A Devious Death

by Alyssa Maxwell

  She shook her head. She hadn’t known that, hadn’t thought about it before.

  “We’d fly back and forth, we and the Germans, each dropping his load on some target far below, and then, on the way back to the airfields, as we’d pass one another in the air, we’d wave.” He let out a laugh. “Wave. Can you imagine it? Time after time, bombing factories and towns, only to wave hello to the enemy afterward. As though passing a friend on the street.”

  He pressed his fingertips to his brow. “I counted myself lucky. What an easy time of it I had. A gentleman’s war, or so it seemed from the sky. Until . . . well. Finally, they fitted out the aircraft with guns, and that ended our friendly encounters with the enemy. After one mission . . .” He fell silent, exhaling. Eva didn’t dare speak a word as she waited. “After one mission, I sustained some damage and was forced into an emergency landing behind enemy lines, close to my last target. Quite close. Too close. And for the first time, I saw.”

  “Saw what?” Eva whispered back.

  “The village I’d destroyed,” he said softly. “I’d been told I was targeting a munitions factory. What I hadn’t been told was that this factory was in fact surrounded by a village. A village I destroyed. I don’t believe a soul was left alive.”

  “Miles . . .”

  “The worst of it is, I continued flying missions. Knowing what I knew, I continued dropping my loads—on villages, on human beings. On children.”

  “It was war,” she whispered urgently. “You had no choice.”

  He nodded, his face filled with bitterness. “I did my duty.”

  “You did.”

  “And now you know.” He gave himself a visible shake and squared his shoulders. “I have my duty now. Come.”

  And with that, he drew back into himself, shutting the door on that protected place inside himself. He became the policeman once more: brisk, efficient, focused.

  She should not have distracted him; should not have succumbed to her own need to know his secrets. Yes, she had pondered these matters for months, had wondered and devised theory after theory about what he so obviously kept hidden, what he had not wished to discuss. As he had said, now she knew. But did her knowing serve any good purpose for him? She feared that, in her quest to know him better, she had opened a wound in his soul. A sense of shame filled her, but, like him, she set it aside for now. She too had her duty to perform. “What are you going to do?”

  “Is there a telephone below stairs?”

  “Yes, in the housekeeper’s parlor.”

  “Good. I need to let the chief inspector and others know that Miss Asquith is on the run. Then I’m going to double around to the front door and pretend I’ve only just arrived. My plan is to claim the coroner found traces of anesthetic in Miss Brockhurst’s system, along with prints pointing to a suspect.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “I’ll be vague. It could also mean bruising in the size and shape of someone’s hands.”

  “Won’t they guess you’re bluffing?”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. Typically, the guilty party won’t wish to take chances. I’m hoping whoever it is will go running upstairs to do away with any incriminating evidence—the handkerchief or whatever was used in administering the ether to Miss Brockhurst, and whatever small vessel was used to steal some of Lord Mandeville’s stash.”

  “Unless Lord Mandeville himself did the deed.”

  “Unless. In which case, it’ll be his lordship who scurries upstairs.”

  Eva thought of something. “Myra Stanley is below stairs, and you mustn’t let her see you. Remember, she’s a suspect, too.”

  “Could she have known about the ether?”

  “Yes, easily. If Miss Brockhurst knew about her brother’s habit and discussed it with Lady Diana, Myra could have overheard and saved the knowledge for when it presented an opportunity for her. And there is little doubt she felt threatened by Miss Brockhurst.”

  “All right, then.” Miles paused, tight ridges forming between his eyes. He grasped her shoulders. “How certain are you that Olive Asquith did not kill Miss Brockhurst? I know you can’t be entirely sure, but what do your instincts tell you?”

  He held her gaze with such intensity she was taken aback, and for a moment she couldn’t form an answer. After she had just forced him to speak of an unspeakable horror, he still trusted her—so much so the responsibility of what he was asking overwhelmed her, even frightened her. What if she was wrong about Olive? What if the woman was such a good actress she had fooled Eva completely?

  But no, Miss Asquith hadn’t acted, hadn’t put on any pretense, had she? While she had maintained her innocence, she hadn’t pleaded or cajoled. She had merely stated her case. And though Miss Asquith had revealed rather more about her political plans than perhaps she meant to, she had made no apologies for her convictions. Surely, if she had sought Eva’s sympathies in order to convince her of her innocence, she would have guarded her tongue more carefully.

  She compressed her lips, and then said with as much assurance as she dared, “I believe she is innocent of murder, Miles. You are right in that I can’t be entirely certain, but my heart of hearts tells me she did not kill Miss Brockhurst or Mr. Cameron.”

  “All right, then.” His confidence in her left her humbled, grateful, and rather awed. He seemed not to notice her bewilderment as he continued planning out loud. “I’ll hold off going below stairs to use the telephone. Perhaps I’ll have you go downstairs, so that when I ‘arrive,’ you can go below and have Miss Stanley come up and join the others. I’ll make my announcement, and then see who scatters and where they go. That’s when I’ll need you back in your room, listening in.”

  “Yes, all right. How will you leave without being seen?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll get out. You just wait about ten minutes and find some excuse to go downstairs. A question for Lady Phoebe, perhaps. I know it’s unusual for lady’s maids to be in the main section of the house, but under these circumstances I doubt anyone will think twice about it.”

  She nodded. “I daresay you’re right.”

  “Are you ready?” He gave her hand a squeeze, and she smiled.

  “Ready.”

  * * *

  Phoebe hurried to the telephone in the rear hallway before any of the others decided to follow her. Actually, she hoped one of them would, and quite expected it, just not until she put her plan in motion. To that end, she didn’t waste a moment in picking up the candlestick telephone, while keeping a finger on the receiver cradle to prevent the operator from being summoned.

  “Yes, please connect me to the Little Barton Police Station.” She waited, listening to the sound of approaching footsteps, female ones, indicated by the clatter of heels. When she judged them close enough, she said, “Chief Inspector Perkins? This is Phoebe Renshaw. Yes, I’m still here at High Head Lodge. Yes, we are all still here, just as you ordered.” She pretended to listen, peeking down the corridor. A moving shadow appeared around from the corner, growing larger as the footsteps became louder. Phoebe turned her attention back to the telephone. “What we are wondering, Inspector, is whether we might leave High Head and go, all of us, to Foxwood Hall. Yes, I understand, Inspector, but—” She pretended to be interrupted, tapped her foot, sighed, and then continued, “But we’d all be in one place should you need to question anyone . . .”

  The approaching figure turned the corner with a swirl of plum tulle. Julia. With an ironic expression, she slowed but continued toward Phoebe.

  Phoebe debated whether to end her pretense, but then remembered she had no ally in her sister. “Yes, Inspector, I understand. I’ll let the others know. They won’t like it . . . Yes, Inspector.” Carefully, she released her finger from the receiver cradle and set the earpiece onto it.

  “The others sent me to check up on you. Or rather, when they squabbled over who should do it, I volunteered.” Julia halted, her arms crossed her chin at a tilt. “It’s no good, is it?”

  “I’m afra
id not. The inspector won’t be budged.”

  “Did you try offering him a bribe?”

  Phoebe chuckled. “No.” She moved away from the telephone table. Julia reached out to stop her.

  “You didn’t ring him, did you?”

  Phoebe’s pulse jumped. She schooled her features not to show her surprise. “You just heard me speaking to him.”

  “I heard you speaking. I heard you being very polite and oh so reasonable.”

  “So . . . ?”

  “So you don’t speak to Chief Inspector Perkins in that way. You don’t take pains to hide your impatience with the man’s inanities. Rather, you talk to him as a teacher speaks to a particularly difficult student.” Julia smiled sweetly. “What are you planning now?”

  Did Phoebe dare take her sister into her confidence? She had helped with the speaking tube plan, but beyond that she hadn’t offered much in the way of assistance. And how would she react to the possibility of Hastings having committed treason? Would she lash out at him? Make cutting remarks? Now wasn’t the time for that.

  She settled on revealing the least possible information. “If I had called the inspector, do you think he would have allowed us to leave?” She shook her head. “I thought pretending to call the best way to prevent the others from dashing upstairs to pack their things.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes, that’s all.”

  Still smiling, Julia declared, “I don’t believe you. I believe you and Eva have something new up your sleeves, and I want to know what it is.”

  “Julia, leave it alone, please. Once this is over, I’ll tell you everything. But right now . . . even I don’t know the full plan. You see . . .” She obviously had to tell Julia something to placate her, to prevent her from causing trouble with the others. With a glance behind her down the hallway, she leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Constable Brannock returned a little while ago. Whatever the plan is, it’s his to implement.”

  “What about Olive? Why doesn’t he take her to the police station?”

  Phoebe swallowed, once again schooling her features not to give anything away. No one knew yet that Olive had escaped her room. “He’s not convinced Olive killed anyone. He has a plan to test that theory.”

  Julia’s smile flattened, her lips thinning to a line of displeasure. “And I suppose he eagerly took you and Eva into his confidence.”

  “No. I just told you I don’t know the full extent of what he intends to do.”

  “Oh, you know more than you’re willing to admit. Saint Phoebe, always around to save the day. To save us mere mortals from the pitfalls of our own mistakes.”

  Julia turned to retreat down the hallway. Phoebe reached out and caught her elbow, and Julia spun around, her face filled with anger.

  “What is it?” Phoebe demanded. “What on earth have I ever done to you to make you treat me this way?”

  For several endless seconds Julia said nothing. Would she answer? Or would she turn back around and walk away? Phoebe regarded those deep, dark blue eyes, filled with a storm of emotion; she scanned her sister’s beautiful features, contorted, almost twisted with something approaching rage, yet surrounded, as always, by the halo of bright golden hair so like that of a Renaissance angel.

  “What is it, Julia?” she repeated in a whisper. “What wrong have I done you?”

  Julia’s nose flared; her eyes narrowed. “You are who you are.”

  Disappointment surged even as her heart plummeted. “Yes, I’m who I am. As you are you. What does that mean?”

  “It means . . .” To Phoebe’s astonishment, Julia’s chin quivered. She turned her face aside, swallowed, and drew in a breath. When she again faced Phoebe, her composure was back in place. “ ‘We’ll leave colors and fabrics to your sister. I have some new ideas I wish to share with you, cousin.’ ”

  “What?”

  “I heard you and Regina talking last night. You didn’t realize I’d stopped playing the piano, did you?”

  Baffled, Phoebe said, “Actually, I did notice. But why be angry at me for something Regina said?”

  “Because it’s always the way of it, isn’t it? Oh, we’ll trust Phoebe with the important things. Running the school. Catching the killers. Meanwhile, we’ll let Julia decorate the house. We’ll give her lots of lovely clothes to keep her quiet and marry her off at the earliest opportunity.”

  Phoebe stepped back, shocked. “It’s not that way. Grams expects all of us girls to marry, Amelia and I as much as you. You’re not the only one. And as for running the school, if you had taken an interest last spring . . .”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “No, I don’t.” Phoebe raised her hands, as if Julia could fill them with answers. “Please help me to.”

  “Perfect Phoebe,” Julia scoffed, her lips curling.

  “Me? You’ve always been the perfect one. I’ve always lived in your shadow. Why, the two of us could enter a room at the same time, wearing identical gowns, decked out in identical jewels, and no one would notice me. Only you. It’s always been that way.”

  “Yes, pretty Julia.”

  “Beautiful Julia,” Phoebe said fiercely. “Clever, smart, witty Julia. No one ever says such things about me. Never. Yet . . .” Earnestness softened her voice. “I don’t hold it against you. I never have. I never would.”

  Julia turned away again, and her voice came hard and coarse, as if it were ripped from her innermost self. “I heard him that day.”

  Phoebe blinked. “Heard who? What day?”

  “Papa,” her sister said without meeting her gaze. “Before he went off to the war. By the willow tree. You and he were walking together, talking. I was beneath the tree, and I was about to come out and let you both know I was there. But then he said it.”

  “Said what, Julia?” Phoebe spoke very softly, as if, like a timid deer, Julia might bolt at any moment.

  “He said—” She turned back to Phoebe with a stricken look. “He said you must watch over everyone. The family, the servants, even the villagers. You, he said. Because there was no one else. Fox was too young, Amelia too softhearted, and Julia, he said . . .” Her lips stretched, quivered, pulled tight. “Julia is, well . . . Julia, he said. As if that single word, my name, summed up all that is useless and frivolous and undependable. Oh, but not you. Not his Phoebe. He would leave you in charge because he trusted his Phoebe.”

  She remembered that day. How could she not? It was her last deeply personal conversation with her father before he left Foxwood Hall—and their lives—forever. She remembered the pride that spread through her at his words. Yes, he had said those very things, just as Julia repeated them—except without the resentment. Without the judgment. He had loved Fox and Amelia, and he had loved Julia. Oh, how he had loved his beautiful, eldest daughter. Phoebe knew it. He had loved them each for who and what they were. If Phoebe had been his dependable child, Julia had been, as her name implied, his treasured jewel, his star in the night sky. Beside her, Phoebe had always known she paled.

  And yet, Phoebe had felt singled out that day for possessing qualities that perhaps her siblings lacked. Perhaps Papa’s confidence in her had swelled her head, led her to believe she was somehow better than the others, and perhaps Julia had sensed this and had sought a way to shield herself from feeling inferior by one-upping Phoebe at every turn.

  It explained so much of the past several years . . .

  “Julia, I’m sorry if—”

  “Never mind.” Julia’s tone had lightened, sounded carefree, or almost. “It’s my problem, not yours. One I must learn to live with.”

  “How can you say that when—”

  Julia’s back was already to her as she retreated down the hallway, leaving Phoebe with her words unspoken, but resounding loudly in her heart.

  We are sisters and the problem is ours, to be solved together.

  * * *

  Eva was just coming down the stairs when Lady Julia clattered her way across the front hall
and entered the drawing room. A moment later, Lady Phoebe came from the same direction from which her sister had come, but while Julia’s expression had been unreadable, Eva plainly saw the unhappiness in her mistress’s eyes. She hurried down the remaining steps.

  “My lady, what’s wrong?”

  Lady Phoebe said nothing at first but clutched at Eva’s hand. Eva thought she saw tears welling, but Phoebe blinked adamantly and said, “I know why she hates me.”

  The resignation, the sheer acceptance in Lady Phoebe’s voice, gripped Eva’s heart. “Lady Julia doesn’t hate you. I’m sure she doesn’t.”

  “No, I believe she does. In part, anyway. A part of her loathes a part of me, the part my father valued most.”

  “No, you mustn’t think so.”

  “She just told me, spelled it out for me as clearly as you please.”

  Before Eva could respond to that, the door knocker sounded outside, three clangs that sent echoes bouncing through the hall. Lady Phoebe jolted. Eva hastened to reassure her.

  “It’s Miles,” she whispered. “Part of his plan. Just play along.”

  Lady Phoebe nodded. Eva went to answer the door, unbolting it from the inside. The others filed out of the drawing room, the dowager first, followed by her son and his wife, then Lady Julia.

  “What is that racket?” the dowager demanded.

  Miles answered her question by stepping inside. “Well, it’s about time you returned,” the dowager declared in a voice that resounded through the hall nearly as loudly as the door knocker had. “Have you come to tell us we may all finally leave this horrid place?”

  “No, Lady Mandeville.” Miles removed his police helmet. “No one may leave just yet.”

  “Why not?” The dowager’s gaze found Lady Phoebe. “Didn’t you call the chief inspector?”

  Eva noticed Lady Phoebe’s hesitation, the glance she darted at her sister, as if waiting for Lady Julia to speak up. Finally, she said, “I did. I was just coming to tell you all that his orders are for us to remain here for now.”