“I am not in the habit of crying murder where there’s room for doubt,” said the doctor acidly. I liked him less every moment. “Marks on Lord Telford’s body indicate to me that someone placed a hand over his nose and mouth to stop his breathing. If you would care to examine him yourself—”
“Yes, I would,” Atticus said. “Not that I don’t trust you, but I would like to see exactly what you’re describing.” He shut his eyes briefly in reaction. “I suppose I’ll have to question Brutus myself. What his motives might have been I have no idea. If Father promised him a legacy…”
“Why are you assuming it was Brutus?” I asked. “When he left, your father was still alive, and when he returned, it was in the company of the doctor. Someone else must have slipped in between the time that you left and Brutus and Dr. Brandt arrived.”
A weary smile crossed my husband’s face. “My love,” he said, “do you realize how unlikely that is? The fact is that, as you’ve just pointed out, I’m the last person known to have seen my father alive. From that perspective, I’m the most likely suspect.”
“That’s absurd! You had no reason to do such a thing.” I stopped short. In fact, Atticus had plenty of reasons that might look like motives to an outsider. The long-standing discord between them; the threats his father had made to expose my origins, and Genevieve’s; even the estate itself, depending on how his father had disposed of his money and property.
My consternation must have shown on my face, for the doctor gave a grim nod. “You see how it is, Mrs. Blackwood? The authorities must be called in. There’s too much room for suspicion to attach to your husband.”
“And to me,” I said, for the realization was breaking upon me that, to an outsider, I had reason to murder my father-in-law. His threat to expose me as a fraud might look to a jury like a powerful inducement to murder. Not that anyone but Atticus and Genevieve knew of those threats, but…
“No one could suspect you, Clara,” said Atticus, with renewed authority. I could not tell him in the doctor’s presence that what he meant as reassurance sounded dangerously like naiveté. “And as for me, I don’t care what the gossips may say; that sort of thing dies down on its own. But whoever did this terrible thing can’t be allowed to go free. We must contact the authorities. Scotland Yard, I think; they have experts who surpass the abilities of our local constabulary.”
“Very good.” Dr. Brandt clasped his hands behind his back and nodded. “I imagine they’ll make short work of the case, Blackwood. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it turned out to be a servant.”
“And why is that, doctor?” I snapped. “Criminal tendencies are scarcely unique to the working class.”
“I had no such thing in mind, Mrs. Blackwood, but servants are best situated to go in and out of places without being questioned—without, even, being observed closely. This Brutus may have had a confederate. It could have been a matter of a legacy, as your husband suggested. Or perhaps one of them had been caught stealing—I beg your pardon, Mrs. Blackwood, but despite your egalitarian principles theft does occur from time to time among the less privileged—or was on the verge of being dismissed and sought to prevent it in this way.”
I shuddered. “What a monstrous thing to do.” But I could not dismiss such a motive. I had landed on my feet, comparatively speaking, when I had been dismissed from my post here. I had had my mother’s connections and knowledge to help me. Another servant might not be that lucky; dismissal, and all that it implied about the fitness of the employee, could be the beginning of a short journey to poverty, infamy, even death.
Atticus’s hand descended to my shoulder, and when I looked up, he gave me a reassuring smile, tired but so tender that it brought a twinge to my heart. “Never fear, Clara. Whatever the investigation turns up, we’ll not condemn anyone without clear proof.”
“It won’t be up to you,” said the doctor briefly. “Once the investigation begins, it’s out of your hands. If you suspect any of your servants will make a run for it once the word gets out that the baron was murdered, I advise you to take measures now to prevent that. Now, I recommend that you contact the Yard at once. They’ll wish to examine the body, and that shouldn’t be postponed.”
“Thank you, doctor,” I said, grudgingly, and went to unlock the door for him. Jane was just cresting the staircase with the heavy tea tray, and Dr. Brandt gave her a hard look, as if he suspected her of having been listening despite the physical impossibility of this.
Abruptly I remembered the voice I had heard the first night. If it had come from some hidden room or passage, then it stood to reason that the same hiding place could be used to eavesdrop.
But how much would such a thing matter? All too quickly the news would spread of Lord Telford’s shocking cause of death, and any of the servants could have observed the coolness—alternating with heated words—between Atticus and his father. They would have learned nothing new by eavesdropping.
Still, the thought made me uneasy. Especially I did not like the idea of suspicions forming around Atticus.
The doctor gave a nod of farewell to us both. “Send quickly,” he said again. “I’ll be waiting for word to return and give my own account.”
Atticus took the heavy tea tray from Jane and sent her on her way. “An investigation,” he said quietly, when the door had once again closed and left us in privacy. He set the tray down with so abstracted an air that it was sheer luck that it landed on a table. “I wonder what they’ll find. Clearly there was more going on in my father’s life than I knew.”
“I’m certain the Yard will get to the bottom of things,” I said, feeling ill equipped to offer comfort in this startling situation. “Then you’ll be left in peace and can mourn your father properly.”
He sank into a chair, knitted his fingers together almost as if in prayer, and rested his chin on his linked hands. “I suppose so,” he said, and the weariness was even stronger than before in his voice. “Once I determine what ‘properly,’ in the case of a man like my father, actually is.”
I was uncertain how to respond. Mourning my mother had been complicated because of the gulf that had opened up between us when I was dismissed from Gravesend. I had never quite forgiven her for not standing with me, even though I understood her reasons. But my mother had not slighted me in preference for a sibling; nor had she laid any heavy charge upon me as apparently Lord Telford had done to Atticus. Certainly her death had not been murder, so I had no idea how Atticus must be feeling now.
I leaned over from my seat on the divan and touched his linked hands. “I am so sorry,” I said.
He took my hand in both of his before I could withdraw it. “I’m glad you are here with me, Clara.”
My answering smile was uncertain. He would not think so for long if it should prove that my presence at Gravesend was in some fashion connected to his father’s death. “Are you going to speak to the staff? Stories are no doubt already circulating and may be creating unease about their positions here.”
“You’re quite right.” He straightened his shoulders, and I thought again how suited his nickname was, although not in the mocking fashion in which Richard had used it; he always seemed to have a burden to shoulder, yes, but he was always equal to the task, and his taking on that burden meant that others did not have as great a weight to bear. He would have made an excellent father, I realized—with some sorrow, since it seemed that he would never have the chance to become one. If I went away…
If I went away? Why was it a matter of doubt? That had always been the arrangement.
Even as I reminded myself of this, however, I realized that that was not the case. Atticus had told me, certainly, that once my duty was discharged I would gain my independence. But by bringing me and Genevieve together he had hoped to create a family that I would not want to leave—that would be my permanent place.
Even now, knowing that Genevieve was not in fact my child, he seemed to be cherishing a hope that our unconventional little family arrangem
ent might continue. At least, that was what I supposed had been in his mind last night when he had asked me to stay with him. If I had become a true wife to him, it would have been for more than just one night; a man like Atticus would not take me to his bed unless he meant us to be truly wedded.
And I? What had been in my mind? Not a great deal, it seemed to me in the cold light of this grim morning. Whatever mental faculties I possessed had seemed to dissolve in the sweetness of his touch.
No, that was not strictly true. I, too, had recognized that taking that irrevocable step would mean changing the terms of my future. “I will stay with you as your wife,” I had told him—and I had meant it. Not just for the night, but for all time. The dream I had cherished, the goal that had brought me back to Gravesend—an independent life somewhere new, a fresh start on my own terms—had been replaced by a new dream of living on at Gravesend with Atticus.
But that was before I had learned of his deception. Gazing at him now, at the lofty brow and clear, pensive eyes, I had a difficult time believing him to be anything but completely honest. He had deceived me, though, all those years ago—and might be deceiving me again now.
Atticus insisted on addressing the servants before seeing to his own rest. I had lost count of how many hours now he had gone without sleep. He had Birch and Mrs. Threll gather the household in the banquet hall, which still bore all the remnants of the ball: the melted stumps of candles, the tablecloths showing spills, the wilted flowers dropping their browned petals. All the usual activity of putting things to rights had been postponed while making the house into a fit place for mourning.
“By now I’m sure you have all heard the news,” Atticus said. He was addressing them from the dais, standing just where he had opened the ball the night before. “Many of you have been at Gravesend for years—a few of you, even, since before my birth—and I know that my father’s death, while not unexpected, will be deeply felt.” An elegant sidestep, that seemed to me. “I am afraid I do have news that will be a shock, however,” he continued. “The doctor has told me that my father did not die a natural death. He is certain that someone else had a hand in it.”
A murmur rose among the gathered servants, and I saw Birch’s mouth tighten—whether with disapproval at the response or at the news itself I could not have said. It would not have surprised me to learn that he and many of the other servants felt that murder was a breach of taste and cast their home in a poor light. Indeed, it was strange to have to adjust my picture of Gravesend to include this sensational new bit of history. It was like turning the pages of a volume of poetry only to find a lurid illustration from a penny dreadful.
Atticus raised his hand to acknowledge and quell the rumble of conversation. “An inspector from Scotland Yard will be coming here to determine the truth of this theory and, if it is indeed a case of murder, to pinpoint the guilty party. But that is the only matter that will be under investigation. Have no fear that your privacy will be invaded or the security of your position cast into doubt. The only person who need have any apprehension is whoever is responsible for my father’s death.”
I hoped it would be possible for him to keep his word about the staff’s privacy. I remembered all too well that as a maid none of my few possessions had been sacrosanct, nor was the room I shared with another girl: at any time, if there was any suspicion of theft or of any of us possessing inappropriate goods (such as the aforementioned penny dreadfuls), my mother or the butler could march in and command us to present all of our belongings for their inspection. I wondered if conditions had changed during Mrs. Threll’s tenure or if Atticus simply did not realize how little privacy servants were given as a matter of course.
One of the footmen said something into Birch’s ear, and the butler gave a deferential cough. Atticus indicated with a nod that he might speak. “Lord Telford, sir,” he said, and I think I was not the only one who was startled to hear the title given to Atticus for the first time, “is there any danger to anyone else in the household? If the guilty party has not yet been found, should we be on our guard?”
Atticus hesitated, torn, I could tell, between wanting to reassure but not wanting to divulge too much. “This does not seem to have been a random crime,” he said at last. “I believe my father was targeted for a specific reason. But it might be a good idea nonetheless to exercise vigilance. Birch, Mrs. Threll, perhaps you can rearrange everyone’s duties for the time being so that no one need be alone. I’ll also contact the local constabulary to ask for a police presence here in the house.”
I hid a wry smile and shook my head. He could not realize it, of course, but “rearranging” every servant’s duties so that each was always accompanied by a partner would be a tall order—and would probably cause a fair amount of upheaval in the running of the household. I resolved to speak with Mrs. Threll to discuss how best these changes might be made and what housekeeping chores could be dispensed with for the time being to make this peculiar arrangement practical. With luck, though, their employer’s reassurance would prevent any from leaving their positions—whether through guilty consciences or fear of being sent after the old baron.
After he had dismissed the staff and spoken privately to Birch, and I to Mrs. Threll, I laid hold of him by the arm and told him, “Mrs. Threll is going to have your valet bring hot water for washing to your room. And then he is going to force you to sleep for at least five hours.”
His smile was a ghost of its former self. “Force me?”
“Indeed he will. And if you don’t cooperate, I’ll help him. I will hold you down if necessary.”
His eyebrows rose, and I realized too late the mental picture that my words might evoke. Hastily I continued, “You need to be rested by the time the man from the Yard arrives. He must find you clearheaded and with all your wits about you.”
“You think I’m so likely a suspect that such elaborate precautions are necessary?”
The question was posed gravely, and I answered in kind. “No, I don’t. But as your wife I may be biased.”
“Sweet Clara,” he said, and that phantom smile came and went again in the space of a heartbeat.
I had grown accustomed to his dropping “my love” into his speech as part of our masquerade, but for some reason this new endearment made me stumble over my next words. “It isn’t so much a matter of your being a suspect,” I said. “But the inspector will be far better able to form a theory about the culprit if you present all that you know clearly and completely. The more information he has, the better able he’ll be to perform his duty.” And I ought to get some rest as well, I realized, for the same reason: I needed to be in full possession of my faculties to be of use to the investigation.
“Genevieve,” he said suddenly, halting halfway up the stair. “Has she been told? The poor child, she’ll be terrified.”
“I’ll go to her,” I said, keeping firm hold of his arm to make him resume his progress. “She may not have awakened yet, considering the late night.” The interruption to her sleep that I had caused might also delay her waking. Perhaps my intrusion would turn out to have been a blessing, though; if she was still sleeping and had not yet heard the news, I might be able to break it to her more gently than another.
At last we stood before his door, so nearly where we had stood less than twelve hours before—and how much had taken place in that time, I could not help reflecting. At that parting I had worried about the curse, about what might transpire if Atticus and I grew too dear to one another. Such disaster had struck the household since then that I could almost think that we were somehow to blame, except that I knew neither of us had dealt the killing blow to his father. His death could not be laid at our doorstep.
Or so I then believed.
Chapter Twenty-One
Genevieve, when I awakened her from rosy, picturesque sleep, was shocked and distressed, as Atticus had predicted. She had many questions, and I few enough answers, and I resolved to try to find some occupation to keep her busy so that s
he would not have much opportunity to dwell on these unfortunate events.
I was surprised not to be called in to speak to the inspector upon his arrival, but evidently he was in no hurry to question me. It was not for hours that I was summoned to the library, which Atticus had turned over to him for the duration of the inquiries. This Birch told me when he came to escort me to the library for my own turn. He said that my husband and Brutus the valet had already been interviewed at length by the Yard man. I was on the point of asking him if he himself had been questioned when we arrived at the library and he announced me.
Inspector Strack was a man of just over middle age, with iron-grey hair and a drooping moustache. He had a strange habit of squinting, which made me wonder if perhaps he needed spectacles but did not wear them. This did not bode well for his powers of observation, I felt. His suit was plainly made and of some years’ wear, to judge by the lapels and sleeves; he was either thrifty or not generously paid, or both.
“Inspector,” I said, offering him my hand, and he shook it briefly without bowing. Evidently the inspector did not believe in obsequiousness to the landed class. I hoped this reflected an egalitarian approach to investigating rather than class resentment that might lead him to look for his perpetrator among those of the sphere I had married into.
“Lady Telford,” he said. It was odd hearing my title from him, but he spoke it in as matter-of-fact a way as if it had not been a title at all. “Thank you for agreeing to speak to me. This should not take much of your time.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” That suggested to me that he was already well on his way to determining the guilty party.
But he evidently took my response in another spirit. “Indeed, I know you have many crucial domestic duties to attend to, and I’d hate to cause any disruption to your dinner menu and social calendar for so minor a reason.” His accent was not as harsh as some I had become accustomed to in London, although the sarcasm was certainly not unheard of in that region.
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