A Devious Death

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “Of course.” Eva advanced farther into the room, stopping when Miss Asquith held up a hand.

  “But only if you wish to. Don’t stay out of obligation, because I’m a guest and you’re the servant of a guest.”

  “No, that’s not why I’ll stay.” She took in the young woman’s general demeanor. It was clear the chief inspector had left her shaken. Her very posture suggested she could use a spot of kindness from someone. She looked far less confident than previously, and even her demand that Eva stay only because she wished to felt drained of the vigor with which Olive Asquith had spoken to Myra Stanley only yesterday. Eva approached the billiard table, glancing at the tumbler, then looking away. She wasn’t here to judge, merely to talk.

  She nodded at the colorful array of balls. “Do you play?”

  “A little. You?”

  Eva nodded and said with a laugh, “I’m not supposed to. My dad sometimes used to take my sister and me down to the pub with him, in the afternoons when no one minded us being there. Mum would have had fits if she knew. We were very young. He stopped once we were old enough that people would talk. Then he took our younger brother, Danny—” She broke off. Every time she believed she could mention Danny’s name without her throat closing and her heart aching, well, she learned different. It might have helped if he had been buried in the churchyard in Little Barlow, where she might have visited, brought flowers, kept the grave tidy, and spoken softly, when no one else was about, to let Danny know how much she missed him. But his final resting place lay far away, in a makeshift cemetery beside a battlefield in France, and Eva didn’t know if she would ever go there . . .

  Swallowing, she took a pool cue from the rack on the wall and chalked the tip, then returned to the table. Miss Asquith had grown quiet and watched her intently. Eva leaned over the table, lined up a shot, and sent the cue into the red ball. The shot went awry, sending the ball ricocheting wildly. Eva chuckled and leaned the cue stick against the table. “Well, it’s been years, actually.”

  Miss Asquith picked up the tumbler and sipped, making a face as if she’d tasted lemons. Eva pretended not to notice. She watched the young woman drift away from the table, walking aimlessly, then pacing back the way she had come.

  “They’re awful, you know,” she said at length. She used the hand holding the glass to gesture toward the door. Eva glanced over at an empty threshold. Miss Asquith didn’t leave her wondering at her meaning for long. “Those Brockhursts. They didn’t give a raw fig about Regina, at least not the real Regina. They didn’t even know her.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “They wanted to control her—to mold her into the kind of woman who can be controlled. Like your mistress and her sister, one supposes.”

  Eva drew up, her shoulders squaring of their own accord. Miss Asquith apparently saw her mistake and looked contrite. Hastily, she said, “Sorry. That wasn’t sporting of me. But they’re typical aristocrats, these Brockhursts. Think a woman can’t be more than a wife, mother, and”—she shuddered—“a society hostess. They hated Regina for inheriting her father’s money. Hastings most of all, but the other two as well.” She scoffed, her lip curling. “The two Lady Mandevilles. Such a joke. There’s nothing noble about either of them.”

  “Perhaps you’re wrong about how they felt about Miss Brockhurst.” Though Eva had her own doubts about that, she saw no reason to encourage Miss Asquith in her bitterness. It would serve no purpose and only make matters worse for everyone here. “She was a daughter and sister. Surely they loved one another despite their differences.”

  She half expected Miss Asquith to protest vehemently. Instead, she said, “One would think so, but no, not in this case. Even their solicitor treated Regina like a fragile doll in an effort to control her. Always flattering her and pretending to take her side in matters, only to side with the family the moment Regina left the room. He was no friend to her, Miss Huntford, I promise you that. They argued after everyone had gone to bed last night. He told her she was being unreasonable and ungenerous, that she owed her family better than to allow them to be cut off. He upset Regina very much.”

  “Is that why Miss Brockhurst couldn’t sleep?”

  “I’d say it was one of several reasons, their names being Verna, Hastings, Clarabelle, and, yes, Ralph Cameron. Regina was very much alone within her family, with no true friends until she met—”

  Before she finished the sentence, Miss Asquith took another sip of her drink. Holding up the glass, she appeared to take its measure and, apparently finding the level of its contents to be less than satisfactory, she strode to the drinks cabinet beside the hearth. A decanter sat on top of it, and Miss Asquith poured a generous amount.

  Eva wanted to hear more. She allowed Miss Asquith to indulge in another swallow before asking, “Until she met whom, Miss Asquith?”

  “Me. And others. True friends who allowed Regina to be herself, not some hollow ideal of what a baron’s daughter should be.”

  “And what was Miss Brockhurst like away from her family, surrounded by her friends?”

  Miss Asquith turned a brilliant smile upon Eva. “She was inspired. Full of ideas and life and generosity.”

  Eva tensed. Miss Brockhurst’s generosity could be interpreted in more than one way. Had her open-handedness been her own idea, or had she been convinced to part with her money? However much she might sympathize with Miss Asquith and her current circumstances in this house, she didn’t know the woman. She didn’t know what motives might have been behind her friendship with Miss Brockhurst. Did this argument with Ralph Cameron happen, or was the woman attempting to cast guilt on everyone but herself?

  But rather than press Miss Asquith about that, she took a different tack. “I can’t help but wonder who these others were.”

  Miss Asquith took another sip. “Others?”

  “Yes, those you mentioned, who brought out such good qualities in Miss Brockhurst. Who are they? Surely they must be informed of Miss Brockhurst’s fate. They’ll wish to pay their respects. I’m guessing they aren’t friends of the family.”

  “No, they are not. And yes, they will be informed in due time. I will inform them myself.”

  “Well, if you require any assistance with that, I’d be happy to help.”

  “No.” For a moment Miss Asquith’s expression became alarmed. Then she relaxed. “I mean, thank you, but no. I can manage. And the others will spread the word. If . . . if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  Eva had one more question for her and called out her name to halt her in her tracks. Miss Asquith stopped short, hesitated a moment, and turned with a wary look. “Was Lady Diana Manners among Miss Brockhurst’s good friends?”

  Miss Asquith’s features relaxed, and she almost smiled. “Not really. Diana Manners always ran with a different set, people who amused Regina but whom she never took seriously. Why?”

  “I only wondered because she seemed to know Myra Stanley.” At Miss Asquith’s blank expression, Eva explained, “You know, the other maid who arrived here with me. Myra used to be Lady Diana’s maid, until recently. Now she’s Lady Julia’s. You wouldn’t know anything about her time with her former employer, would you? Or how she and Miss Brockhurst might have been acquainted?”

  Another hesitation set Eva speculating that Miss Asquith did indeed know something. But she shook her head. “Sorry. If Regina knew Myra Stanley, she never mentioned it to me. And she never spoke much about Diana. Why would she?” Gripping her tumbler, the woman strode from the room, leaving Eva convinced she was lying.

  CHAPTER 11

  Only the basics had been set out for breakfast that morning, and no luncheon at all was served at the proper time. While Eva understood the oversight, she also knew that going without food could stretch tensions to the breaking point. To that end, after leaving the billiard room she went below stairs to help Mrs. Dayton assemble an adequate meal. She found the woman standing in the servants’ hall, staring down at what appeared to be a shirt spread out
on the table before her.

  “Mrs. Dayton, I believe our guests could do with a spot of lunch, if you wouldn’t mind. I’ll help you.”

  The cook flinched, turning to Eva with an alarmed expression.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. What’s that you’ve got there?”

  Mrs. Dayton mutely gestured for Eva to come closer. “I sent Margaret up a little while ago to collect the laundry to be sent out.” She spoke in hushed tones. “Well, one must maintain order, mustn’t one? We discovered this balled up in a pile of towels left outside the linen cupboard.”

  Eva leaned over to inspect the garment, a man’s white dress shirt. Smudges of pale brown streaked the collar and one of the cuffs. “Yes, well, no wonder. It’s stained.”

  “Look closer, Miss Huntford. Those aren’t ordinary stains.” The woman’s voice dropped several more notches. “That’s blood, or I don’t know my business.”

  “You’re a cook, Mrs. Dayton. Not a laundress.”

  “Indeed, and I’ve nicked enough fingers in my career to know blood when I see it. Whoever this shirt belongs to tried to wash it out, but used warm water instead of cold.” She held up the shirt in front of her. “Warm water sets blood hard and fast, as well you must know. It’ll likely never come out now, not without a good bleaching, but bleach will ruin this fine percale. The question is, whose blood is this?”

  Eva took the shirt from her, holding the fabric taut to examine the stains. “Whose indeed.”

  * * *

  At Eva’s request, Phoebe met her in her bedroom on the top floor. It was the one place they might close the door and converse without anyone interrupting. A chill went through Phoebe when Eva held up a shirt whose collar and right cuff looked as though they had been dipped in diluted brown paint.

  “Mrs. Dayton is certain it’s blood, my lady, and I agree.”

  Phoebe agreed as well. Paint aside, not much else could leave stains of that hue, especially if the wearer had attempted unsuccessfully to wash away the evidence. “Well, we know this shirt can only belong to one of two men: Hastings or Ralph Cameron.” She reached for one of the sleeves and held it up. “Hastings is more heavyset than the size of this shirt would allow, so it must belong to Mr. Cameron. There’s nothing for it but to simply ask him. Not only whether this is his shirt, but how it came to have blood on it. Oh, Eva, do you suppose . . . ?

  Eva’s mouth flattened in a way it sometimes did when she thought especially hard about something or weighed the wisdom of speaking out about a controversial matter. Phoebe waited, but not long. “A little while ago I had the opportunity to speak with Miss Asquith. She was in the billiard room, drinking whiskey. Among other things, she mentioned Miss Brockhurst had argued with Mr. Cameron last night after everyone went to bed. It seemed he was taking the family’s side in the dispute over the money. It upset Miss Brockhurst, and that’s why she couldn’t sleep.”

  Phoebe gasped. “He never said a word about it. Even after admitting he’d been in the billiard room, he never mentioned having spoken to Regina, much less arguing with her.”

  “I do wonder, my lady, about whether a killer would have put this shirt in the laundry rather than disposing of it where no one would find it.”

  Phoebe thought about that. “Yes, but disposed of it where? He might have been afraid the constable would find it in the trash. He couldn’t burn it, because as you realized when you noticed the ashes in Regina’s fireplace, it’s summer and a hearth fire is a dead giveaway that someone is trying to hide something. Instead, he tried unsuccessfully to wash the blood away, and when that didn’t work he hid the shirt in a bundle of towels waiting to go to the laundress, hoping no one would notice it.”

  “If so, he took an awful chance. I don’t think we should do anything until Miles returns. It shouldn’t be long now.”

  Phoebe continued turning over possibilities in her mind. “So Mr. Cameron and Regina argued over the current situation with the family. Perhaps she threatened to fire him. I’d suspect he makes a goodly salary as the family solicitor. Or . . . it could have been an act of passion. You may not have noticed, not having spent much time around the guests, that Mr. Cameron’s affections seemed divided between both my cousin and her mother.”

  “Is that so strange? He’s also a family friend, isn’t he, my lady? And especially now, with Lord Mandeville gone . . .”

  “It’s more than that. Perhaps Regina realized he had been leading them both on, became infuriated, and threatened to tell her mother about his machinations. He might have killed her to silence her.”

  “My lady, do you really think—”

  At the rumble of an approaching motorcar, Eva broke off, and they both hurried to the window.

  “Here’s Miles now,” Eva said with a note of satisfaction and, Phoebe thought, relief. “We’ll bring this to his attention and see what he says, and then you and I won’t have to speculate any further.”

  “You’re really no fun at all, Eva. You do realize that, don’t you?”

  “It isn’t my job to be fun or amusing, my lady. My job is simply to look after you.”

  Phoebe grinned ruefully and pointed at the shirt Eva still held. “Let’s go down and show him. Oh—I just remembered something.” She had started for the door but stopped, thinking back to her earlier conversation with Ralph Cameron in the library, or more specifically, to his appearance at the time. “He cut his chin.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Cameron. I noticed it earlier. He must have cut himself shaving this morning. I remember thinking it was no wonder his hands were a bit unsteady after we found my cousin. Then again, a shaving cut shouldn’t have done that, should it?”

  A few minutes later downstairs, Miles Brannock concurred with her conclusion. “A man would have to have the royal disease to bleed this much from a razor cut.”

  “You mean hemophilia?” Phoebe said.

  “I do, my lady. How big was this nick you saw?”

  “Not very, really.”

  “Then I shall need to have a talk with Mr. Cameron.”

  “There wasn’t much blood on Miss Brockhurst’s wound or the pillow,” Eva pointed out. “So how would this much blood come to be on this shirt, and why on the collar?”

  Miles continued studying the shirt. “That’s a very good question.”

  The three of them parted ways shortly after. Mrs. Dayton and Margaret delivered platters of sandwiches and a tureen of soup to the dining room, and Phoebe went in to join the others while Eva returned below stairs to partake of a similar meal with Myra Stanley and the Grekovs. Before she left, she promised Phoebe she would make another attempt to ask the couple questions about their past and their journey to England, as well as question Myra Stanley about whether she had known Regina before coming to High Head Lodge. It was time for some direct inquiries.

  Ralph Cameron did not join the others for lunch. The constable had drawn him aside, and the two of them were presently talking in the morning room. As Phoebe entered the dining room, an uneasy-looking Julia approached her.

  “What does Constable Brannock want with Ralph?” she murmured so the others around the table wouldn’t hear.

  “That’s the constable’s business, I’m afraid.” Phoebe walked to the buffet.

  “The constable’s business, indeed,” Julia retorted, following close behind her. “You know exactly what’s going on.”

  “It’s not my place to tell tales.” With a sandwich on a plate in one hand and a bowl of soup in the other, Phoebe went to the table.

  “What tales?” Cousin Clarabelle, sitting at the head of the table, reached for a wine decanter and poured a generous measure into her goblet. At that rate, Phoebe thought, she’ll be intoxicated by tea time. “Where is Ralph?”

  “Seems the constable has more questions for him.” Julia stared at Phoebe as she spoke. Phoebe’s cheeks warmed, not because Julia was making it obvious she might know something, but because of the anger evident in her tone.

/>   “What questions?” Cousin Clarabelle sat stiffly upright, her spine not touching the back of her chair. “Why is the constable singling out Ralph? Surely he can’t believe he’s guilty.”

  “Maybe he is.” Hastings, having entered the room after Phoebe, hobbled away from the sideboard and approached the table. What had become his signature tumbler of whiskey awaited him there. With his foot he kicked a chair out several inches and managed to slide in without spilling anything, but only just, for his plate tipped and his sandwich slithered precariously to the edge, while the soup sloshed dangerously.

  “Don’t talk like that,” his mother snapped.

  “Why not? Someone killed Regina. If not Ralph, the constable will suspect me. Or Verna. Or our two charming cousins here. Or even you, Mother. Would you prefer that?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Verna murmured from across the table. She paused to sample her soup. “We all know who killed Regina.”

  As if on cue, Olive sauntered into the room, and silence fell over the table. She noticed their scrutiny and came to an abrupt halt. “What are you all staring at?”

  Cousin Clarabelle’s glare became piercing before she lowered her gaze. Verna went on brazenly staring. Julia bit off a corner of her sandwich.

  “We were just speculating, Miss Asquith.” Hastings raised his crystal glass as if in a toast. Their gazes locked for several seconds. Then Olive proceeded to the sideboard, selected a sandwich, and turned back to them with a defiant expression.

  “I’ll eat in my room.”

  * * *

  “I’m curious, what did you do in Russia?” Eva set the dishes on the table in the servants’ hall. She had already put out the serviettes and silverware. How different from life at Foxwood Hall, where even the servants had under-servants to wait on them.