“Then who?” Verna Brockhurst cocked an angular hip and set a hand on it.
“If she saw me in the corridor, I must have been sleepwalking.” Lord Mandeville attempted to smile, a failed effort. “I do sometimes, you know. Ask Verna.”
“No one is worried about that, Hastings.” His wife’s tone took on an unmistakable edge of scorn. “So do be quiet.” She turned back to Julia. “We all know who did it. That one.” She pointed at Miss Asquith. “We need look no farther.”
“And why would I kill my friend?” Miss Asquith appeared genuinely curious.
The dowager supplied the answer. “Because Regina had decided to return to her family, that’s why. She decided to abandon you in favor of her own blood.”
Miss Asquith laughed without mirth. “That certainly is rich. You all arrive here yesterday accusing Regina of murder and theft, and now you accuse me of murdering her? What had I to gain? Not nearly as much as you, Lady Mandeville, nor you, Verna Brockhurst, and most especially not as much as your husband. If I benefited in any way from my friendship with Regina, it’s nothing compared to the boon you all awakened to this morning. Tell me, how does it feel to control the fortune again? Relieved, aren’t you?”
Phoebe watched Miss Asquith closely, then whispered to Eva, “When I came upon Miss Asquith last night, she said Regina was having trouble sleeping. She didn’t say why, and I didn’t ask, since at the time it seemed of small consequence. Now I wish I had asked. Perhaps she had argued with one of her guests and was upset by it. It seems everyone was awake, even Julia.”
“And from what we’re hearing, almost everyone seemed to have had reason to resent her, didn’t they, my lady?” Eva whispered back. “And now they’re all attempting to put the blame on someone else.”
Lady Phoebe raised a hand in a subtle gesture, guiding Eva’s line of vision. “All except Ralph Cameron, despite having admitted he was also out of his room last night. Look how calm he remains.”
“Yes, but that’s probably because of all of them, he had the least reason to wish ill on your cousin, and now he’s trying to remain the rational one in the bunch.”
“Perhaps . . .” Lady Phoebe’s gaze wandered to the card table. “Miss Stanley is frightfully calm as well.”
Eva had it on her tongue to repeat what she had said about Mr. Cameron, that Myra had no reason to involve herself in the family’s discord. And then she remembered Myra’s behavior ever since they had arrived at High Head Lodge. A word Miss Asquith had just used popped into her head. “Relieved.”
“What’s that?” Lady Phoebe asked her.
“My lady, I need to speak with Miles right away.”
* * *
“I tell you, Myra Stanley knew Regina Brockhurst, and there was no love lost between them.” Eva and Miles Brannock went from window to door to window along the outside of the house. Presently, they climbed the steps to a side terrace outside the library. A gusty breeze stirred Miles’s red hair, which hung in waves below his policeman’s helmet and curled about his collar. At times, Eva longed to reach out and tuck one of those unruly locks behind his ear. She might have done, if they had been somewhere else, where they wouldn’t have been visible to anyone in the house.
“But it’s not unusual that a woman might be acquainted with the lady’s maid of a friend,” he said as he jiggled the door latch and then leaned over to inspect the mechanism. He passed his hand along the hinges of the casement windows as well, looking for signs of forced entry. Thus far, they had found none. With his faint brogue, he said, “You say Myra Stanley used to work for Lady Diana Manners? I’ve heard of the woman. Who hasn’t?”
He referred, of course, to Lady Diana’s reputation for keeping fast company and being rather loose with her morals. Until her recent marriage, she had often been featured in the scandal sheets and gossip columns.
“I’m talking about more than a casual acquaintance during the course of her duties. Myra has been acting strangely since we arrived. I didn’t realize it at first, but it began as we drove up to the house with Myra complaining that no servants had lined up to greet Ladies Phoebe and Julia. She said the failure of Miss Brockhurst to assemble her staff was a slapdash way to welcome guests.”
“Isn’t that how toffs think and, by association, their servants?”
“Well, yes, sometimes, but taken with the rest of her behavior, I think what she found objectionable was the lack of other staff among whom she could blend. From the first, she wished to avoid having Miss Brockhurst recognize her. The next morning, when we were to accompany the ladies shopping, she came out of her room in what I can only describe as a disguise. She had cut her hair and applied layers of ridiculous cosmetics. I had her turn an about-face and wash it off. Her next antic was to complain about how Miss Brockhurst housed her guests in the main portion of the house, rather than in a separate guest wing. Again, because she feared coming face to face with Miss Brockhurst. When it finally did happen outside on the drive, the two of them looked like they’d just experienced an electrical shock. Miss Brockhurst recognized her—I know she did—but a moment later denied it and dismissed the matter.”
Miles had finally turned away from the windows, and Eva had his full attention. “You’re sure Miss Brockhurst recognized Miss Stanley?”
“I have no doubt, and neither would you if you had been there.” She drew a breath; the air smelled like rain and rotting foliage, old dead leaves and flowers that had not been removed from the gardens. “But here’s the clincher,” she continued. “Having grown tired of her complaining, I suggested she should have remained in Lady Diana’s employ. Myra became incensed and insisted she would have done if not for Lady Diana’s marriage last month. She claimed there was no room for her in the new household, and that Lady Diana was loath to lose her.”
His blue eyes twinkled with a mixture of amusement and interest. “I’m going to guess you find fault with that statement.”
“I most certainly do. There is no reason a bride wouldn’t bring her maid with her to her new home. This excuse of there being no room for Myra is absurd. The only explanation is that Lady Diana found fault in how Myra performed her duties and let her go.”
They walked down the terrace steps together and continued to the rear of the house. “So how does Miss Brockhurst figure into this theory?” he asked.
“Isn’t it obvious? At some point, Miss Brockhurst must have visited Lady Diana, or vice versa, and something happened involving Myra.” Eva considered while Miles continued checking the integrity of the windows and doors. “We need to discover why Myra stopped working for Lady Diana and verify whether Miss Brockhurst actually did spend time with Lady Diana at some point, where she might have had some sort of to-do with Myra.”
“Resulting in Myra murdering Miss Brockhurst.”
“I believe it’s highly possible.”
He nodded slowly, raising his face to the gust that swirled across the terrace to billow against the house. His unkempt waves danced about his coat collar. Once again, Eva’s fingers itched to comb them into submission, but she held her hands at her sides. His gaze lingered on her face, and a small smile curled his lips. Self-conscious heat crept into her cheeks. She laughed to cover her discomfiture.
“Why are you staring?”
His smile widened, and a wicked gleam flashed in his eyes. “You’re lovely when you’re cunning.”
“Don’t be absurd.” She laughed again, turning her face to the wind as he had, letting it pluck fine hairs from her coif.
“I wish you weren’t here,” he said suddenly, solemnly. “And yet I’m glad you’re here.”
“I’ll be all right.” She met his gaze, and all humor between them faded like sunlight behind a cloud. She saw the concern in his eyes, the regret that once again, her life might be at risk. “I won’t take chances, but I can help you solve this. I have to.”
“And why is that?” He reached out, catching a few of those fine hairs on his fingertips and brushing them back fr
om her face.
“Have you forgotten Myra is now Lady Julia’s maid? If she is guilty of anything—anything at all, no matter how small—I can’t allow her to remain in the Renshaws’ employ.”
His hand fell away, as if he suddenly remembered they were not simply strolling along a terrace together, but engaged in important police business. He continued on to the next set of windows, Eva keeping pace with him. Then they descended the steps and circled the hedges to the kitchen wing. “Julia should be safe enough,” he said. “If Myra did kill Miss Brockhurst, I believe you’re correct that it had something to do with their past history. It’s not likely she would kill again. And I agree, we need to investigate her time with Lady Diana. And I think I know just the person to help us.”
“Who is that?” Eva believed she already knew.
“Owen Seabright, of course. The man has limitless contacts, and he’s not hesitant to use them. Do you think we can enlist Lady Phoebe’s help?”
* * *
Inspector Perkins finally released everyone from the drawing room, with the admonishment that no one was to leave the estate until further notice. While Phoebe waited for her call to go through to the main offices of Seabright Textiles in Bradford, Yorkshire, she sought out Ralph Cameron, hoping to speak with him alone. She was in luck, for Cousin Clarabelle had pleaded a migraine from the shock and upset and gone upstairs to lie down. Otherwise Phoebe could not have hoped to pry Mr. Cameron from her side.
She found him in the library. He sat at the mahogany library table—the very one where Phoebe had placed the dragonfly yesterday—with a stack of books beside him and one open beneath his nose. Several papers also lay fanned out before him. His index finger lay atop one of them while he perused the open book. A frown of perplexity etched deep ridges across his brow.
He glanced up when she entered the room, eyeing her above a pair of gold-rimmed reading spectacles. They lent him a scholarly air, like a professor, a kindly one. Given this and his steady temperament, she could see how Cousin Clarabelle might come to depend on him; how Regina, too, might have leaned on him. Briefly she pondered his relationship with both women. Had he been toying with them? Playing them one against the other?
He closed his book, shuffled the papers into a neat pile, and removed his glasses. “Lady Phoebe, can I do something for you?”
“It’s just Phoebe, and yes, perhaps you might. Although if you’re terribly busy—”
“I was just going over a technicality to do with . . . well . . . to put it bluntly, Hastings’s new inheritance.”
“I see.” She approached the table. “You looked terribly puzzled as I entered the room.”
He gestured at the papers. “It can be grueling sometimes, the legal technicalities.”
When she attempted to make out the top page, he abruptly turned the whole stack over. Phoebe pretended not to be taken aback by the action. “So much has changed since yesterday, hasn’t it?”
“Indeed it has.” Standing, he came around the table and pulled out a chair for her. Then he resumed his own seat. “I’m glad to see you aren’t afraid of being alone with me.” At her puzzled look, he explained, “Someone in this house is possibly a murderer, and I was out of my room last night, wasn’t I?” He smiled sadly. “I take it the reason you’re here has something to do with Regina?”
“I—ah—yes, it does.” His comment about one of them being a murderer took her aback. Was it an odd attempt at humor or merely a statement of fact? She didn’t know him well enough to distinguish his meaning. At any rate, she had left the door ajar, should she suddenly need to call for assistance.
She glanced again at the books he had been perusing. The topmost one referred to inheritance law; was he verifying what the law said about an heir who murdered his benefactor? Did he believe Hastings had murdered his own sister in cold blood? That would certainly account for his perplexity.
Clearing her throat, she said, “You might consider this none of my business, but Regina was my cousin.”
“Second cousin,” he corrected her. When she raised her eyebrows at him, he smiled ruefully. “Forgive me. My profession compels me to an almost obsessive degree of accuracy.”
“Yes, it would, wouldn’t it?” She returned his smile and noticed the raw nick that scored the underside of his chin. A shaving cut? Understandable. She would not wish to use a straight razor on her face on a good day, much less immediately after a murder had been discovered. “You are correct. My mother and Regina’s father were first cousins, making me Regina’s second cousin. And I’ll confess we were not particularly close. Always cordial, but not confidantes. It had to do with the difference in our ages, I suppose, but I regret it now,” she added softly.
He let a moment stretch, then spoke gently. “Do you have a question about Regina, or the family?”
“No, Mr. Cameron—”
“Ralph, please.” He slid a hand across the table toward her. It stopped several inches away. She stared down at it, puzzled. It was a strong hand, the fingers long and sturdy, but unmarred by the traces of physical labor. Was she supposed to grasp it? The gesture seemed rather too familiar . . .
He calmly slid it back to his side of the table. “Call me Ralph,” he repeated. “Regina always did. The rest of the family as well. I may be their solicitor, but I’m also a family friend. I worked for Basil Brockhurst for nearly a decade, but I also considered him a mentor and something of a father figure when I was younger.” He paused, his gaze dropping to the closed book in front of him.
Perplexed by his talent for deflecting the conversation, Phoebe drew a breath and came to the point. “It’s about Olive Asquith. I’m assuming you’ve looked into her background.”
“A good deduction. Of course I did. At Clarabelle’s request, as soon as it became apparent how much influence Miss Asquith held over her daughter.”
“And what did you learn about her?”
“It’s interesting. She’s not the product of a drab, lower-middle-class background, as she pretends to be. Her family is quite well off. Banking and real estate. She’s distantly related to Herbert Henry Asquith, our former prime minister.”
“Why, my sister asked her if there was any relation, and she flat-out denied it.”
“Yes, she would. As I said, it’s a distant connection, and I doubt very much she has even met the man. But apparently Miss Asquith had a falling out with her family a few years ago. She was involved with the suffragettes, arrested several times, and when her parents finally ordered her home or else, she took the ‘or else.’ ”
“Did they follow through on their threat?”
“They did. Cut off. At least until she comes around.”
“So a need for money could be behind her friendship with Regina.”
“Yes and no. Her father apparently relented and set up an account where she could draw limited funds on a monthly basis. Far from a fortune at her disposal, but still generous enough to keep her from resorting to desperate measures, which would further tarnish her reputation. One supposes her father was anxious to prevent that.”
Phoebe digested this information. “And yet she pretends to be of quite ordinary origins. I wonder why. Is she ashamed of her family’s wealth? I witnessed her attitude toward money firsthand yesterday when my sister and I went shopping with her and Regina. She constantly urged frugality and utility. To the point she and Regina argued over purchases.” She searched her memory of the previous day for any other clues into Olive’s beliefs and values. “Or is she afraid people will take advantage of her for her money? But that’s the very thing Cousin Clarabelle accused her of. It’s very confusing.”
“I wish I could make sense of it. I’d dig a bit deeper, but being trapped here in this house for the time being makes it rather difficult.” He tipped his chin at her. “Fancy yourself a sleuth, do you, Phoebe? Are you thinking Miss Asquith is our guilty party?”
“I’m only trying to make sense of who Olive Asquith is, how she found her way to Regina,
and what sort of hold she had on her.”
“You’re sure it was Miss Asquith with a hold on Regina, and not the other way around?”
The question jolted her with surprise. “I hadn’t considered that. Do you think so?” A second jolt went through her. If it was Regina who held some claim over Olive, would Olive have taken action against her? Killed Regina to be free of her?
Ralph had mentioned Olive being active in the suffragette movement. With women thirty and over having achieved the vote last year, much of the roar had been taken out of the crusade. So to what, she wondered, did a woman like Olive turn her energy now? Olive and Regina had made plans for this house, secretive ones, at least where Olive was concerned, for she had more than once stopped Regina from sharing too much. Why? What could those plans have entailed that required concealment?
“Phoebe? Are you all right?”
“Sorry, I was just thinking.” She stood. Several theories had taken shape, some directly concerning Olive Asquith, others about Regina’s family, none of which she intended to share with Ralph Cameron. As he had said, someone in this house possibly committed murder. Though she thought it unlikely, that someone could be him. “Thank you for speaking with me. It’s important, for my family’s sake, that we understand what happened to Regina.” At that moment the telephone in the rear hallway rang, echoing its way to the library. “That’ll be my call finally going through. If you’ll excuse me.”
CHAPTER 7
Eva avoided looking at the bed where Regina Brockhurst lay earlier that morning. The coroner had been, making his initial examination and taking scrupulous notes before instructing his assistants to carry the body away.
Now she once again stood in that room, only this time with Miles while he, too, examined the furniture and contents and filled his writing tablet with his illegible scribbles. Presently, he held a magnifying glass and was searching the sheets and pillowcases for stray hairs that might not have been Miss Brockhurst’s. Eva took special care to touch nothing, disturb nothing, but Miles had wanted an extra pair of eyes to help scan the room.
A Devious Death Page 9