“Ah, yes. Sorry to say, this has become an all-too-familiar sight today,” the chief inspector declared upon peering in.
“What was found in the other boxes?” Eva wanted to know.
Inspector Perkins pulled a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and mopped it across his brow. “More of the same, I’m afraid. Except without identifying circumstances. An appendage lying beside a gold watch. Another with a tie pin. Yet another with a set of sapphire shirt studs. And so on. A half dozen in all. Makes no sense.”
“Have you shown the other items to his man?” Dad’s voice rang with impatience. “He could identify them as Lord Allerton’s or not.”
“We had no reason to, not until now.” Inspector Perkins’s assistant stopped scribbling and leaned forward with an elbow on the table. “But now that we have an identity,” he said in the slightest of brogues, “the question for the time being is not so much the who or how of the crime, but the where. As in, where is the rest of Lord Allerton?”
Eva groaned in queasiness.
Phoebe stared out the Petite Salon’s bay window at the sweep of lawn bordered by white-crested shrubbery and icy flowerbeds. At the sound of a spoon tinkling against the fine porcelain of a teacup, she turned to Julia, who was sitting at the table.
“You’re awfully calm about this,” Phoebe noted. “Especially seeing as it was your beau who met his demise this morning. Or last night.”
Julia offered one of her trademark shrugs and sipped her tea. “As far as I am concerned, Henry was neither my fiancé nor my beau. He was little more than an acquaintance.”
“Good heavens, Julia, that’s terribly unfeeling of you. We’ve known the Leightons all our lives. You might at least feel a smidgeon of sympathy for his mother.”
Julia stared impassively back. “It’s not as if I wished him ill. I’m simply not devastated that he has left us.”
“Left us? Henry hasn’t gone off on holiday. He is most assuredly dead, Julia.”
“Is he?” She wrinkled her pretty nose, which, unlike Phoebe’s, had never known a single freckle. “Thus far we have no real proof of that. Inspector Perkins said there isn’t a speck of blood in Henry’s room, nor anywhere else they’ve looked.”
“His blood is somewhere, Julia. His fingers were severed from his hands!” Phoebe paused to regain her composure.
Though the others had assembled in the drawing room to await their turn to speak with Inspector Perkins, there was no telling when one of them might come looking for either Julia or herself. Julia had sneaked away earlier to avoid questions about the night before, especially the constant ones posed by Henry’s aunt Cecily, who hadn’t quite grasped the gravity of the situation and still believed an engagement to be imminent.
“Julia,” Phoebe began again more calmly, “it is a foregone conclusion that Henry did not survive such a vicious attack on his person. And that everyone in this house could be viewed as a suspect.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Which? That Henry is very likely dead, or that any of us might be considered culpable?”
“The latter, of course.” Another shrug followed.
Phoebe wanted to shake sense into her. No, not sense. Feeling. Empathy. Life. During these past years Julia had seemed less than alive, disconnected from the rest of the world and everyone in it.
Papa’s death had done that to her, just as it had turned Fox from an unruly but good-natured child into a grasping, self-centered adolescent. And Amelia . . . poor Amelia worried about everyone all the time, constantly seeking ways to ensure the happiness of the entire family. Well-meaning though she might be, there was often something quite desperate and grasping in Amelia’s vision of how life should be.
If only Papa hadn’t gone to war. If only he hadn’t died in the trenches.
And if only Henry Leighton had been a decent man, one with whom Julia could have fallen in love. But none of that had happened, and Phoebe knew they must face what did happen head-on, or they would never be free of it.
She sat at the table across from her sister. “When the inspector questions you, it would be best if you come clean about last night. About your argument with Henry.”
Julia paled. Her eyes narrowed within their dark rim of lashes. “That is no one’s business. Not yours, and certainly not Inspector Perkins’s.”
“Don’t you understand? I’m not the only one who overheard you last night. The servants clearing the dining room witnessed a good deal. Wouldn’t it be better for you to explain yourself rather than allow them to speculate on your behalf?”
“I feel no need to explain myself, Phoebe. And how dare you imply that I might have had something to do with Henry’s death.” Her expression smoldering, she stood and thrust her napkin to the table.
“I implied no such thing. And I thought you weren’t convinced Henry was even deceased.” She raised her eyebrows, a silent dare for Julia to backtrack once again.
“I’ve had more than enough of this.” Julia headed for the door.
“Of course I don’t believe you had anything to do with what happened to Henry,” Phoebe called after her. “That’s exactly why you should speak honestly with the inspector. Julia, wait. . . .”
She came to her feet, but too late. Julia was gone. With a deep sigh Phoebe returned to the bay windows. Whose footprints were those, leading through the garden, around the fountain, over the footbridge, and to the edge of the woods? Another set of prints also marred the fresh snow, but only near the house. The inspector’s assistant had been out for a look and had no doubt determined that whoever had ventured out that way had returned to the house. But Phoebe wondered about that. Had anyone bothered to trace the footsteps and determine whether they entered the woods? And if so, where they had gone from there?
“I need my Wellies and a warm coat,” she said to herself, and turned to discover a figure in the doorway.
“My lady?” Eva still looked pale and shaken, though she offered Phoebe a patient smile. “I just thought I’d check to see if you needed anything.”
“Has the inspector finished with you and your father?”
Her hands folded primly at her waist, Eva stepped into the room. “With me, yes. He’s still questioning my father. I didn’t like being asked to leave. It felt wrong, leaving Dad there alone.”
“Why do you think Inspector Perkins dismissed you?”
“It seems the note I found in our box raises some questions about . . . well . . . about whether my parents had any dealings with Lord Allerton. Which they never have, of course. Why would they?”
“What did the note say?”
“ ‘For the Huntfords, for their pains.’” Eva’s shoulders quivered. “As if a severed finger were reward for . . . for I cannot imagine what, my lady.”
“That is ghastly.” Phoebe folded her arms and considered. “Of course, the ring must be very valuable. One supposes it was meant as payment for something. Any idea what?”
“None at all.” Eva opened her hands, then clutched them together again. “My father occasionally supplies meat to various butchers and manor houses, and of course his dairy cows provide milk to the village. But I don’t know that Lord Allerton did business of any sort with my father since before the war.” After a pause, she added, “It’s all rather befuddling.”
“Indeed it is.” Phoebe came to a quick decision. “Eva, would you mind accompanying me outside? Just in the garden.”
“If you like, my lady, of course. We must dress warmly. It’s quite cold and your grandmother would never forgive me if I allowed you to catch a chill.” She studied Phoebe with an assessing gaze that suddenly had Phoebe wanting to squirm like a child. “May I ask the purpose of this trek into a frozen garden, my lady?”
“I’ll answer that with another question. Do you trust Inspector Perkins to conduct a thorough investigation?”
“My answer is no . . . and no, my lady.”
Phoebe blinked. “Why a double no?”
“Phoeb
e Renshaw, I entreat you to leave police business to the police.”
“I only suggested a walk through the garden.” She struggled to keep her expression clear of all controversy. “And if we should happen to notice any significant details about those footprints out there, so much the better.”
Phoebe held her breath as Eva continued to study her. Had she been wrong to involve her maid? She should have simply slipped out alone with no one the wiser. If Eva refused, she would watch Phoebe like the hawk she sometimes became. And here Phoebe had believed she had outgrown the need for a governess. Sometimes Eva could be sterner than even Miss Dawson of years ago.
Finally, Eva spoke. “Absolutely not, my lady. I won’t help you become involved in a criminal investigation. It’s far too dangerous. You would do best to return to the drawing room with the others and let Inspector Perkins and his assistant perform their duties.”
Some ten minutes later, Eva let out a sigh. “Honestly, my lady, I don’t know how I let you talk me into coming outside.” Swirls of steam accompanied each word and she shivered inside her wool coat. The cold knifed at her lungs and penetrated thick stockings, a flannel petticoat, and calf-high boots. She could not return to the house quickly enough.
She glanced over at Phoebe, who had assumed one of her “Who me?” expressions. “Here, put your collar up. My goodness, it’s grown colder even than this morning. We’ll both be frozen through in a matter of minutes and it’ll be spring before they manage to thaw us out.”
She raised the fur collar of Phoebe’s coat more snugly around her neck and tightened her muffler for good measure, but that did little to soothe her guilt about agreeing to this excursion. They had exited the house through the library, and Eva supposed if anyone happened to glance out of the drawing-room windows, they would merely think Phoebe needed a bit of fresh air. Lord Wroxly in particular favored nothing so much as a brisk wind in his face, so he would find nothing out of place in his granddaughter seeking the same, especially on so distressing a day as this.
“Do stop fussing, Eva.” Phoebe raised a gloved hand to tug at her muffler. “This wretched thing makes me sneeze. Besides, I’m not in the least bit cold.”
“I am, so humor me.” But she made no more adjustments to her mistress’s clothing.
Phoebe studied the ground and frowned. “I thought Henry would have exited the house through the drawing room or the library, but apparently not. Where do the tracks originate?”
True, Eva noted, theirs were the only footprints to be seen in last night’s fresh snow, at least until they reached the central walkway. With her gaze Eva followed the tracks to their source at the farther end of the house.
“It looks as though he came out through the service courtyard.” She pointed to the wing that jutted out perpendicular from the main edifice. High stone walls separated the service courtyard from the formal gardens. Around the corner of the wing, a wooden gate led out to the kitchen garden tucked behind a towering evergreen hedge. Beyond that stood the sprawling greenhouses and then the orchards.
“Why would Lord Allerton come outside through the servants’ entrance?”
“If it was Lord Allerton who made this trail, perhaps he raided the larder for something to eat first,” Eva suggested.
“Come on, then, let’s start where he started.” Phoebe took off at an undignified trot, and as Eva followed at a brisk walk she glanced up at the drawing-room windows to see if Lady Wroxly observed them with one of her disapproving frowns. She saw only the backs of heads ranged along the settee beneath the central window and a few moving shadows beyond. She hurried after Phoebe, who had disappeared from sight. Eva found her just inside the service gate.
“This must be how Henry went out,” she murmured absently. Her gloved finger swept the double trail of footprints between the gate and the door that led inside the servants’ corridor. “He returned this way, too. See the prints? The same ones—note the size of the shoes being the same—go both in and out.” She moved farther into the courtyard, still pointing at the ground. A jumble of prints went to yet another, wider pair of gates where deliveries were brought in each morning from the village. “Here are some smaller ones, probably those of Mrs. Ellison and her assistants, and I would wager these larger ones here are from Vernon and Douglas carrying in the heavier parcels.”
“Perhaps one of them decided to walk through the gardens early this morning.”
Phoebe scrunched up her face as she studied the prints. “No, Vernon and Douglas are taller than Lord Allerton and their feet are larger.” She paced back to the garden gate. “There is only one set in and out here, and they don’t appear to lead to the kitchen garden or the hothouses.”
Even through her woolen gloves, Eva’s fingers stung from the cold. “All very astute deductions, my lady. Perhaps you’d like to offer your assistance to Inspector Perkins.”
She suppressed a smile at Phoebe’s little frown of perplexity. “You’re teasing me.”
“I suppose I am, but you have made some astute observations. Shall we follow the trail and see where they lead?” And return to the warmth inside all the more quickly, she thought.
“Yes, but we should stay well away from the prints. We don’t want to obscure them with our own.”
Before Eva could comment on that strategy, a voice interrupted.
“That is something the inspector and I would vastly appreciate, ladies.”
Both Eva and Phoebe whirled at the sound of the brogue to find Inspector Perkin’s assistant letting himself out through the kitchen door. Over his uniform he wore a deep blue trench coat, double breasted with polished brass buttons and belted at the waist. He strolled over to them and tipped his helmet, his hair fiery against the background of snow and overcast sky.
“Is Inspector Perkins finished asking questions, then?” Phoebe asked.
The young man shook his head. “No, he’s still questioning the staff, but he didn’t think he needed me for the time being. I thought I’d come out and take another look at these very same footprints that seem to hold you in such fascination, my lady.”
Though he spoke to Lady Phoebe, he cast several quizzical glances at Eva. Something in the acuity of his gaze put her on her guard, as if she might be a suspect. Silly of her, she knew, yet the gentle brogue and the sharp blue eyes seemed to work in conjunction, suggesting a strategy of setting people at ease while missing nothing.
A beneficial talent for a policeman, to be sure, but why use it on her? Had some development arisen inside—something to do with her father?
The notion unsettled her nearly as much as the man’s piercing scrutiny. “Has the inspector discovered anything—any clues as to who might have wanted to harm Lord Allerton?”
“I am afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”
Phoebe frowned, and Eva said, “Come now. This is a small village where there are few, if any, secrets. If someone amongst us performed this despicable deed, we shall all know soon enough.”
“I don’t doubt that,” he said as he clasped his leather-clad hands behind him, “but you’ll not hear about it from me, I’m afraid. Not at present, at any rate.”
Phoebe’s frown hadn’t diminished, and now she said, “You are new to the village, Constable. . . .”
“I am. And it’s Brannock. Constable Miles Brannock, my lady, at your service.” He swept a little bow aimed primarily at Phoebe. Eva pursed her lips. She easily imagined him to be a charmer with ladies, for though his gesture might have been one of deference to a daughter of the house, his smile held too much familiarity for Eva’s comfort. He reminded her of Nicholas Hensley, teasing her this morning by insisting she call him Nick. This, however, was quite a different matter and set off a trill of warning. Did the constable have the cheek to flirt with Phoebe while trying to gauge Eva’s reaction? Or was he daring her to react?
She’d show him a reaction, all right. She would nip his insolence in the bud immediately, and in no uncertain terms. “If you’ll excuse us,
Constable Brannock.” She raised her chin dismissively, as she had had to do on occasion with the butcher’s rather presumptuous delivery man. “Lady Phoebe and I were just about to return to the house.”
“No, we weren’t,” Phoebe blurted, much to Eva’s frustration. “We were about to follow these tracks to wherever they lead. You see, constable, they suggest the person went out and later returned to the house, but if they belong to Lord Allerton, where is he? And where were his . . . Oh dear. I shouldn’t like to say it aloud, but after what was found in the Christmas boxes, you comprehend my meaning.”
All impertinence faded from the policeman’s manner. “I did notice that about the prints, my lady, which is why I’m here for another look. Perhaps, as your maid suggests, you should return to the house.”
Eva couldn’t have agreed more and placed a hand on Phoebe’s sleeve to coax her back inside. “Come, my lady.”
The determined young woman stood her ground. “No, I intend to have a look. You can’t stop me from walking on my own grandfather’s property, can you?” This she asked with a grin and a lift of an eyebrow. At the constable’s nod of acquiescence, she gestured toward the gate. “Shall we, then?”
They filed into the garden proper. Eva made sure to position herself between Constable Brannock and Phoebe, and they kept well to one side of the footprints and allowed Constable Brannock to perform his task. Through the garden, past the dormant fountain whose bubbling waters had been replaced by icicles, over the footbridge that spanned a half-frozen stream, and onto the lawn they went. Other than a bit of scattered snow that suggested the shuffling of feet, Eva detected no hesitation in their quarry’s stride. He—for the shoes identified the wearer as undoubtedly male—seemed to have walked with a clear purpose all the way to the edge of the forest. But from there . . .
Constable Brannock studied the spot where the footprints ended in what appeared to be a bit of pacing back and forth before turning about and retreating to the house. Eva stole the opportunity to study the officer again. She hadn’t considered it previously, but given his age and healthy physical appearance, it was odd he walked without a limp, bore no visible scars, and . . . to put it bluntly . . . that he lived at all. Not that she would wish ill upon him, but with so many young men swept away by the war, she couldn’t help wonder how Miles Brannock had spent the previous years. Had he shirked his duty to his country, hidden away in a rural police department in order to escape the horrors other men his age faced?
Murder Most Malicious Page 4