A Devious Death

by Alyssa Maxwell

  The telephone rang again, echoing throughout the ground floor. Thinking Owen might be ringing back with information, Phoebe hurried along to the rear corridor where the telephone was located. Whoever had installed it apparently hadn’t liked the idea of the device being a visible part of everyday life.

  She reached the telephone desk at about the fifth ring and seized the ear trumpet from its cradle before the other party could disconnect. “Yes, High Head Lodge. Owen, is that you?”

  “What? To whom am I speaking? Phoebe, is that you?”

  “Grams? Is anything wrong at home?” She could think of no reason why her grandmother would be persuaded to use the telephone at home unless some trouble had arisen. Then it occurred to her that her grandparents didn’t yet know about Regina.

  “Where is your sister?”

  “Julia?”

  “Are you there with any other sister?”

  “Em . . . no. I . . . She might be upstairs, if you’d like to hold while I check.”

  “Yes, please do. I must have a word with Julia—this instant.”

  Phoebe hesitated. Should she inform Grams of Regina’s fate? Beyond a doubt the Countess of Wroxly would order them both home immediately, but would Inspector Perkins allow them to leave before his investigation had been completed? Phoebe thought not. What was more, she didn’t wish to leave until Regina’s death had been resolved. She and Eva had proven their usefulness to Constable Brannock on two dire occasions, contributing in ways the average policeman could not.

  She was just laying the receiver alongside the candlestick base when Grams’s voice once again rang out. “Phoebe, are you still there?”

  She raised the device back to her ear. “Yes, Grams.”

  “While I have you . . .” Uncharacteristically, Grams hesitated. The line crackled and Phoebe wondered if the connection had been broken. Then Grams spoke again. “What do you know about Julia and Theo Leighton?”

  The abruptness of the question took her aback, and she coughed and swallowed. “Julia and . . . Theo?” In truth she knew precious little. Even during the détente that had blossomed between them, Julia had avoided all talk of Theo Leighton, who had recently inherited the title of Marquess of Allerton from his deceased elder brother. Phoebe had her suspicions based on a couple of coincidences last spring that had placed the pair in the village of Little Barlow at the same time, but Julia had refused to answer any of Phoebe’s half-teasing questions. That in itself was telling, but sharing mere speculation with Grams would not have been fair to Julia.

  “Well? You must know something, or you wouldn’t be stalling for time.”

  “I’m not stalling, Grams. I was thinking. Truthfully, I don’t know anything about Julia and Theo. Why?”

  “Humph. Never mind. Please find your sister for me.”

  Phoebe discovered her outside, sitting on the balustrade of the terrace, staring down at tangled rows of shrubbery and overgrown flowerbeds. “Grams is on the telephone. She wants to speak to you.”

  Julia turned her head slowly. Spiraling blond tendrils that had slipped free from her coif framed her face in a charming, carefree manner that contrasted with her indifferent tone of voice. “I suppose she’s heard about Regina and wants us home?”

  “No, it isn’t that. She doesn’t know yet. Besides, the inspector hasn’t given any of us permission to leave.”

  “Then what?”

  Phoebe considered lying and saying she didn’t know, but she thought it wouldn’t be very sporting of her to let her sister be taken off guard the way she herself had been by Grams’s question. “She’s curious about you and Theo.”

  Julia surged to her feet. “What about me and Theo?”

  “I don’t know. She asked if I knew anything about the two of you.”

  Julia’s plump lips fell open on an indignant huff. Then she seized Phoebe’s wrist. “What did you tell her? Have you been telling tales about me?”

  “Let me go.” Phoebe tugged her wrist free and rubbed it with her other hand. It throbbed slightly. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “I don’t need you discussing my business with Grams or anyone else.”

  “Fine. I didn’t. I told her I didn’t know anything about you and Theo, which I don’t.”

  Julia’s eyes narrowed. “That’s because there’s nothing to tell.”

  “Good. Go and tell that to Grams. She’s waiting, and you know how she doesn’t like to be put off.”

  Her lips pressing together and turning down at the corners, Julia brushed by her and strode into the house.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Another slice?” Mrs. Dayton’s serving knife hovered over the lardy cake. Miles shook his head and pushed his plate a few inches away. Eva also declined another piece of the rich concoction stuffed with raisins and currants.

  “Thank you, no, Mrs. Dayton. But it is wonderful.” She moved her cup and saucer aside as well.

  “My grandmum’s secret recipe,” the woman said, then turned her head to call into the kitchen. “Margaret, come collect the dishes please.”

  While the teenage girl stacked dishes and cups as she circled the table, Lady Julia appeared in the doorway. Eva came to her feet, as did Miles, albeit more slowly. He nodded in greeting and resumed his seat, but Eva remained standing.

  Since Lady Julia had her own maid now, it was unusual for her to come looking for Eva—especially below stairs. Something must surely be wrong. “My lady? Is there something I can help you with? Are you looking for Miss Stanley?”

  “No, Eva,” she replied quietly. Though normally of a clear, translucent complexion, she appeared too pale now, drained and peaky. “It’s you I need to speak with, if you would.”

  Eva didn’t hesitate, but came around the table. “Of course. Perhaps the old housekeeper’s sitting room?” She led the way down the corridor past the kitchen and the butler’s pantry, into what had once been the two-room housekeeper’s suite. A bedroom lay off to one side. Eva waited for Lady Julia to choose a seat in an easy chair, though she herself remained standing.

  “Please.” Lady Julia gestured to the wooden, high-backed settee, and Eva sat. “I realize you aren’t my maid anymore, so I really have no business imposing on you this way.”

  “I’m always at your service, my lady, and always will be, as long as you need me.”

  That produced an earnest little smile. “Thank you, Eva. Something has happened, and I can’t trust Stanley. I’m afraid I never should have.”

  “I don’t understand.” But Eva did, or at least she thought she did.

  “I’ve just got through speaking to my grandmother on the telephone. It seems Mrs. Sanders confiscated a Daily Mirror from one of the parlor maids at home and brought it to Grams’s attention.”

  “But why would Mrs. Sanders bring a broadsheet known for its gossip columns to the countess’s attention?” Even as Eva asked the question, her stomach clenched.

  “It mentioned me.” A pause ensued before Lady Julia added, “And Lord Allerton.”

  “Oh, dear.” Eva stared down at her lap. She thought about the scrap of newspaper she found in Miss Brockhurst’s fireplace. Had that been illicit reading material as well? Had it posed a threat to Miss Brockhurst, or to the person who murdered her? And what consequences would this article from the Daily Mirror have on Lady Julia’s life?

  “The author speculated on our impending engagement.”

  Her gaze snapped back to Lady Julia. “Are you . . .”

  “No, we are not. Of course we are not. But it would appear someone who knows that Lord Allerton and I occasionally meet has decided to let slip a detail or two to a member of the press.”

  The implications quickly added up in Eva’s mind. “And you think Miss Stanley is that person?”

  “Who else could it be? Oh, Eva, I thought I could trust her. She came so highly recommended.”

  From Diana Manners, Eva thought. “I can see how this is upsetting to you. But as long as there’s no scandal, no accu
sations that you and Lord Allerton have behaved in an unbecoming manner, there shouldn’t be too much harm done. You can set the story straight with your friends and family.”

  Lady Julia sighed loudly and came to her feet, prompting Eva to do the same, though she remained in place when Lady Julia began pacing back and forth. “Under normal circumstances, that would be true. But Grams is . . . exceedingly vexed.”

  “Why? Unlike his brother, Lord Allerton seems like an honorable man.”

  Lady Julia ceased her strides long enough to cast an ironic look in Eva’s direction. “More honorable than the scoundrel Grams practically forced me to marry last year? Goodness, yes. But also on the brink of bankruptcy, thanks to his brother. Grams never comes right out and says it, but I know the idea of my marrying Lord Allerton, or any man in his financial position, positively gives her the vapors.” She paused again, hands on hips, head shaking slowly, sadly. “The war, death taxes, and workers’ unrest in the past year have taken their toll, Eva. Grams is determined that my sisters and I marry financially independent men in order to keep the Foxwood estate intact for my brother.”

  Yes, Eva did know this, for Lady Julia had confided in her before about the family’s reduced circumstances. She also knew of Lady Wroxly’s fierce determination to protect her youngest grandchild’s birthright. Young Fox would someday become the Earl of Wroxly, and the countess couldn’t bear the thought of his inheriting an empty title and a bankrupt estate. Not that the Renshaws were no longer wealthy. Relatively speaking, they were still an affluent, noble family. But people like the Earl and Countess of Wroxly believed in maintaining the old ways, including a full host of servants to run their estate, and allowing their home farms and investments to fill their coffers while Julia and her siblings would never be expected to work a day in their lives.

  As much as Eva respected the old traditions, even she knew the habits of the landed gentry were a thing of the prewar past.

  “Grams was livid, not only at the thought of my entertaining a secret engagement, but at having read my name—her own granddaughter’s name—in a gossip column.”

  “Yes, I can certainly imagine how unsettling that was for her.” Eva couldn’t help cringing a little. “What did you tell her?”

  “I swore to her that Lord Allerton and I were merely friends, and that I was helping him find a suitable auction house for some items he wishes to dispose of.” She shrugged. “That last bit is true, actually. Poor Theo. But Eva, do you think Myra Stanley would have betrayed my trust this way?”

  Eva did think so, but she held her tongue. It wouldn’t be fair to malign Myra Stanley before they learned why she left Lady Diana’s employ. Yet at the same time, Eva couldn’t help advising caution. “I think, my lady, that until you learn more, it might be a good idea not to let Myra know all of your business.”

  Lady Julia threw herself back into the easy chair. “That’ll be blasted inconvenient, considering she’s my maid, sees me every day, and goes nearly everywhere I go.”

  “Quite true.” Eva let a moment stretch as she resumed her seat on the settee. “Do you know if perhaps Myra and Miss Brockhurst knew each other?”

  Lady Julia’s features tightened as she thought about this. “Didn’t Regina ask the very same thing before we left on our shopping trip yesterday? I remember. It was a rather awkward moment. Regina said Stanley looked familiar—which in itself was odd, because Stanley had rendered herself practically unrecognizable yesterday. Whatever possessed her to cut her hair like that?”

  Good, Eva thought. She hadn’t had to share her suspicions; Lady Julia remembered the incident concerning Myra and Miss Brockhurst. Julia Renshaw was no one’s fool, and Eva felt assured she would be wary of Myra Stanley from now on.

  “I don’t know what I’ll do now,” she said with a sigh.

  Eva regarded her quizzically. “If Miss Stanley doesn’t suit, my lady, I’m sure your grandmother will be more than willing to replace her.”

  “That’s not what I mean, although yes, you’re right about that. No, what I’m left pondering is where I’m going to go when the chief inspector releases us. Obviously we can’t all stay here with a murderer on the loose. But I certainly don’t want to go home and deal with Grams and all her questions about Theo.” She gave her head an adamant shake. “Yet I doubt we’ll be allowed to leave the area until the murderer is apprehended. We are all suspects, after all.”

  Eva hesitated, then asked, “Were you considering going to Lord Allerton’s estate?”

  “Impertinent as ever, aren’t you?”

  “Forgive me, my lady—”

  “No, no, I’m teasing. If anyone has license to be impertinent, it’s you, Eva. You’ve been with us through the most horrendous of times, always loyal, always such a comfort to my sisters and me.” Lady Julia raised her eyebrows and blew out a breath as she grinned. “The answer to your question is yes, I was considering visiting Lord Allerton. I’d called him only a couple of hours earlier. But as I said, it’s impossible now.”

  “My lady . . .” Eva trailed off and stretched out her hand to the other woman. Lady Julia hesitated, but apparently understood Eva’s meaning plainly enough, for she got up from her chair and came to join Eva on the settee. She clasped Eva’s outstretched hand.

  “I hope I’m not overstepping my bounds in speaking to you as a friend, my lady.”

  Lady Julia shook her head. “Please do, Eva. I can use a friend right about now.”

  “My lady, if you care for Lord Allerton, don’t let anyone dissuade you of the idea.”

  She smiled sadly, shaking her head. “Oh, Eva, such a romantic notion. But I’m afraid romance isn’t for women like me.”

  “Why not? Why can’t it be?” Miles’s face flashed in Eva’s mind. She, too, resisted the lure of romance, but for reasons having to do with this very moment—with the conversation she was having with the eldest Renshaw sibling. All three of the sisters needed her. Eva wouldn’t abandon them—couldn’t—until she knew of a certainty that they were happy and safe and . . . and whole individuals before she would even think of leaving them.

  Lady Julia patted their clasped hands with her free one. “Women like my sisters and me live by hard and fast rules. Duty and loyalty to one’s family must come first. The future and well-being of Foxwood Hall is of the utmost importance. You see, Grampapa instilled in us the notion that we are merely custodians of the estate for future generations. If my sisters and I don’t marry well—marry men who can be of benefit to Foxwood Hall—all could be lost to those who come after us.”

  Sadness wrapped itself around Eva. Her poor ladies were expected to labor under the yoke of their family’s traditions. No one had believed in those old ideals more than she, until quite recently. Now, with the reality of such harsh choices descending upon her dearest girls, she was beginning to see how cumbersome the old conventions had become. She wanted her girls to be happy. Nothing and no one had the right to stand in the way of that.

  And yet there was more than simple happiness at stake. “My lady, have you ever considered the possibility of marrying a self-made man? Or becoming a self-made woman yourself?”

  Lady Julia slid her hands free and leaned back against the settee. “A self-made woman—listen to you. Next you’ll tell me I should go to university and study law or medicine or . . .” She touched the backs of her fingers to her brow. “You’ve been spending too much time with Phoebe, I’m afraid. The war might have changed some things, but certainly not in ways she’d like to believe.”

  Phoebe had lately opened Eva’s eyes to a world of new possibilities. “But if we don’t believe, my lady, who will make those changes happen?”

  Lady Julia shifted, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “That’s enough of that talk. My immediate problem is where I’m going to go after Chief Inspector Perkins decides we may leave High Head Lodge, and how I’m going to make my escape without Myra Stanley following me.”

  “Can’t you simply tell her to go back to
Foxwood Hall?”

  “I doubt it. Technically, she works for Grams, and it’s Grams from whom she takes her orders. I thought about simply laying the blame for that article squarely at Stanley’s feet and letting Grams give her the sack, but I thought . . . well . . . one can’t just go ruining someone’s life without some evidence that they deserve it.”

  “You’re very generous, my lady.” And Eva wondered if Myra Stanley deserved that generosity. Perhaps she had also betrayed her former mistress’s trust as well, revealing a secret she knew about Lady Diana to some gossip columnist in exchange for money. The very notion brought a bitter taste to Eva’s tongue. But Lady Julia was right. Dismissal without references was no small matter. It would ruin Myra’s life, so they mustn’t be hasty.

  But if Myra had betrayed Lady Julia, Eva would see that she received her comeuppance—and then some.

  * * *

  “Someone is going to hear about this, young man.” Cousin Clarabelle’s shrill complaint echoed off the dining room’s coffered ceiling. “Where is the chief inspector? Who is his immediate superior? Never mind. I’ll find out for myself. I’ll go straight to the top. This only adds insult to the tragedy of my daughter’s death. My family and I heartily protest being treated as suspects. It’s . . . it’s a travesty.” She used her free hand to dab at her eyes, at tears Phoebe didn’t see. “It’s unconscionable—you hear me? Unconscionable. Mark my words, Constable. You’ll both be out of a job and on the streets by the end of the week.”

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s merely standard procedure.” With an admirable show of patience, Constable Brannock held out his hand and waited for Cousin Clarabelle to place hers in it so that he might get on with the process of recording her fingerprints. “If you’ll just press your fingertips to the ink pad, and then allow me to roll them onto the card . . .”

  Midday sunlight threw grotesque shadows of the unkempt shrubbery through the mullioned windows, creating images across the floor and walls of hulking monsters crouching in cages. Phoebe had long since lost patience with sitting and waiting for the Brockhursts to finish being fingerprinted. Hastings had gone first, rocking in his seat, his fingers trembling, his hand jerking out from beneath Constable Brannock’s before the prints were complete. It had taken several print cards to complete the job properly, without smudges. Verna had gone next, her nostrils flaring in a look of disgust, behaving as if inking her fingertips might somehow permanently stain not only her skin but her impeccable reputation as well.