by Amy Corwin
Instead of believing in her innocence, Lord Saunders had casually dismissed her fears and advised her to confess. Obviously he knew nothing about her or what she would do.
Worse, did others see her the same way? Did Margaret believe Olivia had murdered Mr. Grantham? The thought made her feel as if she’d stepped over the edge of a precipice without a rope or helping hand to keep her from falling to her death.
Once again, she felt as if an invisible ribbon tied her to Lord Milbourn. The silken ribbon gently tugged at her, drawing her to him. She needed to see him, to talk to him. He would never dismiss her worries so lightly or believe she was silly enough to hit Mr. Grantham over the head with a marble Cupid simply because he flirted with her.
Lord Milbourn might tease her with Edward’s expertise at swordplay, but he didn’t treat her like a fool.
And although he might seem cold or distant, she felt a passion within him, hiding behind that calm exterior. That fire called to her like a beacon in the night, drawing her closer and offering her the reassuring glow of trust. But for now, she needed the icy clarity of his intelligence to review the events and help her prove her innocence. If she could just talk to him alone.…
She glanced at Lord Saunders, who was eying her hopefully, as if he thought he might finally have persuaded her of the correctness of his opinion. Letting out a long breath, she stared at the floor. Here she was thinking about Lord Milbourn, wishing she could discuss her situation with him, when she should rightly be talking to her betrothed. She ought to be thinking of him, obeying his requests, and giving him the respect due to him.
He’d been nothing but kind to her, even though they both knew this was no love match. Their two families wanted the alliance. It was a good match, and yet it made her feel desperate to escape.
His request should not have come as a surprise to her. She knew he was shy, painfully so. He had screwed up every ounce of courage he possessed to ask this one simple thing of her: stay away from the inquest and avoid public scrutiny. A lady would certainly do as he requested.
Any other lady would dislike the gossip, the infamy of having not one, but two bodies discovered in her townhouse. A proper lady wouldn’t even need to be told to stay away.
But no other lady would have thought of starting a Fencing Academy for Ladies, either.
A soft footstep sounded in the hallway, and Margaret rushed into the room. Her cheeks were flushed pink and her blue eyes flashed brilliantly as she glanced around and noticed Lord Saunders. Elusive dimples appeared to frame her pretty mouth.
“Lord Saunders! How delightful. Latimore said you were here.” She walked into the room, barely giving Olivia a nod. “I am so relieved to see you. It has been so dreadful here.” She glanced at Olivia. “Lady Olivia must be comforted to have your strong arm to support her, to support us all.” She leaned against the side of Lord Saunders’s chair, smiling down at him.
Flashing a smile, Lord Saunders flushed as pink as a rabbit’s nose with pleasure and sat up straighter, before assuming a properly grave expression. “Well, of course, I have given her the benefit of my advice.” He glanced at Olivia uneasily, apparently afraid she would contradict him. “I can only hope she listens to the voice of reason.”
Margaret laughed. “Lady Olivia always knows best. Or so she informs us when we beg to differ.” She touched Lord Saunders’s shoulder and leaned closer. “I, however, would appreciate your advice. Edward gave me permission to decorate the music room, and you have such elegant taste. Would you not help me? I promise not to take too much of your time.”
He looked at Olivia and seemed to have difficulties meeting her direct gaze. “Delighted, of course. Um, but what of Lord Graybrook? He might wish you had requested his assistance —” he broke off uneasily, unable to meet the eyes of either lady.
“Lord Graybrook’s wishes do not interest me,” Margaret replied archly. “And I am persuaded you have much better taste.”
“You flatter me, Lady Margaret. But I am always willing to do what I can.” Lord Saunders stood with alacrity, his smile matching Margaret’s. She slipped her hand through the crook of his arm, and they started for the door before Lord Saunders remembered Olivia.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Olivia. Would you care to join us?” he asked.
Margaret frowned at her, her eyes hard and unwelcoming.
Olivia sighed and shook her head. “No. You go on. Margaret is the musical one, not I. And I would like to rest.”
“Very well,” Lord Saunders said. “I hope you will consider my advice, Lady Olivia.”
“I shall most assuredly give it all the consideration it deserves,” Olivia answered without thinking.
She immediately regretted her words, but neither Lord Saunders nor Margaret appeared to notice. They were already discussing the merits of various wallpaper designs and paint as they walked through the door.
Alone again, Lord Saunders’s comments about her involvement in Mr. Grantham’s death echoed in her ears.
Poor Margaret — does she hold me responsible, too? She couldn’t possibly believe that Olivia would do such a thing — not in her heart — not about her sister — but the bitter thought that others might think her guilty remained. Mr. Grantham’s death had hurt Margaret so dreadfully that she might be desperate to assign the blame to someone — including Olivia. So it was entirely possible that Lord Saunders was correct, and that Margaret did indeed blame her for Mr. Grantham’s death and for her terrible grief.
For some unaccountable reason, she and Margaret had grown apart. Margaret now seemed to actually dislike her, so it would be easy for her to believe the worst of Olivia. The thought was heartbreaking. All their difficulties seemed to begin on the day Olivia agreed to accept Lord Saunders’s offer, and she couldn’t help but think of that as the last afternoon when they’d all been truly happy. Her sister had grown distant and difficult, and she’d stopped creeping into Olivia’s room at night to giggle and share secrets as they had done since girlhood.
She blamed Olivia for even the most trivial setback, and instead of focusing on her own future, Margaret had failed to find a suitable interest or a match of her own, despite three London Seasons.
Olivia had almost lost patience with her and given up on ever recapturing the warm relationship they’d once had. But she hadn’t stopped trying, or hoping that Margaret would see that her older sister still loved her and longed for their previous closeness.
Her stomach cramped, and she pressed her cold fingers to her mouth. What had she done? More importantly, what should she do?
Chapter Ten
As they walked away from the Archer residence, Alexander glanced at Belcher and then turned at the corner in the direction of the academy.
“May I join you?” Belcher asked as he matched his step to Alexander’s. Before Alexander could respond, he chuckled and shook his head. “I was surprised to see you with Lady Olivia, although I suppose I should not have been. She has always been mad about fencing — just as you and I have been — though I confess I had thought one of her brothers would have made her see sense. It seems to have led her into a great deal of difficulty. Ah, well, she was always a willful and contrary chit.” He sighed and glanced around. “My club is not far. I daresay a drink would not be amiss.”
Alexander shook his head and contemplated a cutting remark. Finally, he simply said, “I have other matters to attend to.”
Belcher chuckled. “I don’t suppose that includes checking on our remarkably astute constabulary and their progress in this terrible affair of Lady Olivia’s?”
“I am considering it,” Alexander replied coolly.
“Let me join you, then.” Worry settled on Belcher’s brow, wrinkling it into deep furrows. “I confess — willful or not — I am concerned about Lady Olivia. I dislike believing she could ever have killed Grantham, but I don’t know what other conclusion one can come to. And although we have all been friends for years, I have always thought Grantham a bit highhanded. If he
found Lady Olivia alone, well, he could have acted the cad toward her. She might have been provoked enough to hit him with that statuette.”
Alexander shot him a thoughtful glance. “I had not noticed any tendency in Grantham to take advantage of any of the ladies in the Archer family.”
“Perhaps I am mistaken.” Belcher shrugged. “But Grantham did appreciate the ladies, and the Archer females are remarkably attractive.”
“Perhaps,” Alexander murmured, irritated with Belcher’s company.
He wanted to speak with Cooke and Idleman, and didn’t want someone else interfering or asking irrelevant questions. Belcher had a way of addressing oblique criticisms to others that got people’s backs up. He’d certainly set Alexander’s teeth on edge enough times. However, Wraysbury and Grantham had found him amusing, so Belcher had remained a member of their quartet.
Now, it was a trio.
The academy came into view as they rounded the corner of Mortimer Street. Alexander’s pace quickened as his thoughts raced ahead.
Idleman and his jury seemed competent enough, however they were focusing too closely on Lady Olivia. Alexander was not so naïve as to assume that she could never kill anyone, but he didn’t believe she’d killed Grantham or her charwoman. If Grantham had bothered her, she would have called for her brother to throw him out. Or she would have done it herself. She was no shrinking wallflower, afraid of her own shadow.
A slow grin touched his mouth, but he instantly sobered. Bloodstains and footprints interested him. If she had lost her temper and hit Grantham, she was too intelligent to leave her footprints in the man’s blood. And from what Peregrine had said, she didn’t have any stains on her clothing. After bludgeoning Grantham and shoving him into the wardrobe, she would surely have had bloodstains on her sleeves at least.
Where were the stains? No one had noticed any on her clothing either, and she had not had time to change before Idleman and his jurymen arrived.
Then there was the charwoman to consider. Why kill her? Lady Olivia had her own key. And if she had done so for some inexplicable reason, why hide the body for a day? The victim had been stout, and her body would have been unwieldy and difficult to move. Lady Olivia would have had a great many challenges to overcome in dragging the corpse, and there was the question of where the woman had been kept until she was deposited at the academy.
The simplest possibility seemed to be that Mrs. Adams had been murdered either in her home or near — but not inside — the academy in order to obtain her key. The door to the kitchen seemed the likeliest location. If she’d been murdered in her home, she probably would have been left there. Even if the murderer wanted to fasten the blame more securely on Lady Olivia, it seemed unnecessary to drag her here through the busy London streets.
So she had to have been left nearby. Again, outside the kitchen door made the most sense as the murder location. The killer may have waited there for the charwoman to arrive. Because one only reached that door through a narrow alley, there would have been little chance of being seen. He could then kill her to obtain the key and prevent her from telling anyone that she had seen him or lent him the key. He then hid her body — somewhere close — and used the key to unlock the door for his meeting with Grantham.
The building was obviously unused, and few expected Lady Olivia to really open her academy, so it was the perfect place for a private conversation. Even Grantham had jested in private that she would never succeed — no lady would sign up for a fencing class no matter how harebrained she was. What fair-skinned maid would risk scarring her beautiful face?
The murderer must have agreed and had been confident that they would not be interrupted by anyone.
Except they were interrupted when Lady Olivia arrived.
That must have been a bit of a shock for the killer when she arrived with her brother so soon after he’d dispatched Grantham. Whether he had planned to hide the body in the wardrobe from the beginning, or did so in his haste to escape detection when Lady Olivia walked in, was a minor matter. The fact was that he’d shoved the body in a convenient hiding place and left down the servants’ stairs before anyone saw him.
It was the only reasonable solution.
Alexander’s frown deepened as they approached the front door of the townhouse. Proving Lady Olivia’s innocence was not going to be easy. Even if what he suspected were true, there wasn’t any proof that she was not involved, except the lack of bloodstains on her clothing.
Blood and keys, blood and keys. Those elements were at the heart of the matter.
Lady Olivia had her own key and had no reason to murder her charwoman. And he refused to believe that the two deaths were not connected.
If Lady Olivia had arranged to meet Grantham at the academy and subsequently murdered him, then there was no explanation for Mrs. Adam’s death. Unless the charwoman had walked in on the scene.
No. Impossible. Lady Olivia had been at home before she and her brother had gone to the academy. The two of them had to have arrived at almost the same time that Grantham had met his end. His blood had been fresh enough for her to track it across the floor on the soles of her shoes.
So Mrs. Adams could not have surprised her. Unless Peregrine had been complicit in the two crimes as well.
But then, why hide Mrs. Adams’s body while sending for the authorities to investigate the death of Mr. Grantham? Lady Olivia and Peregrine Archer had to be innocent. Simple logic supported their stories.
Unfortunately, the same facts could be seen in quite a different light if one were so inclined, and the authorities appeared to be very inclined in that direction.
“Gloomy old place, eh?” Belcher commented as Alexander opened the front door. He brushed past Alexander and strode inside, gazing around avidly. “I heard the actual murder took place upstairs. Is that true?” Without waiting for Alexander’s reply, he strode to the staircase and glanced upward into the gloom of the first floor landing.
“Yes.” Alexander walked to the baize door leading to the servants’ area at the back of the house. If the coroner and his men were still present, they would most likely be in that vicinity.
“Where are you going?” Belcher called from a point halfway up the staircase.
Alexander didn’t answer. He slipped through the doorway, intent on his own investigation. If Belcher wanted to wander around upstairs, he was welcomed to do so.
As he expected, the coroner and his men were milling around the kitchen, mostly engaged in gossip, while four of them wrapped the body in a stiff, weathered piece of canvas. Constable Cooke stood a few feet away, watching their efforts and talking to another man Alexander recognized as Mr. Greenfield.
Greenfield glanced at the doorway as Alexander entered and nodded.
“I would like to look at the body again before you remove it, if you don’t mind,” Alexander said, walking around the kitchen table. “Have you determined the cause of death?”
“Hit on the head,” Constable Cooke said. “Though I don’t see what business it is of yours.”
The statement verified the observation Alexander had made when they discovered the body. The fact that Cooke’s assessment agreed with Alexander’s failed to reassure him about the ultimate conclusion of the investigation, however. Sometimes expediency took precedence over the truth, although Lady Olivia’s position might shield her enough to make them at least attempt to find the true murderer.
“The manner of death is of interest to anyone wishing to see this murder solved,” Alexander answered Cooke’s comment with a half-smile. He knelt on one knee next to the corpse and caught the uncertain gaze of one of the men wrapping the canvas over her.
The man looked from Alexander to Greenfield.
Greenfield nodded. “Uncover her head. Her left temple was crushed by a blow, my lord.”
The man gently unfolded the canvas and stood back, waiting for Alexander to examine her.
A blow had indeed broken the skin of the left temple, as he had initially note
d. He bent closer. A livid gash separated the thin flesh, and a dried line of blood ran across her face, pooling in dark flakes around the eyes, and disappearing into her bonnet.
So he’d been correct. She had lain on her right side immediately after death, causing the blood to spill over her face. The fluid had also pooled under the skin of her right cheek. It had created a purplish-red stain that now seemed to be permanent, for it had not changed position, even though she had been laying on her left side when her body was discovered.
Examining the left temple again, he thought he could see an odd imprint in the center, bisected by the torn skin. A signet ring, perhaps? Had someone wearing a large, heavy ring hit her on the temple and killed her? A ring, or something else round with circular ridges. The knobbed end of a poker, perhaps, or even a candlestick. There were numerous possibilities.
He pulled out a small journal and pencil and drew as much of the pattern as he could make out, along with a note concerning the size of the wound. A small frown pinched the bridge of his nose. I have seen this somewhere. The sense of familiarity gnawed at him, but he couldn’t place it. Perhaps it was something as inconsequential as the knob on a fire iron.
“What do you see?” Greenfield moved closer to peer over Alexander’s shoulder.
“You observed the lack of blood on the floor?” Alexander asked.
“Yes, of course.” Greenfield nodded, a deceptively mild, curious expression in his blue eyes. “Her hat caught most of it. You can see where it flowed over her face.”
“Precisely. And what do you make of that?” Alexander stood and brushed his hands off on the hem of his jacket as he took a step away from Greenfield.
Greenfield smiled. “What I make of that is that she was wearing her bonnet when she died, and it failed to protect her from the blow that killed her.”
“Anything else?”
“If you have noted something we have missed, please enlighten us, my lord,” Greenfield answered. His voice remained mild, but his gaze had hardened. He clearly wasn’t overly pleased about Alexander’s interference.