.”

  “But did they all have a motive?” Brakefield looked like he wanted to smash a vase over Higgins’s head.

  “I think the frog did it,” Sir Anthony said. “So let’s bring this to a conclusion.”

  “Ja,” agreed the count. “Der Mann ist schuldig. Guilty.”

  Philippe shook his head. “Mon Dieu, why will no one believe me?”

  “Chief Constable, I don’t think Philippe did it either,” Eliza said. “And for all you know, there’s another person in the house party who had a reason to want Dwight Pentwater dead.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Miss Doolittle.” Lady Annabel gave her a reproving look.

  Evangeline let out a mournful cry.

  “Madame!” Batur rushed to her side. He grabbed her about the waist before she could slump to the floor in a faint.

  “Is she all right?” Clara asked.

  Evangeline shut her eyes. “Those who wish to deceive are here. They are among us.”

  “She is in one of her trances.” Batur gave her a gentle shake. “Speak.”

  Higgins noticed how Eliza seemed riveted to what was unfolding.

  “A man who was lost,” Evangeline spoke in a monotone. “A man in the jungle. A man who wanders alone. Desolate. Angry. A man much honored. Knighted by his king.”

  “I wonder who that man can be,” Sir Anthony said in a sarcastic voice.

  “Indeed,” Lady Annabel added.

  Eliza turned to them. “Shh!”

  Madame Evangeline cocked her head to one side. “The spirits tell me this man thought he would be rescued quickly. Rescued by the man who sent him. A rich American.”

  “How long do we have listen to this folderol?” Sir Anthony asked. “Damned nonsense.”

  “But the rich man did not care.” She paused, as if listening to spectral voices once more. “Even though he had paid for the expedition, he spent no money finding the knight. And the knight knew he had been abandoned. When he was rescued by chance, he swore to never forget who left him to die in the jungle.” Evangeline sighed. “Such anger. Such unending rage.”

  “That is quite enough!” Sir Anthony’s deafening shout startled Madame Evangeline. Her eyes fluttered open.

  “Did I say something?” she asked, puzzled.

  “You know damned well what you said about me!”

  Eliza looked impressed. “You spoke about Sir Anthony being lost.”

  “I did?”

  Although Higgins didn’t believe in Madame Evangeline’s spirits, he did believe she had looked into the histories of everyone on the guest list. And that impressed him.

  “Did Pentwater fund your Amazonian expedition?” Higgins asked.

  The older man flushed red with anger. “Don’t tell me you believe this charlatan.”

  “A simple yes or no will suffice.”

  “It’s an easy matter to verify, Sir Anthony,” Brakefield said. “Why don’t you save us the trouble and answer the question. Did Dwight Pentwater fund your expedition to the Amazon?”

  Everyone stared at him, waiting.

  He stroked his plush mustache, as if hoping it was a genie’s lamp and he could make a wish to disappear. “Yes,” Sir Anthony said finally. “Dwight Pentwater paid for my expedition to the Amazon. I met him years ago when he was in England for the racing season, hobnobbing with new money at Ascot and Epsom Downs. He’d read about my latest exploration in Bolivia, and was interested in the tin reserves I had discovered. When he learned what I planned to explore next, he offered to back me.”

  “Why didn’t the Royal Geographical Society sponsor your expedition?” Higgins asked. “Haven’t they funded those you have undertaken in the past?”

  “Yes, but those were for the purpose of surveying. Making maps. This time I wanted to search for something different. A legendary city of gold. The lost city of Mato Matlan. The Society had no interest in what they called treasure hunting.”

  “But Pentwater did?” Brakefield said.

  Sir Anthony smirked. “Anything that involved treasure or gold interested him. He gave me the money I needed, expecting I would find something of value. If not gold, then precious metals. What neither of us expected was that my expedition team would die of disease or misfortune in the jungle. Or that I would become ill and hopelessly lost.”

  “Surely when you went missing,” Higgins said, “search parties were sent out.”

  “It took months before anyone realized we’d gone missing. And I had only five men with me. Two Portuguese, two natives, and a mestico de indio. Men who had led dangerous and uncivilized lives. They had no one to mourn them or care about their whereabouts. No family or friends to go looking for them if they disappeared.”

  “But you’r
e a man with important friends,” Higgins reminded him.

  “No one knew where to look for me.” His expression turned hard. “Except Pentwater.

  We agreed I should tell no one where I surmised the lost city was.”

  Higgins shrugged. “That makes sense. After all, when one goes off to discover a fabled city of gold, it might be best to keep those plans a secret.”

  “Adventurers and treasure seekers can be found behind every wimba tree in the jungle. I did not want rivals stumbling upon my lost city before I did.”

  Lady Annabel took his hand. “My husband has written of his travails in the Amazon. No need to press him on it. It’s common knowledge that he lost one team member to dengue, two to sleeping sickness, another to an infection from a cut leg. As for the mestico, he suffered from malaria. While delirious one night, he ran off into the jungle where a coral snake bit him.” She looked at Sir Anthony. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, my dear.” He gave her a grateful smile.

  “Were you married to Sir Anthony when he went missing?” Brakefield asked.

  “No, I did not meet Sir Anthony until three years ago. We married soon after.” Her manner grew haughty. “But like any educated person in Britain, I knew of his exploits.”

  “You said Pentwater had knowledge of where you planned to look for this lost city,” Higgins said. “Why didn’t he send out a search party when too much time had elapsed?”

  “I assumed he did. That hope kept me going as I wandered ill and alone in the jungle. Often pursued by hostile natives. A Christian missionary found me near death and brought me back to his village. He sent word to the nearest outpost of civilization. By the time I was brought to Recife, two years and five months had passed since I set out on my expedition.”

  “Did you wire Pentwater to let him know you were alive?” Brakefield asked.

  Sir Anthony shook his head. “When I recovered my strength, I sailed for New York. He was shocked to see me. And amused. I was far from amused, however. I had learned in Brazil that one of the men who had outfitted my expedition wired Pentwater to let him know we had not been heard from in a long time. Pentwater told him to do nothing, that the lack of communication had been agreed upon due to the secrecy of our expedition.”