With a Little Bit of Blood

by D. E. Ireland

  “One more thing, Chief Constable,” Richard said. “The Ashmore Hunt.”

  “The fox hunt takes place the day after tomorrow, with the hunt ball later that night,” the countess added. “The event cannot be canceled.”

  “Surely, the deaths of Pentwater and Madame Evangeline would explain the decision to cancel.” Higgins often felt as baffled by the upper classes as Eliza.

  The count sighed. “No one will be alarmed by news of a simple hunting accident.”

  “Especially someone who was not a member of our circle,” his wife said. “An American, besides.”

  “It’s true,” Richard told Higgins. “I’ve already received calls from friends who learned of Mr. Pentwater’s death. They wanted to know if the hunt will proceed as planned.”

  “And the death of Madame Evangeline?” Higgins asked. “She was a well known figure.”

  “Known for speaking with ghosts.” Richard shrugged. “An intriguing woman, but rather lurid. Once news of her death and the arrest of the jealous husband becomes public, it will be viewed as scandalous. But the sort of scandal that society enjoys.”

  “A scandal which tarnishes the victim and the murderer, but not us.” The countess wore a regal expression. “After all, what do such people have to do with the Ashmore family?”

  “There’s your answer, sir.” Brakefield straightened his gray Homburg. “The Pentwater death will be ruled an accident later today. And Mr. Batur has been charged with the murder of Madame Evangeline. That means your guests are free to leave Banfield Manor whenever they like, Lord Ashmore.” He smirked. “Even that irritating Frenchman.”

  Richard shook the man’s hand. “Thank heaven things can get back to normal.”

  But two dead bodies proved there was nothing normal about this house party.

  After the police left, Higgins remained outside. He’d expected the count and countess to view the recent deaths as nothing more than sordid annoyances. But while he assumed Richard had more common sense, it appeared Eliza was right. Richard and Clara wanted to prove they were fit to be the new baron and baroness. That meant proceeding with the Ashmore Hunt, even though one man had been shot in their forest two days ago, and a woman smothered in her bed last night. Bloody fools, the lot of them.

  Maybe a brisk walk would put his thoughts in order. Madame Evangeline’s warning about the black motorcar nagged at him. How did the medium discover that he and Eliza had encounters with just such a suspicious vehicle? Were they in danger? And were the deaths here connected to the car?

  Deep in thought, Higgins was surprised to find himself in a walled garden on the estate. Thank God he hadn’t wandered into the famous Rose Maze. He and Eliza became lost within minutes during their one and only visit to the maze during Clara and Richard’s wedding. A most alarming occurrence, given that a killer also lurked along its verdant paths.

  He looked out over a garden ablaze with autumn color. Viburnum berries, bright yellow hickories, purple cyclamen flowers. The October breeze carried the scent of burnt sugar; an indication the fallen leaves of Katsura trees lay nearby. Another scent also caught his attention. Cigarette smoke.

  A lazy swirl of smoke appeared above a tall hedge. Probably Philippe, who often retired to the music room to smoke his Gauloises. But when he rounded the corner of the privet hedge, Higgins was met by the sight of Lady Annabel sitting on a stone bench. Smoke from her cigarette swirled about the green and brown feathers of her hat. He’d forgotten that Annabel also had a taste for French cigarettes.

  Poised to make a quiet retreat, Higgins recalled how Madame Evangeline mentioned a burning manuscript and the malicious man who destroyed someone’s life work. The pronouncement must refer to the authoress. And possibly Pentwater.

  Higgins cleared his throat. She started at the sound, throwing him a quick glance.

  “I am not in the mood for polite conversation. Or in your case, Henry, impolite conversation. So I suggest you move along.” Annabel took a long puff of the cigarette in her quellazaire. He noticed the color of her jade cigarette holder exactly matched her walking suit. The woman had a fondness for the color green. Probably because of her green eyes, which even Higgins admitted were rather lovely.

  He ignored her suggestion and sat down on the stone bench. She scooted a few inches away. Annabel must be irritated if she did not want to be in close proximity to him.

  “Have I done something to offend you?” Higgins asked.

  Exhaling another stream of smoke from her cigarette, she refused to look at him. “Where should I start? How about soliciting a former flower girl to toss me out of your bed?”

  “I asked you more than once to politely leave.”

  “You’re a cold-blooded monster.”

  “And you are a married woman. Unwise to forget that your husband is a guest, too.”

  “Don’t be absurd. Sir Anthony and I have separate bedchambers here, as we do in our own residences. Husbands and wives are not expected to actually sleep together, except for the first delirious months of marriage. Everyone in society knows that.” Annabel drew on her cigarette. The distinctive Gauloises’ aroma overwhelmed the other garden scents. “My husband would have been none the wiser if you and I had spent the night together. Nor would he have flown into a jealous rage if he had known, as that terrible Turk did. It is not our way.”

  “You may be mistaken about Sir Anthony’s forbearance.” Higgins said. “He appears to be most fond of you.”

  “He has grown far fonder of politics this past year. I believe he is obsessed with it, as Mr. Batur was with his unfortunate wife. His days are filled with reading newspapers and the latest dispatches from the Continent. When we’re in London, he spends every night dining with men who have the ear of Prime Minister Asquith. Deadly dull situation for me, I must say.”

  “Does he plan to run for Parliament?”

  “Good gracious no.” Annabel finally turned those lovely green eyes in his direction. “He plans to save the world.”

  Higgins was confused. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “My husband is convinced there will be war soon with Germany. And he is correct. The pieces on the geo-political chessboard are in place and only require a final event to trigger a declaration of war.” She frowned. “I’ve tried to convince him to spend an extended time in Canada or America. Somewhere to wait out the inevitable slaughter. Instead, he harbors dreams of being able to prevent the conflict. Foolish man. Although I can’t fault his patriotism.”

  Higgins knew enough of the current state of politics to doubt that any one man could curb the militarism of Kaiser Wilhelm II or assuage the fears of England, France, and Russia over the growing naval power of Germany.

  “How does Sir Anthony believe he will be able to prevent war?”

  Annabel’s laugh rang hollow. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. The idea is wild and mad. Then again, the idea of war is mad, isn’t it? It is why we are at this deranged house party. Count von Weisinger is determined to save the world, too. Only he wants to save it for the Germans. My husband and the count are battling among themselves for the chance.”

  Her answer only increased his confusion. “You speak in riddles, madam.”

  “Actually, I speak the truth. Or at least hint at it. If you want the full story, ask Sir Anthony or the count. Perhaps they will tell you.” She shrugged. “But most likely not.”

  Even though he sat in a walled garden, Higgins felt as if he had wandered into the maze instead. “You continue to mystify,” he said. “I don’t believe I have ever understood a single action of yours. Starting with your inexplicable pursuit of me seven years ago.”

  She took another long puff on her cigarette. “Why inexplicable? You are an attractive man, Henry. Tall, slender, with a noble profile and rust brown hair that shows little sign of thinning.” Annabel peeked over at him. “You also possess the liveliest pair of eyes. The same color blue as the ocean on a blustery day.”

  He winced. “Please confine
such purple prose to your novels.”

  “However, it wasn’t your looks that drew me to you,” she continued. “Nor was it your scholarly achievements. I am not a superficial woman. Substance matters to me. And I’d heard you were a true gentleman, with the soul of a romantic.”

  “What are you talking about? I am the least romantic man in England. And proud of it.”

  “That is not what I was told.” Annabel finished her cigarette. She pulled it from the jade holder, dropped it onto the ground, then stamped upon it with the toe of her leather boot.

  “May I know who has spread mad rumors of my fictional romantic nature?”

  “Catherine Marsh Stanton, sister to the Duchess of Waterbury.”

  Higgins cringed, feeling as if he’d been punched in the stomach.

  “No need to look stricken,” Annabel chided him. “It was told to me in confidence.”

  “But how? Why?”

  “Months before we met, I was invited to a dinner at the London home of the Duke and Duchess of Waterbury. As I’m sure you know, the duchess is a devotee of literature. A number of novelists were in attendance, including myself and Mr. Galsworthy, whose first book in the Forsyte trilogy had recently been published. I had occasion to speak at length with the younger sister of the duchess. Sweet girl, but unhappy in her marriage to an English marquis.” Her expression turned cynical. “Her tale didn’t surprise me. For years, American millionaires have sold their daughters to debt-ridden English aristocrats.”

  Higgins’s thoughts were in a turmoil. Had Helen told her sister Catherine about them?

  Annabel took mercy on him. “Dear man, you look as if you’re about to faint. If I’d known this might upset you, I would have remained mum. And I’ve never uttered a syllable to anyone of your romantic past with the Duchess of Waterbury. Nor will I.” She shook her head at him. “However you should not be ashamed to have expressed such love and chivalry.”

  “What do you mean?” Higgins asked in a hoarse whisper.

  She turned an almost maternal smile upon him. “How could you not have been captivated by the young American heiress betrothed to the most powerful duke in England? Helen Marsh, as she was known then – beautiful, intelligent, kind. Flawless, in fact, except for her dreadful Boston accent. That required the instruction of an expert language instructor, a prodigy by the name of Henry Higgins. Being so skillful, he quickly improved her speech so when she married the duke, she sounded as English as Princess Alice. By that time though, the professor and the future duchess had fallen desperately in love.”

  Higgins stood up. His head swam. “That was a long time ago,” he said.

  “Yes. I believe the duchess was only one and twenty, while you were a stripling of twenty-three.” Annabel’s smile turned rueful. “I would have loved to have known that young, impetuous Henry Higgins.”

  “What is your purpose in saying this?” Higgins’s shock changed to suspicion. “That romance occurred seventeen years ago. It is long past. The Duke and Duchess of Waterbury have a respectable marriage and an admirable young son. Scandal has never touched their family. And I will do all in my power to prevent it from happening now.”

  Annabel stood as well. “I would never malign another woman, especially in matters of love. Catherine told me of your youthful affair with Helen because she envied her sister’s more prestigious marriage. She was jealous because Helen revealed to her that she had discovered real love with you.”

  Higgins held up his hand. “Enough.”

  “Don’t blame Helen for confiding in her sister. She did so because Catherine was involved in a liaison with another man and felt guilty about betraying her marquis, even if he was a violent imbecile. Catherine said Helen wanted her to know she wasn’t the first woman in the family to seek love outside marriage.” Annabel sighed. “I’ve always regretted not having a sister. My brothers have all the sensitivity of a brick wall.”

  Higgins didn’t give a damn about Annabel’s brothers. He reeled from the knowledge that Helen had confessed their romance to her sister, who foolishly confided in Annabel.

  “If Catherine told you about my relationship with the duchess, I must assume she told others.” Higgins felt a mixture of fear and anger.

  “Not at all. She only told me because I confessed the details of my own wretched marriage, which thankfully my husband’s death put an end to the year before. And you are making too much of this. After all, your romance with her is ancient history. Who in the world would care now? Or even be able to prove it?”

  Her statement showed how little Annabel and Catherine really knew. After Helen married the duke, a desolate Higgins assumed their relationship was over. However, their love for each other only grew stronger when the duke turned out to be a cold and inattentive spouse. Higgins and Helen resumed their romance, only this time with utmost care and secrecy. What no one knew – not her sister, Annabel, Eliza or Pickering – was that their affair continued to this day.

  “I only tell you this because you asked why I pursued you,” Annabel said. “It was because I knew you to be an honorable man. After falling in love with an engaged woman, you dutifully prepared the bride for her new life. Then stepped aside when the time came for another chap to claim her.” She placed a hand over her heart. “Honorable, romantic, and gracious. How could I not want to win the affections of such a man? Especially since you have remained single since then. It must be a lonely existence.”

  Higgins hoped his guilty expression hadn’t given him away.

  “I thought I might be the one to tempt you from your solitary scholar’s life, but alas.” Annabel shrugged. “When I heard about Miss Doolittle, I assumed she was your paramour. However, after watching both of you, it is obvious your feelings for each other are not romantic.”

  “Good lord, no. Eliza is my friend. A damned irritating one at times, too,” Higgins said. “But don’t underestimate her. She’s cleverer than the devil.”

  “I have no intention of doing so. Any more than I will utter a word about your youthful romance with the American heiress.”

  In the distance, Higgins heard the shrieks of peacocks, which reminded him that he was still at this blasted house party. “We have discussed my past quite enough. But since we are speaking of Americans, why don’t you tell me about your relationship with Dwight Pentwater?”

  This time Annabel looked startled. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I mean that you were upset when Madame Evangeline spoke about a burning manuscript during the séance. And about the malicious man who destroyed it.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “I don’t need a fake medium to tell me it was your manuscript which was destroyed. Was Pentwater the disagreeable fellow behind its destruction?”

  Annabel scanned the surrounding flowers and shrubbery, as though looking for a gardener or guest within earshot. After satisfying herself that she and Higgins were alone, she said, “I met Mr. Pentwater six years ago, many months after your speaking tour in England.”

  “The one in which you dogged my every step.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Most men would have been flattered by such attention. I learned you went off to Switzerland to elude me. I can’t imagine you found that stimulating.”

  Higgins couldn’t help but smile. “You had provided more than enough stimulation for one year. I needed to recover.” He gestured at the pebbled walk. “Shall we take a stroll?”

  Annabel and Higgins began to walk towards the beds of chrysanthemums, now in glorious bloom. “After you escaped to the Alps,” she began, “I proceeded with my scheduled tour of America. Dwight Pentwater introduced himself at one of my readings.”

  “He didn’t seem like the bookish type.”

  “He wasn’t. However Dwight did have a passion for redheads.” She patted her coiled auburn hair for emphasis. “And if we were famous, so much the better. The New York papers showered me with a great deal of laudatory press. They called me the ‘Vixen of Fiction’. Photos of me everywhere. I was as big
a sensation as Anna Held, the star of A Parisian Model, that year’s hit show on Broadway.”

  “Pentwater pursued you?”

  “Relentlessly. It made me regret having hounded you the way I did. I led him on quite a chase, too. Dwight was not an attractive man, personally or physically. But after a few months, his determination wore me down. I found him rather entertaining in the beginning.” Annabel brushed a large yellow chrysanthemum as they strolled past. “Dwight had his hands in almost every enterprise in New York City. His friendship helped me secure a lucrative contract with an American publisher. It is why I remained in America for years.”

  “You became his mistress?” Higgins found it hard to imagine Annabel with Pentwater.

  She gave a mocking laugh. “We had encounters, but both of us led separate lives. Also Dwight had a wife, and I had the memory of my husband, who drank himself to death only two years earlier. Matrimony held little appeal for me until I met Sir Anthony.”

  “How did he come to burn your manuscript? Seems a vindictive measure for a lover, even a sporadic one.”

  “It was done out of arrogance. The act of a selfish child who wanted his own way.”

  “But why?”

  Her brow furrowed. “The manuscript he destroyed told a story unlike any I had attempted before. As you know, my novels are filled with sensation, melodrama, heightened emotion. I know how to entertain an audience, hence my success. But it is not a success meant to last. Despite my bank account, I knew no one would read The Daring Sin of Julia or A Scandal in Sussex after I died. It would be as if I never existed. No children. No works of art to lend me even a little immortality.” Her voice trailed off.

  “But the destroyed manuscript was different?”

  “Yes. I titled it The River. I began writing it when my first husband was still alive.”