Murder Most Malicious

by Alyssa Maxwell

  Phoebe nodded slowly. “Yes, so you see, Lord Theodore had reason to resent his brother. And since returning from the war, Theo’s become so aloof . . . so indifferent to everyone around him.”

  Rather like Julia, she thought.

  “Do you believe Theodore Leighton is capable of murder, my lady?”

  “That, Eva, is precisely the question. Did Lord Theodore often want to wrap his hands around his brother’s throat? I wouldn’t doubt it.” Phoebe herself had contemplated doing just that in the drawing room last night. She believed Henry inspired the sentiment in a good number of people. “But the question remains, is he capable of such an act?”

  “I don’t know that I wish you to be the person to answer that question, my lady.” Eva’s hand came up, hovered in the air a moment, then descended tenderly on Phoebe’s cheek. “In fact, I’m quite sure I do not want you answering that question.”

  Phoebe leaned into the warmth of Eva’s palm, remembering the feel of another comforting hand, that of her mother, gone these eleven years. If she inhaled deeply enough, Eva’s light soap almost transformed into the lavender oil her mother had favored.

  She lifted her face. Eva was not her mother for all she often slipped naturally into a maternal role. Only seven years older than Phoebe, she had dark hair where her mother’s had been Phoebe’s own auburn-tinged blond, and green eyes where her mother’s had been blue with gold rims. With her softly pleasing features, glowing cheeks, and determined chin, Eva was pretty in that distinctly English way, whereas Mama.... Mama had looked much like Phoebe herself. Her features had been rather thin and plain, but with a kindliness and patience that made her nonetheless beautiful in Phoebe’s eyes.

  Eva was her maid, but also her friend, no matter the difference in their positions. A valued, beloved friend.

  “I will be as careful as you would have me be, Eva, but if you and I do nothing to help Vernon, who will? Not Inspector Perkins. That much is obvious by the way he is all but patting himself on the back for having solved the case.”

  “I’d hardly call it solving the case when Lord Allerton is still missing.”

  “All the more reason to find the truth. Now, you’ll ask questions downstairs?”

  “I will.” Eva folded her hands in her lap and thought a moment. “There was something about the way Vernon held himself, how he responded to me. I can’t quite explain it, but I believe he is hiding something. If the inspector senses it, too, it won’t help Vernon’s case.”

  “Something to do with Connie, you think?”

  “That could be, my lady, but I’m not sure. And then there is the cleaver, which Vernon admitted to hiding. This suggests there must have been another blade used on Lord Allerton. If it were found, it could exonerate Vernon.”

  Phoebe pondered this a moment, but found a break in Eva’s logic. “Possibly. But Inspector Perkins still believes Vernon had a strong motive.”

  “Very true.” Eva’s shoulders seemed to sink as she exhaled a long breath. “What is needed is someone else with a motive, but who? There is no one else in this household I can imagine carrying out such a brutal act on another person. And it would have to be someone with a deeply rooted grudge against Lord Allerton.”

  “What about Mr. Hensley?”

  “What? No, not him, my lady. I’m certain it’s not him.”

  Phoebe studied the high color staining Eva’s cheeks. “Hmm. You didn’t need to think about that at all, did you?” She smiled. “You know him rather well, I’d say.”

  “My lady . . .”

  “Go on, admit it.” She grinned at Eva’s apparent embarrassment. “It’s perfectly all right with me.”

  “I assure you, there is nothing between Mr. Hensley and myself. In fact, he once courted my sister, Alice. It was briefly, and years ago, before he went into service for the marquess.”

  “I remember when he worked here as gamekeeper’s assistant, and then an under footman. But you weren’t with us yet.”

  “No, Mr. Hensley is a bit older than I. But we digress, my lady.”

  “Yes, we do.” Phoebe leaned against the bedpost again. “But tell me, is your faith in Mr. Hensley based merely on past association?”

  Eva shook her head. “Not only that, no. Mr. Hensley served in the war at the marquess’s side. You know the kinds of bonds forged between soldiers. If Mr. Hensley had harbored a grudge against Lord Allerton, he might easily have arranged an incident on the battlefield.”

  “Yes, quite right. But if neither Vernon nor Mr. Hensley, then who?”

  “I can’t see any of the staff having committed this act.” Eva’s smooth brow puckered to a frown. “Not Vernon, nor Douglas, nor even persnickety Miss Shea.”

  “Douglas can be rather grumpy when assigned a task he doesn’t particularly relish. I’ve occasionally heard him muttering his resentment against Mr. Giles or Vernon when he thought no one could hear.”

  “Douglas is all bluster, my lady.”

  Phoebe nodded and blew out a breath. “But you and I are not necessarily searching for the guilty party. We are searching for overlooked clues that might exonerate Vernon and force the inspector to continue investigating. For all we know, an intruder might have committed the deed.”

  “I should like to think so,” Eva conceded gravely. “Not that I wish to think of poor Lord Allerton being attacked by anyone, but to exonerate all who dwell beneath this roof, both above and below stairs, would be a blessing, wouldn’t it, my lady?

  Phoebe reached over and gave Eva’s hand a squeeze of agreement.

  Eva returned below stairs to the controlled chaos of a dozen or so men, all of whom she recognized from the village, searching through cupboards, storerooms, the cellar, and even the old bread oven built into the bake house walls, which hadn’t been used in well over a decade. The search party and the staff performed a kind of frenetic dance as they circled and sidestepped one another. Josh, the hall boy, nearly collided with a village man while carrying kitchen trash out to the bins in the courtyard, and Mr. Giles, shorthanded now that Vernon was gone, dropped a full box of flatware when another man went scurrying by him without warning. Eva cringed at the resounding clatter of forks, spoons, and knives of all sizes showering the oak planks in the corridor.

  Meanwhile, having returned from the village, Constable Brannock strode back and forth from group to group, issuing instructions, checking if anything—or anyone—had been found, and overseeing the proceedings.

  Eva hurried into the boot room and deposited an armful of shoes and half boots onto the wooden table. They needed to be cleaned and polished before she went to bed tonight in order to be back in the dressing rooms of their respective owners and ready for use tomorrow. But her ladyships’ shoes could wait another few minutes. She went back out to the corridor. Mr. Giles stood in the midst of the silverware, a perplexed frown on his face and no wonder. He was dressed in his formal frock coat and black tie, ready to serve dinner to the family. A sojourn on the floor, however brief, would leave his clothing wrinkled and the knees of his trousers dusty.

  “Let me help you with that, Mr. Giles. So clumsy.” She knelt and began reaching for scattered cutlery.

  “Yes, it was exceedingly inept of me.”

  Eva paused to look up at Mr. Giles’s lined face, still almost handsome for a man of his years; she guessed him to be close in age to Lord Wroxly. “I didn’t mean you, Mr. Giles. I meant the oaf who nearly knocked you off your feet.”

  That brought a smile. “Ah, indeed. One can only hope they’ll soon be finished and out of our hair. So disruptive.” He reached for the butter knife she had just retrieved and studied it in the glow of the electric lights. “Good heavens, is that a scratch?”

  He might as well have asked if one of Lady Wroxly’s priceless diamonds had been damaged, for the horror that filled his eyes.

  “Let me see.” Eva stood and took the knife from him, holding it up to the overhead light. She turned the knife to and fro, watching the reflections slide b
ack and forth across the silver surface. “No, it must have been a bit of lint. Looks as smooth as the day it was made.” She knelt down again and nestled the knife with the rest of the set in the velvet-lined box. She collected the remaining flatware and handed Mr. Giles the box.

  “Thank you, Eva. These knees of mine . . .”

  “You’ve been working hard, Mr. Giles. And now without Vernon—”

  “We’ve had to make do with a shorthanded staff these four years of war, Eva. We can endure a little longer until more can be hired.” He regarded the box in his hands, the flatware tossing glints of light over the planes of his face. “Now, to bring these into the silver room so Douglas can get to work polishing them.”

  A frisson of alarm went through Eva. “But, Mr. Giles, it’s nearly dinnertime. The food needs to be brought upstairs.” Her consternation grew. “Please tell me the table has been set, Mr. Giles.”

  “The table?”

  “Dear heavens . . .”

  “It’s quite all right.” Douglas came down the service stairs. “Mr. Giles and I set the table a half hour ago. All is ready for dinner, isn’t it, Mr. Giles?” He placed a hand on the older man’s shoulder, a gesture that would have been impertinent, not to mention presumptuous, under ordinary circumstances, but Mr. Giles showed no sign of taking offense.

  “Yes . . . yes, that’s correct.” He glanced down at the box of flatware in his hands. “Then I’ll just . . .”

  Douglas reached for the box. “I’ll just put this in the silver room so I can get to work on it first thing tomorrow. I think another washing before polishing is in order.”

  “Thank goodness for Douglas,” Mr. Giles said. “We’d best bring dinner up before the family begins to wonder if all their servants have run off.”

  Douglas reappeared and the two men headed into the kitchen, leaving Eva with a gnawing sense of worry. What had seemed to be Mr. Giles’s calm acceptance of a difficult situation had instead been confusion over the natural course of the day’s schedule—a schedule so ingrained in everyone at Foxwood, both above and below stairs, that only a catastrophic event could cause a deviation. Even a man’s possible demise would not stand in the way of dinner.

  “Excuse me, Miss Huntford.”

  A village man squeezed by her and kept going, at the same time shouting the name of another member of the search team. Eva suddenly understood what constituted a catastrophic event in Mr. Giles’s world. Disorder. There was far too much of it at present, and the poor man had lost his equilibrium.

  Well, she would do something about it. After several minutes of poking her head into doorways, she found Constable Brannock in the main kitchen, standing at one of the wooden counters set to one side of the range with its multiple ovens and numerous burners. His back was to her. Mrs. Ellison and Dora were at the center worktable, transferring tonight’s dishes from pots and pans to elaborate silver platters and fine porcelain tureens. They seemed to be ignoring the constable, but they nodded at Eva when she entered the room.

  “Constable Brannock,” she called out, injecting a bit of force into her greeting. “A word, if you please.”

  He shot her a glance over his shoulder but remained at the counter.

  “Constable, I’m speaking to you.”

  “Yes, Miss Huntford, can I help you with something?” He didn’t turn around and sounded more irked than eager to offer assistance.

  That didn’t deter her. “You most certainly can, sir, and you might begin by turning and addressing me, rather than the wall presently in front of you.”

  No effect, other than to elicit a harrumph from Mrs. Ellison. She raised her eyebrows at Eva as if to ask her what she intended to do next. Eva answered with action, crossing the room with angry strides.

  “Constable Brannock, you cannot continue to disrupt the work of this staff. I would greatly appreciate your exercising some form of organization over your search, finish up down here in an orderly fashion, and leave us in peace. Please.”

  “It doesn’t seem quite right, does it,” he murmured absently.

  “What doesn’t?” Eva plunked her fists on her hips. “What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”

  Douglas came into the kitchen to pick up a large tray holding several platters. A subdued-looking Connie followed. She hefted a tureen and trailed him, presumably up the stairs to the butler’s pantry that adjoined the dining room. Connie must not be seen above stairs and Douglas or Mr. Giles would have to carry the tureen into the dining room, but with Vernon gone everyone else must pitch in where they could.

  Eva returned her attention to Constable Brannock and noticed that he held an item—a cleaver, much like the one found in Vernon’s bedroom. As everyone knew, Mrs. Ellison favored the one Vernon had taken. The steel was of finer quality and the thicker handle fit her hand more comfortably.

  “What are you doing with that?” she demanded.

  He finally turned to look at her. “Put your hand on the counter.”

  She scowled and drew back.

  “Please, Miss Huntford. I have a point to make and I promise no harm will come to you.”

  “All right.” She placed her hand palm down on the counter.

  “Spread your fingers.”

  She did as he said, flinching and gasping when he held the cleaver above her hand.

  “It’s all right, Miss Huntford.” He spoke quietly, so that only she could hear. A peek over her shoulder revealed Mrs. Ellison and Dora craning their necks to hear, but the frustrated tilts of their mouths suggested their efforts were in vain. “Do you see that if I were to sever your fingers from your hand using this cleaver, I could only go straight across them all at once.”

  Eva did see that would indeed be the case. The cleaver was too long and unwieldy for anything but one fell swoop, but Mr. Brannock’s point eluded her. “I don’t understand the significance. Besides, I don’t believe the cleaver found in Vernon’s room was the weapon used on Lord Allerton.”

  “And I’m beginning to believe you.” He lowered the cleaver until its edge rested lightly on the backs of her fingers. “See how if I were to strike, due to the shape of your hand, each finger would be severed at a different distance from the knuckle. It’s because the cleaver’s edge is perfectly straight, but the placement of your knuckles isn’t.”

  She fought back a rising tide of excitement as she studied the curve of her hand. Judging by the straight edge of the cleaver and the angle of her fingers, were she wearing a signet ring as Lord Allerton had been, the ring would actually be below the sever line. It would not have come off with the finger. She snapped her gaze to Mr. Brannock’s and spoke breathlessly. “Are you saying you don’t believe the cleaver found in Vernon’s bedroom could have been used on Lord Allerton?”

  “I’m saying it’s highly unlikely.”

  “Then you’ve got to tell Inspector Perkins. He must release Vernon at once.”

  “I intend to tell him, but I can’t guarantee he’ll accept my deduction.”

  “Why ever not?” she said in her full voice, then remembered their audience, which grew as several of the village men came lumbering into the kitchen.

  “Constable Brannock, sir?” one of them called. “We’ve been all through the premises and found nary an onion nor an egg out of place.”

  “Good. Gather up the others and wait for me near the staircase.” He turned back to Eva. “Inspector Perkins is feeling extraordinarily gratified with having apprehended his suspect so quickly. He’s not likely to give him up without a fuss.”

  “But you just proved it would have been impossible—”

  “Not impossible, Miss Huntford. Merely more difficult. That won’t be enough to satisfy my superior.”

  Eva was silent a long moment, her gaze connecting with his, seeking out what she believed to be the truth. She believed she found it in those deeply blue irises and dared to voice her thoughts aloud. “You are under no illusions when it comes to our inspector, are you, Constable Brannock?”
/>
  He glanced down at his feet with that grin that was becoming all too familiar: amused, confident, and decidedly cheeky. Then he raised his chin, took her arm, and led her out of the kitchen. She felt Dora’s and Mrs. Ellison’s curious gazes heavy on her back. She and Mr. Brannock traveled down the corridor to the dining hall, empty at this time of day.

  “Inspector Perkins is my employer, Miss Huntford,” he said quietly, “and I make it my stringent policy never to speak ill of the person who fills my purse. That having been said, there is something we can do.”

  “We?” Something about speaking that word to this man made her uncomfortable and sent heat to her face. She was glad she had not switched on the overhead lights. “Are you asking for my help?”

  “If you discover any other sharp implements that have gone missing, let me know immediately. The only way to replace the cleaver in the inspector’s mind is to present him with a more probable weapon. Until we can do that, I’m afraid the man will not be budged from his conclusions.”

  “If I discover anything, I will certainly come straight to you.”

  “Will you now?” His brazen smile flashed at her again, and she stiffened.

  “For Vernon’s sake, of course I will. And since you’ve enlisted my assistance, there is something else I can do. I am on familiar terms with everyone who received . . .” She drew a fortifying breath. “Who received a ghastly surprise in their Christmas box. I thought it might be a good idea to question them, to see why only certain individuals were chosen and not others.”

  He gave a dismissive shake of his head. “The inspector will have thought of that.”

  “I’ve seen how the inspector questions people. It’s no wonder he’s arrested the wrong man.”

  “Now, Miss Huntford, all we have done here is admit the possibility that events might not have occurred as we originally thought. If there is further questioning to be done, I shall do it. Not you, Miss Huntford. Is that clear?”