Ha. Phoebe hugged her arms around her middle and drifted to the corner window. The hours since the morning had passed with interminable slowness, and she wondered how many more hours would pass before the chief inspector decided he’d collected enough evidence to allow them all to stay or leave, as they pleased. He had been holed up for nearly an hour now questioning Ralph Cameron on the particulars of the will, no doubt in the attempt to ascertain which of the Brockhursts stood to gain the most from Regina’s death.
But when they were finally able to leave High Head Lodge, she wondered what Julia would choose to do. Regina’s death had surely changed her thinking about staying on and witnessing the drama between the members of this contentious family. Then there was the call from Grams, concerning the matter of Julia and Theo. Was there more than friendship between the two of them? Phoebe wished her sister would confide in her, but even during the spring thaw in their chilly rapport, Julia had never spoken about Theo. That he held a place in Julia’s affections Phoebe didn’t doubt, which was in itself unusual because so few people ever did feel an affinity for Theo Leighton. Being permanently disfigured during the war—at the Battle of the Somme—had left Theo reticent and guarded, a hard man to know. And the fact that Julia, who had little patience when it came to the inconvenient vagaries of individuals, had taken the time to befriend Theo Leighton certainly said something about the depth of her feelings for him.
Her thoughts broke off abruptly as, outside, movement caught her attention. From where she stood, she could see the turn in the drive just before it disappeared beneath a stand of yew trees. Two figures ambled toward the house in no particular hurry, one male as evidenced by his gray trousers, dark coat, and battered homburg hat; beside him, a woman wore a plaid skirt that flapped heavily around her booted ankles, a matching jacket, and a close-fitting cloche hat. Like his, her chapeau appeared wilted and worn.
“Who on earth can they be?” she mused aloud, straining to make out finer details. When the Brockhursts had shown up yesterday, Regina had said she wasn’t expecting company. Were they from Little Barlow? They didn’t appear at all familiar, although from this distance it was hard to tell. She half turned to speak over her shoulder. “Constable, there’s someone coming up the drive. Two people, actually.”
Cousin Clarabelle, who had continued complaining nonstop while the constable took her fingerprints, abruptly ceased chattering, and asked, “Was my daughter expecting anyone?”
“I don’t think so,” Phoebe said, still watching the approaching couple.
“Where is that Olive creature?” Verna slid back her chair at the table and came to her feet. “Miss Asquith?” she called out. Phoebe winced at the screech of her voice. “Miss Asquith, you are needed in here. You must come at once.”
Heels clattered on the tiles in the hall. Olive, looking weary and drawn, appeared in the doorway. “What is it now?”
Just as she asked her question, the two figures came to an abrupt halt. They stood, staring toward the house. What did they see that held them immobile?
“Someone is coming. Who are they?” Verna demanded as though Olive were somehow at fault.
Olive advanced toward the window; then, like the couple outside, she went utterly still. A look of alarm drew her eyebrows tightly together. With hurried steps she continued to Phoebe’s side, where she shaded her eyes from the sunlight with one hand and peered into the distance. Phoebe sensed the tension spreading through her like ice over a pond.
“Well?”
Olive flinched at Cousin Clarabelle’s impatient prompting. A breath poured out of her, and she turned to face the room—rather like a convict facing a firing squad. Phoebe wondered if the others noticed her alarm.
“It’s the, em, cleaning people,” Olive said. Before anyone could comment, she retraced her steps. Once more her heels raised a clatter across the central hall, and then Phoebe heard the front door opening. Crunching drew her gaze back to the drive. Olive hastened over the gravel, at one point turning her ankle with a lurch but not so much as pausing. Meanwhile, the mystery couple had turned about and were rapidly retreating down the drive.
“Constable,” Phoebe started to say, but he was already on his feet.
“We’ll see about these cleaning people.” He rushed out after Olive.
CHAPTER 9
Julia and Eva entered the main hall from behind the baize door that led into the service corridor. Phoebe barely had time to wonder where they had been or what they had been up to when Eva spoke.
“Where did Miles go rushing off to just now?”
“There’s two people coming up the drive. Or, there were. They seem to have changed their minds. Olive claims they’re here to clean, but the way she went running out to meet them suggests there’s more to the pair than buckets and mops. It was very strange. Miles went after her . . . or them.” She shrugged.
“Regina never said anything about housekeepers, did she?” Julia went to the open front door and looked out. “I for one am glad they’ve arrived. This old mausoleum could use a good scrub.” After a brief pause she asked, “What do you mean they changed their minds?”
“I’d completely forgotten,” Eva blurted. “Miss Asquith mentioned a cleaning staff when she showed Myra and me to our rooms. I believe she said they come every other day or so to clean.”
“That may be, but it doesn’t explain why Olive looked as if she’d seen a pair of ghosts coming up the drive, and why she took off as if to head them off before they reached the front door. Or why they stopped in sight of the house, turned about, and hurried off.” Phoebe joined Julia at the front door and looked out.
A possible answer presented itself outside on the drive: the police vehicles. The chief inspector and the constable had arrived in separate motorcars, each marked with the Gloucestershire constabulary emblems. “This grows odder and odder,” she said. “Either Regina’s housekeepers are as skittish as rabbits, or they have something to hide.”
She stepped down to the drive. Constable Brannock and the others were no longer in sight, but the distant crunching of gravel reached her ears. Eva came out while Julia continued watching from the door. With a bored sigh, she turned away and closed the door.
“Come on,” Phoebe said to Eva. She lifted her skirts and took off at a run. Eva kept pace until she suddenly stopped and called Phoebe’s name.
“There, my lady.” She pointed into a copse of birch trees on the east side of the lawn. Beyond were several small outbuildings built to resemble quaint, well-kept cottages. Like elsewhere on the estate, the shrubbery and flowerbeds surrounding the structures sprawled in tangles. At first Phoebe saw nothing unusual, but then a flash of plaid darted from behind an overgrown hawthorn hedge before disappearing around a corner.
Phoebe changed course, prompting Eva to do the same. At the same time, Eva called out the constable’s name. He came around the bend in the drive and headed over the lawn in their direction. Olive followed several strides behind him, gasping from exertion. “Eva, Lady Phoebe! Let me handle this.”
In deference to the constable, Phoebe stopped running, but gathered her breath to call out. “You there! You can neither hide nor get away. We have a policeman with us and you’ll only be in deeper if you don’t give it up this instant.”
“My lady, I must insist you stay where you are.” Constable Brannock sounded winded as he loped by her. “You too, Eva.”
He needn’t have bothered with that last, for the moment Phoebe ceased her pursuit, so too did Eva. It seemed the man and woman also decided to heed the constable, for they slowly sidestepped out from behind one of the outbuildings. Though the constable had procured no weapon, they held their hands in the air with the dramatic flare of a crime novel.
Olive, still gasping, came up beside Phoebe and Eva and bent over, setting her hands on her knees.
“Well, who are they?” Phoebe demanded, noting how like Verna she sounded. She attempted to soften her tone. “And please don’t insult our intelligen
ce by claiming they’re merely here to clean the house.”
Olive straightened, her breath still coming in ragged puffs. “It’s the truth.”
A surge of anger thrust Phoebe’s hands to her hips. “What kind of fool do you take me for?”
“Regina hired them to clean. It’s just that . . . they’re new to this country and . . .” Olive pressed a hand to her bosom and made a show of struggling to catch her breath. Sincere? Or a way to stall for time while she concocted a story? Phoebe glanced at Eva and waited, sorely tempted to tap her foot. “Where they come from,” Olive continued, “having police or officials of any sort showing up at one’s doorstep only brings news of the very worst kind. Where they lived, such a visit could be a matter of life and death.”
* * *
“My ne imel vidu nikakogo vreda.” The man, whose name they learned was Dmitry, dragged his hat off his head as Miles ushered them into the house. He tipped a bow as he spoke. Beside him, the woman, Valeria, nodded vigorously. Her eyes were large, the whites showing, the pupils dark and haunted.
Miles darted a questioning glance at Eva. She shrugged, understanding their language no better than he. It was Miss Asquith who translated, or at least provided the gist of the words.
“They were afraid. They certainly meant no harm.”
“Da.” Dmitry nodded. “No harm.” He held out his hands. “No harm,” he repeated in his heavy accent.
Lady Phoebe frowned as she concentrated on his pronunciations. “Are you from Russia?”
When the couple stared uncomprehendingly, Miss Asquith again supplied an answer. “Yes. They come, I believe, from Petrograd. That’s in the western part of the country, to the north, near Finland.” She turned to the man. “Rossiya.”
“Da, Rossiya.” He held his hat up against his chest with his two hands and bowed again. “Rossiya. Petrograd-skiy.”
“You see?” Miss Asquith’s tone implied she was attempting to explain the situation to imbeciles.
Lady Phoebe angled her chin. “Just how do you know so much about where they’re from?”
“Your cousin did interview them before she hired them, after all.”
“How?” Miles sounded incredulous, which was how Eva felt. “Lady Phoebe, did your cousin speak Russian?”
“Certainly not that I know of.”
Once again, Miss Asquith intervened. “They speak enough English to understand basic questions and supply answers. It’s just that—as I’ve told you multiple times now—they are frightened. A natural result of having been traumatized during the fighting in their home country. When you’re frightened or upset, Constable, can you remember how to do difficult things? No, I should think not.”
Miles shot her a warning look. “I’m beginning to not like your insolent tone, Miss Asquith. As it happens, when I’m frightened or upset I fall back on instincts honed during the war. I block out all else but what I must do to complete a task and stay alive.”
A little shock went through Eva. Miles never spoke of his service in the Great War. She had tried asking him a time or two, but he either found ways of changing the subject or simply made no reply at all. What tasks had he completed? What dangers had threatened his life? She burned to know, to fully understand him, to empathize with him. But he wouldn’t allow it. However gently, he always pushed her away from this one aspect of his life. Why? Did he not trust her? Not trust himself? Was he ashamed of something? Or were the horrors he’d witnessed simply too unbearable to speak of?
He had asked another question or two that escaped Eva’s hearing. Now she turned her attention back to the present. Miles regarded the couple again, his lips skewed to one side as he obviously considered. “You saw the inspector’s and my motors and did a quick turnabout. I’ve heard about the goings-on in your country. I can understand why the sight of official vehicles might prompt you to run. Is that it? Our police vehicles frightened you?”
Miss Asquith huffed with impatience. “Of course that’s it, Constable.”
He released a breath as he studied the pair. But it was to Miss Asquith that he spoke. “Are they married?”
“Yes, they are.”
“And their last name?”
“Grekov, I believe. But Regina merely called them by their first names.”
Miles turned to Lady Phoebe. “My lady, would you mind finding Chief Inspector Perkins and asking him to come to the morning room as soon as he’s able, please.” It was an instruction, not a request, and while Eva quite expected her mistress to balk, Lady Phoebe surprised her by nodding and hurrying off to the library, where the chief inspector and Mr. Cameron had been talking for some time now.
Miles held out a hand, gesturing for Dmitry and Valeria to follow him. Miss Asquith started forward as well, but Miles paused. “Not you,” he said to her.
“How will you communicate with them?”
“Do you speak Russian, Miss Asquith?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Then I fail to see what good your presence will be.” He dismissed her by turning abruptly away. “Eva, I’d like you to accompany us, if you would.”
Eva smiled and gave a little nod. “Certainly.”
“Wait a moment.” Miss Asquith’s cheeks ruddied. “Why her and not me?”
Dmitry and Valeria traded wary glances. Miles tipped his head. “Because I trust her intuition and her instincts. Now then.”
“But—” Miss Asquith’s protest died on her lips.
In the morning room, Miles shut the door and joined the others at the small table by the corner windows. Dmitry and Valeria hovered in front of the chairs looking uncertain and decidedly fearful. The poor homburg hat had already taken quite a beating between Dmitry’s hands, and now his fingers convulsed around the turned-up brim. Eva’s heart went out to both of them. She could only imagine the disadvantage they felt at being foreigners and unable to effectively speak the language, only to find themselves the subjects of a police investigation. Surely they feared being ejected from England. Where would they go? Back to their native country? Eva inwardly rejected the idea. The Great War might be over, but she knew a civil war raged on in Russia.
“Please sit.” Miles gestured and then chose a place at the table for himself. He indicated the chair beside him. “Eva.”
She settled in as the other two fumbled to scrape back chairs. Dmitry helped Valeria pull up to the table. Then he sat and placed his homburg on the table before him. He folded his hands beside it, peered guardedly over at Miles, and waited.
“I understand you are married,” Miles asked. “Is that correct?”
When the pair exchanged uncomprehending glances, Eva held up her left hand and pointed to her ring finger. “Married?”
“Ahhh. V brake.” Dmitry nodded, yet held up his right hand, the ring finger encircled by a thin band. Valeria glanced down at a similar ring on her own right hand. “Da.”
“And your last name?” Miles thought a moment, and then pressed a hand to his coat front. “I am Miles Brannock.” He repeated his name slowly, then pointed to Dmitry. “Dmitry . . . ?”
“Miss Asquith told us their last name,” Eva put in.
“I must have it from them, for the record,” Miles told her. He repeated his question.
“Dmitry Grekov.” He pointed at his wife. “Valeria Grekova.”
“Very good. Wasn’t so difficult,” Miles added in an undertone. He took his writing tablet and pencil from his coat pocket and jotted down their names. “Now then, how long have you been in this country? In England?”
To help facilitate his meaning, Eva again held up a hand, but this time counted off on her fingers. “How long in England? One? Two? Three . . . ?” Judging by their lack of English, she assumed it had only been a matter of months, not years, since they had arrived. Or perhaps even weeks.
The pair conversed quietly in their native language, seemed to reach an accord, and turned back to Miles. With painstaking annunciation, Dmitry said, “Four months.”
“Thank you.” Miles again made a notation. When he looked up again, it was with a pensive expression, his eyes keenly sharp. “How did you manage to leave Russia?”
The pair frowned in incomprehension.
“I’m afraid that’s a rather more difficult question.” Eva considered how best to make the query understood. An idea came to her. “I know. I’ll be right back.”
She passed the chief inspector on his way out of the library. He ignored her, but Mr. Cameron, the Brockhursts’ solicitor, met her inside.
“Miss Huntford, I understand there has been a development in the form of new arrivals here?”
“There has indeed, Mr. Cameron. Apparently they are the cleaning people Miss Brockhurst recently hired. They’re from Russia and don’t speak much English.” She hurried to the nearest bank of shelves and began scanning the books. This lot appeared to be mostly world histories, so she moved on to the next section.
“Cleaning people? Why haven’t they been mentioned before this? They could be essential to the investigation.” As the statement seemed rather obvious, Eva didn’t feel the need to reply. She felt Mr. Cameron’s scrutiny on her back. “What are you looking for?”
“An atlas, sir. I believe it might assist the constable in questioning the couple. He’s trying to discover how they left their country and made their way here.”
“Ah. Let me assist you.” Mr. Cameron crossed to the opposite side of the room. “I’ve been looking through the books here myself, and I believe I saw . . . Yes, here are several atlases.”
“I need one that would include Russia and northern Europe.”
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