Murder Most Malicious

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “You cannot forbid me to speak with my fellow employees, can you, Constable Brannock? It would certainly interfere with the smooth running of this household were we all to go about with gags over our mouths.”

  She immediately regretted her flippant words. This was a grave matter. The constable, for all his impertinence, was a trained professional and she should not be making jokes. Before she could apologize, his grin reappeared—an assessing, amused curve of his lips.

  “You’re quite the challenge, Miss Huntford, to be sure.” He laughed softly and headed out of the room, repeating as he went, “To be sure.”

  “Oh!” Eva gaped and then scowled, not quite certain if she had just been complimented or insulted.

  CHAPTER 7

  Phoebe forced her way out of the dream, thrashing like a drowning victim desperate for air. She knew she was dreaming, knew she must awaken or the sorrow would be too great to bear. Just as the swimmer seeks the light above the surface, she sought the daylight behind her eyelids.

  She awoke with a start, gasped, and took in the reassuring sights of the canopy above her head, the flowered wallpaper, the silk and velvet furnishings. All comforting and yet . . .

  Sometimes, so empty.

  She had been dreaming of Papa. They had walked together in the gardens and circled the pond. The morning rays streamed golden through the trees, gilding the water and warming the grass. The air had been sweetly fragrant. Papa held her hand and spoke quietly, his deep voice settling in her heart as he explained, as he had while he lived, the responsibilities of her station, of being born a noblewoman.

  That had been right before he’d gone to war. Phoebe had been fifteen. Papa said she was almost a woman and he depended on her to help watch over her sisters and brother, the servants, and the villagers.

  Her. Not Julia, though she was older. Phoebe and Papa had always enjoyed a special bond. And then he, who had led men through the Boer War with hardly a scratch, died less than a month later.

  Phoebe put her hands to her ears as if she could actually hear the bombs falling. She shut her eyes as if to block out the horrible sight of the explosion that shattered the dugout, ejecting ragged shards of weapons and equipment and men into the air.

  Papa.

  She let her hands fall to the mattress. Just a dream. And yet the words Papa had spoken were real enough. They lived inside her, always. What would he think of her now, with poor Vernon sitting in the village jail? Would he think she’d failed in her responsibilities? That she could have done more?

  “I will do more, Papa,” she whispered.

  A soft knock came at the door, and it opened upon Eva. “Good morning, my lady.”

  Phoebe didn’t waste time in pleasantries. Her dream wouldn’t allow it. “What did you learn yesterday?”

  They hadn’t been able to talk last night because Amelia had been feeling poorly. Eva had swiftly helped both Phoebe and Julia change into their nightclothes and then went to tend their youngest sister.

  “All in good time, my lady.” Eva leaned to press a hand to Phoebe’s forehead. “Are you feeling well? You’re looking rather peaky.”

  Phoebe didn’t meet her gaze. “I’m fine. Have you looked in on Amelia yet this morning?”

  “Yes, and she’s much better. I brought breakfast to her room, though, and advised her to take her time coming down.” Eva went into the dressing room and returned with the high-waisted gabardine skirt and simple cream shirtwaist she had laid out the night before. Phoebe nodded her approval and swung her legs over the edge of the bed to sit up. “If you ask me, it was all the upset of yesterday that did it.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. Any word on how Lady Allerton is?”

  “Shea helped Lady Allerton’s own maid tend to her.”

  “It took two of them?”

  Eva nodded as she selected an embroidered silk scarf, deep blue like the skirt, from Phoebe’s dressing table. “The shock seems to be taking its toll today. She may not come downstairs.”

  “I wouldn’t blame her a bit.” Despite what Phoebe might think of Henry Leighton, no matter what he might have done to Julia, he didn’t deserve to meet a violent end, and no mother deserves to suffer with that knowledge.

  “I’ll draw you a bath now, my lady, and then I’ll tell you everything.”

  An hour later, Phoebe left her room armed with last night’s revelations from Eva and a new sense of purpose. Whereas yesterday she simply couldn’t believe George Vernon could have harmed a fly, today saw her faith in him bolstered by Constable Brannock’s very scientific conclusion about the cleaver.

  Not that matters had gotten any easier. Missing sharp items . . . in a house of this size? She couldn’t begin to calculate how many ornamental swords, daggers, and bayonets hung on Foxwood’s walls or inhabited the numerous glass-fronted cabinets. The Renshaw men had been collectors from far back. At least she felt certain if any more knives had gone missing below stairs, Mrs. Ellison, Mrs. Sanders, and Mr. Giles would know. Not an implement existed in the kitchens or pantries that had not been meticulously entered into the household catalogs.

  Subdued male voices coming from the guest wing reached her ears as she entered the upper gallery, and she craned her neck to see. The door to Henry’s room, which Inspector Perkins had ordered locked yesterday, stood open. Curiosity sent her down the corridor, and she peeked round the doorjamb to discover Constable Brannock sitting at the desk with his tablet and pencil, and Inspector Perkins standing in the middle of the room. He appeared to be scanning his surroundings, his arms clasped behind him.

  “I think we’re done here,” the inspector murmured. “I see nothing that could possibly negate the conclusion we reached yesterday.”

  “Perhaps, sir,” Constable Brannock ventured in an equally low voice, “we should search more thoroughly into Lord Allerton’s personal effects. There may be a clue we’ve overlooked.”

  “Bah. Nonsense. The case is straightforward. Besides, one doesn’t simply rummage through the personal possessions of a marquess, alive or dead. The family would be outraged. No, sir, the footman did it, and for quite substantial reasons.”

  Phoebe wanted to barge in and give the inspector a good shake. Instead, she eased away from the door and retraced her steps to the gallery. She heard the commotion in the Great Hall even before she reached the half landing of the staircase. Mr. Giles, Douglas, Mrs. Sanders, and even Mr. Phelps, Grampapa’s valet, were all working diligently around the Christmas tree, removing the trimmings and placing them carefully in the straw-lined crates used to store them in the attic. The side of the tree facing the stairs greeted Phoebe with a sad droop of its now-bare branches. The star had been removed, and as Phoebe reached the bottom landing, Mrs. Sanders cradled the crystal and gilt tree topper in her arms and sighed.

  “What a shame,” she said. Then she noticed Phoebe. “Good morning, my lady. We apologize for this. Your grandfather’s orders. He thought it seemed—”

  “Inappropriate, under the circumstances,” Phoebe finished for her. She peered through the dining-room doorway. The holly branches had been cleared from the sideboards, the gold garlands from the window valances. She expected Christmas would have disappeared from every room throughout the house by luncheon.

  The morning room felt akin to a gentlemen’s club when she entered, being inhabited by only Grampapa, Fox, Theo Leighton, and Lord Owen. Phoebe knew Amelia and Lady Allerton were breakfasting in their rooms, and Grams often took advantage of a married lady’s prerogative to be served in bed as well. But Julia’s and Lady Cecily’s absences struck her as odd. Especially Julia’s.

  “Good morning, everyone,” she said, and immediately wished she could recall the words, or at least her tone. She hadn’t meant to sound cheerful, as if this were an ordinary morning. But perhaps the others hadn’t noticed. They stood as they greeted her, then resumed their seats.

  “Someone is awfully chipper,” Fox said with a sardonic twist of his mouth. Ah, she might have known no
thing would slip past him. “Hasn’t anyone told you what happened here yesterday?”

  “Fox, manners,” Grampapa rumbled at him.

  Phoebe went to the sideboard and spooned eggs, kippers, and tomatoes onto her plate. “Fox is quite right. I apologize.”

  “No need. It’s heartening to hear a cheerful voice.”

  Phoebe’s eyebrows went up in surprise, not so much at the statement but the fact that it had come from Theo Leighton. Theo, who was usually so reserved, one might even say surly. Was he in a more sociable mood today? Though she wondered why, she decided his overture would suit her purposes nicely. She decided to reward him with a smile, but his gaze slipped away too quickly. He missed the gesture and went on eating.

  She took a quick moment to study him. He appeared freshly shaven, his informal Norfolk jacket brushed and pressed, his shirt collar starched and snowy white. Who had attended him? Not Vernon, surely. Perhaps Mr. Hensley, Henry’s valet, had helped him dress. But it wasn’t only his clothes making the difference. No shadows peeked out from beneath his eyes to proclaim a lack of sleep. The subdued lighting of the morning room even helped smooth the appearance of the scars on his neck and the side of his chin. He was almost handsome, and one might have thought him an agreeable fellow.

  But did his refreshed appearance signify a better night’s sleep due to the fact that a suspect had been arrested for a crime he, Theo, had committed?

  That might be jumping to conclusions, but according to what Vernon told Eva yesterday, Theo seemed not to have occupied his bed the night Henry went missing. Circumstantial evidence perhaps, but no more so than that which had shed suspicion on Vernon.

  She returned to the table and the uneasy silence that had fallen. They must have been discussing Henry and broke off abruptly when she entered the room, believing her too delicate to join in the conversation. She would dissuade them of that notion and see where it led.

  “Has the search yielded anything so far?” she asked bluntly.

  The gentlemen traded glances, confirming her suspicion. It was Theo who surprised her—again—by responding.

  “If you are referring to additional pieces of my brother, no.”

  Phoebe’s mouth fell open—she certainly hadn’t expected quite that level of candor. A rush of angry red suffused Lord Owen’s face. “Theo!”

  Fox grinned with delight, and his gaze darted back and forth between Phoebe, Theo, and Lord Owen. Theo calmly met Lord Owen’s gaze. “Phoebe asked, and I replied. Truthfully, I might add. Henry has not been found, nor has there been any more of him popping up in odd places.”

  Grampapa looked decidedly uncomfortable. Though he might be master of Foxwood Hall, little in his experience had taught him how to take a guest to task for behavior he obviously found ungentlemanly.

  “Theo is right,” Fox said brightly. “I’ve been looking and I haven’t found any of Henry either.”

  “Fox, leave the table this instant.” Grampapa shot an extended finger toward the doorway. He might not know how to reprimand a guest, but he exhibited no such qualms when it came to his grandson. Phoebe silently applauded him.

  “But I haven’t finished my breakfast.”

  “Now, Foxwood. To your room. I do not wish to see you downstairs again until luncheon.”

  “I’m banished ’til then?”

  “Longer if you don’t get up and go this instant. And during your banishment you might reflect on the sort of conduct befitting a future Peer of the Realm. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” Shoving a last forkful of fried potatoes into his mouth, Fox dragged himself out of his chair.

  Theo waited about five seconds before he, too, rose, made his excuses, and followed Fox from the room.

  Lord Owen leaned across the table toward Phoebe. “That was uncalled for. Are you all right?”

  The dratted blush crept up her cheeks, fired, as always, by the man’s attention. She compressed her lips, realized an opportunity had just been served to her on a silver platter, and shook her head. “No, frankly.” At Grampapa’s concerned look, she added hastily, “It’s just a bit early for talk of that nature. My own fault for raising the subject. I’m sure Theo didn’t mean to offend me. He’s suffered a terrible shock, after all. But I do seem to have lost my appetite. Please excuse me.”

  “Of course, my girl.” Grampapa seemed eager for her to go. As much as she would like to stay and hear what he and Lord Owen discussed next, she had something else in mind. Both men stood as she did. Grampapa patted her hand. “Have Eva bring a tray to your room. Honestly, all of you ladies should rest today. Don’t think about anything. Read a book. Let us men worry about things.”

  “Yes, thank you, Grampapa. I believe that’s exactly what I’ll do.”

  She left the morning room sedately, but nearly broke into a run partway down the corridor. She had no intention of locking herself away in her room. Now, which way had Theo Leighton gone?

  Eva followed Josh into the servants’ hall, where he set down the coal bin he was carrying and began to transfer small shovelfuls into the hearth. “Josh, may I have a moment, please?”

  Apparently satisfied he’d properly fed the fire, the hall boy turned to face her. “Aye, Miss Huntford?” A bit of coal dust smudged his cheek, tempting Eva to reach out and brush it away. She forewent doing so, knowing the fourteen-year-old would not appreciate being fussed over.

  Instead, she leaned a hip against the table and tried to choose her words carefully. “Josh, yours was one of the Christmas boxes that held an unhappy surprise, no?”

  “You know it was, miss. We were thrilled at first. Finding a gold watch like that. Mum and Da could have fed the little ’uns for the next year or two on that. But the other . . .” The boy’s mouth pulled down at the corners.

  “Believe me, I do understand. But can you think of any reason why you and your family were singled out?”

  “Don’t know that the family was singled out, miss. It was in my Christmas box.” He shrugged a thin shoulder beneath his woolen work shirt. “Yours, too, ain’t that right, miss?”

  “That’s right. And I can’t for the life of me understand why. I was wondering—had you had any dealings with the marquess?”

  His chin went down and his gaze became hooded. “Inspector Perkins already asked me that, miss. And I’ll tell you what I told him. I ain’t never spoken to the marquess—not to any marquess. I never even spoke to Lord Wroxly upstairs. Why would I? I know my place, Miss Huntford, and it ain’t among the toffs.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting otherwise, Josh. But perhaps your father had some business with Lord Allerton?”

  Josh’s father had specialized in fine saddles and tack before the war, a good business, but with so many horses having perished for the cause, he had been forced to close his shop. He still plied his trade from home when occasion called for it, but mostly he performed odd jobs around the village. He had jumped at the opportunity for his son to take over the hall-boy position at Foxwood when the former boy, Arnold, enlisted two years ago. Unlike the gamekeeper, Arnold had returned from the war, but had gone to London to seek, as he put it, “modern” employment in a factory.

  “Dunno, miss,” Josh said in answer to her question. “I s’pose I could ask.”

  “Yes, would you? That would be a great help.”

  The wary look returned. “We won’t be getting into any trouble, will we, miss?”

  “Oh, no, Josh. Of course not. Don’t worry about that.”

  But as she watched him retrieve his coal bin and go on his way, guilt niggled. She could make no such promise. In attempting to exonerate Vernon, she very well might incriminate someone else. There was no telling whom that might be.

  To find Dora, her next quarry, she had only to follow the clanking of the breakfast pots and pans. The girl stood in the scullery at the long trough sink, elbow-deep in steaming water. Eva went to her side, shoved up her sleeves, grabbed an extra dish rag, and submerged the next pot that needed washing. She
sprinkled in Dora’s mixture of salt, flour, and vinegar and started scouring.

  Dora went utterly still but for the repeated blinking of her eyes. “Are you having some sort of an apoplexy, Miss Huntford?”

  “Of course not. Why would you suggest such a thing?”

  Dora blinked again. “A lady’s maid helping in the scullery?”

  Eva scrubbed at something stubborn and crusty on the side of the pot. “Yes, I’m sorry you don’t often receive help, Dora.”

  “Connie pitches in when she can. She’s a good sort, that one.” Her eyes narrowed. “Not that you’re not a good sort yourself, Miss Huntford, but . . . surely you must want . . . something.”

  “Dora!” She might have gone on with her shock and indignation, but the undeniable truth settled over her. She did want something, or she would be busy ironing the blouses that had just come from the washhouse. “Yes, you’re correct,” she admitted. She kept scrubbing, rinsed the pot, and next hefted a cast-iron fry pan. “Tell me, Dora, do you believe Vernon is guilty?”

  “Well . . .” She let both hands dangle in the water, the wash rag floating like a bit of seaweed. “I’m not sure. I think, well, he might have done it.”

  Eva went still. She hadn’t expected this. “Do you? I thought everyone here believed in his innocence.”

  “I like Vernon well enough, but . . .”

  “Please go on.”

  Dora blew a strand of dull brown hair away from her face. “I wouldn’t blame him if he did go after the marquess, after what the marquess did to Connie.”

  Eva’s patience had worn about as ragged as the cloth in her hand, but she spoke her next words calmly enough. This might not be the information she came for, but her buzzing senses told her she might be about to learn something important. “What do you know about Connie and the marquess, Dora? If it involves Vernon, you shouldn’t keep it to yourself.”

  “Well . . .” She flicked excess water off her hands and went to the doorway, looking into the short corridor that separated the scullery from the main kitchen. She returned to Eva’s side. “You know my room is down here, and Christmas night I couldn’t sleep, so I got up to go find something to nibble on. Just a scrap of cheese or something,” she added hastily. “Nothing that would be missed.”