Her eyes. He had wanted her specifically, she thought with a twinge of pride. They had shared such circumstances twice before, and though resistant at first, he had learned to trust her instincts and skills of observation. Perhaps someday, when and if Lady Phoebe no longer needed her, she might have a future in law enforcement—she and Miles together. The notion made her chuckle out loud.
“What’s so funny?”
She compressed her lips, startled to have been caught in her fanciful musing. Then she assumed her most serious expression. “Nothing. Why do you ask?”
He held her gaze another moment before gesturing at the bed. “There’s not much here to go on, other than that faint odor. You were right, it’s whiskey. On the pillow and in that glass.” He wrinkled his nose. “Stale whiskey. Was Regina a habitual drinker of strong spirits?”
“I wouldn’t know. We could try asking Lady Phoebe. Do you think she might have been too drunk to fight off her attacker?”
“That’s one possibility. The other is that the glass contained something other than whiskey.”
“You mean she was drugged?”
“It’s a distinct possibility.” He went to the chaise, where he had set down his evidence bag. From it he drew a small envelope and opened the seal.
Eva craned her neck to see. “What is that?”
“Lycopodium powder. It’s made from dried clubmoss. For detecting fingerprints.”
She had not seen him do this before and ventured closer to watch. Tipping the envelope, he scattered a fine covering of the yellowish powder across the night table. Then he slid his fingers and thumb into the glass Eva had first noticed when they found Miss Brockhurst that morning, spread them wide, and lifted the glass from the table without touching the cut crystal on the outside. Onto this, too, he sprinkled the powder, blowing away the excess. He did the same with the powder on the table.
He raised his magnifying glass and peered closely at the dusty surfaces.
“Do you see anything?”
He continued searching another moment. “I do. Of course I do, but I’ve a hunch they’re all going to turn out to be Miss Brockhurst’s. There’s nothing conclusive on the glass at all, thanks to the pattern of the crystal. There’s no surface large enough to get a good print.”
“I suppose you’ll have to take fingerprints of everyone in the house?”
He made a disparaging sound. “With this bunch, that’ll be pleasant, won’t it?”
Eva didn’t reply; she didn’t have to. They both knew the Brockhursts would be incensed at having to suffer the indignity of having their fingers inked and pressed onto paper. He continued examining the bed table, and she resumed studying her surroundings. Something that had escaped her notice previously caught it now, and she moved to the fireplace. “Miles, look at the screen.” She pointed to the embroidered square of silk stretched across a carved, gold-leafed frame set before the fireplace opening. One of its legs had been knocked askew from the hearthstone and onto the hardwood floor. “It’s crooked.”
He straightened and regarded the piece. “So it is. Someone might have bumped into it.”
“Or moved it purposely.” Eva set the screen aside. The firebox was both tall and deep, and fitted with an iron grill. Against the charred brickwork, she detected a pile of a lighter gray substance lying in the back corner. “There are ashes inside, a heap of them.” She crouched and reached for the fire poker beside her. “Yet there is no kindling or other sign of a fire having been laid, not to mention it’s summer and unlikely that Miss Brockhurst would have wanted a fire.”
Miles came and looked in over her shoulder. “It looks like something has been deliberately burnt. Documents, or letters, perhaps.”
“It does appear to have been paper,” she agreed as she probed with the poker. She leaned farther in. “I don’t see any bits of anything to suggest wood or another solid object.”
“Be careful,” he cautioned. She could feel his closeness as he leaned over her. “Both of your head and of anything you find. You don’t want to destroy evidence with that poker.”
“What’s this?” Setting the poker aside, she reached in with her arm, but lost her balance and started to fall forward. She would have hit her head on the brick firebox wall, but from behind Miles wrapped his arms around her waist and held her steady.
“Are you all right?” He started to draw her out.
“I’m fine. Don’t pull me out. There’s something behind the grate and I can almost . . .” Having squeezed her hand between two iron slats of the grate, she brushed her fingertips against a scrap of paper that had apparently escaped the flames. “If I just lean a bit more . . .”
“I could have moved the grate, you know.” With his torso against her bottom and his arms around her waist in a way Eva dared not dwell on—not now, at any rate—he leaned her farther forward. After a little wiggling and stretching, she managed to latch on.
“Got it. Help me out.”
He gave a tug that propelled her backward, and the next thing she knew he was sitting on the floor, his arms still around her, and she on his lap. A scrap of paper, charred about the edges, hung from between her fingers. She should have scrambled off him immediately. But he smelled rather nice and felt so lovely and warm beneath her, and his arms—his arms were solid and fit so snugly around her waist. And really, falling backward had quite disoriented her; she needed a moment to collect herself. Except that his face was so close to hers she could feel the fan of his breath and the heat of his cheek against her own. So tempting. So very tempting.
“Are you all right?” he murmured.
“Oh, yes. Heavenly.” Goodness, had she really said that? “What I mean is . . .” It was too late. His look of concern transformed to one of endless amusement, raising a bubble of glee inside her. Laughter spilled from her lips and from his as well, but of course they couldn’t remain in this undignified posture all day, so she pressed a hand to the hearth surround to steady herself as she lifted up from his lap.
A throat-clearing from the doorway—good heavens, the open doorway—stopped her cold.
“My lady, ah . . . we had a . . . er . . . mishap—slipped and fell . . .”
With a smile to rival one of Miles’s in its cheekiness, Lady Phoebe crossed the room and stretched out a hand to Eva. “You look as though you could use a bit of help.”
“Indeed, my lady.” Her face scorching, she ducked her head, swallowed her mortification, and somehow managed to lever her feet beneath her. A little grunt of discomfort sounded in Miles’s chest, but Eva didn’t stop to evaluate its origin, merely hoped whatever appendage of hers had made contact with whatever part of him didn’t hurt too badly.
In a moment she was on her feet, wishing Lady Phoebe would stop looking at her with such speculative delight. In another instant Miles pushed to his feet as well, the scrap of paper in his grasp.
“Did you speak with Owen Seabright, Lady Phoebe?” he asked in a level tone, as if the last moments hadn’t occurred. Eva silently thanked him for his ability to brush off the incident, though her face continued to tingle with heat and she would have liked to dive beneath the bed.
Lady Phoebe assumed a more serious air. “I did. He’ll look into the matter of Myra Stanley’s departure from Diana Manners’s employ.” She frowned. “He’s rather having a difficult time of his own presently. His workers are unionizing. He says that in itself isn’t a bad thing, but there is a militant faction making unreasonable demands. Not just at Seabright Textiles, mind you, but all over industrial towns in the north.”
“Seabright’s a fair man,” Miles said. “He’ll find a solution.”
Lady Phoebe nodded. “I just hope it’s before violence breaks out. Have you found something?” She gestured at the scrap in Miles’s hand.
“Ah, yes, this.” He brought it to the dressing table and switched on the lamp. He angled the lampshade to direct the light and flattened the fragment on the tabletop.
“It looks like a bit of n
ewspaper.” Eva turned to Lady Phoebe. “I’d noticed ashes in the fireplace and took a closer look. We found this piece had escaped the flames.”
“It must have floated away from the rest,” Lady Phoebe observed. “Or just barely, by the look of it. What does it say? Can you read it?”
Miles leaned closer, holding the singed wisp down with his thumb and forefinger. “It’s from a newspaper, but there isn’t enough here to trace it. All I can make out is ‘list labor.’ That’s ‘list’ with a small L, and ‘labor’ with a capital. And below, it says Edinburgh.”
“List Labor?” Eva took the paper from him and studied it. “What could that mean?”
“Let me see.” Lady Phoebe reached out, and Eva placed the scrap in her hand. “There was something that came after, but I can only make out the very edge of the first letter. It looks to be another L, perhaps. Or I don’t know, it could be a D or any letter that’s fashioned with a straight vertical line on the left side. But above those words, I can make out the bottom edge of more letters, perhaps the publication’s title?”
“This could be a fragment of a front page,” Eva guessed, sidling up to Lady Phoebe to view the charred portion. She retrieved the poker from where she had leaned it and sifted through the ashes again. “If only there were more bits that escaped the flame.”
“But why would someone burn a newspaper?” Lady Phoebe asked.
Miles shrugged. “A very good question.”
“I suspect I know.” Eva leaned the poker in its stand with the rest of the fireplace tools, having discovered nothing else of use. Having spent many years in service, she understood exactly what would make someone dispose of reading material. The publications deemed contraband for house staff by butlers and housekeepers were too innumerable to name. Most of those books, magazines, and newspapers had found their clandestine way into servants’ quarters all the same, only to be secreted to the furnace once the pages had been thoroughly perused. “It seems Miss Brockhurst was in possession of reading material whose nature she didn’t wish discovered by anyone else.”
“Her secret plans for this house,” Lady Phoebe blurted. “I think she might have intended to hold political meetings here. She expressed to me her unhappiness about the Qualification of Women Act passed last year. It left too many women without a say in government. Perhaps she was involved in renewing suffragist efforts.”
Miles nodded slowly. “Then this might have been one of their newsletters. But why burn it? It’s no secret most women don’t believe Parliament went far enough with the act, and more and more men are in agreement. Not exactly a controversial notion.”
“No, you’re right.” Eva smiled at a recent memory. “Even my mum, who never supported the suffragettes before, says in for a penny, in for a pound. Parliament should stop prevaricating—her word, mind you—and let all adults in this country vote.”
“We’re obviously missing something.” Miles drummed his fingertips on the mantel, then began pacing. “Someone murders Miss Brockhurst, not simply to dispatch her, but to convey a message. Thus the hat pin . . . the Dowager Lady Mandeville’s hat pin.”
“Surely you don’t think my cousin Clarabelle killed her own daughter?” Lady Phoebe looked incredulous. “It would be too obvious for her to use her own hat pin—the very same one they argued over only hours earlier.”
“Stranger things have happened, my lady,” Eva reminded her.
“There is the hat pin that killed her,” Miles continued as if Eva and Phoebe hadn’t spoken. She could all but see the wheels turning in his head. “A glass with a trace of whiskey is left on her bedside table, more whiskey spilled on the bed linens.” He pivoted to regard Lady Phoebe. “Did Miss Brockhurst, to your knowledge, drink whiskey?”
“She might have done . . . I couldn’t say with any certainty. But I’ve actually never seen her drink it. Hastings and Miss Asquith are another matter. They were both drinking whiskey last night.”
“Were they now?”
“Miss Asquith definitely was. Hastings only seemed to hold his. I never actually saw him drink it, and that made me curious.” She shook her head. “I’m afraid I’m not being very helpful.”
“On the contrary, Lady Phoebe.” Miles turned back to the bed. “Someone might have made it appear as if Miss Brockhurst had been drinking . . .” He drew up, his shoulders tightening. “Or forced her to drink, in order to incapacitate her.”
“My lady, before you came in Miles was theorizing that perhaps this whiskey contained some kind of drug,” Eva explained. “Or how else could someone have killed her in such a barbarian fashion without creating signs of a struggle?”
“They might have taken the time to straighten the room again, though, mightn’t they?” Lady Phoebe suggested. “And perhaps it wasn’t Regina who burned that newspaper, but her murderer. What if that newspaper contained something incriminating that pointed directly to that person?”
Miles stopped pacing and addressed Lady Phoebe. “You said Miss Asquith seemed upset when you saw her leave this room last night.”
“ ‘Upset’ might not be the right word. Disconcerted best describes her state when I saw her.”
“They could be the same thing,” Eva said. “Especially with a woman like Miss Asquith.”
Lady Phoebe nodded her agreement. Miles returned to the bedside table, this time with his evidence bag, and slipped the crystal tumbler inside. “We might not learn anything conclusive, but I’ll have this sent to the police laboratory in Gloucester just in case. In the meantime, let’s all be on the lookout for any other suspicious reading material lying about the house.”
* * *
Phoebe wasted no time in complying with Constable Brannock’s request. She began with the post, left lying on the post salver in the hall. Sorting through, she saw a London Times, a Gloucester Gazette, and what looked to be several bills from shops both in London and the local area. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary—surely nothing worth burning. Should she open one of the invoices? She held one up and slid her finger beneath the corner of the flap . . .
“What are you doing? Isn’t that addressed to my daughter?”
Phoebe whisked the letter to her side. Cousin Clarabelle stood halfway down the staircase, scowling. “I’m only seeing what’s arrived. There may be items that need to be tended to.”
Cousin Clarabelle descended the remaining stairs and approached Phoebe with her hand extended. “Then I shall tend to them.”
“I mean no harm. I was only trying to help.” It wasn’t a complete lie; after all, discovering insight into Regina’s life might help determine who had killed her. Phoebe placed the missive in Cousin Clarabelle’s palm.
The woman heaved a sigh. “Yes, I know, Phoebe. Do forgive me. This has been so . . . so distressing.” She raised a fingertip to the corner of her eye, but dabbed at dry skin. “I’ll have Ralph go through these and make the necessary payments, if any are due. You needn’t worry about them. Do you suppose Regina owed a great deal of money to people?”
“I couldn’t say,” Phoebe replied in an almost apologetic way, at the same time wondering why that should be Cousin Clarabelle’s primary concern. “She was in the middle of refurbishing this house and had placed orders for furnishings.”
Cousin Clarabelle’s gaze passed over the hall and traced the curve of the staircase. “What was she thinking, buying this place? She didn’t need it. She could have lived in the London house with the rest of us, and then we would not have had to rent it out. Oh, Phoebe, do you know how humiliating it is to be forced to rent out one’s home?” Tears gathered in her eyes in earnest now. Phoebe opened her arms, and Cousin Clarabelle stepped into them, allowing her cheek to fall against Phoebe’s shoulder.
She had no answer to the woman’s question. That Regina had specific plans for this house she had no doubt, but what those plans were—they might never know. The way Regina had spoken last night of her interest in bettering society, Phoebe might have suspected her cousin wished t
o transform the house into a school or perhaps a rehabilitation hospital. That was what she would have done with High Head Lodge had it belonged to her. But if that had been Regina’s plan, why hadn’t she come out and said as much? Her request to meet with Phoebe in private suggested something altogether less benevolent.
Did it have anything to do with the burned newspaper?
Cousin Clarabelle lifted her head suddenly, her expression alarmed. “We’ll need to cancel those orders she placed. We can’t have things suddenly showing up and workmen expecting to be paid. As soon as all is resolved, we’ll be selling the house. Where is Ralph? Ralph . . .”
Calling the solicitor’s name, Cousin Clarabelle bustled off, leaving Phoebe alone in the hall. She crossed to the library, which she was glad to discover empty. Her search for controversial reading matter continuing, she went through the cabinets, the drawers in the library table, and perused the shelves. She doubted very much any of the books had belonged to Regina, but instead had been left behind by whomever lived there previously.
When nothing interesting presented itself, Phoebe considered the other rooms in the house. She doubted she would find anything in either the drawing or dining rooms. Why would Regina hide anything of importance in furnishings she intended disposing of? The same went for most of the other rooms on the ground floor. In fact, the house held a transient air, for Regina had added scant few personal effects.
No, if any further clandestine materials were to be found, Phoebe felt sure they would be upstairs, in one of the bedrooms. Eva and Constable Brannock had already gone through Regina’s bedroom. What about Olive’s? Since the murder weapon had been left in plain sight for all to see, the inspector had deemed a search of the house unnecessary.
But Olive wasn’t the only person awake last night. It seemed everyone had been up and moving about. Julia had seen Hastings in the corridor. She hadn’t been able to pinpoint the exact time, however, and Phoebe wondered who had actually seen Regina last.
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