At long last, he said, “All right, that will be all for now.”
She was on her feet in an instant, yet to her chagrin, her legs trembled.
“For the time being you’re not to leave this house,” he admonished. “I might need to question you again.” Gripping the edge of the table, he struggled to his feet, having to wiggle his bottom off the seat cushion first. He walked with her back to the drawing room, where the others waited. They had all been ordered to wait there, except the cook and her assistant, Margaret, who had been questioned first off. Eva and Myra Stanley sat at the card table, Eva at attention, Miss Stanley looking relaxed and as if she hadn’t a care in the world. After the past two days of Miss Stanley behaving like a goose counting the days before Christmas, she seemed awfully content now.
In contrast, Verna and Cousin Clarabelle, sitting on the closer of the settees, leaned against each other with their arms linked in a show of solidarity rather atypical of them. But then, of course, tragedy had a way of negating petty concerns. Their eyes were red and swollen, their faces leeched of color. Hastings slouched in a chair across from them, his chin in his hand, his gaze focused somewhere on the floor. Ralph Cameron hovered beside the fireplace, looking inappropriately dashing in a tan tweed sack suit, as if he were attending a picnic or going motoring in the countryside. His ready stance and observant air gave Phoebe the impression he had taken on the task of overseeing the others, of being ready to intervene should anyone fly to pieces.
Julia stood with her back to the room, gazing out one of the French windows to the garden beyond. And Olive Asquith . . . Olive sat alone some distance from the family. The inspector made his way over to her. Before speaking he looked her over from head to toe and back. She met his gaze only briefly, glancing away as if she found him beneath her notice. Finally, he said, “You are Olive Asquith?”
She tilted her face up at him and raised an eyebrow high above the other. “I am.” Phoebe searched her features for signs of grief. Her eyes were not red like Verna’s and Cousin Clarabelle’s, nor vacant like Hastings’s, but did that mean anything? People registered sorrow in different ways, and she doubted a stoic, serious woman like Olive Asquith would wear her heart on her sleeve.
He sniffed. “And your relation to the deceased?”
“I am—was—her friend. Perhaps her only true friend,” she added in a murmur.
An objection rose up in Phoebe, but she kept her silence. It might have been true. Hadn’t she herself been intent on abandoning her cousin today? She could find no other word for it. For convenience’s sake, English civility could be blamed; Phoebe had not wished to continue witnessing the very personal discord between Regina and her family. A very British thing, to claim her leaving would have been out of deference to the Brockhursts, when all along she had simply wished to avoid the unpleasantness.
Even Julia hadn’t been guilty of that.
“Friend, eh?” The inspector again scrutinized Olive up and down. He pushed out his lips and scratched at his chin. “I find that claim rather difficult to believe, Miss Asquith.”
Miss Asquith said nothing, but her nostrils flared and her jaw beaded with tension.
“You don’t strike me as the sort of woman someone like Miss Brockhurst would deign to spend her time with.”
Miss Asquith spoke from between her clenched jaws. “What sort of woman am I, then?”
“The sort who works for people like the Brockhursts. The sort who might, if she were very clever, wheedle her way into a rich person’s life and see how far it takes her.”
Phoebe went rigid. She waited for Olive’s retort, for her to spring up from her chair and deliver to the inspector a thorough dressing-down. Yet Olive remained seated, breathing heavily but otherwise showing no other outward sign of anger.
But was he right about her? Just what did Olive Asquith do to support herself? Or had that been Regina’s role?
“Well, come along, my girl. I’ve got questions for you.” The inspector curled his fingers in an insolent gesture meant to bring Olive to her feet. She complied, but in no great hurry. In fact, she gathered herself slowly and determinedly, with a good deal of dignity, and silently led the way out of the room without once looking back to see if the inspector followed.
Would the young woman’s haughtiness survive the inspector’s questions and the uncomfortable heat of the dining room? Phoebe supposed that depended on whether or not Olive Asquith had something to hide.
CHAPTER 6
As soon as the drawing room door closed behind Olive and the inspector, Cousin Clarabelle let out a cry. “He thinks I did it because it was my hat pin! Not that anyone couldn’t have snatched that pin. I never retrieved it from the library table.”
This brought Hastings out of his stupor. “You? He thinks I did it.”
“Well, if the truth be told, he said the same of me.” Verna’s birdlike features sharpened. “He can’t think we all did it.”
“Maybe we all did do it,” Hastings mumbled. He sank lower in his chair, his head dipping between his shoulders. “Maybe we’re all guilty.”
“Don’t be stupid.” Verna turned to glance up at Ralph Cameron. “What did he say to you? Does he think you had a hand in Regina’s demise?”
One hand in his trouser pocket, the solicitor shuffled his feet in an uncharacteristic show of embarrassment. “He, er, asked me what I knew about the family, and the money, of course. Asked me about when Lord Mandeville changed his will.”
Cousin Clarabelle released Verna and came to her feet, obviously alarmed. “And what did you tell him?”
“The facts,” he said in a placating voice. “Only the facts.”
“And you, Phoebe?” Cousin Clarabelle’s attention swerved to her with disconcerting swiftness.
“Oh, ah, the same, basically, as Mr. Cameron,” she replied evasively. If the inspector had wished everyone to know the details of each interview, he would have questioned them together. In truth, she felt calmer now with the realization that the inspector had used the same tactic with everyone, unnerving them all in hope someone might break down and come clean.
What did it mean that, so far, no one had? That Olive was guilty? Or that the guilty party had a firm hold on his or her emotions?
“I suppose he’ll tell Miss Asquith she’s guilty next,” Verna murmured. Her upper lip curled. “Not that he came out and said he thinks I did it, mind you. But his questions implied he did.”
“The same with me,” Hastings said with a nod. He peered over to the card table, where Eva and Miss Stanley looked on. “What about the two of you?”
Myra Stanley pressed a hand to her breastbone. “Me? He asked me what I had observed the past two days, that’s all. I told him precious little. I’d seen precious little, after all, being Lady Julia’s maid.”
Eva dropped her gaze to her lap, waiting, Phoebe supposed, to be asked about her interview. No one bothered. They seemed content enough with Miss Stanley’s reply, as if she spoke for both of them.
Cousin Clarabelle resumed her seat with a fretful sigh.
“I can’t help but wonder who was in the billiard room last night.” Phoebe glanced at each of the room’s occupants in turn.
“In the billiard room?” Cousin Clarabelle sounded as if she had made an outlandish accusation. “At what time?”
Phoebe regarded her before replying. She already knew it couldn’t have been Hastings or Verna, for they had been arguing in their room. It couldn’t have been Olive or Regina, unless Olive had been lying. Her gaze drifted to Mr. Cameron, standing tall, unruffled, a study in elegance. “Was it you, Mr. Cameron?”
He stepped forward slightly with a little bob of his head. “It was me, Lady Phoebe. I wasn’t sleeping well and decided to get up. I found myself in the billiard room.”
“Rolling balls, one into another?”
“Yes, it helps me think.”
Cousin Clarabelle tilted her chin to look up at him. “And what were you thinking about, Ralph?”<
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“How to mend the rifts in this family. What else?” He turned his attention back to Phoebe. “Does that satisfy your curiosity? Or do you think I might have crept into Regina’s bedroom and—”
Cousin Clarabelle gasped. “Oh, Ralph, don’t even say such a thing. No one here believes you had anything to do with Regina’s . . . Regina’s . . .” The words melted into tears, and Verna’s thin arms encircled her.
Phoebe sighed. No, she didn’t think Ralph Cameron murdered Regina. What would he have to gain, especially given the rapport that had obviously existed between them? If he had wished to continue tending the family fortune, Phoebe had little doubt Regina would have allowed him.
“And what were you doing up, Phoebe?” Verna’s thin lips curled into a smile of mock sweetness. “If I may be so bold as to ask.”
Phoebe’s gaze didn’t waver. “I heard arguing and got up to investigate. It was coming from your room, actually. The walls here are much thinner than one might suspect.”
Verna paled, and her smile wilted like week-old flowers.
“You were arguing about Regina,” Phoebe persisted. “You were both furious with her.”
It was Verna’s turn to push to her feet. She came at Phoebe in a rush, stopping a few feet short. “And why shouldn’t we have been? She took the fortune—”
“She inherited the fortune,” Phoebe corrected her. “She cannot be blamed for that.”
Verna shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. She took the money and left the rest of us with nothing. So yes, we were angry. That doesn’t mean we—” She shut her mouth, pinching her lips tightly together.
No, it didn’t necessarily make either Verna or Hastings a murderer, Phoebe could not but agree. But it certainly shed suspicion in their direction.
Across the room, Julia seemed to have ignored the discussion, continuing to contemplate the view outside, the flowers overgrowing their beds, the shrubbery fast losing its shape. With a pang Phoebe realized Regina would be hiring no gardeners, nor anyone else to care for her new estate. She turned away from Verna and the others and on still shaky legs crossed the room to her sister. Julia acknowledged her with a slight turn of her head, but just as quickly went back to staring outside.
“What did the inspector say to you?”
Julia hesitated before answering, releasing a breath laden with obvious impatience. “Probably the same thing he said to you.”
“He wasn’t very kind.”
“It’s not his job to be kind.” The words were tight, terse. “Get over it.”
Phoebe studied her sister’s uncompromising profile. “Why are you angry with me?”
Julia turned to face her full on. “Really, with everything that’s happened, that’s what you’re worried about?”
“I only meant—”
Julia shook her head, her mouth tightening. “Honestly, must everything be about you? Poor, poor Phoebe. Our cousin is dead, you realize, and in case you hadn’t noticed, you’re standing in a room full of suspects. Ourselves included.”
“Julia, please, I don’t understand . . .”
With an impatient gesture, her sister walked off, leaving Phoebe standing with her mouth open, the words fading away. Approaching footsteps made her turn quickly, hoping Julia had relented, but it was Eva who came to stand beside her.
“Did the chief inspector upset you very much, my lady?”
Phoebe smiled. “Dearest Eva, always concerned about me.” But then Julia’s parting words came back to mock her. “Does it matter if he did? It’s not about me, is it? Poor Regina.”
Quite unexpectedly, tears burned her eyes, and her throat closed around the sob she had held back in the dining room. She found herself just as suddenly in Eva’s arms, quietly weeping. “She didn’t deserve this, Eva. Such a beastly end to a short but vibrant life.”
“Of course she didn’t deserve it. No one does. You must be strong, my lady.”
“Must I be? Why?”
“For your cousin. You’ve been strong before, strong enough to see justice done. Your cousin deserves that same justice.”
The words penetrated the grief that enclosed her, and she lifted her head from Eva’s shoulder. “Why must we be the ones to see she gets it? Can’t the inspector, for once . . .” She let the thought go unfinished, for she knew the answer. Chief Inspector Perkins had enjoyed more than a decade as the local head of law enforcement with nary a crime to disturb his daily perusal of the newspapers. Whatever devilish force had invaded their sleepy corner of the Cotswolds to provoke three murders in less than a year had not managed to rouse the man to action. And he would not be roused now, not in any worthwhile manner. Constable Brannock had implied as much with those twitches of his lips.
Eva handed her a handkerchief. “It’s clean. Dry your tears, my lady.”
Phoebe dabbed at her cheeks. “You do realize someone in this very room is probably to blame for my cousin’s death.”
“Miles hasn’t yet ruled out an intruder, my lady.” No longer demurring about her growing affection for the constable, Eva openly referred to him by his given name these days.
“But the dragonfly. Why would an intruder use it to—” Her stomach tightened at the memory of the hat pin protruding from Regina’s skull. She drew a fortifying breath. “All right. Here’s what I’ve noticed so far. Cousin Clarabelle and Verna are distraught, believably so. Hastings is dazed and irreverent. Mr. Cameron remains the cool, detached self we met yesterday. As does Julia, though something is eating at her. She’s still angry with me.”
“It could merely be the strain of this house, the circumstances.”
“I wish I could believe that, Eva, but I don’t.” Once again, her preoccupation with what her sister thought of her produced a pang of guilt. “Never mind. It’s nothing compared to Regina’s life. And the fact that one of her family members quite possibly killed her.”
* * *
When Olive Asquith reentered the drawing room, she looked at no one and without a word settled back into the chair she had occupied before the inspector came for her. Eva tried to read her expression. It was plain to see the inspector’s questions had left Miss Asquith unsettled . . . and angry. Yes, anger seethed in her eyes and glared out from her white-knuckled hold on the arms of the chair.
“Well,” the dowager called to her, “what happened? What did the inspector say to you?”
Miss Asquith raised a defiant expression. “That is hardly any of your business.”
“Hardly my business? Hardly my business?” The dowager rose and practically charged down the room. “How dare you, you insolent baggage? It’s my daughter lying dead, isn’t it? And you—living off her money as you have been doing—”
“As you wished to do, Lady Mandeville. You, your son, and his wife. You accuse me, but you wanted Regina for one reason only, once you learned she’d inherited most of your husband’s fortune.”
“That’s not true. I loved my daughter. Yes, I was angry with her, we all were and had every right to be, but . . . but Regina would have come around. In time. That is, if she hadn’t had you misguiding her every step.”
“Angry with her? Is that what you call it?” Miss Asquith made an inelegant sound.
“Ladies, please.” Ralph Cameron hurried over to them. “This isn’t helping. You don’t mean a word of it, either of you. You’re both understandably upset. Please, Clarabelle, come sit, and let’s all calm down.”
Eva frowned. For Lady Phoebe’s ears alone she said, “When he says ‘let’s all calm down,’ my lady, I can’t help but wonder who all he means. At the moment, only the dowager and Miss Asquith are upset. Everyone else is composed, at least outwardly. Even the new Lady Mandeville.” Indeed, Verna Brockhurst sat watching the contention between the other two women with an expression approaching amusement. She had looked amused, too, when she had asked Lady Phoebe what she had been doing up the night before. Apparently, the woman enjoyed watching suspicion shift to anyone but herself.
The dowager slid her arm through Mr. Cameron’s and pressed up against his side. “Oh, Ralph, you know how much I loved her. How much I wished she would come home to us.”
“Yes, Clarabelle, I do know. And Regina knew it as well.”
“I loved her, too, you know.” The younger Lady Mandeville’s assertion sounded more defensive than affectionate.
“I find Verna’s claim rather hard to believe, based on what I overheard last night,” Phoebe whispered to Eva.
“Well, don’t all of you look at me.” Lord Mandeville started to rise but fell back heavily in his chair. Eva wondered, could he have been drinking this early in the morning? When had he had the chance? “I loved my sister, you know, and despite what that bulbous-nosed inspector might think, I certainly didn’t kill her.”
“No one is looking at you,” his wife said in a low, cautioning murmur.
“Yet you were out of your room, last night, Hastings.” All eyes turned to Lady Julia as she made this pronouncement.
“What’s this?” Lady Phoebe whispered, at the same time the dowager rounded on her sister.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Just what I said. He was up, roaming about. I saw him prowling the corridor last night. He stopped and put his ear to Regina’s door.”
“That’s a lie,” Hastings Brockhurst said weakly.
His wife ignored him and said, with a thrust of her finger at Lady Julia, “That means you were up as well.” Her angry strides made short work of the distance between them. “What were you doing?”
“Nothing. I heard noises, just as Phoebe had, and peeked out my door. I didn’t set foot out of my room.”
The younger Lady Mandeville didn’t look convinced. “Humph. And what did you tell the chief inspector? That you think Hastings . . .”
“I didn’t say any such thing.” Lady Julia assumed a bored air. “And as a matter of fact, I don’t believe Hastings did anything to Regina, nor any of the rest of us.”
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