The word murder hung in the air between them. Phoebe had her suspicions, but she refused to react with as much as a blink. “Miss Sedgewick, I am merely concerned about the future of Haverleigh, as is the Countess of Wroxly. In future, I fully intend to become more involved than ever.” She had no qualms about invoking the authority of Grams’s title and her position in the school’s governing body. The mention produced the desired effect on Miss Sedgewick, who almost forcibly relaxed her shoulders and smoothed the frown lines from her forehead.
“How, uh, very kind of you, my lady.”
“Yes, well, the Haverleigh School means the world to me, as it does to the entire Renshaw family.” She stood, bringing Miss Sedgewick to her feet as well. They shook hands across the desk, and then Phoebe turned to go. She had gotten what she came for—the name of Olivia Delacy’s hometown. She hadn’t lied. The future of Haverleigh concerned her greatly, and whether or not the nurse had a hand in the headmistress’s demise, her delay in coming to Miss Finch’s aid could speak of future troubles for the school. Granted, given the nature of the headmistress’s death, there hadn’t been anything anyone—doctor or nurse—could have done to change the outcome. But what if a student suffered a grievous injury or illness, and Nurse Delacy dragged her feet or was nowhere to be found at a critical moment?
What if that emergency involved Amelia?
Phoebe’s concerns were enough to warrant digging into the woman’s background. It appeared a drive to Aldingham was in order.
* * *
Eva and Phoebe let themselves out the French windows of the conservatory, whose function had changed little since Haverleigh had been a private home. Gone were the wrought-iron and wicker furnishings that made this an indoor garden and a haven on rainy days, but plants still grew in abundance here—palms and ferns, small fruit trees, and vibrant assortments of flowers. The girls were instructed in horticulture here, as well as in the more practical arts of flower arranging and floral decorating. Eva couldn’t help smiling wryly at the thought of Jane Timmons eagerly turning her attention to the former, while Zara Worthington would only perceive the value of the latter.
“I’ll be close by should you need me,” Lady Phoebe said to her before Eva continued on alone.
Phoebe had filled her in on everything Miss Sedgewick said about the handyman, and now Eva longed to hear Elliot’s side of the story. Could she coax the words from him? She and Lady Phoebe had decided Eva had the best chance of winning Elliot’s trust if she went alone. While she didn’t believe he would snap and harm her as Miss Sedgewick suggested, she did believe he flustered easily and that it wouldn’t take much to render him silent.
She shielded her eyes from the noon sun as she picked her way along the path to the gate in the privet hedge. Although the last time she had trod this path there had been no one out on the athletic fields, she had not felt the same sense of abandonment as she did today. Even with Lady Phoebe not far behind her, the utter silence resonated through the trees and grazed the stones of the house with velvet-clad fingers. She sensed the utter emptiness of Haverleigh down to the very pit of her stomach and in the core of her heart—a significant portion of which had been shaped by this place. For the first time since Miss Finch’s death she perceived how very much would be lost should Haverleigh be forced to close its doors permanently.
A clang-clanging disturbed the quiet, and Eva spied Elliot through the open doorway of one of the larger maintenance sheds close to the building’s kitchen wing. This housed, among other apparatus, a coal-fed generator used to power the lights and water heaters belowstairs when the general electricity failed, as it sometimes did during inclement weather. Beyond the structure, the kitchen garden stretched, where tiny green shoots poked their way through the soil.
She scraped along the graveled walkway and cleared her throat before speaking, hoping to avoid startling the young man. “Hullo there, Elliot. Making repairs?”
The mallet he’d been using to adjust a valve stopped in midair above his head as he turned. It struck Eva that having the skill to repair electrical contraptions took more than an ability to follow directions. There was no one issuing instructions now. Elliot was working independently, and surely it took an intelligent mind to do so. She suspected the handyman was not the mental deficient Miss Sedgewick believed him to be.
“Repairs,” he repeated after intently studying her a moment.
“Yes, you’re fixing the generator so Mrs. Honeychurch can run a smooth kitchen, yes?”
“Smooth, yes.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt your work. Shall I go?” She took a chance in asking, but remaining when he might not wish her there wouldn’t help her cause.
He shook his head and placed his mallet on a flat surface of the generator. “Load packages?”
She smiled. “Not today, Elliot. In fact, I came by to thank you for your help the other day and to see how you’re getting on.” She knew she couldn’t take the direct approach and ask him outright about the incident Miss Sedgewick had referred to. “You do excellent work. It seems like quite a lot for one individual. Do you also maintain the greenhouses and the gardens?”
“Gardeners come. I help. I like the flowers.”
“I see. The gardens will surely be spectacular in another couple of weeks.”
He grinned and looked down at his feet. Even in the dim lighting of the shed, the tips of his ears glowed rosy with pleasure. Eva’s heart warmed to him even more, while her disbelief in Miss Sedgewick’s claims flourished. She took another chance.
“Flowers make such lovely gifts, don’t you think?”
His grin waned. Now as he stared at the floor, a wary expression clouded his features. His shoulders sagged and he clutched at something inside his collar. Light glinted, and Eva guessed he wore some sort of necklace. “Not good to give a flower.”
Her heartstrings tightened with sympathy and with guilt, too, at having obviously raised an unpleasant memory. “But it is good, Elliot. I assure you, anyone would be delighted to receive a flower from the Haverleigh gardens. I certainly would be.”
He was shaking his head, his gaze still pinned on the flagstones at his feet, his fingers tightening on what she now clearly saw was a metal chain around his neck. A section of links reflected the sunlight, but the adjoining section appeared dull and tarnished. “Didn’t mean to.”
She eased closer to him. “Elliot, were you rebuked when trying to hand someone a flower?”
“She’s pretty, and the flower was pretty.” He shuddered and retreated a step or two until his back came up against the generator’s main housing.
“Do you mean Miss Sedgewick?” Eva asked as gently as she would a small child.
He didn’t reply. Didn’t nod or shake his head or move at all. Eva felt an overwhelming urge to throttle Miss Sedgewick.
“Don’t want to go,” he finally whispered.
“Go where?” He didn’t answer, but his meaning suddenly dawned on her. Miss Sedgewick must have threatened to sack him. All that had saved him, presumably, had been Miss Finch’s authority. Now, with Miss Finch gone, Miss Sedgewick made it clear she would dismiss Elliot the moment she filled the headmistress position—if she did. Eva longed to reassure Elliot about his employment. The words leapt to her tongue but she allowed them to go no farther, for she could guarantee him nothing. The governing body might view Miss Sedgewick as the most qualified and convenient replacement for Miss Finch.
And then Elliot would have to go. She shook her head at the irony. With so many men lost to the war, and the legions of others who had since abandoned the countryside in favor of factory work in the cities, this gentle soul—who wanted nothing more than to tend flowers and tinker with whatever needed fixing—was to be denied work because of one woman’s lack of empathy and generosity.
Ah, but Eva wasn’t lady’s maid to the daughters of the House of Renshaw for nothing. Lady Phoebe, through her grandparents’ influence, had worked miracles before. Eva had no doubt she would work one agai
n.
Holding her breath and hoping she wouldn’t frighten Elliot, she reached out and pressed her hand to his forearm. “Don’t you worry about a thing. And if anything else upsets you, you be sure to let me know about it.”
CHAPTER 9
As Phoebe turned the Vauxhall toward Aldingham, the question of who wanted Miss Finch out of the way seemed as winding and elusive as the road that disappeared and reappeared beneath the oaks and wide ash trees growing along the rolling hills. So far, she could see no clear picture of events, but only snippets of possible motives and opportunities.
“What we know so far is that Miss Sedgewick wants to be headmistress,” she said to Eva, who sat clutching the door handle with one hand and the edge of the seat with the other. “Nurse Delacy was in danger of losing her position due to her odd reaction to Lilyanne’s injury, and has since shown an aversion to doing her job with any measure of proficiency.”
“Zara Worthington’s academic performance also raises questions,” Eva added through gritted teeth.
Phoebe accelerated up a hill and eased the vehicle around a bend, bringing the low stone border wall to within inches of the motorcar’s side panel. She bit back a grin as beside her, Eva stiffened against the back of the seat and pressed her feet more firmly against the floorboards. “Goodness, Eva, I’m a better motorist than that. You might try trusting me.”
“I trust you, my lady. What I don’t trust is hurtling down narrow lanes at speeds that were never meant for humans.”
“Then you’d better hope I never take up flying.”
Eva tossed her a panicked look, prompting Phoebe to let go a round of laughter.
“At any rate,” she said, “Zara’s marks would seem to point back to Miss Sedgewick, if indeed she had been doctoring them to keep the girl’s parents happy.”
“Then again, my lady, what if Miss Finch had been adjusting Lady Zara’s marks, but recently had a change of heart?”
Phoebe waited for her to elaborate, but Eva returned to studying the road ahead as if she could clear it of all hazards by the sheer force of her will. “Are you suggesting that Zara might have wished ill on Miss Finch?” A rocky patch of road prompted her to tighten her hands on the steering wheel while the vehicle tottered and bounced. “It’s difficult to envision a child committing murder. . . .”
Eva didn’t drag her gaze from the road. “She’s not much younger than you, my lady. And she did bake Miss Finch’s Madeira cake.”
“Yes, you’re right. We can overlook no one.” Before them, the trees parted like curtains to reveal the distant shops and homes of a village scattered across a wide valley, surrounded by a checkerboard of fields and pastures. A river intersected one end of the village, spanned at several points by pretty stone bridges. “That would be Aldingham up ahead.”
“Thank goodness,” Eva murmured. The road took a winding route into the valley and brought them to a thoroughfare similar to that of Little Barlow, lined by quaint, gable-roofed structures of warm-hued, Cotswold stone. Pedestrians bearing parcels traveled the sidewalks, going in and out of shop doors and stopping to chat on corners. “So now what, my lady? We haven’t got an address. Do we just start asking questions of strangers on the street?”
Phoebe slowed the motorcar. “I’m not sure. This seemed like such a good idea—” In midsentence she jolted the Vauxhall to an abrupt stop, sending both herself and Eva lurching toward the dash.
Eva stopped her forward momentum with one hand while thrusting an arm across Phoebe to keep her in her seat. “My lady, I do wish you wouldn’t do that!”
“Sorry.” But as Eva set herself to rights, Phoebe pointed up at a sign hanging beside the arched portico of a stone and stucco cottage. “Look, Eva. It says DR. CHARLES DELACY.” She eased the motorcar to the side of the road and switched off the engine. “I believe we’ve found the right place. Come along. Let me do the talking first—I’ll get us in the door—and then you subtly take over. I don’t wish to intimidate them into an overzealous state of courtesy. Such is often the burden of my station, unfortunately.”
Some ten minutes later Phoebe and Eva were ensconced in the Delacys’ parlor directly behind the doctor’s surgery. Mrs. Delacy, who managed her husband’s appointments and accounts, had done a double take when Phoebe introduced herself, and immediately invited them in for tea, which she said she had just been preparing. The doctor’s schedule being clear for the next hour or so, the good man had mirrored his wife’s astonishment before echoing her invitation and insisting they make themselves at home.
Phoebe took in faded floral wallpaper, dark upholsteries, and side tables crowded with framed photographs, vases, and figurines. A petite woman with kindly blue eyes and small, efficient hands, Mrs. Delacy poured tea and handed round the cups. Beneath her lashes she darted a glance at her husband before asking, “To what do we owe this honor, Lady Phoebe?”
“Miss Huntford and I were traveling in the area, and I happened to remember that your daughter mentioned being from Aldingham.” Not entirely a lie, Phoebe reasoned, for all her modifying of the facts. She hadn’t introduced Eva as her lady’s maid, but merely as Miss Huntford. The Delacys could interpret it as they wished. Eva’s serviceable attire might reveal her position, or they might believe her to be somehow associated with one of Phoebe’s philanthropic projects. In fact, with her next words she encouraged that notion. “As perhaps you might guess, I am gradually following in my grandmother’s footsteps in matters concerning the Haverleigh School, and taking on a number of her responsibilities as time goes on.”
Dr. Delacy, a stocky individual with a head of shockingly white hair, pensively stirred his tea. “You must be a great source of pride to the Earl and Countess of Wroxly, my lady.”
“Thank you. As your daughter must be to the both of you,” she said, having been served up the opportunity so neatly. She didn’t waste another moment. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard from her since the unfortunate occurrence with Miss Finch.” She had noticed the lack of telephone wires strung through the village and presumed the Delacys communicated by letter and personal visits.
Mrs. Delacy looked up sharply. “Unfortunate occurrence?”
“But surely you know? Miss Finch, the headmistress, is no longer with us.”
Once again, the Delacys traded looks. “Do you mean to say she has been dismissed?” the doctor asked.
“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you, but Miss Finch has passed away,” Phoebe gently explained.
“But how?” Mrs. Delacy pressed a hand to her breastbone. “And when?”
With a slight nod, Phoebe signaled to Eva to take over. “Two days ago. The police have identified the cause of her death to be poison.” Eva paused for dramatic effect. “Cyanide.”
Mrs. Delacy’s teacup rattled in its saucer, while her face turned nearly as white as the bone china. Beside her, the doctor seemed to have stopped breathing.
“We didn’t know,” his wife said at length in a small voice. “Neither of us has had a chance to read the papers, what with so many patients in and out lately. I’m surprised Olivia didn’t come round to tell us.”
“Perhaps your daughter didn’t wish to upset you with such ill news.” Eva leaned slightly forward in her chair. “The incident was terribly upsetting for her, for you see, she was unable to help poor Miss Finch. The headmistress had quite expired before your daughter could arrive on the scene.”
“Miss Finch hired Olivia,” the doctor said almost absently. Then, more pointedly, he added, “One can’t help but wonder what this means for Olivia’s position. Will she be retained, do you think?”
“Good heavens, that’s right.” Mrs. Delacy once more pressed a hand to her breastbone in a gesture that seemed meant to prevent her very being from shattering. “What will she do?”
“She’s very lucky that you live so close by.” Eva set her cup and saucer on the table beside her.
“Olivia, move back in with us?”
Phoebe admired
how deftly Eva ignored Mrs. Delacy’s blurted question. “I expect she inherited her medical skills from you, Dr. Delacy. Has she ever assisted you in your surgery?”
Before he could answer, his wife slid to the edge of her seat as if about to leap to her feet and run from the room. “Olivia, work here? No. She’s made her own way, in her own way, and we’re proud of her. Very proud.” She broke off and drew a tremulous breath. Her eyes glittered in the room’s old-fashioned gas lighting. Her husband reached over and patted her hand.
“There, there, my dear. It’s quite all right. Of course we’re proud of Olivia.” He turned to Phoebe and Eva, though Phoebe had the impression his words were directed mainly at her. “You must think us rather odd indeed. Please understand, our daughter served in France, and the war years were very difficult for all of us. We—”
“We never knew from one day to the next whether we would receive one of those dreadful telegrams,” his wife interrupted. “Olivia worked right behind the front lines at a casualty clearing station, and often rode with the ambulance trucks to collect the fallen soldiers. The things my poor girl has seen . . .”
“Don’t, my dear.” Dr. Delacy shook his head and smiled sadly. “Don’t distress yourself. I’m sure Lady Phoebe and Miss Huntford quite understand.”
Phoebe nodded emphatically. “You daughter’s service was most heroic, and England thanks her for it.”
But as if she hadn’t spoken, Mrs. Delacy murmured, “How can they understand? The war takes its toll, it changes people and . . .” A scowl from her husband silenced her. With a shaky hand she raised her teacup to her lips, all but hiding her face behind it.
Phoebe drained her own tea. Though no longer hot, it nonetheless burned all the way down her gullet. Or was it the guilt of having dredged up painful matters and rendering these people distraught? She came to her feet. “We’ve imposed on you long enough. It was never our desire to upset you. Quite the contrary. We only wished to make your acquaintance. Is there any message you’d like us to convey to your daughter?”
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