A Devious Death

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “Ralph! Oh, Ralph. Oh, heavens . . .”

  Eva’s ears seemed to fill with water, and her vision wavered. Suddenly Phoebe was beside her, and their hands seemed to join of their own accord, fingers clenching tightly. As together they advanced farther into the room, the scene on the other side of the table took shape.

  Ralph Cameron lay sprawled his back, his usually tidy silver hair wildly mussed and sticking out about his ears. His legs were bent, his arms akimbo, as if he had tried to fight off whatever had felled him. A gash on the side of his head told the story, glistening wetly, darkly, while an andiron with its attached bracket—solid brass and weighty iron—lay on its side a foot or two from his inert form.

  “Oh, my lady,” Eva whispered.

  The dowager knelt over him. She gripped his shoulders and shook him relentlessly, crying out his name as if to wake him. All at once voices filled the room, a crescendo of jumbled notes each fighting to be heard, until a shrill whistle from Miles brought silence. Pale and frightened faces stared back at him, and then a voice cried out, “She did it! She killed Regina and now she’s killed Ralph!”

  It was Verna Brockhurst who made the charge. She stood in the doorway, the last to arrive on the scene. All gazes converged on Miss Asquith.

  “Well, miss?” Miles approached her, stopping inches away. He bowed his head to study her face with his keen scrutiny. “You were here before anyone else.”

  “I heard the noise.” Her voice came as a weak and tremulous croak. She swallowed and said louder, “It was like an anvil hitting the floor. The mirror on my dressing table shook. I came to see and . . . and he was there.”

  Miles looked her up and down, his features unreadable. “Did you see anyone when you came out of your room?”

  “No, not a soul. The corridor was completely silent. I saw and heard no one.”

  “Of course not,” Verna Brockhurst snapped. “Because no one else was about. Only you, Miss Asquith.”

  Fiery color suffused Olive Asquith’s face. “He was on the floor when I came in.”

  “You were in Regina’s room last night.” Phoebe spoke in a low, tight voice. “You were the last to see Regina alive, and now this.”

  The words, rife with speculation, startled Eva. It wasn’t like Phoebe to make quick judgments, much less voice them publicly. But the shock—two deaths in a single day—it was taking its toll on all of them.

  Miss Asquith rounded on Lady Phoebe. “You think I killed Mr. Cameron?” She encompassed the entire group in seething resentment. “How easy to blame me, the outsider. We wouldn’t want to point fingers at any of the Brockhursts or their illustrious cousins. No, accuse poor, plain Olive. No one will care.”

  “But you’re not poor, are you, Olive?” Lady Phoebe let go of Eva’s hand and stepped forward. “You pretend to be, but we both know you’re from a wealthy family.” She turned around to address the others, who looked mutely on as if suspended in their disbelief. “Asquith—it’s no coincidence that she shares a name with our former prime minister. They’re related.” Once again facing Olive, she said, “Aren’t you? Julia asked you that very question, and you denied it. Why, Olive? What have you been hiding?”

  * * *

  “Before she died, Regina had something to tell me.” Phoebe’s heart pounded in her throat and in her ears. “And today, so did Ralph Cameron. Perhaps their secrets were one and the same, but they both took them to their graves. And both times, you were the one to find their bodies. Why is that, Olive?”

  Olive’s lack of reply only fueled Phoebe’s bluster. She heard the words coming from her mouth, but it was as if someone else were speaking. She knew better than this—better than to accuse based only on appearances. Poor Vernon, the head footman at Foxwood Hall, had been arrested for murder last Christmas based solely on circumstantial evidence and easily might have been hanged, had Phoebe, Eva, and Constable Brannock not probed deeper for the truth.

  Both Eva and Miles stared at her, the astonishment and disbelief plain on their faces. Sudden shame spiraled through her. No, she must not fall prey to the temptation to cast blame on the easiest target, because if she had learned anything, it was that the easiest target was almost never to blame.

  She compressed her lips and dropped her gaze to the floor. “I’m sorry. I spoke out of turn.”

  “Yes, you did,” Olive retorted. “And—”

  Constable Brannock signaled for silence. “That’s enough.”

  Behind him, Cousin Clarabelle leaned one hand heavily on the top rail of the billiard table and dragged herself to her feet. Tears had streaked through her face powder and rouge, leaving pale, gleaming stripes down her cheeks. “No, that is not enough. Phoebe is right to suspect this insolent baggage. Miss Asquith has been imposing on my daughter’s generosity, and Ralph must have somehow learned the truth.”

  Phoebe still held Ralph Cameron’s note in her hand. She opened and reread it, searching for some clue, some hint of what he had wished to impart. But there was nothing, only a request that she join him here. He had handed the note to Margaret to deliver to her . . .

  “Margaret.”

  The constable had gone to stand over the body. “What’s that?”

  “Mr. Cameron gave the note to Margaret to deliver to me.” Even as she spoke, she hadn’t quite turned the possibilities over in her mind. But she kept talking, letting the logic form of its own accord—hoping it would. “Margaret carried the note. She might have opened it, might have known what it said. Who else might have known? Where did he pen the missive? Did anyone see him do it?” She looked up at the others. The urge to accuse took hold again. “Did you, any of you?”

  “What note?” With her birdlike scowl, Verna shook her head. “What are you talking about?”

  Phoebe heard the constable’s whispered request to Eva. “Find Margaret. Bring her here.”

  Eve slipped from the room, but not before setting a hand on Phoebe’s shoulder and giving a reassuring squeeze.

  “Everyone, sit down.” The constable gestured at the various seating around the room.

  “Here?” Cousin Clarabelle shook her head. “With . . . with him here? Surely not.”

  “Sit, Lady Mandeville,” the constable snapped. His thinning patience emanated from the tension of his shoulders. “Someone go and get something to cover him with.”

  “I’ll go.” Julia moved swiftly into the corridor. She returned only moments later with a sheet. This she calmly handed to the constable, who rounded the billiard table and draped it over the body. Phoebe shuddered.

  “This is insanity.” Hastings staggered to the nearest seat, a wingback in front of a window. The chair skidded an inch or two as he heaved himself unsteadily into it. “Where is the chief inspector? Why don’t you take that criminal to jail where she belongs, before she kills someone else?”

  “I did not—”

  “Miss Asquith, please.” The constable removed his policeman’s helmet and ran a hand through his unruly red curls. “Do not engage with Lord Mandeville or anyone else. No one is to speak until I have asked you a direct question.”

  “What on earth are we to do in the meantime?” Verna demanded.

  “You are to sit down, ma’am,” Constable Brannock returned, “and be quiet. Need I remind you once again that everyone here is a suspect, with the exception of Lady Phoebe and Miss Huntford.”

  “Oh, of course.” Julia, sitting on the long leather sofa, slid to one end to make room for Verna and Cousin Clarabelle. “Saint Phoebe is never to be suspected.”

  “Your sister and her maid were with me when the murder occurred,” the constable informed her. “Where were you, Lady Julia?”

  “Me?” She let out a low chuckle. “In my room.” Then, with a look of amusement, as if this were all a game for a rainy Sunday afternoon, she asked, “Stanley, where were you?”

  “Me, my lady?” Myra Stanley looked startled. “Why, I was on my way to your bedroom to collect any laundry and to see if you needed anythi
ng.”

  Julia’s amused look didn’t fade, and she chuckled again. “Were you now, Stanley?”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  “Well, aren’t you terribly dedicated?”

  Myra Stanley smiled at first; then her lips inched downward, like the tail of a dog who has been chastised. She frowned. She had obviously heard, as had Phoebe, the derisive note in Julia’s comment. “My lady?”

  Crossing one leg over the other, Julia turned away, effectively dismissing the other woman. Phoebe rather understood how Myra Stanley felt, having been on the receiving end of Julia’s cold shoulder more times than she could count. Eva returned a few minutes later, leading Margaret into the room. The girl’s eyes were large, her young face pinched. As Phoebe well knew, servants never liked being called away from their duties, for it rarely portended anything good. Margaret apparently thought likewise, for she asked, in a small voice, “Did I do something wrong?”

  Constable Brannock waved her to come closer, yet he took care not to let her advance too close to the billiard table or to see around him to what lay on the other side. “Margaret, did you deliver a note earlier from Mr. Cameron to Lady Phoebe?”

  “Y-yes, sir, I did. Was that wrong of me?”

  “No, Margaret. But tell me, did you read the note before handing it over?”

  “No, sir! Of course not.”

  “You’re quite certain about that?”

  “Yes, sir. I would never.”

  “And you don’t know what the note said?”

  “No idea, sir.” She sounded scandalized by the very notion.

  “And it never left your hand before you gave it to Lady Phoebe?”

  Here Margaret hesitated.

  “Well? Did it or didn’t it?” The constable tapped his foot, which Phoebe had learned he sometimes did to keep those he questioned off their guard.

  “It . . . er . . . slipped from my hand, sir. When I was going below stairs. I had a tray in my hands, you see, sir, and I stumbled a bit. I caught my balance quick enough, but the note slid out from between my fingers and fluttered all the way down to the landing.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then that nice Russian woman happened by. She picked it up and handed it back to me when I reached her. And then I brought the note to Lady Phoebe.”

  Everyone had been quietly listening; now a tense stillness gripped the room. The constable’s mouth tightened, and he asked, “Did the Russian woman open the note?”

  “Of course not, sir.”

  “Are you sure? Quite sure? Could you see her the entire time you continued down the stairs?”

  “I . . . er . . . well, no, sir, I suppose not the entire time. I—I was holding the tray in front of me, and it blocked a bit of my view, especially what was directly below me.”

  “So then Mrs. Grekov could have glanced at the note without your noticing.”

  “I suppose so, sir. But why would she? She doesn’t speak English, does she, sir?”

  “Indeed . . .” Constable Brannock chewed the corner of his lip a moment. Then, “Thank you, Margaret, that will be all for now. Miss Asquith, I’ll need to confine you to your room for the time being.” The woman only shrugged, as if she had expected as much. The constable turned to Eva. “And then you and I are going to speak with the Grekovs.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Miles locked Miss Asquith in her room and then handed the key to Eva. “Here, I’ll trust you with this. Should she need anything, you can provide it to her. I’m not keen on depriving a young woman of food and drink or other necessities.”

  “Yes, all right.” Eva slipped the key into a pocket at the front of her dress. “I don’t suppose Miss Asquith will attempt to overpower me and escape.”

  After telephoning the coroner’s office to make arrangements for poor Mr. Cameron’s body to be removed, Miles led the way below stairs. On the way he explained his plan to Eva, which he implemented upon finding the Grekovs in the main kitchen. Mrs. Dayton had apparently set them to work. Mrs. Grekov, or Grekova, Eva supposed it should be, was scrubbing the work counter, while Mr. Grekov stood high on a ladder cleaning the windows that looked out onto the kitchen garden.

  “They were hired to clean,” the cook said in explanation as Eva and Miles entered the room. “Might as well earn their keep while we’re all waiting to see what the police have to say.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Dayton,” Miles said. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’ll ask you to wait in the servants’ hall for a few moments. I have something to say to Mr. and Mrs. Grekov.”

  “Oh.” The woman hesitated, giving Eva the distinct impression she had never before been asked to vacate her kitchen. “Where is Margaret?” she asked.

  “I also sent her down to the servants’ hall.” Miles held out an arm in a gesture meant to usher Mrs. Dayton along. She set down the wooden spoon she had been using to stir whatever bubbled away on the stove, lowered the flame, and sauntered off with a pout.

  “I think you’ll owe her an apology when this is all over,” Eva murmured.

  Thus far the Grekovs had only briefly looked up from their toils. In his most affable tone, Miles said, “Mr. and Mrs. Grekov, you are both under arrest on suspicion of fraud.”

  They weren’t really, but he and Eva had decided on this strategy. The couple immediately exchanged alarmed glances, proving they understood English far better than they had let on. Still, Eva wasn’t prepared for what happened next. Dmitry eschewed the steps of the ladder and instead leaped down to the floor, his sopping rag in one hand and a rubber-edged tool in the other. Valeria, meanwhile, sprang away from the work counter, her scrub brush sending out a spray. The pair charged for the door. Miles attempted to block their way, but working together and tossing their sodden cleaning tools at him, they barreled past, knocking him off his feet.

  No doubt his shock at their reaction had put him off his guard. Instinct sent Eva several steps in their wake, but Miles’s shout stopped her short.

  “Don’t you dare.” He was already gaining his feet, his hand on his weapon. “I take it they speak English rather well,” he said ruefully and, already on the move, added, “I’m going after them. Ring Inspector Perkins and tell him what’s happened. Tell him we’ll need reinforcements.”

  Eva ran after him, calling to his back as he made short work of the corridor to the outside door. “Should I set Miss Asquith free?”

  “No.” He didn’t stop. “Don’t do anything until you hear from me, and don’t let any of the others leave.” With that, he flung open the door at the end of the corridor and disappeared into the lengthening afternoon shadows.

  Eva closed and secured the door behind him. When she turned, Mrs. Dayton was standing in the corridor. “What the devil just happened?”

  Eva hesitated as her heart slowly stopped racing. “Apparently the Grekovs aren’t who they say they are. At any rate, they were only pretending not to speak English. They understood well enough when Constable Brannock told them they were under arrest. It was a test he devised for them, and they failed miserably. Or passed, depending on your point of view.”

  “My heavens. Are they dangerous? Where are they now?”

  “Out there, somewhere.” Eva pointed at the door over her shoulder. “I just hope the constable will be all right, going after them like that.”

  “Don’t you worry about your young man, dearie. He seems a capable sort to me.”

  Heat rose to Eva’s cheeks at Mrs. Dayton’s reference to Miles being her “young man.” Were they so obvious?

  But there were more important things to worry about. “If there are any other entrances down here, make sure they’re locked. Tell Margaret to stay inside and not open any doors to the outside.”

  “Do you think they’ll be back?”

  “I don’t know,” Eva admitted. “Nor do I know if they pose a threat or if they’re simply terrified of police matters because of their past experiences. But with two people dead, we mustn’t take any chances. If yo
u need anything, I’ll be upstairs.”

  She made her telephone call to Chief Inspector Perkins and went searching for Lady Phoebe.

  * * *

  Phoebe paced back and forth in her bedroom while Eva watched her from an easy chair beside the hearth. It had become a familiar if unfortunate scene these past months, the two of them comparing notes and going over what each learned during the course of an investigation. It was typically Phoebe’s habit to think on her feet, to work off the restless energy that came with frustrations and apparent dead ends. She often wondered how Eva maintained such outward calm, though she knew better than to believe her maid unaffected by such events.

  “And to think I felt sorry for them,” Eva was saying now of the Grekovs. “I went so far as to trust them.”

  “It was frightfully clever of the constable to trap them the way he did.”

  “Clever enough, perhaps, to trick them into revealing their guilty consciences and their ability to understand English, but not so clever that they didn’t get away. They’ve acted so meekly, we never thought they would fight their way out the way they did.” Eva glanced out the window. “Thank goodness the days are long now. I do hope Miles finds them and isn’t hurt in the process.”

  “He’ll be fine,” Phoebe said automatically. She nearly winced at her own words, however, for she couldn’t be sure of any such thing. Still, it wouldn’t help to fear the worst. “At any rate, they weren’t armed.”

  “No, that’s true. Miles would have found any weapons on them when he had them turn out their pockets for a house key.” She laughed without mirth. “Unless you can consider a scrub brush a weapon.”

  “All right,” Phoebe said briskly, turning their attention to the matter at hand as much to distract Eva from her worries about the constable as to review what they knew so far. “The Grekovs are not who—or at least not exactly what—they claimed to be. That means they’re probably guilty of something, although of what is not yet clear. Even if they were in possession of a house key, I can’t believe they sneaked in last night to kill my cousin and then returned here today.”

  “You’re right, my lady, that doesn’t make sense. Especially with how surprised they were to find the police here. Then again, they have proved to be convincing actors. Isn’t it said that guilty parties often return to the scene of the crime?”