Mr. Cameron slid a heavy tome from the shelf and carried it over to the library table. A little puff of dust dispersed from the tops of its pages as he opened the front cover. Eva joined him at the table. He began leafing through until he found what he sought and tapped it with his index finger. The two open pages displayed western Russia, Scandinavia, and northern Europe. “Will this do?”
“It’s perfect, Mr. Cameron, thank you.” Eva snatched up the book, but before she reached the door Mr. Cameron had parting words for her.
“Has anyone thought to search these people for keys to the house? Regina might have given them a set so they could come and go without her having to be here to let them in.”
That stopped her. Did they possess keys to the house? Or had they previously? The couple seemed both afraid and harmless, but they mustn’t dismiss how Miss Asquith had hurried to meet up with them first. No one knew what words or deeds had passed between her and the Grekovs before Miles reached them. She would point this out to him, if he hadn’t already thought of it.
The chief inspector had joined the others in the morning room, his paunch pressed up against the table by the window. The Grekovs didn’t look any happier than when Eva had left minutes ago. In fact, they looked even more perturbed and befuddled.
“How long have you been working here?” the chief inspector demanded. “How did Miss Brockhurst engage your services? Did you come with letters of recommendation? Come now, we need answers from you. You don’t wish to be arrested for obstructing the investigation, do you?”
“Sir, nothing has been explained to them yet,” Miles put in quietly. “To my knowledge, they don’t yet know what happened to their employer.”
“Well, then we must tell them, man.” Chief Inspector Perkins snorted and coughed. “Your mistress is dead. Murdered. Just this morning. What do you know about it?”
The Grekovs’ expressions became alarmed, and the beginnings of panic peeked out from the whites of their eyes. Without taking her gaze off the inspector across from her, Valeria fumbled for her husband’s hand, found it, and squeezed. Dmitry winced, but he neither spoke nor attempted to ease his wife’s hold.
“Chief Inspector, if you would allow me.” Miles finally noticed Eva and the book she held in both arms. “What have you got there, Miss Huntford?”
“An atlas.” With a thud she set it on the table and opened it to the place she had saved with a finger between the pages.
The chief inspector snorted again, leaning over the table to view the book. “This is hardly the time for a geography lesson, Miss Huntford.”
Resisting the temptation to roll her eyes or, worse, make a retort, she moved the atlas in front of the Grekovs and pointed. “Russia. Petrograd.” She moved her finger to the left. “England. How did you come?” Once again she moved her finger, tracing an imaginary line from one country to the other. Her route encompassed the countries of Estonia, Latvia, south through Poland, into Germany, then Belgium, and across the channel into England. But until nine months ago, much of that part of Europe had been torn apart by war, and the healing in many places had only recently begun. How could anyone have made their way through the scarred landscapes, the resulting poverty, and the lingering bitterness, to arrive in England only four months later?
At her pantomime, Dmitry’s expression cleared and he nodded. With a faint smile, he reached out to trail his own finger over the page. His course took them not across an overland route but from Russia to Latvia, and then across the Baltic Sea into eastern Denmark, where, he implied with hand motions, they eventually boarded another ship that crossed the North Sea into England. Eva inwardly braced herself at the thought of such sea crossings. She could almost feel the deck rocking beneath her feet, her body swaying, her insides tossing. Motorcars were disquieting enough, but boats—ugh. She shuddered, wishing she were hardier.
Over the next several minutes she and Miles pieced together the Grekovs’ story of fleeing Petrograd on the heels of the retreating White Army in the summer of 1918 and traveling south, and waiting in Latvia several months until the Great War ended and they were able to book passage on the first of the ships that brought them to England. Eva listened closely, their faltering story renewing the harrowing rumors she had heard during the war about the other war that had broken out in their country—a revolution and civil war all in one. Terror, an immeasurable death toll on both sides, and their czar murdered—brought before a firing squad like a common criminal. Some stories had it that his entire family was killed. Others denied the claim, but either way, Eva could not imagine the courage it had taken for the Grekovs to make their escape.
Then it struck her how such an escape could be managed, and the realization chased all other thoughts from her mind. Were the Grekovs omitting a key detail of their story? Were they as they appeared? She wondered.
Finally, the chief inspector determined they had learned enough from the pair for the moment. “Don’t leave the house,” he told them brusquely before turning to Eva. “Show them down to the servants’ hall, would you? They can wait there.” Then, to Miles he said, “Fingerprint them.”
He stood, prompting the couple to do the same. Eva asked them to wait for her by the doorway, gesturing as she spoke. Then she stole the opportunity to whisper to Miles, “Have you checked them for keys to the house?”
“Of course. When you went for the atlas and before the inspector came in.” He offered her a lopsided grin. “I’m not completely helpless without you, you know.”
She smiled back, then sobered. “But that doesn’t rule out their having dropped them somewhere on the drive when Miss Asquith went out to them.”
He nodded his agreement. “No, we’ll have to search. And search Miss Asquith’s room as well. She might have taken the keys and hidden them.”
“There’s something else, Miles, something I gathered from their story. Most people attempting to flee would make their way by land to the nearest haven. But not the Grekovs. They managed to book passages on ships. That tells me something about them.”
With a glance at the door, where the Russian couple stood, Miles moved closer to Eva and lightly grasped her forearms. “And what is that, my clever girl?”
Her cheeks heated and she attempted to pull away. He wouldn’t let her, but instead tugged her another step closer until she could feel the heat of him. With an indignant huff, she continued. “It tells me they had funds at their disposal. The Grekovs are not what they appear. Oh, they might be poor here in England and need to clean houses for a living, but I’ll wager other people cleaned their house for them in Russia.”
Miles’s expression went from one of affection to one of the utmost seriousness as he released Eva’s arms. “Then we must discover who exactly the Grekovs are, mustn’t we? You seem to have established something of a rapport with them. Give them some time to settle in, and try questioning them again, subtly.”
Eva nodded. “I’ll see what I can learn.”
CHAPTER 10
While Constable Brannock and Eva questioned the Russian couple, the house grew quiet again. The Brockhursts retired to their respective rooms, and Olive had also disappeared somewhere; Phoebe didn’t know where. She stole the opportunity to use the telephone again. This time she used the one below stairs in the butler’s pantry to ensure her privacy, and she waited there until the operator put her call through.
She snatched up the receiver as soon as the phone rang. “Owen, it’s me again.”
“Phoebe. Has something more happened?” Concern clipped his words sharp.
“No, not exactly. But Eva and Constable Brannock found something that might be a clue. A bit of newspaper that escaped someone’s attempt to burn it.”
“You’re in the middle of things again, aren’t you? Never mind, don’t answer that. Of course you are. Phoebe, I worry about you.”
“I know. I can’t help being in the middle of this, Owen. I’m a suspect, after all.”
“Don’t say that.” His voice to
ok on greater urgency, a raw quality. A little rush of . . . oh, something . . . not pleasure exactly, not under the circumstances, but his concern spread a deeply contented feeling all through her.
“I’m not particularly a suspect, mind you,” she assured him. “But technically everyone who spent last night in this house is potentially guilty. And even two people who didn’t spend the night here.”
“Yes, yes, I suppose you’re right.” A sigh came over the wire. Then Owen said more severely, “What do you mean, two people who didn’t spend the night there? Who else is involved?”
“A couple Regina hired to clean. They apparently live nearby and come several days a week. They happened by today, and there was a bit of a to-do because of it. Apparently they saw the police vehicles and became afraid of getting involved. You know how it is, servants are always blamed for everything. Remember poor Vernon last Christmas, when Henry Leighton was murdered.”
“How can I forget? Now, about this newspaper you found . . .”
“Eva found, and it was just a scrap—most of it had been burned in the fireplace in Regina’s bedroom. There are parts of words still visible, and they look like they might have been part of a headline. ‘List Labor’—that’s all we can make out. The first L is lowercase, suggesting list is part of a larger word. I know it doesn’t seem like much and might not be important at all, but I thought it might possibly ring a bell with you . . .” She trailed off, realizing how little chance existed that Owen or anyone could identify a periodical with so little to go on.
“ ‘List Labor,’ eh? Labor list might make more sense.”
“Yes, I know, it could mean any number of things. But its having been burned in an otherwise unlit fireplace suggests the publication meant something significant that Regina, or someone, didn’t want others to see. It could give us a hint as to who murdered her.”
“Perhaps. Are you certain there wasn’t more?”
“Quite. Eva poked through the ashes. There was only that one legible bit.”
“All right. Let me think about this a while, see if any ideas come to me. But don’t go getting your hopes up. I made a couple of calls concerning Lady Diana, by the way.”
“Oh! And did you find out anything?”
“Afraid not. If Diana and Myra Stanley parted ways for any other reason besides Diana’s recent marriage, no one seems to know anything about it.”
Phoebe sighed. “Which only makes sense, I suppose. If Myra Stanley blackmailed Diana about some potentially ruinous secret, Diana would certainly go to great lengths to cover up any evidence of it.”
“Right. But chin up. Something might turn up. In the meantime, I’ll give this ‘list Labor’ some thought. I suppose you’ll be remaining there.”
“The chief inspector hasn’t given us permission to leave yet.”
“And when he does? Will you leave?”
She heard the resignation in his voice. “We’ll see. Thank you for all your help.”
“Don’t thank me yet, not until I’ve discovered something useful. I’ll ring back as soon as I do. Oh, and Phoebe?”
“Yes, Owen?”
“Do be careful.”
“Of course I will,” she replied brightly, casually, in an attempt to underplay any danger that might arise from her cousin’s death.
“No, Phoebe,” he said, his voice a low, grave rumble. “Be very, very careful. For me. I don’t want to lose you. Ever.”
With that, he rang off, leaving her with a racing heart and a flame flickering inside her.
* * *
Owen’s parting words—and the sentiments behind them—filled Phoebe’s thoughts as she climbed to the ground floor. Voices drew her into the drawing room, which she found empty. Puzzled, she strolled into the room and spotted the open terrace door. She approached it, wondering who had decided to come downstairs. Laughter, quickly hushed, revealed the identity of one of the speakers.
Julia.
“You mustn’t make me laugh. It isn’t right,” she said in a voice bordering on coquettish. The sound of it made Phoebe cringe, not so much because of the inappropriateness of flirting here and now, but because of how it evoked memories of their past, of Julia commanding the attention of every man in any room she entered, while those same men barely noticed Phoebe. Or those who did notice her were quickly distracted by her more beautiful, more clever sister.
She dismissed the sibling rivalry as a second person—a man—spoke.
“You’re quite right, my lady. Forgive me, I meant no disrespect to Regina’s memory. But this family, Hastings in particular, well, you don’t know what it’s like dealing with them day after day.”
Ralph Cameron. They were out of Phoebe’s view, but she could hear them clearly enough. She envisioned Julia’s cavalier shrug, the haughty tilt of her chin, as she laughed again and said, “I think you were sweet on her. Regina, I mean.”
“Not in the least, you mustn’t think so. I’m merely an employee of the family.”
“Hmm . . . And yet, Regina told me once, not very long ago, that there was someone, an older man who caught her fancy.” Julia practically sang the words, drawing them out in her melodious voice.
“She could have meant any number of gentlemen. I assure you it wasn’t me.”
“If you say so, Ralph . . .”
Obviously, Julia had her doubts about Ralph’s protestations. Phoebe had wondered as well after seeing Regina and Ralph together yesterday, witnessing the influence he held over her. Using very few words, he had been instrumental in persuading Regina to let her family stay the night here, even after all their accusations.
Yet at the same time, Cousin Clarabelle maintained an almost proprietary presence beside Ralph and made no effort to be discreet about it. Once again she wondered if Ralph might have been dallying with both women.
“Tell me, Julia, is there a special gentleman in your life?”
The question snapped at Phoebe’s attention. She instinctively moved closer to the open door, well aware of the dishonorable nature of eavesdropping. She’d be contrite about it later. She was too interested in Julia’s answer to stop herself now. She turned her ear to the door, straining to hear. Glass thunked against glass, the sound of one of those heavy crystal tumblers being set on the glass-top garden table. What were they drinking? she wondered. Lemonade, or something stronger?
“There’s no one.” Julia’s voice grew sad and held a note of finality. She paused—for another sip? Then, brighter, she continued. “Oh, don’t misunderstand. There could be. There are those who have tried. But no, no one I consider special.”
Phoebe’s stomach plummeted. What about Theo—that impoverished, disfigured war hero about whom Grams called demanding answers such a short time ago? The very same Theo who had risked his life in an attempt to apprehend his brother’s murderer last Christmas. Was he not special to Julia? Or could she be honest with no one about her feelings?
“You’d rather break hearts, wouldn’t you?”
Julia laughed again, softly. “Perhaps I would at that . . .”
Oh, Julia. Surely she didn’t mean that. Feeling vaguely nauseated, Phoebe regretted eavesdropping and eased away from the door.
* * *
Eva placed a camisole and slip she had hand-washed for Lady Phoebe in the top dresser drawer and then set about tidying up the room. Miles and the chief inspector had poked around each bedroom, though the greater part of their attention had been saved for Miss Asquith’s room. They had not, however, found any spare keys to the house. Both he and Miles had left High Head Lodge a little while ago to bring the evidence and fingerprints to their small office in Little Barlow, and to arrange to have it all sent up to the main police station in Gloucester. The inhabitants of the house had once more been warned not to leave. It’s not as though any of them would get very far if they did try to sneak away. Routes out of Little Barlow and its environs were limited and easily monitored. And Miles promised to return soon.
She left Phoebe’
s room, intent on slipping upstairs to her own room for a few minutes. On her way, noises in the billiard room caught her attention. The telltale shush of a ball rolling over felt was followed by the tap of two balls lightly colliding. Was Mr. Cameron in there again, thinking, as he had claimed about the night Miss Brockhurst died? She peeked in, surprised to spy Miss Asquith leaning over the billiard table, her elbow bent and her chin propped on her hand. She absently reached for a ball and sent it rolling onto another. They thumped against a bumper and began the journey back toward her.
Miss Asquith’s behavior at the appearance of the Grekovs had certainly raised questions, but the chief inspector had been especially hard on the young woman, not only in his suspicions but in his general opinion. Apparently, he found Miss Asquith well beneath the status of the other guests, lower even, judging by his behavior toward her, than Myra Stanley and Eva herself. Added to that was Miss Asquith’s utter lack of friends presently in this house. Not that she wasn’t in part responsible for that. From what Eva understood, she had made no great overtures of friendship toward either Phoebe or Julia, and the Brockhursts were certainly not interested in forging ties with her.
Eva couldn’t help feeling rather sorry for her. Yet at the same time, she knew an opportunity when she saw one.
“Miss Asquith,” she said, standing in the doorway, “is there anything I can do for you?” The young woman had expressed distaste at the very idea of servants, but Eva didn’t make her inquiry in the spirit of service.
She rolled another ball and straightened slowly, regarding Eva from across the width of the table. “Thank you, Miss Huntford, but I don’t think there is.”
“Oh. If you’re sure . . .” Eva hesitated, searching for an excuse to stay and make conversation. It came from an unexpected source: Miss Asquith herself.
“Wait. Please.” She dropped the ball she was holding and moved away from the billiard table. It was then Eva saw the tumbler, very much like the one found in Miss Brockhurst’s bedroom this morning, sitting on the top rail, previously hidden by Miss Asquith’s torso. She estimated two fingers of something strong. Had there been three fingers originally? More than that? How long had Miss Asquith been alone here, drinking spirits? “I . . . that is, if you’re aren’t terribly busy, would you stay a moment?”
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