Constable Brannock took hold of him again, his hands wrapping around Hastings’s elbows from behind. “You are under arrest, my lord. Come willingly, and this will go much easier for everyone. Think of your mother, sir. She is downstairs, oblivious to what is happening here.”
Once again, the resistance drained from Hastings’s figure until he practically sagged against the constable. With a sigh that ended in a groan, he put his hands behind his back and allowed the constable to secure the cuffs on his wrists.
As the constable walked Hastings into the corridor, Phoebe went to Eva’s side. She still held the figurine, cradling it like a baby in her arms. “He might have killed Miles with this.”
Phoebe studied the piece, realizing the damage it might have inflicted. Hastings might indeed have killed the constable, just as the andiron had killed Ralph Cameron. “What exactly happened? Constable Brannock said you distracted Hastings.”
“That’s right. I opened the door, and your cousin looked away from Miles long enough for Miles to shove him and wrestle this out of his hands.” She placed the Roman swordsman on the nearest bureau. “But it wasn’t all that difficult for Miles, I don’t think. His lordship seemed to move sluggishly, without any true vigor. I believe even if I hadn’t come along, Miles would have overpowered him.”
“The ether in his system slowed him down.”
“Which would explain, my lady, why he would have used the ether to subdue Miss Brockhurst before murdering her. If she had fought back, he might not have been able to carry out his plan.”
Phoebe ran her hand over the statuette, the etchings cold beneath her fingertips. “How could Hastings, rendered slow and uncoordinated by his addiction, have swung that andiron at Ralph Cameron, a man who was for all appearances the picture of robust health?”
“Surprise, my lady. Mr. Cameron hadn’t been expecting it.”
“Yes . . . But had the constable been expecting Hastings to wield that figurine?”
“I’m not sure I follow. Miles is a trained officer of the law. His instincts are honed. Mr. Cameron’s would not have been.” Eva’s eyebrows went up suddenly. “I nearly forgot. I had a brief conversation with Myra Stanley before meeting you upstairs in my room a little while ago. It quite convinced me she had no hand in Miss Brockhurst’s death. Not that she is an innocent—quite the contrary. But her offenses aren’t so much illegal as immoral. Of course, it’s a moot point now that Lord Mandeville has been arrested.”
High-pitched wailing traveled up the stairs. Phoebe and Eva both went still, and then Phoebe said, “Verna and Cousin Clarabelle will have just learned of Hastings’s arrest. Let’s go down, or Constable Brannock might not make it out of the house unscathed.”
* * *
Lady Julia stood at the half landing, one hand on the bannister while she gazed down at the fray taking place in the front hall. Her mouth slanted ironically. She and Phoebe traded bemused looks, at which Lady Julia shrugged. Phoebe continued down and Eva followed her, directly into the sort of family battlefield ladies’ maids avoided at all costs. Verna Brockhurst had plastered herself to the front door, stance wide, arms outstretched, with an expression that defied Miles to attempt to move past her.
The dowager, on the other hand, had both hands wrapped around her son’s upper arm, even as Miles maintained his hold on the man’s other arm. Hastings Brockhurst stood between them like the rope in a tug of war. Each time his mother yanked, Lord Mandeville swayed precariously, threatening to take all three of them to the floor.
“My lady, if your son is innocent, he will be set free,” Miles assured her.
“Of course I’m innocent, you dolt.”
“He’s done nothing.” His mother kept tugging, and Lord Mandeville kept wobbling. “Let him go. Release him at once.”
“You’ve got the wrong man,” his wife shrieked for good measure.
If only Eva could slip away to her sewing and ironing and jewelry polishing. She had little experience in witnessing the crumbling of upper-crust English dignity and stood with her hands folded at her waist and her gaze focused on the far wall. Really, since she could do little to help Miles in his present dilemma, perhaps she might simply slip away, either back up the stairs or through the baize door.
Coward. The least she could do was remain and bear it and provide a bit of moral support to Miles, albeit in silence. Lady Phoebe, however, attempted to put her diplomatic skills to good use.
“Cousin Clarabelle, please listen to reason. The constable has good cause for his suspicions.” Phoebe put an arm around the dowager and attempted to ease her away from her son. “But as he said, if Hastings is innocent, he’ll go free. Better to allow him to go for questioning than worsen matters by making . . . well . . . a scene.”
“A scene? A scene?” The dowager stood firm, her hands remaining locked as tightly around Lord Mandeville’s arm as the handcuffs around his wrists. Perhaps more so, for he winced as she applied pressure. “I’ll give you a scene. If Hastings must be questioned, let him be questioned here. And where is that little guttersnipe, Olive Asquith? She’s the guilty one. Constable, I insist you bring her down here, snap the cuffs on her, and remove her at once.”
Eva, Phoebe, and Miles exchanged glances. The dowager noticed.
“What are you three hiding? Where is Olive? Why isn’t she being arrested instead of my son?”
“Olive is . . .” Lady Phoebe hesitated for the briefest instant. “. . . No longer here, Cousin Clarabelle.”
The dowager’s grip on her son visibly eased, if only a fraction. “You mean she’s already been arrested?” The question met with silence, which the woman interpreted incorrectly. “Then why is my son also being arrested? Surely you cannot believe them to have conspired together. Hastings wouldn’t deign to speak to the likes of Olive Asquith, much less form a diabolical plan with her.”
Lord Mandeville’s wife came away from the front door. “Yes. If the guttersnipe is already in custody, why are you treating my husband in this abominable manner?”
Miles responded swiftly. “Because there are questions he needs to answer. And because after learning that the coroner discovered an anesthetic in Miss Brockhurst’s system, Lord Mandeville scurried upstairs to hide the ether in his possession.” He raised in eyebrow in silent question to both women.
The younger Lady Mandeville gazed at her feet and shuffled them for good measure. The dowager coughed. That left no doubt in Eva’s mind they had both known of Lord Mandeville’s addiction.
“In effect,” Miles went on, “the use of your son’s ether in the crime makes him either guilty or a possible accessory.”
“Ridiculous.” Lady Mandeville’s frown belied the bravado in her voice. “Hastings, did you have anything to do with Regina’s death?”
“Of course not. As I keep telling the constable, I had nothing to do with it. She was my sister, for heaven’s sake.”
“There.” Lady Mandeville made it sound as though the case had been solved. “He didn’t do it. He’s a gentleman. A peer. You may take his word for it.”
Eva detected Miles’s effort to contain a laugh. “I’m afraid not, my lady. Now, I’m very sorry, but you’ll have to excuse us.”
The younger Lady Mandeville burst into tears as Miles walked her husband out the front door, but something in her manner reminded Eva of the tears of a toddler pitching a tantrum, rather than those of a distraught and loving wife. The dowager, arguing with each step, kept hold of her son all the way out to the motorcar, where Miles had to physically pry her free. Even the revving engine failed to drown out her threats to have Miles fired from his position and brought up on charges.
As the motor faded into the distance, the dowager dragged herself back into the house. She closed the door behind her and sagged against it, sliding all the way down to the floor. Lady Phoebe went to her, crouching to put an arm around her. “There, there, Cousin Clarabelle. It’ll be . . . well . . . it will work out. You’ll see.”
“I f
ail to see how,” the woman wailed.
Verna Brockhurst moved like a sleepwalker to the stairs and sank onto the first step. Wrapping her arms around her knees, she hugged them and stared vacantly into space. “We’ll be ruined. I’ll be ruined. No one in society will ever speak to me again.”
Eva stared at the woman in disbelief. That was Lady Mandeville’s foremost concern? Then her gaze drifted away, only to land on the baize door as someone pushed it open from the other side. Myra Stanley stepped through. How long had she been there, listening? An uneasy sensation crept through Eva, and she started toward the other lady’s maid.
CHAPTER 19
Eva took Myra by the arm and drew her into the shadows beside the baize door. “What are you doing in this part of the house? You know you have no business here unless you’ve been sent for.”
“And how do you know Lady Julia didn’t send for me?”
“Did she?”
Myra’s smirk was all the answer Eva needed. “You were listening in, weren’t you? More fodder for the scandal sheets?”
Myra raised her nose in the air and started to turn away, but Eva, still holding her arm, gave a little squeeze. Myra turned back with a glower. “And why shouldn’t I? These Brockhursts aren’t innocent victims. They’re horrible people, the worst kind, and they don’t deserve respect.”
“That’s not for you to judge.”
“Isn’t it? They’re the sort that takes advantage of everyone, especially those less well off. People like you and me, Miss high and mighty Eva Huntford.”
Eva wanted to disagree, vehemently, but couldn’t gather the words or the energy. Myra was right about the Brockhursts, but that didn’t justify her plans to air their private troubles publicly. Soon, not only the scandal sheets but respectable publications as well would splash the Brockhursts’ shame across their front pages.
“And anyway,” Myra went on, “you as good as told me I’ll be getting the sack. I might as well go with my pockets well lined.”
“It’s wrong, and someday it will catch up with you.”
“You needn’t worry about me, Eva. I shall be more than fine.”
“You foolish woman. You could have had a very secure future at Foxwood Hall.” Eva and Myra both flinched at the voice, and turned to find Lady Julia standing within feet of them, a scowl attempting but not quite succeeding in marring her lovely features. “You could have become a valued member of the household, and when I marry, you would have come with me to my new home as part of the senior staff, second only to the housekeeper. Now where will you go?” She ended on an almost amiable note, her held tilted, her perfectly groomed eyebrows raised in a show of concern.
“My lady,” Eva whispered. She should not have confronted Myra here, where they could be overheard. Where they had been overheard. It was as much a breach of a lady’s maid’s honor as Myra’s betrayal of secrets. “I’m so sorry.”
“For what, Eva? For revealing Stanley’s true nature to me? Not that I didn’t already have ample notion of her treachery. Oh, yes, Stanley, when my grandmother called to tell me she read my name in a magazine, it didn’t take long for me to guess where the story originated. And to think you came so highly recommended. What won’t I say to Lady Diana next time I see her . . . Well.” She turned on her heel and made her way into the drawing room. Myra retreated through the baize door as fast as her feet could take her.
* * *
“What shall we do?” Cousin Clarabelle clutched at Phoebe’s shoulders with shaky hands. “If only Ralph were here. Ralph would fix this. He’d know exactly what to do. He’d have that constable out on the street by morning.”
Not if it was Hastings who murdered Ralph, Phoebe thought. She attempted to disentangle herself from Cousin Clarabelle’s grip. “Come now, why don’t we go into the drawing room and have a bit of brandy. It will help steady you.”
“I know what to do. Call your grandfather. He’ll know what is to be done. Oh, Phoebe, would you?”
“Yes, I will. Let’s just get you up off this chilly floor. Come, Cousin Clarabelle. This isn’t doing you any good, and certainly doing no good for Hastings.”
Cousin Clarabelle allowed Phoebe to help her to her feet. “I suppose you’re right. You’re such a dear, Phoebe. And so sensible. You always were the steady one.”
Even with all that happened, Phoebe winced slightly at the praise and hoped Julia hadn’t heard, for it would only chafe the wound that lay between them. As she and Cousin Clarabelle crossed the hall, Phoebe noticed Verna sitting and crying at the bottom of the stairs. She reached out a hand to her. “You come, too, Verna. Please. You can’t stay there all alone.”
Where had Julia gone? She had been standing at the half landing when Phoebe and Eva came down. Back to her room? She was surprised to find her in the drawing room, where Phoebe brought the other two women, one on each arm.
“Julia, help me, please.”
Her sister regarded her blankly. “What can I do?”
“Help Verna onto the sofa and pour her a brandy while I tend to Cousin Clarabelle. I fear they are both in shock.” As she spoke, Eva appeared at Cousin Clarabelle’s other side and slung an arm around the woman’s waist.
“I’ll help, my lady. Come, ma’am, we’ll make you comfortable here on the settee.”
Moments later both women sipped brandies while staring into the empty hearth. Eva left for a few minutes and returned with a blanket for each of them. Phoebe tucked the blankets around them, wishing she knew what to say to soothe them. Her gaze kept straying to Eva, standing off to one side, as if Eva could somehow silently transmit advice on how to handle the situation. Suddenly, Cousin Clarabelle sat up straighter.
“Phoebe, you said you’d call your grandfather.”
Julia stood. “I’ll go. It’s about time Grams and Grampapa learned what happened here. And I can’t imagine we’re still required to stay on. The police have made their arrest.”
Cousin Clarabelle raised a hand to her mouth and sobbed. Verna gaped at Julia, obviously aghast at her insensitivity.
“I’m sorry.” For once Julia sounded earnest. “I’ll . . . er . . . go make that call.”
“Oh, my son. My darling son.” Cousin Clarabelle placed a palm against her cheek, which gleamed with perspiration. “I’m feeling faint. Phoebe, dearest, help me upstairs. I need to lie down.”
“Are you sure you can make it?” Phoebe asked.
“Yes, please help me up.”
Phoebe offered both hands to help Cousin Clarabelle to her feet. Eva came around the settee to offer her assistance, but Cousin Clarabelle waved her away. “No, you stay with Verna until Julia returns. When she does, go below and have Mrs. Dayton make tea. Phoebe will be sufficient to help me upstairs.”
Each with an arm around the other, Phoebe helped Cousin Clarabelle up the stairs and to her room. She expected to stay with her, but as soon as Cousin Clarabelle had stretched out on the bed and Phoebe pulled the bedclothes up over her, she waved Phoebe away.
“I’m exhausted. I wish to sleep now. Perhaps I’ll wake up to find this has all been a horrid nightmare, and my child—my dear child—will still be here with me . . . will still be my sweet boy . . .”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay with you?”
“No, I’ll be all right now. Wake me when your grandparents arrive. I’m quite sure they’ll rush right over once they’ve talked with Julia.”
“Yes, you’re probably right.”
“Oh, Phoebe?” Cousin Clarabelle already sounded drowsy.
“Yes, Cousin Clarabelle?”
“Olive hasn’t been arrested, has she?”
Phoebe sighed. “No, she hasn’t. The truth is, she managed to escape her locked room. But I’m sure she’ll be found soon.”
Cousin Clarabelle, her eyes closed, nodded. “And then my Hastings will come home.”
Phoebe leaned over to kiss the other woman’s cheek, then left the room and closed the door behind her.
As
the latch clicked, so too did something in her mind. Cousin Clarabelle had said she hoped to awaken and find her dearest child still here . . . her sweet boy . . .
Not her children. Her child. All her concerns centered around Hastings. What about Regina? Didn’t she yearn to awaken and find her daughter still alive? And what of Ralph Cameron, on whom Cousin Clarabelle had leaned for both legal and emotional support?
She stopped dead center in the corridor, thinking. Regina—Clarabelle—Ralph. The three had seemed intricately linked, a trio of affections and resentments and, between Regina and her mother, a power play of sorts.
She continued to her own bedroom, wondering, as she had yesterday, what had been going on between the three of them. Had Ralph divided his affections between mother and daughter, not as a loyal family friend, but as a lover? Had Cousin Clarabelle truly been as incensed as she had seemed about Regina taking her dragonfly hat pin? Or had Ralph’s obvious regard for Regina and his influence over her been what sent Cousin Clarabelle into a rage?
Of course, these were questions that would likely never be answered. Still, Phoebe couldn’t banish them from her mind. She paused at her door but didn’t go in. Instead, she kept walking, her feet taking her as if of their own accord to the billiard room. Good heavens, so much—so very much—had happened since her arrival here. Years from now she would look back on these events and hardly believe they took place in just over twenty-four hours. Surely days had passed. Just this afternoon Ralph Cameron had asked to meet her here . . .
Why? What had he wished to tell her? That he knew Hastings had murdered Regina? How had he reached that conclusion? The last time Phoebe had seen Ralph alive, he’d been poring over books and papers in the library. Documents to do with the inheritance, he had said. Or had she assumed? She couldn’t quite remember. But . . .
What if one of those documents had revealed something about Hastings—perhaps a document concerning his disappearance during the war. Desertion? Based on his reaction to Phoebe’s accusation, it certainly seemed so. Perhaps Ralph had come upon some documentation from the army hidden among Cousin Basil’s papers, and this had led him to—to what? Believe Hastings killed his sister? Or had Ralph discovered Hastings’s ether addiction? But no, she didn’t believe Ralph hadn’t known about it previously.
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