by Amy Corwin
Even when she tried to help him by insisting he breathe deeply and remain calm, his stutter choked him. Any words starting with T, V, W, P, D or C stuck in his throat like so many rocks.
The men sniggering behind her only made it worse. She winced inside, guessing at his anger. This was not the first time he’d faced others who delighted in making him the object of derision and sport. His years at school must have been a torment she wished her parents had spared him.
After a long minute, he straightened his broad shoulders and gazed firmly at the men in the hallway. His frown silenced those who had been laughing behind their hands.
“Uh.” He paused and swallowed. “Upstairs. Follow me, if you will.” He turned on his heel and ascended the staircase.
Olivia had never been so proud of him than she was at that moment. She nodded at the cluster of men and gestured for them to follow her brother.
Then she trailed after them, wishing she had gone with Margaret instead. No wonder irresponsible people always seemed to be so cheerful. They left it up to the dutiful to uncover all the unpleasant things in life, such as the dead man in her wardrobe.
Chapter Three
When they reached her office, they clustered around the door, waiting for her to unlock it. She caught Peregrine's eye as she fitted the key in the lock, and he nodded to her reassuringly. As soon as she opened the door, the stout constable, Mr. Cooke, walked past her and entered.
“Well, my lady,” Constable Cooke said, glancing around from the center of the room. He crossed his arms over his barrel chest, and his upper lip curled with disdain. He obviously still believed he’d been called there for their amusement or as part of a wager. “Where is this injured party?”
Olivia took a step toward the wardrobe and her gaze fell once again to the dark stain on the floor in front of it. Her small footprints painted a trail in brownish red, pointing in her direction. A cold sweat prickled down her back, making her shiver. The thought of opening the door and exposing the man within made her stomach clench.
She didn't want to see the body again. She flung a beseeching glance at her brother.
“Quite,” Peregrine said without the hint of a stutter. He stepped forward, opened the double door, and backed away, carefully avoiding the bloody stain on the floor.
Cooke's round face grew pale, then flushed, and finally settled into a sickly gray that made the dark shadow of his beard stand out like coal dust on his lower face. “Mr. Idleman,” he said in a strangled voice. He gestured toward the wardrobe.
The coroner stepped around Constable Cooke, took one look at the contents of the wardrobe, and frowned. “Mr. Andrews, if you please, we must have our twelve men. This poor soul is past our help.” He waited while one of the men hurried out before he faced Peregrine. “Mr. Archer, explain if you will. What is the meaning of this outrage?”
Peregrine took a deep breath and answered slowly, “W-we found him as you see him now.”
“Found him?” The coroner's thin, long face grew longer still, and vertical lines carved deep grooves from the edges of his narrow lips to his nose. He looked around. “Who owns this house? It appears abandoned. Why were you here, sir?”
Before Peregrine could answer, Constable Cooke interrupted. “As a member of the local constabulary, I must warn you, sir. If this was one of them wagers gone wrong, the law shall look very harshly on those involved.” He studied Peregrine with hard eyes before casting an equally critical glance at Olivia. “Now, why is this man in your wardrobe, sir?”
“It is my wardrobe,” Olivia answered hastily. The firm, noble expression on her brother's face hinted that he might believe she had something to do with this terrible situation and was prepared to sacrifice himself to keep her safe. “And this is my townhouse. We are renting it from my brother, the Earl of Wraysbury.”
“This house?” Mr. Idleman looked around, his gray brows raised in disbelief as he took in the dusty furniture and gray cobweb dangling near the ceiling in the far corner.
“As I indicated, the owner is my brother, the Earl of Wraysbury. I am renting it from him,” she continued hurriedly. “I am starting an academy for ladies on the premises.”
The curl in Cooke's lip grew more pronounced. He clearly didn't believe either her or that ladies had need of an academy of any sort.
Olivia studied him, relieved that she’d had the foresight not to mention it was a fencing academy. She could just imagine his reaction to that information.
Not that she was ashamed of her school, of course. Quite the opposite. But the last thing she wished for was to engage in an esoteric argument on the merits of fencing as a form of beneficial exercise for women with a man like the constable. He clearly had a stubborn, bulldog character which might be wonderfully suited to his job, but made him particularly dismissive of new ideas.
A quick peek at the window only increased her desire to leave. The sky outside was glowing with crimson streaks, and the room was gradually growing darker. She glanced at her brother and then again at the gloomy, dirt-streaked panes of glass.
“Ladies?” Mr. Idleman asked in disbelief, focusing his attention on her.
“We have not opened yet. My brother and I were simply here to determine if the building had been cleaned and readied. Clearly, it has not,” Olivia said.
“So I noticed, my lady,” Constable Cooke said. He clasped his hands behind his back and thrust his head forward to stare at her from under lowered brows. “I also noted that the door to this room was locked.”
“Yes, I locked it before we went to find assistance,” Olivia answered.
He looked from her to the wardrobe. “And this?” He waved at the gaping piece of furniture.
“It was locked, as well. It is always locked. The academy's supplies are kept there.”
“And what was the condition of this room and that wardrobe when you arrived, my lady?”
“Locked,” she answered impatiently. Lightning crackled outside the window, followed by a boom of thunder. She jumped with a shiver and rubbed her arms. “I kept them locked, of course.”
As she spoke, her brother rummaged through the top drawer of her desk and withdrew a phosphorous box. He carefully lit the lamp sitting at the edge of the desk and moved it closer to cast its golden glow over the wardrobe and its terrible contents.
“And who, may I ask, has keys?” Cooke asked with a satisfied smile and the smug air of someone who knows the answer to his own question. He obviously expected a swift conclusion to his investigation.
“I naturally have keys, and the charwoman has a key to the house.” Olivia caught her brother's gaze.
He frowned at her and shoved his hands into his pockets, his shoulders hunching slightly. Concern wrinkled his forehead, and he was beginning to look like a turtle slowly withdrawing into his shell as he stepped closer to the window and out of the wavering circle of light.
“Does the charwoman's key fit the door to this room? Or the wardrobe, my lady?” Cooke continued his questions.
Olivia stiffened, hugging one arm around her waist. Her other hand rose, and her fingers fastened on the top button of her pelisse, twisting it. “N-no.” She cleared her throat. “Her key only fits the door at the rear of the house.”
“So you were the only one with keys to this room and the cupboard, and both were locked when you arrived, my lady?” Constable Cooke's knowing grin widened. He looked almost gleeful at the thought that he might be staring at a murderess.
“Yes — no.” Olivia laughed nervously as she remembered entering the room. “That is, the door to this room was unlocked. However, the wardrobe was locked. It is a mystery, to be sure. I cannot imagine how he entered without our knowledge.”
How could someone have locked the wardrobe without a key? She could understand that someone might have picked the locks on the door and the furniture, but how did he lock it again?
“That is indeed a mystery, to be sure,” Mr. Idleman said in a dry voice.
Before she c
ould think of a response, she heard the clatter of heavy footsteps coming up the staircase. A straggling group of men entered, and the foremost, the man Mr. Idleman called Mr. Andrews, nodded to the coroner.
“Here are the jurymen, Mr. Idleman,” Mr. Andrews announced, stepping to one side of the door. As the somber group filed into the room, he called out their names, “Mr. Hanks, Mr. Bulwer, Mr. Samuels, Mr. Wright, Mr. Thompson, Mr. Oakdale, Mr. Thorne, and Mr. Chesterton.”
Counting the men who'd remained with the coroner, there were twelve, in addition to Mr. Idleman and Constable Cooke.
The room suddenly felt crowded, and the previously cold and musty air was thick with strange odors of beer, cabbage, sweat-dampened wool, and the metallic smell of drying blood. Olivia coughed and raised her handkerchief. The faint scent of lavender still clung to the material. She held it to her nose and pressed the cool, soft folds to her mouth.
“Take heed of the floor, Constable,” Mr. Idleman cautioned him. He pointed to the pool of blood. “There are footprints here, small prints made by a lady's boot, if I am not mistaken. And made before the vital fluid dried.” He looked at Olivia. His gray brows rose high on his forehead as he eyes grew hard.
“They are mine,” Olivia admitted. Her fingers tightened around the handkerchief. “I did not realize... That is, I did not notice the stain when I arrived.”
“It was daylight, was it not?” Mr. Idleman asked.
“Yes, but I was not expecting — that is — I was not looking at the floor.” Olivia's gaze locked on the stain and the wobbly line of footprints leading from it to the doorway. Her face burned. When she glanced up, she found her brother standing next to her. Her hand crept into his, grateful for the warmth of his fingers.
“The blood was sticky,” Constable Cooke pointed out, ending his statement with a damp smack of his plump lips.
“I was only here for a moment before my brother followed me into the room.”
Peregrine squeezed her fingers and nodded. “Not long. I heard nothing untoward.”
“Of course not,” Constable Cooke murmured softly. “Did either of you see an intruder?”
Olivia and Peregrine exchanged glances. Peregrine answered, “No. T-the building appeared t-to be empty.”
“It would only take a moment to hit a man and push him into this wardrobe,” Mr. Idleman said as he examined the door’s lock. “And this mechanism has a spring that could have locked the door when it was shut.” He clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward to peer at the dead man. “What is that object?”
“A marble cherub,” Olivia answered hastily. “It was on my desk.” She gestured at the massive desk behind the men standing in a semicircle, staring at her. “My brother gave it to me.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she felt her stomach contract. Why had she said such a thing? Her neck stiffened as she struggled to avoid glancing at him.
Peregrine once again tightened his clasp on her hand to reassure her. She squeezed back. Sorry.
“Then who, other than you two, knew that weapon was here?” Cooke asked, his small eyes glinting in the growing shadows.
“It was not a weapon,” Olivia protested. “It was a paperweight. And it was sitting on that desk, in plain view of anyone who entered this room.”
“A locked room, and you with the only key.” Constable Cooke rolled from heel to toe and back, his gaze moving from Olivia to the dead man and back to Olivia. He frowned at her. “I regret the necessity, my lady, but I must point out that apparently, you were the only one with access to this here locality, and the only one, other than your brother, who had knowledge of the fatal weapon. You have as much as admitted that those are your footprints in the victim's blood.”
“My good man!” Peregrine stood straighter and took a deep breath. His face assumed the cold, distant expression they’d all seen on their father's face when he’d confronted them with their youthful misdemeanors. Speaking very slowly and distinctly, he said, “You forget t-to w-whom you speak. W-we sent for you w-when we d-discovered t-this horror. Your implications are impertinent and d-distasteful in the extreme.”
Olivia gazed at her younger brother in awe. Illogical though it was, she was relieved not to be the one incurring Peregrine's ire at that moment.
“Yes, well, gentlemen, we must do our duty. Please view the circumstances and ask any clarifying questions before we, ah, touch the deceased,” Mr. Idleman said.
The men silently walked forward to peer at the body, stepping carefully around the stain. None of them seemed inclined to ask any questions, and in fact, no one even dared to look at Olivia or Peregrine. They all kept their gaze resolutely directed toward the floor as they edged past the brother and sister.
When the last man filed past, Constable Cooke positioned himself in front of the wardrobe and gingerly picked up the marble statue. He carefully wrapped the cherub in a large, red handkerchief liberally sprinkled with round yellow spots. With the weapon removed, they bent forward, but the victim's head leaned back into the dark rear corner and was so besmirched with gore that it was impossible to recognize his features. Cooke glanced at the coroner, who nodded.
Taking a deep breath, Cooke gripped the body's superfine wool jacket and pulled him forward. The corpse toppled out of the wardrobe to sprawl awkwardly on the floor. The constable rolled the victim over to reveal the face.
“Do you recognize him, my lady?” Mr. Idleman asked.
Olivia's clasp tightened on her brother's hand as she raised her free hand to press her handkerchief against her mouth with icy fingers. She caught Peregrine's startled gaze.
“Mr. Grantham,” she said in a shaky voice.
Mr. Underwood! Had he come here and murdered Mr. Grantham when Edward wouldn’t help him? He’d been on the street below and might have been running away. That would account for the panic straining his pallid features. Her thoughts whirled chaotically, but she kept her lips firmly pressed together. She refused to implicate him until she knew for certain the nature of his conversation with her brother and the reason for his presence so near the academy.
“He is known to you, then,” the constable confirmed with satisfaction.
“He is an old friend of our family. We all knew him.” She looked to her brother, too shocked to think clearly. Should she mention Mr. Underwood after all?
No! She couldn’t do that to him. But what had Mr. Grantham been doing here? He hadn’t seemed that interested in her school the last time he visited them.
Peregrine nodded. “An old family friend.”
“Was he assisting you with your, em, academy?” Mr. Idleman asked. He cast a glance at Cooke that seemed to indicate the two men were in accord regarding their scorn for her endeavor.
“No. I have no notion of why he should be here,” Olivia said.
“You did not arrange to meet him here, in your office?” Cooke asked.
“No, I did not,” she answered.
“Then how was he able to enter your office and open the cupboard? Did he have a key?” Mr. Idleman asked as Cooke studied her.
She was beginning to feel like a mouse snagged by the sharp claws of a cat. She glanced around. All the men were staring at her with varying degrees of curiosity and sympathy in their eyes. Mr. Underwood’s name hovered in the back of her throat, pushing forward, but she swallowed the words, refusing to throw suspicion in his direction until she felt more sure of his guilt. “I have no notion how he entered, or why he was here. I certainly did not invite him here.”
Cooke shook his head before turning back to the wardrobe. He pulled out one of the fencing foils that had been behind the body. “What is this?” He faced her, holding the thin sword with the tip pointing up at the ceiling. “There are swords here. What sort of ladies’ academy is this if these are your supplies?”
“If you must know, it is a fencing academy.” Olivia's chin rose. “It is a most invigorating sport, and quite proper.”
Frowning with disapproval, the constable and coroner looke
d at each other as if trying to decide if teaching ladies to fence could possibly have anything to do with the death of Mr. Grantham.
“If t-there is nothing else, Lady Olivia and I will leave you t-to your investigation. T-there is nothing more we c-can t-tell you, and my sister has had a severe shock.” He drew out his slim, silver case of calling cards and handed one to the coroner. “Good day, gentlemen.”
Before anyone could react, he drew Olivia's hand through the crook of his arm and drew her along with him out of the room.
Olivia took a deep breath in the hallway and drew her brother closer to touch her lips lightly to his cheek. “You were splendid, Perry dearest. Thank you so much.”
He shook his head and walked faster, descending the staircase ahead of her. He clearly wanted to get out of the musty townhouse as quickly as possible. It wasn't until they were outside that he paused to jam his hat on his head and give one last glance up at the tall building.
Icy sleet stung their faces, and Peregrine blinked repeatedly. “I did not t-think t-they would let us go so easily.” He shot a quick, curious look at her. “You d-did not arrange to meet old Grantham, d-did you?”
She stopped and dragged her hand away. “I did not! How could you possibly think I would do such a thing?”
“Well, he c-could fence,” Peregrine answered lamely.
A hot surge of frustrated tears burned her eyes. “Most men of our acquaintance can fence. I had no reason to make an assignation with him here. Why, he is — was — at our townhouse nearly every day. If I wanted to speak with him, I could have done so there.” Her voice shook, and she swallowed, walking faster. The sleet burned her cheeks and throat. “Of everyone, I would have thought that you would have faith in me.”
“Oh, d-don't be a ninnyhammer, Ollie,” he replied testily, grabbing her hand and dragging her forward at a faster pace. “I know you d-did not kill him. There is not a d-drop of blood on you. Except your shoes, of c-course.”