“Oh, that insolent man. How dare he—”
“Lady Mandeville,” Miles broke in. “There have been developments.”
“Well then, out with it.” Lord Mandeville gripped the door frame beside him.
Miles strode toward the drawing room. “If you will all please come inside and have a seat, I’ll explain. But first . . .” He turned to Eva with an air of authority. “Miss Huntford, will you please have Miss Stanley join us?”
“Yes, sir.” As soon as Eva had pushed through the baize door into the service hallway, she proceeded at a run. She didn’t want to miss any more of the conversation in the drawing room than necessary.
Downstairs, Myra Stanley stood in front of the range, watching the flames dance beneath a kettle. A porcelain teapot and mug sat on the work counter beside her.
“Myra, we’re both needed upstairs.”
A weary face turned in Eva’s direction. “I’m worn out. Can I not have my tea first?”
“No, Myra. The constable has returned and wants to see everyone in the drawing room. Now.”
“You’ve no idea what I’ve been through these past hours. Lady Tyrant seems eager to put me in my grave. Just a half cup of tea is all I ask.”
Eva went to the stove, extinguished the flame, and took a firm hold of Myra’s wrist. “Don’t ever let me hear you speak of Lady Julia with such disrespect again. Now come.”
Back upstairs, the tension in the drawing room lay as thick as cold butter. Miles had everyone grouped near the hearth. Eva and Myra took seats a little behind the others. They did so out of deference to their stations, but Eva longed to be where she could see everyone’s faces when Miles presented his “new evidence.”
Verna Brockhurst said, “May we get on with it?”
“Whatever it is.” The dowager fanned a hand in front of her face.
“The cook and her little assistant aren’t here,” Hastings Brockhurst mumbled. “Cute little thing, the assistant.”
His wife, sitting beside him, swatted his arm. “Do keep quiet, Hastings.”
“Now then.” Miles stood tall in front of the fireplace. “I’ll get right to the point.” With a look at the dowager, he said, “I’ll try to be as gentle as I can, my lady. I do understand how distressing this is for you and your family.”
“Thank you.” The dowager drew herself up and crossed her arms before her.
“The coroner has discovered traces of an anesthetic in Miss Brockhurst’s system. Enough to have rendered her incapacitated, making the killer’s job easier.”
No one said anything. A strained silence filled the room, seeming to hold the Brockhurst family immobile. A telling sign? It was Lady Phoebe who finally spoke.
“What kind of anesthetic?” She made a good job of sounding puzzled.
“We believe it might be ether, although further tests will be necessary to confirm that. However, there is more. Bruises were found that, again with further tests, may be matched to an individual.”
Verna Brockhurst coughed. “Yes. Olive Asquith.”
“Perhaps.” Miles paused. “But perhaps not.”
Silence prevailed once again. What Eva wouldn’t have given to be standing beside Miles, where she could read expressions. He seemed to be studying his audience one after another, and she also wished she could read his thoughts. She did, however, steal a sideways glance at Myra, who didn’t look particularly alarmed. Did that make her innocent, or a good actress?
“Is that everything?” the dowager asked with a sniff.
Miles nodded. “At the moment, my lady, yes. You’re all free to move about the house again. I’ll be conducting another search of the bedrooms, however, so I’ll have to ask you all to stay out of them.”
The dowager, on her feet now, turned to him with a scowl. “For what reason?”
“To search for the anesthetic used against your daughter, ma’am.”
The woman’s mouth moved, at first no sound coming out. Then she uttered a single word. “Oh.”
As soon as Miles formally dismissed everyone, Myra Stanley hurried back to the baize door. Eva followed, pretending to have an errand below stairs, but in fact she only wished to confirm Myra’s destination. Myra noticed her following and paused briefly on the stairs.
“I intend to finally have my tea. Please, if Lady Julia asks for me, tell her you don’t know where I’ve gone.” A hint of desperation shone in her eyes. “Please, Eva. I’ve done everything she’s asked me to do. Is a cup of tea too much to ask in return?”
“I don’t suppose so.” Perhaps Eva should have taken pity on Myra and allowed her to enjoy her tea without further incident, but she had questions for the woman that burned to be answered. It was lady’s maid to lady’s maid, and Myra had her own insolence to thank for it. Eva continued down, meeting Myra at the bottom. “Tell me the truth. Did you sell secrets about Lady Diana to the press? And have you done the same to Lady Julia?”
A tide of scarlet engulfed Myra’s face from neck to hairline. “I, er, what makes you ask such a thing?”
Eva pulled back slightly to better view her. “I believe your complexion has answered my question. It’s true, then. How much did they pay you?”
“It is not true. I will not stand here and be accused of betraying my employers.” She turned and walked briskly toward the kitchen. Knowing she had limited time, for Miles wanted her back up on the third floor listening at the speaking tube, Eva followed her.
“The countess telephoned earlier, Myra. She asked to speak to Lady Julia.”
Myra stopped short. She kept her back to Eva and said nothing, staring down at the floor.
“That’s right. Mrs. Sanders found a gossip rag with Lady Julia’s name in it. Tell me, how do you think it got there?”
Myra peeked around at Eva, her face still aflame. “What. . . what did it say?”
“I’m not going to repeat what it said, but it did put Lady Julia in an awkward position with her grandmother.”
“And Lady Julia believes it was me who blabbed about . . . whatever it is?”
“Let’s just say she is hard put to imagine who else might have done so.”
“Oh, but that isn’t fair. It could have been anyone at Foxwood Hall. It could have been—”
Eve strode so close to the woman she could almost feel the heat emanating off her. “It wasn’t anyone, was it? No one has as intimate knowledge of a woman as her lady’s maid.” Eva took on an almost bullying tone. She loathed doing it, but would put off feeling remorseful, or perhaps even apologizing to Myra, until later. Lady Julia’s well-being was as stake, and if Myra had betrayed her, Eva wouldn’t let it happen again, not if she had the power to prevent it. With her hands perched on her hips, she said, rather than asked, “It was you, Myra, wasn’t it.”
“I . . . You don’t understand. You don’t know what I’ve gone through.”
“Then perhaps you should tell me.”
“Have you ever been poor, Eva? Truly poor?”
Eva frowned as a surge of indignant anger swamped her. “Yes, in fact I have. My father is a farmer, and we have known good years and bad, and very bad. Calves lost, blights that destroyed grazing land and cattle with it, severe drops in prices—oh, yes, Myra, I’ve been poor. But that never prompted me to cheat or betray or sacrifice someone else for my benefit.”
Myra’s face became a mask of rage. “I didn’t hear tell of the workhouse in that little tale, Eva. Didn’t hear how you, your mother, and your four brothers and sisters—the ones that lived out of the original seven, mind you—were tossed out of your cellar flat and forced into the workhouse for the next five years. You talk about sacrifice. You don’t have the first idea. Have I cheated and betrayed to make sure that never happens to me again?” Her voice had lost its lady’s maid refinement, tumbling headlong into the guttural inflections of East London. She closed the space between them until her chin nearly touched Eva’s as she thrust it forward. “Yes, I have, and I’ve a tidy nest egg laid by, so if Lady Julia gives me the sac
k, at least I won’t go hungry.”
Eva stared back into Myra’s stormy gaze, unable to gather a reply. Myra laughed, a single bitter note. “Go ahead, run and tell Lady Julia. I’ll get by. But first I’ll have my cuppa.”
She continued to the kitchen. As she rounded the corner of the doorway, the cook stuck her head out from the servants’ hall. “What was that about?”
Eva gripped the banister and climbed the stairs.
CHAPTER 18
Phoebe stood beside Eva in her attic bedroom. Through the speaking tube, scuffling sounds came from Hastings and Verna’s bedroom, familiar ones, for Phoebe recognized the sounds of someone rummaging through Hastings’s toiletries case, as she had done earlier. The only question was who—Hastings or his wife?
They couldn’t tell by the footsteps which of them had entered the room, for the individual had taken pains to walk softly. Her gaze connected with Eva’s. They both shrugged.
“Miles should be in Olive’s bedroom by now,” Eva whispered.
“I hope he managed to slip in without anyone realizing Olive is gone.” Phoebe whispered as well, though there was no one overhear them. According to Eva, Miss Stanley was safely below stairs, enjoying a cup of tea. She nodded to Eva, who pushed the button to connect with Olive’s room.
“Miles, are you there?”
A moment passed, and he replied, “Yes, I’m here. Thought I’d have a good look through Miss Asquith’s things. No sign of pilfered ether or any fabric carrying the smell.”
Phoebe leaned in to speak. “Good. There is someone in my cousin Hastings’s room. We can’t tell who.”
“Thank you,” was all the constable said before breaking the connection.
Phoebe nodded again, and Eva switched the connection back to the suite shared by the married couple. They heard a muffled knock on the door, then a creak as it opened.
The constable’s voice burst from the speaking tube. “Lord Mandeville, you shouldn’t be here.”
It was Hastings—Hastings who had murdered his own sister. This didn’t surprise Phoebe. In fact, she mouthed to Eva, “I knew it.”
No, she was not surprised, but dismayed, to be sure. Had it been the money alone that drove him to it? Or Verna’s goading, and the need to appear a man in her eyes? Was Verna entirely innocent of the crime, or had she known? Had she encouraged her husband to cross the hall last night?
Phoebe had little doubt the truth would come out soon enough.
The talking from below continued.
“Do you always simply walk in on people, Constable?”
“What have you got there, Lord Mandeville?”
“This? It’s nothing. Merely my shaving cologne.” Hastings spoke as a man of his station typically addressed those he considered beneath him: with undisguised disdain and an air of superiority.
Eva clutched the mouthpiece with such force, Phoebe feared she might break it. She touched Eva’s hand, bringing her attention to the undue pressure.
“Sorry,” Eva murmured. They both hovered closer over the device, each with an ear tilted toward the receiver.
“And what were you doing with it,” the constable asked. “You don’t appear to need a shave.”
“Don’t be daft. Of course I don’t need a shave. I’m merely organizing my things. As you know, we hope to leave this house as soon as possible.”
“But I asked all of you to remain downstairs while I searched the bedrooms.” The constable maintained perfect calm. “Had you forgotten, Lord Mandeville?”
“Search all you like, Constable.” The laugh Hastings emitted sounded forced, artificial. “You shan’t bother me.”
“May I see that bottle, my lord?”
“No. Er, I mean to say, why would you wish to see my shaving cologne?”
“To verify that it is shaving cologne, my lord.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“Lord Mandeville, if you please . . .”
There were footsteps, steady ones followed by stumbling ones, and something falling over and hitting the floor. Eva gasped and pressed a hand to her mouth. Her eyes widened in alarm, and before Phoebe could stop her, she darted from the room.
“Eva, wait.” But she knew Eva would not. Had it been Owen Seabright confronting a murderer, and Phoebe heard the sounds of struggle, she’d have run to help, too. For half a moment she stood poised to follow, but the voices at the other end of the tube held her still.
“Please put that down, my lord.”
“Leave my room, and I will put it down.”
“Lord Mandeville, what you’re doing is exceedingly ill advised.”
Phoebe held her breath. What was Hastings holding? Some kind of weapon? A makeshift one like the andiron he used to kill Ralph Cameron?
Eva . . .
This time Phoebe didn’t hesitate but set off running downstairs, neither slowing on the steps nor when she burst through the door separating the service stairwell from the main portion of the first floor. Her heart surged to her throat when she saw that the door to Hastings’s room stood open. Eva had already gone inside. What had Hastings done? Had he swung his weapon, fired a gun—no, she would have heard the report. Thrown a knife?
Panting, she reached the doorway, catching herself by gripping the frame. The scene inside astonished her. On the floor lay Hastings, with the constable sitting on his chest, leaning to pin his arms to the rug. Eva stood some several feet inside the room, and as Phoebe looked on, she stooped to pick up a bronze figurine, about a foot long, of a man in Roman garb holding a sword. A weapon within a weapon.
“Are you both all right?” she cried.
“Yes, thanks to Eva.” The constable didn’t look up or release his hold on Hastings. “If she hadn’t opened the door and distracted his lordship here, I might be the one sprawled on my back.” He eased off slightly. “Has the fight quite left you, my lord? If I let you up, will you promise to behave?”
“Yes, yes, now get off me, you swine.”
“If I were you, Lord Mandeville, I’d hold my tongue.” The constable slowly removed his hands from Hastings’s shoulders, keenly observing his quarry as he did so.
“I’m still holding this.” Eva held the figurine up with two hands. “If pressed, I will not hesitate to use it.”
As the constable assisted Hastings to sit up, he turned his face aside. “Phew. How much have you had recently?”
Phoebe crossed the threshold. “You’re talking about the ether, aren’t you, Constable? Oh, Hastings, what did you think all this would bring you?”
Hastings took the constable’s offered hand and slowly came to his feet. “I’ve done nothing, Phoebe. This buffoon is mistaken.”
The constable spoke, echoing her exact thoughts. “How can any of us possibly believe you when you came running up here at the first opportunity to hide your bottles of ether?”
“Obviously, I didn’t wish them to be found.” Hastings rubbed the back of his hand across his chin. “I knew they would make me appear guilty—and they have.”
“Only because you tried to hide them before the constable could conduct his search.” Phoebe shook her head with a grim smile. “Actually, you fell right into his plans. Didn’t he, Constable Brannock?”
“He certainly did. I knew someone would race upstairs the moment my back was turned, so I pretended to search Miss Asquith’s room until someone did. Until you did, Lord Mandeville. Now turn around. I have to cuff your wrists.”
Hastings made no move to turn. “I didn’t kill my sister. Or Ralph. I may need my ether from time to time—”
Phoebe snorted. Hastings scowled at her.
“From time to time,” he continued, “but I’m no murderer. I swear it.”
“Then who did kill them, cousin?” Phoebe raised her eyebrows in genuine curiosity as to whom he would accuse. “Your wife? Your mother? There is no one left.”
“Yes, there is. There is still that dreadful little Olive person.”
“Could she have gotte
n hold of your ether?” the constable asked.
“She might have done. Who knows? Why don’t you go ask her?”
Why, indeed. Phoebe wondered how far Olive had gotten, and if she had been apprehended yet.
The constable regarded her cousin. At first Hastings returned his gaze with a defiant one of his own, but then he blinked and looked away. Telling? He was acting awfully composed for a man accused of murder. That raised a niggling doubt about their conclusion. Perhaps it had been Olive after all. Both she and Hastings had behaved in incriminating ways. Did guilt guide their actions or fear of being wrongfully accused?
Phoebe moved before her cousin, looking up to meet his eye. “I’d like nothing more than to believe you, Hastings. Truly. But I think this isn’t the first time you’ve lied, or failed to take responsibility for your actions.”
His eyes narrowed. “What the devil do you mean?”
She drew in a breath and continued before she changed her mind. “Your war service.”
“What about it? What are you implying?”
“You say you were captured, but is that the truth?”
“Why, you little . . .” His hand snaked out. Eva cried out a warning, and Phoebe jumped back. At the same time, Constable Brannock seized Hastings’s wrist, and then the other one, and yanked both behind her cousin’s back.
“You’re in enough trouble, my lord, without adding assault to the list.”
Hastings made a snarling sound in his throat, but the fight drained from his limbs. The constable released him but remained close. Hastings said, “I don’t know where you got that abominable notion, Phoebe. Of course I was captured. I was held for months.”
“Then why did Verna speak not of your capture but of your disappearance, and how it nearly killed your father three years ago? She said you may call it what you wish, but she knew the truth. What truth did she mean, Hastings?”
As feverish color suffused his face, Phoebe watched his expression plummet into shame, then confusion, and finally sheer rage. “You were listening in,” he charged. “How? Where were you? Were you hiding somewhere in this room?” He began looking all around him, his gaze encompassing chairs, alcoves, the doorway into the bath. And then his searching eyes lighted on the speaking tube apparatus on the wall. His mouth slowly opened. “Why, you . . .”
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