by Amy Corwin
“No, my lord. They’s in the hallway.” He rubbed the coin between his grubby thumb and forefinger, scrutinized it anxiously, and slipped it into the pocket of an ill-fitting, tattered waistcoat he wore below his jacket. With a grin, he touched the brim of his cap. “Thank you kindly, my lord. Ladies.…” He winked and ran back out as if he feared they might try to stop him and demand the return of the coins.
Chapter Eight
Olivia collected the fencing accoutrements and carried them quietly upstairs to her office, hoping to avoid the constable and his men as long as possible. The action also allowed her to escape from Cynthia and Lord Milbourn for a few precious minutes so she could think.
Cynthia’s vigorous attack had rattled her. She’d completely overwhelmed Olivia to the point where all she could do was to defend herself and try to maintain some space between them.
It was not a particularly admirable start to her lessons.
Olivia’s shoulder ached where Cynthia had hit her, and she suspected a lovely dark bruise was forming. Her thoughts swayed between aggravation and anger. She’d thought she was prepared to teach. Apparently, she was mistaken.
And Lord Milbourn’s comments only undermined her confidence further.
Edward! Always Edward! What made him so much better than the rest of them? He wasn’t even interested in fencing and only went to lessons when his tutor discovered him in some corner reading a huge, boring book about English law and forced him to join his brothers.
So why was he the one with the talent? A man who only wanted to be left alone to peruse dusty jurisprudence tomes and argue arcane points that no one cared about. Why couldn’t Lord Milbourn see how many hours she’d spent training, or how much she wanted to excel? She ought to be several times better than Edward by now, and yet she struggled to maintain a middling proficiency that was more novice than expert.
If only he hadn’t been there to witness her floundering defeat at Cynthia’s Amazonian, muscular hands.
She locked the wardrobe and rubbed the side of her jaw. The muscles ached, and she realized she’d been gritting her teeth.
By the time she descended to the ground floor, Constable Cooke and his band of exceedingly morose men were standing in the hallway, talking to Lord Milbourn and Cynthia. Even though Olivia stepped as quietly as she could, Lord Milbourn glanced her way and nodded at her, dragging her into his interview with the stocky constable.
She took a deep breath and hung on to etiquette to save her. “Miss Denholm, have you met Constable Cooke and Mr. Idleman, the coroner?” Olivia clasped her hands at her waist.
“Oh, yes.” Cynthia grinned with delight and rubbed her palms together, creating a rasping noise like a pile of dead leaves caught by the wind. “I have never met a constable before. Or a coroner. Quite exciting.”
“Undoubtedly,” Olivia said and clamped her lips together to avoid sighing.
One day soon, she was sure to get a visit from Cynthia’s formidable parents, demanding to know why their daughter was meeting such people at all. When they did, Olivia would only be able to assure them that she had no desire to meet such people, either. Too bad she had very little choice in the matter.
Constable Cooke turned to face her, his pudgy fingers crushing the brim of his hat. “Another sad day, Lady Olivia, very sad.”
“And sadder still for Mrs. Adams,” Olivia replied tartly.
Constable Cooke’s brown eyes stared at her with a blank look.
“The charwoman,” Olivia added. She gestured toward the baize door. “The misfortunate woman lying in the kitchen.”
The coroner, Mr. Idleman, nodded and added a note in the small book he carried. His jurymen stood in a ragged cluster behind him, and Olivia thought she recognized most of them from their first visit to the academy. Several nodded and touched their forelocks respectfully when they caught her glance. Their somber, pious air reminded her of the groups of men she often saw lingering outside a church on a Sunday, waiting to gossip, discuss local business, and ogle the ladies.
Mr. Idleman looked up when he finished writing, his pencil poised over the open book. “When was the last time you saw,” he glanced down at his notes, “Mrs. Adams?”
Olivia frowned in thought. When was the last time? The woman had certainly been good about keeping out of sight and out of the way. So good, in fact, that it appeared she hadn’t actually been to the academy to do her job, either. The floors and furniture were just as dusty as they’d been the first time Olivia walked through the townhouse.
“Lady Olivia?” Mr. Idleman prompted her.
“Well, I met her when I engaged her, of course. That was sometime in January. I’m not sure of the exact date. And I saw her again when I gave her the key to the townhouse.” When the coroner frowned, she hurried to add, “There was no one here to let her in. She needed a key to clean. I could not possibly be here every morning to let her in.”
Mr. Idleman pulled out a thin, ragged piece of linen that was looped through several keys and tied in a knot. “Is your key one of these?”
She accepted the bundle of four keys and studied them. They were all large brass keys, well-worn and dented from heavy usage. They clanked together with a dissonant clatter, held by the knotted piece of fabric. None of them had the elaborate scrolls at the top like either her key, or the one she’d given to Mrs. Adams. A chill caressed the back of her neck.
A key to the academy was missing.
“No. I don’t recognize any of these keys.” She shook her head as she handed the pathetic collection back to the coroner.
“Were the doors to this townhouse locked?” Mr. Idleman asked, deep lines of disapproval bracketing his mouth.
Once again, the walls seemed to move inward, imperceptibly closing in on her, inch by inch, squeezing all the air out of the room.
She took a deep breath and forced a calm expression, remembering Lord Milbourn’s comment about maintaining an air of cool indifference to disconcert one’s opponent. The excitement and triumphs of his lessons seemed distant and unattainable.
“Yes. I unlocked the front door myself. When we arrived this afternoon,” she said at last.
Cynthia nodded. “I watched her unlock the door. You can take my word for it.”
“Thank you, Miss Denholm,” Mr. Idleman said.
“The kitchen door was locked too, sir,” one of the men behind the coroner said in a low voice. “We checked.”
“What fun!” Cynthia exclaimed, grinning and clapping her hands. “A true mystery!”
Several other men nodded, although their gazes seemed to be locked on their feet, and they were positively crushing their hats between their plump hands.
“It is indeed a mystery.” Mr. Idleman’s pursed lips indicated he had no love of such mysteries.
“Gentlemen,” Lord Milbourn said. “Logic would suggest that Mrs. Adams met her fate elsewhere and was moved here.”
“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Mr. Idleman interrupted. “I see no reason to make such an assumption. The kitchen door, as we said, was locked.”
Lord Milbourn’s dark brows rose. “Did you not search the kitchen when you were here two days ago? How remiss of you.”
Constable Cooke’s red cheeks puffed out and deflated as he sucked in air and released it in aggravation. “We searched every inch of this domicile. Every inch. She wasn’t here Wednesday, I will swear to it.”
“Her, er, accident was more recent, then,” the coroner said, although his voice quavered with doubt. He stared at the constable as if seeking his support.
“What is your conclusion based upon?” Lord Milbourn asked with an interested smile though his eyes danced with amused cynicism.
“Why…” The coroner glanced around at his men. He cleared his throat several times. “Why…?”
They continued to study the floor.
“Why, the poor woman was not here on Wednesday. She must have been…” He cast a quick glance at Lady Olivia and cleared his throat. “She must have p
erished after that date.”
“Interesting conclusion.” Lord Milbourn caught Olivia’s gaze. She could read nothing in his dark eyes except a kind of detached intelligence. “I suggest that whoever struck Mr. Grantham needed a key to open the doors. It seems reasonable that he got that key from Mrs. Adams, and that she did not survive the encounter. After Mr. Grantham was discovered here, the same individual used said key once again, more recently, to gain entrance to the house. He then left the charwoman in the kitchen.”
“It is one theory,” Mr. Idleman admitted grudgingly. “However, the evidence —”
“The evidence leads me to suppose Mrs. Adams has been dead for several days.” Lord Milbourn bowed at Olivia. “I beg your pardon for my crudeness, Lady Olivia. However, there is a redness to Mrs. Adams’s cheek that indicates she was lying in a different position soon after she died. She must have been moved later, exposing the blood that had previously settled in her cheek. I feel sure you will see it if you examine her again.” He studied the fingernails of his right hand, already bored with the situation.
“It may be as you say, my lord,” Constable Cooke said, his brows jutting out so far that they left his eyes in angry pools of shadow. “Or maybe not.”
“Of course, we will certainly examine the body again,” Mr. Idleman said. However, the smug set of his mouth and the upward tilt of his nose indicated that he had no real intention of doing so. He’d made his decision, ill-judged though it might be.
Even Lord Milbourn’s sharp stare at the coroner suggested he was aware of the incongruence between the coroner’s statement and his attitude.
“Is there anything else you require?” Olivia asked. “I would like to return home, and I’m sure Miss Denholm would like to depart, as well.”
“Not at all,” Cynthia said with a laugh. “All the time in the world. Carry on, men.”
“It is getting late.” Olivia’s jaw clenched, sending another shooting spasm of pain through her head.
“Please allow me to escort you, Lady Olivia. We can then leave these gentlemen in peace.” Lord Milbourn bowed and gestured toward the door. When he caught Olivia’s gaze, his face remained impassive, but his eyes twinkled in the dim, grainy light of the hallway.
Olivia slipped a hand around Cynthia’s elbow, determined to drag her out with her, if need be.
“We may be a while longer, Lady Olivia.” Mr. Idleman held out a hand. “We would be obliged if you would leave the key with us. So we may lock the doors.”
“It hardly seems to matter, does it?” Olivia objected. “It seems perfectly simple for hordes of murderers to come and go as they please. Locking the door seems quite useless.”
“Nonetheless.” Mr. Idleman didn’t withdraw his hand. Instead, he shook it slightly in a silent demand for the key. “We would be obliged, my lady. And I will return it this evening.”
With a sigh, Olivia fished the ornate brass key out of her reticule and handed it to him.
“Thank you, Lady Olivia.” Mr. Idleman bowed. “May Constable Cooke make a copy of the key?”
“A copy? Why?”
“So we may return your key to you while we continue our investigation.”
She didn’t like the notion of the constable having a key, but she supposed she could have the locks changed when the matter was settled. “Very well. Now, we really must go.”
“Thank you. I trust we will see you at the inquest tomorrow,” Mr. Idleman said, executing another bow. “I will return your key to you at that time.”
“Inquest?” Cynthia’s eyes sparkled. “Where will it be held?”
Olivia grabbed Cynthia’s elbow and forcibly turned her toward the front door. “It will be terribly boring, I’m sure. In fact, I may send a written statement instead and have one of my brothers obtain the key.” She nodded at the men and threw open the door.
Protesting and trying to return inside to watch the jurymen perform their gruesome task of inspecting the deceased woman and her environs, Cynthia managed to escape from Olivia’s grasp.
Following them closely, Lord Milbourn blocked her path. “Enough for one day,” he commented as he set his hat on his head and studied the passersby.
The pale gray February light was rapidly fading, although there seemed to be an endless stream of pedestrians despite the dreary close of the day. The air felt noticeably cooler with a crisp edge and a bite like a tart apple, although the freshness was dulled by the smoke of innumerable fires.
They had only walked three blocks when Miss Denholm halted. “Well then, I’m off,” she announced.
Olivia traded glances with Lord Milbourn. He said, “We shall escort you, Miss Denholm.”
“Nonsense. I walked to Lady Olivia’s house alone. I can certainly walk the last four blocks without your assistance.” She snorted and strode around the corner before they could stop her.
Lord Milbourn watched her go, then looked down at Olivia and shrugged. “An interesting young lady.”
“I felt sure you would find her so.” Olivia gave his arm a gentle tug as she took a step to proceed forward.
The ghost of a chuckle whispered past her cheek.
“She does show a great deal of enthusiasm for fencing. Very impressive, mi niña bonita,” Lord Milbourn replied in a bland voice. “Energetic.”
A tiredness seeped through her, dragging at her limbs and encasing her feet in lead. After two slow steps, she felt obliged to protest once more, “I am not a child. I wish you would remember that. And the way you seem to forget how to speak English when it suits you is exceedingly annoying.”
He pressed a hand over his heart in an exaggerated gesture, and laughter shook his voice when he replied, “You wound me, mi niña bonita.” He paused before adding, “Promise me you will not return to the academy alone. If you must go, take one of your brothers with you.” After a thoughtful silence, he added, “Or send for me.”
“Should I ask Edward, perhaps? You seem to admire him so much.”
“Yes.” His curt reply startled her. “He would do very well.” He cast her a sidelong glance, a faint, mocking smile curving his mouth. “And he would be an excellent tutor for your more energetic students.”
“I am capable of teaching my students.”
“Si. And you did so well today, mi niña bonita. I was quite in awe of your expertise.”
She jerked his arm, bringing them to a halt outside her townhouse. “I —” She stopped and stared into his eyes. “I realize I was surprised and did not maintain my guard as I should have. I am not quite the fool you think me.”
“You are not a fool,” he murmured. “Though, hardheaded? Si, mi niña bonita, that much is true.”
“Hardheaded — fool — I don’t see much difference between the two.”
“Then perhaps I have overestimated you, after all.”
“I don’t see how that is possible,” she said, feeling aggrieved. She was tired and though she hated to admit it, she was frightened. Lord Milbourn’s words only added to her sense of ill-usage.
Why could he not be kind to her, just this once?
The inquest was tomorrow, and although the verdict would undoubtedly be an unlawful killing by person or persons unknown, she feared Mr. Greenfield and Constable Cooke were viewing her as the most likely suspect. Most likely, Edward hadn’t spoken to them about Mr. Underwood, she thought bitterly. Why wouldn’t he do so? He knew how important the matter was. Her social position might protect her from an accusation and subsequent prosecution for now, but she couldn’t rely on it forever. The authorities seemed extremely industrious in collecting sufficient evidence to condemn her. She had no faith that her innocence would ensure her safety.
Edward had to talk to them about Mr. Underwood, he just had to. The man had been in the vicinity of the townhouse — he had more than sufficient opportunity. The thought made her feel ashamed though. She remembered the panic in his face and his concern about his wife. Olivia didn’t wish him ill, and when she considered it, she couldn’t
believe he would do such a thing.
But the fear that she might be accused drove her to search for a way to cast the blame elsewhere, and she couldn’t forget looking down into his pale face as he stood on the walkway in front of the academy.
She expelled a shaky breath. Perhaps it was a person or persons unknown. Perhaps the killer was a complete stranger who would forever remain nameless. That would be so much better than discovering it was someone she knew.
She didn’t want to discover that one of her dear friends had committed murder. Surely she had better judgment than that.
She glanced at Lord Milbourn and discovered him studying her with a concerned frown puckering his brows. His dark eyes warmed with sympathy for one brief moment, before his mouth twisted into a lopsided grin.
“Never fear, Lady Olivia. I will not abandon you.” His grin widened and a glint of amusement lit his eyes. “I may even cut out the estimable Edward and assist you in tutoring your young ladies myself if I am sufficiently persuaded.”
“How reassuring,” she drawled, wishing she didn’t feel quite so lightheaded when he smiled at her that way. “I am sure we shall be positively overflowing with students now.”
“Undoubtedly.” He escorted her up the steps to the front door, which magically creaked opened just as they set foot on the stoop. Lord Milbourn bowed to Olivia. “I will leave you here, mi niña bonita. Try not to find any more dead bodies. I fear Constable Cooke may not understand.”
Olivia frowned at him, but bit off a sharp retort when she noticed Latimore holding the door open. “And I suggest you do the same. After all, there is only so much we can expect from our constabulary, and Constable Cooke does indeed have his hands full.” She stepped over the threshold and untied the gold ribbons of her bonnet. “You must be busy, Lord Milbourn, so I thank you for your escort and bid you good day.”
Although the butler’s lined face remained suitably impassive, she feared they had already shocked him with the news about yet another corpse at the academy. She dreaded the inevitable gossip about Mrs. Adams’s death. She had barely known the poor woman, but a grim sadness filled her at the memory of her sprawled untidily on the dirty floor of the kitchen. She’d hired Mrs. Adams and in doing so, she’d exposed her to the danger that had ultimately claimed her life. Queasy guilt churned through her stomach.