The very air in the room tensed as Eva and Miss Asquith regarded each other. Eva would swear the other woman had quite forgotten herself, had been swept up in a conviction that had left her unguarded and careless, or she would never have said so much. The time for a frank conversation had arrived.
“I won’t pretend I don’t know what you mean, Miss Asquith. Between things Miss Brockhurst said to Lady Phoebe and a newspaper found burned in her fireplace, and finally the Grekovs’ appearance here this morning, I rather believe I have figured out what you are about.”
“Then perhaps you’re more clever than I gave you credit for.” Miss Asquith sat back a bit, looking genuinely pleased. “The question is, are you elated or terrified at the prospect of your servitude coming to an end?”
“Neither.” Eva couldn’t help emitting a laugh. “For I don’t think of myself in such terms. Yes, I am in service. It is how I earn my living. But I assure you, it is my choice, and I am quite content. If I were not, I would seek employment elsewhere, under different circumstances.”
Miss Asquith flushed. Her eyes flashed with something bitter, resentful, but only for the merest instant. “Would you indeed, Miss Huntford? And how, exactly, would you go about doing that? Do you believe opportunities for our sex are so numerous they are there for the plucking? Do you believe the average person can travel society’s ranks at will in order to better his or her lot in life?”
Eva heard the ridicule in those questions, but she refused to be unnerved. “It is possible. It’s happening in ways that didn’t exist before the war. Have you heard of Talbot House?”
“What is that?” The question held impatience, as if Miss Asquith had already dismissed what Eva was about to say. She spoke nonetheless.
“It was a tavern in Belgium. During the war, English soldiers could take their ease there while on leave. The notion of rank didn’t exist inside its walls. Officers and enlisted men alike ate, slept, prayed, sang, played cards, and whatever else, side by side. There was no saluting, no addressing anyone as sir. Inside the walls of Talbot House, all men were equal.”
“Yes, well, the war is over. Surely you don’t think that holds true here and now.”
“It was a beginning. Gradual changes will continue, and opportunities for our sex are increasing every day.” Eva almost surprised herself with her words. A year ago, she wouldn’t have thought such things, much less spoken them aloud. But the past months had increased her knowledge of the world, of the people inhabiting it, with all their hopes and dreams, disappointments and foibles. Serving Lady Phoebe, a young woman of singular spirit and determination, had taught her much as well.
“If you think so, then you are a fool, Miss Huntford. As soon as the war ended women were told to leave their jobs and return home to be wives and mothers. The old ways persist. There is only one way to break their hold on this country.”
A heavy pause held them in its thrall, while a word seemed to echo between them. Eva gathered her courage to speak it. “Revolution, Miss Asquith? Is that what you wish for our country, after these terrible years of war?”
Miss Asquith pinched her lips together, but her defiant expression spoke of her willingness to see exactly that sort of upheaval sweep through England.
Eva, usually so careful about her own expressions, allowed her true sentiments to reveal themselves in an equal show of defiance. “That is treason.”
“By whose definition?”
“I assume not the Grekovs’.” She smiled, a gesture filled with irony. “Since it’s clear they were not hired to clean, one can only conclude their purpose here was to coach you and Miss Brockhurst, and others of your acquaintance, on how to spread socialist ideals throughout the country, and to incite revolution if necessary. That was Miss Brockhurst’s plan for High Head Lodge, was it not? To serve as a headquarters for your revolution?” Miss Asquith only raised an eyebrow as if in appreciation of Eva’s deductions. Eva frowned. “Tell me, who burned the newspaper? Was it you? It was a socialist publication, wasn’t it?”
“Perhaps.” The defiance had returned to Miss Asquith’s expression, and no further explanation seemed imminent.
“And did you burn it? Did you fear someone would discover your plans?”
“Good heavens, no, it wasn’t me. I certainly make no apologies nor try to hide my beliefs.” She appeared to consider. “Nor Regina, I shouldn’t think.”
“Did she share your views? I mean, share them so entirely?” Had Miss Brockhurst wished to see England embroiled in another war, perhaps bloodier than the one fought on the continent?
“Of course she did,” Miss Asquith snapped, as if Eva had made an accusation to the contrary. “It was the basis of our friendship.”
“And yet the two of you argued frequently yesterday. I heard quite a bit of it firsthand during your shopping trip.”
“Friends sometimes argue. What of it?”
“Did you and Miss Brockhurst argue last night, before she died?”
Miss Asquith hesitated so long Eva didn’t think she would reply. Or if she did, it would be to tell Eva to mind her business, or get out. But after a moment she said, “We did. She was terribly upset about her family and their accusations, and I didn’t help matters when I pointed out that she should not have allowed them to stay.”
“Is that all?”
“Should there be more?”
“I simply wondered if perhaps Miss Brockhurst’s ideals didn’t quite match yours after all, and if she might have had second thoughts. Horrible things have happened in Russia. People have died, and continue to die. Surely the Grekovs have explained it to you.”
“Indeed they have.” Miss Asquith took on an almost dreamy look. “The October Revolution was a glorious triumph.” Her gaze drifted to some point across the room. Then her eyebrows drew together. Slowly, she said, “Thank you for bringing the tray, Miss Huntford. If you don’t mind, I should like to rest now.”
She came to her feet, prompting Eva to do likewise. She had been dismissed, but she had achieved her main objective in opening the speaking tube. Had Lady Phoebe heard the conversation?
* * *
Socialism. Revolution. Treason. Those words and more raced through Phoebe’s mind as Olive Asquith’s story unfolded through the speaking tube. Cousin Regina a traitor? Or, as Eva insinuated, perhaps Olive’s plans went too far for Regina’s liking, and Olive murdered her out of spite.
Phoebe had been so sure of Hastings’s guilt. The whiskey, the ether—both had left their signature at the crime scene, and both led directly back to Hastings.
Yet she only supposed ether had been used in Regina’s death. It made perfect sense, a way to incapacitate Regina so she didn’t awaken and struggle. Was Phoebe only filling in the details to support her theory? To be sure, she needed access to Hastings and Verna’s bedroom.
While these thoughts distracted her, she had been only half aware of Olive asking Eva to leave her. Now the room had gone quiet. Phoebe strained her ears to detect any sound, but none came. She waited another minute. Silence prevailed. Eva should be back upstairs any moment now.
When minutes passed without an appearance from Eva, Phoebe concluded she must have gone below stairs. Perhaps she went to the kitchen to return the tray she had brought to Olive’s room. Olive had said she wasn’t hungry.
She pushed the button to connect to Hastings’s room again. The snores has ceased. His and Verna’s voices blended incoherently, and then Hastings’s became distinct.
“I said get it for me.” His diction had cleared of its earlier blurriness. He sounded awake, lucid.
“You’ve had enough.”
“I decide when I’ve had enough.”
“You aren’t fit to decide anything.” Verna’s voice oozed disgust.
Was Hastings demanding his ether?
A crash exploded from the tube. Phoebe flinched, lurching away. Had one of them thrown something? A vase? An ashtray? She crept close again. The voices were once more jumbled and garb
led. They were arguing, no mistake. And then Verna, sounding unaffected by the crash, said, “You’d not have been disinherited otherwise.”
“I’m not disinherited.” Hastings laughed, the sound sharp with mockery.
Verna’s voice rose. “He’d most likely be alive, if not for you.”
This seized Phoebe’s attention more than anything else so far. Breath held, heart thumping, she waited.
“Don’t be absurd. I had nothing to do with whatever shock killed him. I wasn’t even in the house at the time. It was undoubtedly Regina. Or her little toad of a friend.”
“I don’t mean this last shock. That’s what did him in. But he’d been ill much longer than that. You know what I’m talking about. Your disappearance three years ago. It nearly killed him.”
Verna put emphasis on “disappearance.” Sarcastic, sardonic emphasis. Three years ago, Hastings had been captured by the Germans . . .
“Shut up about that. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I, my love? I was with him when the news came. I saw what it did to him. And I know to what lengths he went to save his son.”
How could Cousin Basil have saved Hastings? What sway could he have held with the German forces?
“Of course he went to great lengths to save me. It is what a father does, Verna. I fail to see—”
“You may tell your mother and the world what you like, but I know the truth. I know what you are. I know what it did to him.”
“Shut up. You’ll shut up if you know what’s good for you.”
Phoebe stood with both hands braced against the wall on either side of the speaking tube, utterly engrossed, almost forgetting where she was, impatient to hear the rest. Were they speaking of Hastings’s addiction? Had learning of it nearly killed his father three years ago? But how could Cousin Basil have discovered such a thing while Hastings sat in a German prison? That revelation could only have come later, when Hastings finally returned home.
Disappearance . . .
Phoebe’s stomach knotted. She had never questioned Hastings’s war service. Had there been some incident Cousin Basil needed to cover up for his son? She longed to talk with Owen. With his extensive contacts he could probably uncover whatever secret lurked in her cousin’s past.
That was, if they didn’t divulge the truth now. She turned her attention back to the tube, but the voices continued in murmurs now. They must have realized how loudly they were speaking and feared being overheard through the walls.
Phoebe glanced at the clock on the dresser. It was nearly time to go down for dinner. She would go down, plead a headache and, while the others were dining, steal into Hastings and Verna’s room to search. She closed the speaking tube.
CHAPTER 15
Phoebe checked her locket watch, hanging from its gold chain around her neck. Then she compared the time to that on the little figurine clock on her bedside table. Both read ten minutes after seven.
Eva should have been there by now ostensibly to help her change for dinner, but in actuality to compare notes on what each had learned while they were apart. Although Phoebe had heard most of Eva’s conversation with Olive, Eva still had no idea what Phoebe had overheard between Hastings and Verna.
Both conversations had yielded incriminating details, yet neither had been conclusive. She heard doors opening in the corridor and cracked her own open enough to spy Verna proceeding toward the staircase. Hastings must already have gone down. Judging from this afternoon, she would not have expected him to be awake, much less able to negotiate his way through the house.
The prospect of an empty room tempted her to dash across the corridor now and begin her search. But it wouldn’t do for someone to wonder why she hadn’t appeared for dinner and come upstairs to inquire after her. Moving in front of the full-length mirror, she smoothed her dress. She wore a pale green chiffon tunic over pink satin, with a beaded sash she only just managed to fasten herself. Without Eva’s help, she had swept the sides of her hair up in combs and arranged a simple twist at the back of her head. By formal dinner standards neither the dress nor the coif would have passed muster, but this was no ordinary dinner, not with a killer possibly among the company. Perhaps Eva had returned to her room, was right now listening in at the speaking tube.
Downstairs, Julia met her in the hall, and they walked together to the drawing room. “Have I kept Stanley busy long enough? I’m running out of chores for her to do.”
“For now, at least, I believe so. But have you seen Eva? Is she helping Stanley with something? She didn’t come in to help me dress.”
Julia scanned her with an appreciative glance. “You did well enough on your own.”
“That’s not the point.” Phoebe knew Julia hadn’t issued her a compliment, for she had heard the sarcastic quality of her sister’s appraisal. “It isn’t at all like Eva not to send word if she’s detained for some reason. You know that.”
“Yes, I suppose I do. Dear Eva.” They stopped outside the drawing room door, Julia’s hand on the knob. “I didn’t appreciate her as much as I should have done. Now I know better.”
“What do you mean?” But Phoebe was not to hear the answer. Julia opened the door and stepped inside. Phoebe had no choice but to follow.
Hastings, Verna, and Cousin Clarabelle were all inside, speaking in hushed tones. How small their group had become. Two dead, and Olive locked in her room under suspicion. Phoebe joined her relatives where they stood grouped around the unlit fireplace. This being summer, a lavish floral arrangement would typically have spilled from the empty hearth in lieu of a crackling fire. Instead, nothing hid the charred stone and brickwork or the clawlike fingers of the grate.
“I don’t understand why the inspector hasn’t released us from this dreadful house yet,” Cousin Clarabelle was saying. “How long does he intend holding us prisoner here? We all know who murdered my daughter and Ralph.”
“It’s not even a full day yet since Regina died,” Phoebe reminded her. “And only hours since Ralph met his fate. The police have no solid evidence yet that Olive is guilty of either crime.”
“Haven’t they?” Verna’s gaze shot venom. “What more proof do they need than finding the creature twice standing over the deceased before anyone else arrived?”
“Coincidence,” Phoebe said. “Unfortunate timing on Olive’s part.”
“Unfortunate timing.” Hastings scoffed. The tumbler in his right hand tilted; the amber contents nearly spilled over.
“And how are you feeling now, Hastings?” Julia asked brightly. She raised her eyebrows in a show of concern, but Phoebe didn’t miss the amusement in the tilt of her mouth. “You were rather indisposed earlier, weren’t you?”
“Was I?” He raised the glass to his lips, but if he sipped at all, he did so sparingly.
“You were indeed.” In silk and tulle, Julia drifted to an armchair and, like a flower coming to rest on a tuft of grass, sank into it. “As for Olive . . . who’s to say the first person on the scene killed poor Ralph? Perhaps it was the last person.”
“How dare you?” Verna snapped, and Phoebe remembered that Verna had been the last to arrive, at least a full minute or more behind everyone else. Why? What had caused the delay? Or had she been there first . . . ?
“Or anyone else, for that matter,” Julia continued matter-of-factly.
“How would any of the rest of us get in and out fast enough without being seen?” Cousin Clarabelle stood imperiously before Julia’s chair. “Assuming Miss Asquith is innocent—which I do not—she would have seen the guilty person making their escape.”
“Perhaps.” Julia drew out the word, allowing it to linger on the air before it faded like the tone of a bell. And like a bell sounding, an idea struck Phoebe.
“What if the guilty person never left the room? What if they were inside the whole time, even when Olive came running in. Behind the door or a chair, in a corner where Olive wouldn’t have noticed. Then the rest of us poured in, and that
person merely blended in.”
Hastings let out a harsh round of laughter. His wife shushed him. “That’s quite a scenario you’ve invented, Phoebe. Bravo. You should be writing dramas for the West End theaters.”
“Perhaps the billiard room has a secret passage.” Cousin Clarabelle settled into a wing chair. She pinched her lips together, then went on. “Who knows, the house might be riddled with them. Or perhaps there’s a mischievous ghost in residence. Really now, we know who murdered my daughter and Ralph, and she is under lock and key, where she should be. No, I misspoke. She belongs at the end of a rope.”
But Phoebe had stopped listening after Cousin Clarabelle mentioned a secret passage. Yes, it sounded like something out of a penny dreadful. But old country houses such as this were riddled with them, whether they had been built to hide family fortunes during times of unrest, or to hide one’s priest during the Reformation. She considered the old turret at Foxwood Hall with its hidden, unused staircase leading up to the servants’ quarters on the top floor. As houses were renovated and modernized, often older sections were merely hidden behind new façades.
Her gaze drifted to her sister, who sat frowning in concentration until she met Phoebe’s eye. “Perhaps it’s worth a look,” Phoebe said.
Julia came to her feet. “Perhaps it is.”
“Perhaps what is,” Verna demanded.
“Perhaps there is a passage in the billiard room.” Phoebe didn’t wait for further comment. She heard the others following her, but didn’t stop until she reached the billiard room. She hesitated before going in, as if she would be confronted once again by Ralph Cameron’s body. But the constable had called in the coroner, and he and his assistants had removed the deceased, although not all evidence of it.
Inside, Phoebe avoided looking at the dried blood that marked where Ralph Cameron had died. Instead, she studied the richly paneled walls. Julia came in behind her.
“Maybe one of the panels opens,” Phoebe said to her.
“It would make more sense if this were the library, where a bookcase might swing open. Isn’t that how it’s done in novels and moving pictures?” The question mocked, but only slightly. Julia went to the wall opposite the door and began sliding her palms over the woodwork. Where moldings met, forming deep, coffered squares, she tried pushing. Nothing happened. Phoebe chose a wall and began doing the same, applying pressure at the seams and mitered corners.
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