A Devious Death

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “You mean they might have a prearranged meeting place?”

  “Let’s hope so.” His russet eyebrows brows drew inward. “If they’re all part of the communist movement and planned to use this house as a headquarters, it’s likely there are others holed up somewhere close by, waiting until High Head Lodge was ready for them. Which could make the job of finding them easier. I have to let my associates know about this.”

  “Miles, is it illegal, what they’re doing?”

  “It depends on how they go about it. There are no laws against sharing ideas, even ideas that go against our traditions. It’s when people start disrupting daily life that they stray into trouble with the law.”

  Eva nodded, considering. “Then it’s possible that Miss Asquith and the Grekovs haven’t actually done anything wrong. If they aren’t responsible for Miss Brockhurst and Mr. Cameron, that is.”

  “Running away seems to me an admission of guilt—of something.”

  Before she could reply, Lady Phoebe’s urgent whisper reached them from down the corridor. She stood outside Lord and Lady Mandeville’s suite, holding what appeared to be a pint-sized bottle in each hand. “Eva, Constable, come here.”

  When they reached her, she held out the bottles so they could read the labels.

  “Shaving cologne,” Eva said, puzzled. “And hair tonic.”

  Lady Phoebe shook her head and handed the bottle marked “hair tonic” to Miles. “Open it and take a whiff.”

  He complied, bringing the open bottle close to his nose and then whisking it away. “Ether.”

  “I thought so,” Lady Phoebe said with a nod. At the puzzled look Miles flashed her, she explained, “While you were gone, Hastings became inebriated, or so I believed until my sister said he smelled like a dentist’s office.” She looked ruefully down at the bottle in her hand. “Sure enough, he hasn’t been drinking. He’s been drugging himself.”

  Eva reached for the other bottle and smelled the contents. The odor raised a shiver of repugnance. “Awful.”

  Miles held the bottle up to eye level. “These were in Lord Mandeville’s things?”

  “They were among his toiletries in the bathroom. I believe he must have a smaller bottle or other container that he keeps with him.”

  “Some kind of inhaler, is my guess.” Miles tightened the cap on the bottle. “Something that would allow him enough of a dose to produce euphoria without risking unconsciousness.”

  “Where would he get such a thing?” Eva asked him.

  “Any number of places, especially in London. Or it could be homemade,” he replied. “It wouldn’t be difficult. A vial, with a piece of rubber or metal tubing attached, and a cap to close it off.”

  “Yes, well, I believe whoever killed Regina used a common handkerchief soaked in ether to drug her so she wouldn’t wake up while she was being murdered.” Lady Phoebe’s expression challenged them to question her theory.

  “Incapacitated Miss Brockhurst to make killing her easier.” Miles almost sounded impressed. “And quieter. This would explain the lack of signs of a struggle.”

  “And the whiskey could possibly have been used to mask the odor of the ether,” Eva added.

  “Yes, but that’s not all.” Lady Phoebe cast a glance down the corridor and lowered her voice even more. “Hastings has something to hide. I overheard him speaking of it with Verna. Or, rather, she spoke of it. She actually accused Hastings of causing, if not his father’s death, his illness. It was something that happened during the war. The timing of it would have been after he was captured by the Germans. Verna said she knew the truth, and knew what the incident did to his father and to what lengths Cousin Basil went to save his son.”

  “Save him from a prison camp?” Miles narrowed his eyes. “I can scarce believe any amount of English money could have released his son from a German prison camp.”

  “Then what could they have been talking about?”

  “My lady, you said Lord and Lady Mandeville senior didn’t seem particularly eager to discuss the details of their son’s imprisonment with your grandparents.”

  “No, they claimed it was too painful.”

  “Too painful,” Miles said with a canny look, “or too shameful?”

  Lady Phoebe flashed a puzzled frown. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, Lady Phoebe, that perhaps your cousin wasn’t taken prisoner at all.” Miles gritted his teeth until a muscle in his cheek bounced with tension, and his lips pulled back in disgust. “It wouldn’t be the first time a family paid to have reports changed and certain incidents covered up.”

  Lady Phoebe shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  Eva placed a hand on her shoulder and spoke gently. “I believe what Miles is saying, my lady, is that rather than having been taken prisoner, your cousin might have . . .” She hesitated, searching for the least brutal way to term it. “Might have turned his back on his duties.”

  Lady Phoebe’s mouth dropped open, and her eyes widened in horror. “Desertion?”

  “I’m sorry, Lady Phoebe, but yes, quite possibly.” Miles spoke gruffly. He fisted a hand and pressed it, unconsciously, it seemed to Eva, against his thigh. “This certainly changes things. Makes me wonder if Miss Brockhurst knew the truth about her brother and threatened to use it against him. Had he been caught during the war, he would have been court-martialed and shot. He could still be prosecuted.”

  Lady Phoebe blanched. “And shot?”

  “I doubt that, but he’d be ruined, wouldn’t he?” Miles held the bottle up to the light of a wall sconce and studied its contents. “Still three quarters full. I don’t suppose it takes much to produce the desired effects.”

  Even as he seemed to dismiss Lord Mandeville’s war service, Eva sensed his lingering rancor in the jut of his jaw and the harsh, seething light in his eyes. Patriotic fervor? Or something more personal? Miles rarely spoke of his time in the war, and his reticence had once been a source of contention between them, a barrier that prevented her from truly knowing him. She had believed the barrier gone, dissolved, but clearly there existed a side to him that remained a stranger.

  For now, she let the matter go but with a vow to revisit the subject soon. She said, “Lady Phoebe and I talked earlier about who might know of Lord Mandeville’s addiction. His wife and his mother, and even Miss Asquith might have known, for she stayed at their London house weeks ago with Miss Brockhurst. Any of them might have used the ether against her.”

  “Up until this moment, Olive’s escape made her look guilty.” Lady Phoebe’s comment seemed to quiver in the air. Surely they were all thinking the same thing, that Hastings Brockhurst, the disgraced son and disinherited brother, harbored enough bitterness and resentment to compel him to commit murder.

  Lady Phoebe raised her chin. “Olive is a communist and a radical, to be sure, and that may be why she ran away, because she fears her politics will be held against her, and she’ll be wrongfully charged with murder. But as I listened in through the speaking tube earlier, she didn’t sound like someone who murdered two people.” She paused, sighing. “Eva, I’m sorry I didn’t listen more closely. I might have heard what she did to you, might have realized . . .”

  “No, my lady, you couldn’t have. I was in the room with her, and I didn’t hear her sneak up behind me.” Eva raised a hand to her head, once again feeling the tender lump.

  “Still and all, I’m very sorry.”

  Miles cleared his throat. “You should both be sorry. Neither one of you should have been in that room with Miss Asquith without someone else, namely me, nearby to make sure she didn’t do exactly as she did.”

  Lady Phoebe looked stricken, and Eva experienced a stab of guilt. “We’re responsible for her getting away, aren’t we?”

  Miles took the other bottle from her. “Don’t worry, she’ll be found. For now, I’m putting these back. Let’s pretend we never found them, that we don’t know what Lord Mandeville is up to, or that anyone else might kno
w his little secret.” Then, to Lady Phoebe he said, “Tell me where you found them.”

  “Why don’t I just go and put them back?”

  “Because you’re to go down and prevent anyone from coming up until these are safely stowed away and I’ve prepared my next step. Does anyone else know about Miss Asquith’s escape?”

  Lady Phoebe shook her head. “I don’t believe they have any idea, actually. Not even that you’re back.”

  “Good, let’s keep it that way. I’m going to relock Miss Asquith’s bedroom door as well. As far as anyone is to know, she’s still safely under lock and key.”

  * * *

  When Phoebe returned to the ground floor, she found the others had left the dining room and adjourned to the drawing room.

  “What kept you so long? We were growing worried about you,” Verna said as she entered the room. Her tone expressed more boredom than concern.

  “I wished to get that dress to Eva immediately.” She joined them where they sat grouped near the south-facing windows. The evening twilight hovered in gray shadows over the gardens, and Phoebe marveled that they had discovered Regina only that morning, and Ralph that afternoon. Mere hours ago, yet it seemed like days.

  “Is a tear in a dress worth missing dinner?” Cousin Clarabelle obviously didn’t believe so, not the way she presently eyed Phoebe up and down.

  “It’s a favorite dress, and I wasn’t very hungry anyway.” She shrugged despite her rumbling stomach. “I’ll have something later.”

  “Well, while you were tracking down your maid, we came to a decision,” Cousin Clarabelle announced. “We are going to ring up the chief inspector and inform him we are not going to spend another night in this house.”

  “But he hasn’t given us permission to leave,” Phoebe pointed out.

  Cousin Clarabelle’s nostrils flared. “Are we going to be ordered about by a civil servant?”

  “I should think not.” Hastings, his legs stretched out before him, crossed his ankles and slouched in a slovenly manner.

  “We aren’t safe being in the same house with a killer,” Verna said. “Even if she is locked in her room. How do we know she won’t figure a way out? Why, she might even know how to pick locks. Her kind typically do.”

  Hastings agreed with a halfhearted nod. “She’s probably waiting for the right moment.”

  “And how do we know those odd foreigners aren’t in on it with her?” Cousin Clarabelle, becoming animated, sat up straighter. “They’ve run off, but what’s to keep them from returning to slit our throats?”

  She went on, with Hastings and Verna chiming in every now and again with their agreement and their own theories. Phoebe watched them all closely. How much did they really know about Regina’s activities? And which, if any of them, might be the most alarmed to discover a member of their own family aiding the spread of communism?

  Cousin Clarabelle, to her credit, had never been an ardent social climber. Phoebe supposed that, as the wife of a peer, she had been secure enough in her place in the social pecking order not to worry overmuch about scratching her way higher. Still, she had always been scrupulous in maintaining the family’s dignity, so much so that at first, she had opposed Hastings’s marriage to Verna, whom she had deemed beneath them. How would Cousin Clarabelle feel about her own daughter’s joining the ranks of the Marxist reformers and compromising the family’s long-held Tory stance?

  Phoebe shifted her attention. Slender, angular Verna, with her prominent nose and weak chin, hailed from gentry whose lands near Birmingham had been chipped away during the last half century until they owned little more than the original house with a few outbuildings and truncated gardens. Still respectable, yes. But from the upstairs rooms of the house, one could look out over the roads, rowhouses, and railroad depot where once had been forest and farmland. Verna had come into the Brockhurst family with a long list of desires, chief among them living in a style to which she longed to become accustomed and taking what she perceived as her rightful place in society. Phoebe had once overheard Grams remarking such to Grampapa. Having a communist in the family would surely stem the tide of invitations during the London season, and Verna would have been horrified by the thought. Not to mention, doing away with Regina brought Hastings back into his inheritance.

  Hastings . . . She contemplated her cousin while he grunted half-intelligible responses to his mother’s and Verna’s debate over who would likely slit their throats first, Olive or the Grekovs. Hastings, an ether addict . . . and a deserter? She wished she could dismiss the possibility, wished the queasiness the word evoked would go away, but considering the latest argument she had overheard, well, the facts seemed to fall into place. Then she thought back on last night, on the other argument she’d overheard between them. Verna had goaded Hastings, all but accusing him of not being a man. Had she pushed him to his limit? Struck some chord deep inside him that spurred him to action?

  Yet there was still one person to consider who was not presently in the room: Myra Stanley. Phoebe still believed Miss Stanley had reason to either fear or resent Regina; perhaps both. And since Regina’s death, Miss Stanley had become much more relaxed.

  Of course, they couldn’t entirely rule out Olive Asquith or even the Grekovs. A piece of information, or perhaps several, continued to elude them. If only she had been able to meet with Ralph Cameron. She felt positive he had died knowing the identity of Regina’s murderer and had himself died for his pains. What had he learned? How had he learned it?

  She turned her attention back to the conversation, focusing on what Cousin Clarabelle was presently saying. “We’ve been waiting for that inept constable to return, but since he shows no likelihood of doing so before morning, we’ve no choice but to take matters into our own hands by telephoning the chief inspector. Now.” She clapped her hands together. “Who wants the honor?”

  The three Brockhursts eyed one another. No one spoke up. Cousin Clarabelle’s gaze drifted to Julia. “What about you? You’re a local resident, you must know the man. And he’ll heed the demands of the Earl of Wroxly’s granddaughter.”

  With a huff, Julia pulled back in her chair. “I’m not telephoning anyone. Chief Inspector Perkins is hardly likely to listen to me. If anything, he’ll tell me to mind my business and stay put until he says otherwise. Which I think perhaps is the wise course in this instance.”

  “The wise course?” Cousin Clarabelle reddened with outrage. “Wise course? Are you mad?”

  While the others fell to expressing their opinions, Phoebe thought, Good for Julia. She wholeheartedly agreed with her sister that they should remain at High Head Lodge until the killer was identified, whether it be Olive or Hastings or someone else. The easiest way to do that was to keep everyone together, where they could all be observed. If they were to scatter now, Constable Brannock’s job would become that much more difficult.

  “But if you’re all set on leaving,” Julia went on as if her last comment hadn’t created verbal chaos, “perhaps Phoebe would achieve better results with the inspector than I would.”

  What? Phoebe did a double take as the others ceased their banter to listen. She pointed to herself. “Me?”

  Julia smiled sweetly at her.

  “Oh, yes, Phoebe, do ring up the inspector for us. Surely you don’t want to remain here in this awful house.” Cousin Clarabelle gave a dramatic shudder.

  “I really don’t think the inspector will listen to me any more than he would Julia.”

  Cousin Clarabelle didn’t bother to hide her annoyance as she turned her attention to Hastings. “Then you do it. You’re Lord Mandeville now. He’ll have to listen to you.”

  He started as though just awakening from a nap. “Who are we talking about?”

  “The chief inspector,” Verna said between her clenched teeth, then added in a whisper, “Idiot.”

  A sudden idea brought Phoebe to her feet. “All right, I’ll go. Perhaps he’ll allow us to go to Foxwood Hall.”

  “Oh, do
you think so?” Cousin Clarabelle’s entire demeanor changed. The irritation smoothed away, leaving her the picture of hope and reason. “Foxwood Hall would be lovely. I should very much enjoy visiting with your grandparents. Do convince him, Phoebe, dear.”

  Phoebe crossed to the doorway. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Miles slipped out of Lord and Lady Mandeville’s suite after replacing the containers of ether in their rightful places and quietly closed the door. With a hand at Eva’s elbow, he escorted her to the end of the corridor, to the door that opened onto the service staircase. They stepped in onto the landing and spoke in hushed tones, both of them well aware of how sound traveled in stairwells.

  “I want you go back to listening in, please, Eva.”

  Without stopping to think of the wisdom of her action, she reached out, grasping his wrist and tugging up his sleeve a bit. Months ago, she had noticed the aviator’s watch he wore, but when she asked him about it, his answer had been terse at best and not really an answer at all.

  His gaze followed hers, and they both regarded the large dial with its prominent numbers and faint green glow. His lips compressed, and the breath that went out of him murmured of resignation.

  She released him. “Miles, please tell me.”

  He didn’t at first meet her gaze, but stood with his head down, his shoulders hunched. She feared he wouldn’t answer and half wished she had said nothing, or at least left the matter for some later date. She had once believed Miles hadn’t served in the war at all. Irishmen hadn’t been compelled by law to fight, and she had considered him too whole, too unaffected to have seen battle. Yet, with time, she had realized his wounds were not physical, but buried inside him, deeply, in a place he kept protected at all times.

  She started to apologize. He spoke at the same time. “I flew with the Royal Flying Corps throughout the war. I flew bombers across enemy lines, targeting strategic sites.” He looked up, finally, and smiled, a tight gesture so filled with pain she nearly stepped back. As it was, she held her ground, waiting silently for him to continue. “Do you know that in the early years, there were no guns mounted on our planes?”