A Devious Death

by Alyssa Maxwell

  Lady Mandeville and Verna shrieked in protestation, while the solicitor held out his hands in a bid for quiet that went unheeded by the ladies. Speaking over each other as they were, Phoebe couldn’t make out a word they uttered. She wondered, what had Regina been about to say when she broke off moments ago? Not to mention—what?

  Then Hastings found his voice and raised it above the others. “You killed him, Regina. Don’t deny it.”

  Silence fell, so thick Phoebe gasped for breath.

  CHAPTER 3

  Regina spun about yet again. “How dare you spew such a lie?”

  “It’s the truth.” Hastings strode closer to her, his chin up, his body tensed as if for a fight. For a moment Phoebe worried he might actually strike his sister, even here, in front of everyone. She braced to intervene. Yet he stopped several feet away and thrust an unsteady finger toward his sister. “You killed Father, Regina,” he said quietly, the false calm of an approaching tempest. “You told him . . . I don’t know . . . something . . . my guess is some lie about me that caused his heart failure. You stole into his study like the spider you are and whispered some insidious falsehood that sent him to his grave. How long have you known he essentially wrote me out of his will and supplanted his heir—his bodily heir—with his insolent, selfish, frivolous excuse for a daughter?”

  Phoebe’s eyes went wide while beside her Julia inhaled sharply and pressed a hand to her lips. Miss Asquith reached out a tenuous hand to touch Regina’s shoulder, perhaps to help steady her friend. Though Phoebe couldn’t see Regina’s face, she saw that her shoulders were shaking.

  Hastings’s finger again shot out, pointing not at Regina but at Miss Asquith. “And that one. I’ve no doubt she helped you. Probably put you up to it. Didn’t you, Olive?” Her name dripped disdainfully from his lips.

  “Indeed, Miss Asquith.” Cousin Clarabelle snapped her hands to her hips, her handbag slapping against her thigh. “Regina would never have turned her back on her family if not for outside influences. Just who are you? Who are your family?” Shaking her head in rapid, tiny shakes, she looked Miss Asquith up and down with a sneer of distaste.

  “I’ve heard quite enough. Come, Olive.” Regina about-faced again and this time did not hesitate to climb the two steps to the front door. She reached out and seized the latch, which remained stubbornly in position. Of course it did; Regina had locked the door when they left this morning and there was no butler inside to open it for them.

  Phoebe stepped up beside her. “You’ll need your key, Regina.”

  “Yes, how foolish of me.” She glanced down at her handbag, seeming uncertain how to access its contents. Her fingers trembled. Phoebe took the bag from her, opened the snap, and rummaged until she found the key. She slipped it into the lock.

  “Don’t you walk away from us, Regina.” This came from her mother, followed by more footsteps crunching across the drive. “This isn’t over.”

  Regina threw the door inward and all but leaped over the threshold. Miss Asquith followed and then glanced back at Phoebe and Julia. Behind them on the drive, Mr. Cameron called Regina’s name—her given name, Phoebe didn’t fail to notice.

  “Do let’s all talk calmly. Regina, please don’t shut the door. Your family is distraught, but understandably so.”

  “Understandably so?” Regina took hold of the edge of the door, ready to toss it closed. “Calling me a murderer, and in my own home, I might add? I’m sorry, Ralph, that is not my idea of understandable behavior.”

  “Regina, wait.” Mr. Cameron closed the distance and ran up the steps to the threshold, forcing Phoebe and Julia to step aside or be knocked over. Up close, Phoebe saw that the solicitor, though middle-aged and silver-haired, was nonetheless handsome and trim of figure. His suit was of the finest quality, made to embrace his proportions. “Regina,” he said more quietly, “imagine yourself in their position. What if your father had cut you off without a word of explanation, leaving you virtually penniless after a life of privilege—”

  “Don’t be so dramatic. They’re not penniless. What’s more, Hastings may deny it, but he knows precisely why our father didn’t trust him with the money. He drinks like a sailor on holiday and gambles away every penny he happens to find in his pockets. If Father had bequeathed his hard-earned fortune to him, he’d be virtually penniless within a year anyway. So I ask you, what is the difference?”

  “Oh, and what will you do with it all, sister?” Hastings swayed on his feet, proving Regina’s words correct. He must have been drinking on the trip down from London. He flapped a hand in the general direction of the house. “Squander it on houses you don’t need. Take in any rabble you happen to meet . . .”

  Miss Asquith scoffed. “He thinks I’m rabble, does he?”

  “I have plans, important ones.” Regina raised her nose in the air. “Ones you could never understand, any of you. The world is changing, and—”

  Miss Asquith touched Regina’s shoulder, effectively silencing her.

  Hastings let go a harsh burst of laughter. “A fat lot of good your precious plans will do you when you’re rotting in a prison cell. We’ll prove you killed Father. See if we don’t.”

  “And your so-called friend along with you, Regina.” Cousin Clarabelle stepped up to Hastings’s side, presenting a united front. “Don’t think we don’t know how this Miss Asquith of yours has influenced you. Changed you. She had led you astray, Regina, all for the sake of living off your generosity. Which, sadly, does not extend to your family.” Her lips turned down and her nostrils flared. “We know what you’re about, Miss Asquith, and we mean to stop you cold in your greedy little tracks.”

  “If that is what you think, then you know nothing about me or Regina. Money is unimportant to us. It is a means to an end—nothing more.”

  “And what end is that, Miss Asquith?” Verna narrowed her eyes and scrutinized the other woman. “Putting the rest of us in the poorhouse? Depriving my husband of his birthright? Pray, do enlighten us.”

  “If you wish to avoid the workhouse,” Regina replied smoothly, “then work, as millions of Englishmen do every day. And if it weren’t for the money, none of you would be here now. You wouldn’t give a fig what I did. Admit it.”

  Hastings’s face darkened with ire. “Murderesses,” he mumbled. “Murderesses and thieves. Both of you.”

  Regina let out a cry and rushed toward her brother. Verna screamed and sidestepped away, and Cousin Clarabelle raised her hands to her cheeks in a show of fright.

  Mr. Cameron stepped between the charging Regina and her family and caught her in his arms. “That will be quite enough. Come now, all of you. You’re acting like children. You’re family, and surely there is a way to resolve this civilly.”

  “They’re accusing me of murder, Ralph.”

  He patted Regina’s back. “No one believes you murdered your father.” Before any of the others could protest, Mr. Cameron silenced them with a sharp glance before returning his attention to Regina, still wrapped in his arms. He stroked her back in a soothing rhythm. “They’re upset and bewildered and lashing out. And you . . . you must admit your running off as you did after the reading of the will wouldn’t exactly warm their hearts toward you.”

  “They’ve accused my friend as well, and she has nothing to do with any of this.” Regina laid her head on Mr. Cameron’s shoulder, her hat tipping slightly askew.

  “Again, they are upset. Once we’ve all calmed down I’m sure they’ll apologize for offending you and your charming friend.” He flicked a glance at Miss Asquith, but rather than kindness, Phoebe detected a shade of suspicion in his eyes. Perhaps he didn’t believe his own words. Still, for the moment he had ended the Brockhursts’ stinging accusations.

  “I won’t hold my breath,” Regina said into his lapel. She turned to peer out past his shoulder and drew in a breath. “They’re horrid.”

  “There now.” Gently he set her at arm’s length. “Can’t we all go inside and discuss this like civilize
d people? We’ve come a long way, all the way from London.”

  “That’s hardly my fault.”

  “Regina.” He bent his head toward her and smiled. Phoebe could sense his charm chipping away at Regina’s resolve. “Be nice. You’re not someone who slams her door in her family’s faces.”

  She took a step back, out of his hold. “Aren’t I, though?” Shrugging, she started back toward the front door. “Come along, then, all of you. I suppose I’ll have to serve you dinner as well in order to get rid of you. I can’t vouch for what Cook will be able to scrape together for this many people on such short notice, so don’t go blaming me if it’s not to your liking.”

  “I think Julia and I should be going,” Phoebe whispered when Regina reached the steps.

  “Speak for yourself,” Julia interjected.

  “Neither of you are going anywhere.” Regina grasped Phoebe’s shoulder and turned her toward the open door. “Inside, both of you. You’re not going to leave me alone with this lot.”

  “You have Miss Asquith,” Phoebe reminded her.

  “Call her Olive, and that’s only two to four. You and Julia even out the odds.”

  Julia chuckled with what seemed to be genuine amusement. “Odds of what?”

  “Me winning. I don’t see why I owe anyone anything, and I won’t be bullied.” Regina stepped into the front hall. Julia offered Phoebe a delighted smile and eagerly trailed in after them. Phoebe waited on the top step until the three other Brockhursts came, somewhat tentatively, as if they suspected some sort of trap. When they reached the threshold they stopped short and regarded Phoebe.

  “Hello, Hastings,” she said. “Verna. Cousin Clarabelle.” Though Lady Mandeville bore no relation to the Renshaws other than by marriage, Phoebe and her siblings had always addressed her as cousin, as they had her husband. She coughed awkwardly, ignoring Julia’s highly amused expression. “It’s . . . er . . . good to see you again. You’re all looking . . .”

  “Oh, don’t pretend, Phoebe.” Hastings stumbled over his own feet, reaching out to grip Verna’s shoulder for balance. “It’s not good to see us, not under these circumstances, and I’m quite sure we all look dreadful after our trip, not to mention waging battle just now.”

  He strode through the doorway. Phoebe followed the family inside, only to find herself once more in the middle of the fray.

  “Why, that’s mine, you little thief!” Lady Mandeville pointed to Regina’s hat.

  Regina raised a gloved hand to her hat brim. “This? No, it isn’t. I bought it in London after the funeral.”

  “Not the hat. That!” Cousin Clarabelle’s finger jabbed the air. “My hat pin. You’ve stolen it!”

  “I have not. I borrowed it.”

  The hat pin holding Regina’s chapeau in place glittered with the brilliance of winter stars beneath the electric chandelier. Earlier, Phoebe had admired the piece; Regina had acknowledged the compliment at the time but had said nothing of it belonging to her mother.

  “You know very well that pin is a family heirloom. It belonged to my great great grandmother, and yes, you would have had it someday, but you had no right to take it now. No right, I tell you.” Cousin Clarabelle paused to drag in a breath. “This only proves what we’ve been saying. That you are a thief, Regina.”

  “I’d have returned it in good time. Besides, I haven’t seen you wear it in ages. But if you’re so keen to have it back, here.” Reaching up with both hands, Regina tugged the pin from her hat and flung it to the floor at her mother’s feet. Phoebe flinched, grateful for the Persian rug that prevented the ornament from being damaged.

  Regina hadn’t yet finished. She pointed at the dragonfly, lying on its back as if dead. “There is your fortune, Mother. Enjoy it, such as it is.”

  Cousin Clarabelle pressed her hands to her mouth and cried out from between her fingers. Tears sprang to her eyes and she began to sob in earnest. Hastings and Verna appeared too shocked to react. With a sniff, Regina gave herself a shake, turned, and set off up the curving stairs. Miss Asquith was quick to follow.

  “Oh, dear,” Phoebe couldn’t help uttering. She reached out a hand to Cousin Clarabelle, but with a choked sob and her hands still pressed against her mouth, the woman simply ran. Several doors stood open to the hall, and she ground to a halt, peering at each one. Finally, with a shake of her head she appeared to choose a doorway at random and scurried inside.

  “Damn.” Hastings scrubbed a hand across his face, glanced from Phoebe to Julia to his wife, and without another word followed his mother. With a nervous twitter, Verna scampered after her husband.

  Mr. Cameron regarded Phoebe and Julia with a sigh. “I’m sorry you had to witness that.” He stuck out his hand. “Ralph Cameron, by the way, the Brockhursts’ solicitor.”

  Julia tossed her head with a little laugh. “Yes, we gathered that.” She grasped his offered hand. “Julia Renshaw, their cousin.” She gestured with her chin over her shoulder. “My little sister, Phoebe.”

  “A pleasure, I’m sure.” He bobbed his head with a rueful sort of smile. “Again, my apologies.”

  “No need.” Julia’s dark blue eyes sparked with humor. “You’re certainly not their keeper. Or are you?” She flashed a cunning smile, and Phoebe resisted the urge to roll her eyes heavenward.

  “Yes, well.” He sighed again. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some ruffled feathers to smooth.”

  “Good luck with that,” Julia called to his back. She turned to Phoebe, grinning. “I haven’t had this much fun in months.”

  “Oh, Julia. How can you call that fun?” Phoebe lowered her voice. “This family is pure poison.”

  “Hmm, perhaps, but please don’t say that word.”

  Phoebe conceded Julia’s point with a nod, remembering their personal brush with poison back in the spring. “We should leave at the first opportunity. I’ll call home and have the car sent over.”

  “Oh, no, you won’t. Or if you wish to leave, go ahead. I’m staying. You heard Regina, she needs us here. Are you so coldhearted you’d abandon our cousin?”

  “I really don’t think—”

  “Goodness, after all this excitement, I need a lie down. See you after.”

  Julia hurried up the stairs, leaving Phoebe alone in the hall. Subdued voices droned on in the library, where Cousin Clarabelle and the others had retreated. She hoped Mr. Cameron had succeeded in smoothing some of those feathers, though she doubted his intervention would have any lasting effects, not if he couldn’t quell the accusations. Good heavens—Regina, a murderer?

  A little shiver traveled Phoebe’s length. What had precipitated Cousin Basil’s heart failure? It wasn’t impossible that shocking news could have brought it on. She wondered, had Regina known beforehand of her father’s changes to his will? Did the prospect of an inheritance send her into his study with an insidious message, as Hastings implied?

  Stop it this instant. If the past months had taught her anything, it was to view uncertainties with suspicion and immediately turn her mind to questions of means, motive, and opportunity. But this was different. This was a family at one another’s throats following the death of their patriarch, nothing more. It had become a common enough story, especially with how the war had depleted so many family fortunes.

  A lie down sounded like a capital idea. But as she moved toward the staircase, the dragonfly beckoned with a flash of its many diamonds. In all the commotion, no one had remembered to pick it up off the floor. Phoebe did so now, the skillfully crafted piece heavy in her hand. She touched the tip of the pin and nearly pricked her finger. Yes, this dragonfly had a sting. But where to leave it? Cousin Clarabelle’s quiet sobbing drew her to the library.

  Phoebe knocked at the open door and poked her head in. Verna, Cousin Clarabelle, and Mr. Cameron sat near the fireplace. Hastings occupied the seat at the writing desk. He was smoking a cigarette and exhaling a long stream of gray toward a nearby open window.

  “You left this in the hall.” She held
up the hat pin.

  A tearful Cousin Clarabelle waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Just leave it on the table. I don’t even wish to see the thing right now. She can have it, for all I care.”

  “Yes, all right.” Feeling a need to tiptoe, Phoebe entered the room and carefully placed the glittering dragonfly on the library table in the center of the room.

  * * *

  “I agree with you, my lady. I don’t think you and Lady Julia should be here.” Eva neatened up the toiletries on Lady Phoebe’s dressing table. Her mistress had apprised her of this afternoon’s ruckus, and if Eva could pack up Lady Phoebe’s things right now and whisk her home, she would. “Lord only knows what skirmishes might erupt during dinner. I half wish you wouldn’t go down.”

  “You’re not the only one. Based on what occurred earlier, this promises to be the grimmest affair I’ve ever witnessed. I don’t know how Mr. Cameron convinced my cousin to allow her family to stay on. I hate to say it, but I almost believe Regina finds a perverse pleasure in having them here.” Lady Phoebe made an adjustment to the beaded necklace hanging down the front of her gown. “Eva, do you think there can be anything to it? That someone upset Cousin Basil with the notion of hastening his demise, I mean. Is it even possible?”

  Eva ran her finger lightly over the back of Lady Phoebe’s silver hand mirror as she gave the question the consideration it deserved. “Well, if you mean did someone intend murdering him that way, as Miss Brockhurst’s family charges, it would be a rather unreliable means of doing so.”

  “That’s true.”

  “However, someone may have found roguish pleasure in taunting the old gentleman. That would make him or her guilty in his death, even if only by happenstance.”

  “Then there could be some truth in the accusation. But the question remains, who is the guilty party, and what did he or she say to Cousin Basil that so distressed him?”

  “I’m afraid that’s something we may never know, my lady. And if you ask me, it’s not for you or Lady Julia to know. It’s ugly business, from start to finish.”