Murder Most Malicious

by Alyssa Maxwell

  That evening, Lady Allerton descended from her room. Her appearance in the drawing room surprised everyone, there having been no prior warning that she intended to join them.

  “Lucille, darling.” Grams moved to her friend’s side with a vigor that belied her sixty-seven years. “It’s wonderful to see you.”

  “Is it, Maude? Then perhaps I should return to my room. It was not my wish to bring anything approaching relief or merriment to the household while my son is still missing. I merely wished to take a meal without forcing your servants to carry another tray up two flights of stairs.”

  Grams colored to the roots of her silvery hair. “Forgive me, Lucille. I didn’t mean to give offense. It’s just that we’ve all been so worried about you.”

  “Sherry?” Grampapa pressed a crystal cordial glass into Lady Leighton’s hand, and Phoebe immediately perceived his ulterior motive of providing a quick distraction and a change of subject. “It will do you good.”

  “Finding Henry alive is the only thing that will do me good.” But she accepted the glass nonetheless and took a dainty sip.

  “Henry and Julia are going to be married, in the spring, I should think.” Lady Cecily leaned over the Louis Quinze side table, arranging and rearranging a Rose Medallion vase filled with bright blue delphinium, pink clematis, and wide, blush peonies, all products of the hothouse. Though she had been present when matters were explained to Lady Allerton, the elderly woman appeared to have retained no notion of Henry’s fate. “Spring weddings are always loveliest. Maude, dear, do you suppose that will leave enough time to plan?”

  Grams sighed and didn’t reply.

  Fox and Lord Owen had resumed their ongoing chess game, while Amelia stared into the pages of a book. Theo sat ruminating in a wing chair, looking at nothing and no one in particular. The gathering before dinner had always been meant to start conversations that would carry on into the dining room, but with only one topic on everyone’s minds, Phoebe saw the wisdom of the younger set in avoiding conversation altogether.

  Unfortunately, she was never one to follow the wisdom of a crowd. She headed for Julia, once again at the piano. This time she sat on the cushioned bench, softly playing a rolling melody in the style from America called ragtime.

  Phoebe slid next to her on the seat. Julia missed a note, then went right on playing as if Phoebe didn’t exist.

  But exist she most certainly did. “You’ve got to come clean about Henry.”

  Julia stumbled over the next note, recovered, and scowled down at the keys. “Again? When will you let it go?”

  “When Henry is found. I know you and he had secrets, ones you both could use against the other. What did you know about Henry?”

  “It’s none of your affair. And if you know what’s good for you—”

  Phoebe whisked her hand over both of Julia’s, silencing the song. Theo, as if prodded from sleep, jerked his head upright and stared from across the room. Lord Owen glanced over his shoulder, frowned slightly, and returned his attention to the game pieces.

  “Don’t you understand,” Phoebe whispered between gritted teeth. “Whatever you know about him might have been known by others. By someone who followed him to Foxwood and . . . Julia, this is something the authorities need to know. It could be a vital clue as to what happened to Henry.”

  “Really, Phoebe, you’re so terribly dramatic.”

  “Do you still deny that he’s most likely dead? And does that not concern you in the slightest?”

  “They arrested the culprit.”

  “Oh, Julia.” Her sister’s indifference pushed tears into Phoebe’s eyes. If only Julia could care again—about anything. If only Phoebe could make her care. Simply reach inside and coax Julia’s heart to beat again. Surely, deep down, her sister wasn’t as empty as the lifeless mask she showed the world.

  Phoebe had tried reaching her—tried and tried. She had come to the conclusion no one could help Julia until she herself wanted to live again. But Vernon, on the other hand, could possibly be helped, and Phoebe didn’t intend resting until she had done her best for him. “You can’t believe Vernon is guilty. You cannot believe all avenues have been properly explored. He’s one of ours, Julia. Like family. We cannot abandon family. We do not.”

  They locked gazes, and Phoebe saw a battle waging in Julia’s dark blue eyes—eyes that nearly matched the sapphire on her finger, the one that had belonged to their mother. Had Phoebe gone too far in speaking of abandonment? Did Julia believe not one but both of their parents had abandoned them? Neither had had a choice, but sometimes even Phoebe felt angry and betrayed by their deaths.

  Perhaps Julia read her mind, for she gazed down at her ring, closed her eyes, and drew a deep breath. “Henry owed a very large debt.”

  Phoebe held her breath and waited for more, but nothing further came. “How large? I already know he owed our own Mr. Garth in the village for unpaid tailoring bills.”

  “No, Phoebe. I’m not talking about the kinds of debt every gentleman runs up. I’m talking about a moral debt. Last summer while Henry was home, he fell in with a band of speculators, men of the worst sort, who were manipulating war bond values with false information about how the fighting was going.”

  Phoebe’s hand flew to her mouth as she gasped. “How beastly and dishonorable. And downright treasonous. How did you find out?”

  Julia gave a soft laugh. “It wasn’t hard, really. I immediately took a distaste to Henry’s new so-called friends. From there I began asking questions—direct ones to the right people.” When Phoebe started to question that, Julia shushed her. “That’s all you need to know.”

  Phoebe shot a glance across the room. “Does Theo know?”

  “I couldn’t say, really.”

  Phoebe didn’t believe her on that count, but she let it go as an observation pushed to the forefront. “This is why you turned him down.”

  “I’d have turned him down anyway, but this certainly helped. I could never marry a man I didn’t respect.”

  Phoebe stole another peek at Theo, once more ignoring them and everyone else as he appeared to be contemplating his hand, turning it this way and that and studying the scars on both sides. Had he known about his brother’s devious business dealings?

  She turned back to Julia, who had resumed playing the same languid melody. “Will you please tell Inspector Perkins what you know?”

  To her surprise and frustration, Julia shook her head. “No, it might lead to too many questions.”

  “Ah, the secret Henry knew about you.”

  Julia glowered at her.

  “Whatever it is, it needn’t be mentioned. Simply tell Inspector Perkins or his assistant what you learned last summer. Perhaps someone swindled in this scheme lost their fortune and came here seeking revenge. My goodness, Julia, this could turn the inspector’s case on end.”

  “Very possibly,” she said dismissively. “But I won’t be involved. You may tell Inspector Perkins what you will. Perhaps the police will be able to trace Henry’s actions and round up his cohorts.” She gave a careless shrug of her shoulder, in typical Julia fashion. “Perhaps further insights will be revealed during the reading of his will.”

  A wave of fresh anger caused Phoebe to flip the fall board down into place. Julia barely managed to whisk her fingers clear in time. She surged to her feet and rounded on Phoebe. “What was that for?” she hissed. “You might have broken my fingers.”

  “The will cannot be read until Henry’s body is found. However, Vernon can be shipped to Gloucester in the interim and stand trial for a crime he almost assuredly did not commit.”

  Julia’s indignation slipped a fraction. “How can they try him without a body?”

  “As they have tried other men without fortune or connections. Do you think there can be justice for a footman accused of murdering a marquess?”

  Julia’s nostrils flared, making her appear even haughtier than usual. “I’ll . . . think about it. No promises, but I’ll consider wha
t you’ve said.”

  “Consider quickly. In the meantime, I will tell Constable Brannock what you told me. I can only hope he’ll take me seriously.”

  CHAPTER 10

  On Saturday, Phoebe woke to bleak skies and a fresh coating of snow softening the edges of the garden and lawns....

  And the footprints. From her bedroom window she could see they were all but gone, and her heart sank. Not so much because of the loss of the prints themselves, but a kind of symbolic declaration that hope for Vernon faded with each passing day.

  With that disheartening thought she descended to the morning room, happy to find it empty but for Connie, her hands wrapped in two thick towels as she carried in the coffee urn.

  “Good morning, my lady. I apologize for being above stairs, but—”

  “Never mind, Connie. We appreciate your helping out.”

  The girl arranged the cups and saucers near the urn, then stood hovering at the sideboard, alternately peering at Phoebe and lowering her gaze to the floor.

  “Is there something you’d like to say, Connie?”

  She stepped closer. “There is, my lady. I . . . I believe you know about . . .” She hesitated, splotches of scarlet blooming on her neck. She shrank into herself and chewed her lip.

  Phoebe went to her and spoke softly. “If you are speaking of you and Vernon, of your . . . regard . . . for one another, for now you needn’t worry. I spoke to my grandfather. Mrs. Sanders will not turn you out.”

  “Oh, my lady . . . I swear he and I never stepped beyond what’s proper. Never. George is a good sort, honorable. And I’m a good girl. We simply . . .”

  “You simply like each other,” Phoebe finished for her.

  Connie nodded sadly. A tear splashed her pinafore. “Thank you, my lady. My family . . . they depend on what I can send home. Just not having to worry about feeding me eases their burdens.”

  “I understand. Your father—did he fight in the war?”

  “He did, my lady, until they sent him home on account of the shell shock.” The swinging door to the butler’s pantry opened, and Douglas appeared with a covered tray. Connie reached for it and set it on the sideboard. “Well . . . I’d better help bring up the rest.” She followed Douglas out of the room, but Phoebe stayed where she was, studying the closed door and remembering what Dora had told Eva. She had overheard Connie threatening to kill Henry if he ever touched her again.

  People said things like that in anger. She herself had half-wanted to kill Henry Christmas night. Still . . .

  She moved to the window. The clouds had thickened, creating an artificial dusk. Beyond the fountain a deer scampered across the main path. Closer, the ice coating the box hedge beneath the window tinkled like tiny chimes as the wind rattled the branches.

  “Longing for spring, Lady Phoebe?”

  She jumped and discovered Lord Owen by her side. She hadn’t heard him come in. How did a man his size move so silently? She glanced to meet his gaze, then just as quickly dropped her own. Too late. Something in his expression traveled through her, sending a rush of fire to her cheeks.

  Good heavens, she would die of mortification should he ever glimpse her fancies.

  She gave a little sniff, hoping to emulate one of Julia’s disdainful gestures. “I am longing, my lord, for answers, and for this dreadful episode to be behind us.”

  “Yes, of course. I’m sorry.” His voice plummeted to a deep murmur. She heard only sincerity in his voice; nothing of mockery or teasing. That encouraged her to lower her guard.

  “Why should you be sorry? You were only trying to make conversation. I’m the one who was rude.”

  “Not at all.” He, too, faced out the window. Beyond the gardens and the forest, an upswell in the land revealed the closest pastures of the tenant farms, each lined with rock walls and dotted with the winter skeletons of oak and elm and laurel. Yesterday, bare earth showed in patches where the wind had swept the snow away; this morning those patches were blanketed in white. “I suppose you’ll never quite look out over this park the same way again.”

  “An understatement.” They stood in companionable silence for a moment, and Phoebe rejoiced inwardly that those infernal flames seemed to have stopped lapping at her cheeks. In fact, she felt quite normal. Adult. Able to speak with the man on an equal footing. “Did you know him well? Henry, I mean.”

  He hesitated for a fraction of a moment. “No, not well. We crossed paths numerous times during the war. And we had people in common. Your family, for instance.”

  “Business dealings, perhaps?”

  Did she imagine the pause before he said, “No, his interests and mine never coincided.”

  A wash of relief followed his reply, and considering what Julia had told her last night, she fervently hoped he spoke the truth. She and Eva had talked this morning, and both agreed they needed some evidence of Henry’s perfidy or the inspector would dismiss their claim out of hand.

  “Did you like Henry?” she persisted, trying to learn of any connection, if one existed, between the two men. “Did you find him a decent sort?”

  This time his hesitation stretched, and she felt the weight of his scrutiny. Her cheeks tingled, and she searched for something out the window—anything—to point to, comment upon, to change the subject. Finally, he said, “As decent a sort as many others in his position. Why do you ask?”

  She frowned, filled with a sense that Lord Owen was purposely omitting something. “What an odd way to phrase it. Then you didn’t like him.”

  “Does that make me a suspect?”

  She pulled back with a start. “Of course not. I didn’t say that. I—”

  His teasing chuckle cut her off short. “I know you’ve been asking questions and poking about. Do you believe you can do a better job than your inspector?”

  Though part of her felt she should be offended, she couldn’t help matching his chuckle with one of her own. “Frankly, yes. But how do you know what I’ve been doing? Have you been watching me?”

  Despite the challenge she managed to inject into her voice, goose bumps spread over her arms beneath her shirtwaist and the lamb’s wool jumper she had donned over it. Had Lord Owen been watching her? Was he that aware of her? She had thought he barely knew she existed.

  Footsteps behind them forestalled his reply. He turned at the sound. “Ah, Julia. Good morning.” He left Phoebe’s side and crossed the room to her sister, taking her hand and lightly kissing the backs of her knuckles. Together they went to the sideboard and filled their coffee cups.

  Phoebe sighed. Forgotten yet again, just as on that day at the Sandown races with Oliver Prestwich four years ago. Goodness, Phoebe hadn’t thought of him in ages. She had met him, the second son of the Earl of Trenton, at Sandown Park, where her family had been invited to view the races from his parents’ box in the grandstand. As the week progressed he had taken to saving a seat for her right beside him, and she had been so certain of the genuineness of his attentions. She had never before experienced such a flurry inside her, like an entire flock of sparrows taking wing. Until Julia happened by, having grown tired of watching the races with friends of her own. Ten minutes with Julia and suddenly Oliver had few smiles to spare for Phoebe. He invited Julia to view the races with him the next day, and forgot to include Phoebe at all....

  Why couldn’t Julia have stayed away?

  Now, as then, Phoebe wondered about her sister’s intentions. Had she meant to steal Oliver from her? Julia had never shown interest in a second son before—nor after, for that matter. Perhaps she found it an amusing game to simply collect people. It might have begun innocently enough, the natural result of being the pretty child of the family, only to later become a habit—a way of life. Could she comprehend at all how girls like Phoebe felt to be left standing alone, their words unspoken and their hearts in their hands?

  A hollowness formed in the pit of her stomach and she went back to staring out the window. Sometimes she felt exactly the way the garden looked today
. Gray and plain, with nothing vibrant to recommend it, while a bright sun shone nearby, yet a world away and out of her reach.

  Well, she could blame Julia all she wished, not that it mattered. Lord Owen had been invited to provide Julia a second chance at marriage in the event things didn’t work out with Henry. If that contented the two of them, Phoebe certainly wouldn’t stand in their way.

  She was about to paste on a neutral expression, select her breakfast, and join them at the table when that plain gray garden once more seized her attention. The footprints. As she had noted from upstairs, the fresh snowfall had all but filled them in, but not quite, and now, with the morning light angled just so across them . . . A possibility startled her. Quickly she ate a piece of toast and went in search of Eva.

  “Can I refill your cup for you, Nick?” Sitting at the table in the servants’ hall, Eva lifted the coffeepot. They were alone, the other servants having left minutes ago to continue their morning chores. Eva had already attended to her ladies’ morning needs, and these quiet moments following breakfast were a privilege of being a lady’s maid Eva always enjoyed before she set to work polishing boots and jewelry, ironing shirtwaists, and making any desired alterations to her mistresses’ wardrobes.

  She had just filled Nick’s cup and then her own, when Lady Phoebe appeared in the doorway. “Eva, I need to speak with you.” She stopped short and glanced from Eva to Nick and back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you weren’t alone.”

  Both Eva and Nick came to their feet. Eva said, “What can I do for you, my lady?”

  “It’s about . . .” She glanced over at Nick.

  “I’ll leave the two of you alone.” He started for the door, and Phoebe moved aside to let him pass.

  “Nick, wait one moment.” Eva held out a hand, gesturing for him to remain, then spoke to Phoebe. “If it’s about the matter we’ve been looking into, I believe Mr. Hensley might be of service to us. At least, he has as much reason as anyone to wish justice done in this matter.”

  “Lord Allerton was my employer, Lady Phoebe,” he said with a deferential bob of his head. “I accompanied him into the trenches of France as well. Frankly, I don’t know if your footman is guilty or not, but either way, I don’t believe enough evidence has been gathered. I wish to help.”