Murder Most Malicious

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “No, I do not. And neither does Lord Owen, apparently. I was about to tell you the family will be disappointed to learn that while he greatly esteems Lady Julia, he has no wish to marry her.”

  “He told you this?”

  “He did.”

  “You’ve certainly earned his confidence in a short time, haven’t you?” She carefully pressed a sleeve. “I’m glad. It suggests he has every intention of keeping you on.”

  “I think so, too. But do you think Lady Julia will be terribly—”

  He broke off as Miss Shea and Mr. Phelps came into the room. The countess’s lady’s maid carried an armful of black wool with beaded taffeta trim and regarded Eva and Nick with a sneer of disapproval. “It sounds like there’s a lot of talking going on in here. Eva, as long as you’re ironing, do be agreeable and touch up Lady Wroxly’s gabardine suit. She may wish to go into the village tomorrow.” She laid the suit across the table, well away from Mr. Hensley’s bleaching solution. “Be mindful of the pleats. You know how particular Lady Wroxly is about her pleats. Nor would her ladyship appreciate any burn marks. If you place a wet cloth over the fabric—”

  “Yes, Miss Shea, I do know how to steam pleats, thank you.” She bit back any further retort. Miss Shea was her superior and it wouldn’t do her any good to anger the woman.

  “I’ll leave you to it, then.” Miss Shea turned about with a haughty flounce of her skirts.

  Mr. Phelps placed the leather case he held on the table. “For that matter, Hensley, I don’t suppose you’ll mind sharpening Lord Wroxly’s straight razor.” He flipped the latch and opened the case to reveal a shaving kit trimmed in silver inlaid with ivory. “I’m sure you’ve been eager to earn your keep here. You’ll find a strop and paste on those shelves behind you.”

  “Yes, Mr. Phelps, I know where the sharpening equipment is.”

  Eva slammed the iron onto its trivet. “Mr. Phelps, I’ll have you know Mr. Hensley has found a position with Lord Owen. He is no longer unemployed and is earning his keep quite nicely.” She specifically left out the part about the position being tentative, for she had every confidence Lord Owen would keep Nick on.

  “I’m happy to hear it,” the man replied stiffly and with no small amount of indifference. “I’ve an important errand for Lord Wroxly in town.” He gave a slight roll of the eyes. “He’s having me tend to Vernon in his jail cell. I’ll return later for the shaving kit.”

  Eva decided to ignore his sarcasm. “How kind of Lord Wroxly to send you. It must mean he doesn’t believe Vernon is guilty.”

  “One supposes not, but with Vernon all but convicted it seems rather cruel to allow him to become accustomed to any sort of luxuries. He’ll receive no such favors in penitentiary, nor on the scaffold.”

  “Mr. Phelps!”

  Before Eva could say more, Nick spoke up. “See here, Mr. Phelps. That kind of talk before a lady is completely out of line.”

  The valet made a point of gazing first to his left, then to his right. “I see no ladies present.”

  Nick was around the table before Eva could blink and had his hands around Mr. Phelps’s lapels by the time she hurried over. She seized Nick by the backs of his arms. “Gentlemen, please. The strain is clearly affecting everyone’s judgment. Nick, strictly speaking I am not a lady, not in the sense that the female members of the family are ladies. Isn’t that what you meant, Mr. Phelps?”

  She was being overly generous, of course, for she recognized Mr. Phelps’s observation for the slight it had been meant to be. Better to swallow her pride than have the two of them going at it like a pair of hardheaded rams.

  “Indeed, Miss Huntford, I meant no offense.” His aquiline nose flared, and although he held himself upright with all the dignity he could muster, lingering alarm flickered in his eyes.

  Nick released him and stepped back. He drew a breath. “I’m sorry, Phelps. I believed you to be insulting our Miss Huntford, and as she and I are old friends, I couldn’t endure it.”

  Mr. Phelps gave a sniff. “Perhaps Lord Owen should be made aware of his new valet’s temper.”

  “Please, that isn’t necessary—”

  “No, it’s all right, Eva,” Nick interrupted her. “If Mr. Phelps feels the need to inform our respective employers of this incident, I shan’t stop him. It is his prerogative.”

  Mr. Phelps hesitated, then eased toward the door. “I’ll be back later for his lordship’s shaving kit.”

  Nick smiled and inclined his head. “I’ll have it ready.”

  Moments after they were left alone, Eva said, “What will Lord Owen think? I’ll come to your defense, you can be sure of it.”

  “Never mind, Evie.” Going back around the table, he tossed the collar he had scrubbed clean into the pile of the others ready for the laundress. “He won’t say a word to Lord Owen.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I just reminded him that his own employer would inevitably become involved and would therefore discover what a boorish, pompous ass he employs as his valet.”

  Eva burst out laughing and then whisked a hand to her mouth to muffle the sound. But she quickly sobered. “I do wish Lord Wroxly hadn’t sent Phelps to tend to Vernon. One can only imagine the disheartening comments he’ll make in Vernon’s hearing.”

  Nick nodded his agreement. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll finish up with this last collar, sharpen Lord Wroxly’s razor, and ask Lord Owen’s leave for an hour or so. I’ll check in on Vernon myself and try to undo any harm caused by Phelps.”

  “That would be wonderful, Nick. Thank you.”

  A mischievous gleam entered his eye, and Eva looked quickly away. Not quickly enough, however, for Nick said softly, “Are you contemplating a more tangible means of thanking me, Evie? Say, a kiss? The first one we shared was awfully nice.”

  She wanted to deny it, but that would be a lie. “Yes, it was,” she murmured so low Nick frowned as if not sure she had even spoken. Louder, she continued. “But it was wrong, Nick. My position . . . yours . . . We mustn’t risk—”

  “Living?”

  “You know what I mean.” She retrieved her forgotten iron. “Either of us could get the sack for lesser indiscretions than that.”

  “Since when is living an indiscretion? Besides, I know the rules. No courting other members of the staff. Well, I’m not a member of the staff here, Evie. Even by Old Ironheart’s unreasonable standards we wouldn’t be doing anything wrong.”

  “Don’t call her that.” Eva placed the iron on the trivet once more. “This has nothing to do with Mrs. Sanders, really. I felt it to be wrong, Nick. I suppose I’m not a modern woman. Not when it comes to matters like this. I need . . . time.”

  He moved closer and Eva tensed, wanting him to stop several safe paces away, yet at the same time yearning to catch the scent of his shaving soap as she had when he kissed her. He stopped a couple of feet away and smiled. “Take all the time you need, Evie.”

  CHAPTER 17

  “Why on earth hasn’t the fire been laid in this room?” Grams addressed her question to no one in particular. The family and guests came to an abrupt halt as they entered the library, where they had planned to spend the time between luncheon and tea. Grams had declared the drawing room was beginning to feel as large and vacuous as a sepulcher, and Grampapa had suggested the cozier surroundings of books and leather.

  Surely the servants would have been notified that this room would be in use today. Puzzled, Phoebe stared at the empty grate while the other women wrapped their arms around themselves as if suddenly propelled headlong into arctic temperatures, despite the furnaces sending ample hot water up into the radiators. The men, on the other hand, gathered around the fireplace as if to find a ready solution to their dilemma. None would be found, of course, until one of the servants arrived.

  The only person who seemed unperturbed was Lady Cecily, who made herself comfortable on the brocade settee and folded her hands on her lap as if waiting for some sort of ent
ertainment to begin. Her lady’s maid took up position behind the sofa; she had been charged with keeping a close eye on her mistress for the remainder of the woman’s stay at Foxwood.

  Julia pivoted on her heel. “I’m going upstairs to the sitting room. It’s always warmer there, fire or no.”

  “I’m coming with you.” The sleeves of her afternoon dress flowing out behind her, Lady Allerton followed Julia out. She didn’t so much as glance at her aunt. Obviously Lady Allerton was only too happy to relinquish the job of supervising Lady Cecily to the maid.

  Amelia stared after her. “Shall we all go, Phoebe?”

  “If you like, but I’m going below to see what’s happening. I do hope there hasn’t been another crisis.”

  “Yes, do,” Grams concurred with a flick of her hand. “I hope none of the servants is ill, or worse, gone missing. Who is it usually lays the fires?”

  “Connie, I should think,” Amelia replied. “And then Vernon or Douglas lights them right before we need the room.”

  Connie. A warning prickling at her nape, Phoebe hastened her steps. Lord Owen followed her out of the room and she thought he intended to accompany her downstairs—why, she couldn’t fathom. But he only stared after her before she heard him return to the library.

  In the service hallway, she discovered Eva striding from room to room, looking briefly into each one. Her face troubled, Eva stopped when she spotted Phoebe.

  “I’m looking for Connie,” they said at the same time, then paused, then started to speak again.

  “You first, my lady,” Eva said.

  “The fire wasn’t lit in the library, although my grandfather left instructions with Mr. Giles that we’d be using the room after luncheon.”

  Douglas turned into the hallway looking harried and none too pleased. In one hand he carried a coal bin and in the other a basket of twisted paper and kindling. “I’m on my way up right now, my lady. My apologies. I went to light the fire a little while ago, but the hearth was empty.”

  “That’s Connie’s job, isn’t it?”

  “It is, my lady,” Eva murmured. They both stepped aside to let Douglas pass. “I’ve been searching for her everywhere.”

  “Thank you, Douglas,” Phoebe called after the footman as he climbed the stairs. “Please tell the family Connie is . . . indisposed. . . and that’s why the mix-up with the fire.” Then she whispered to Eva, “How long has she been missing?”

  “It’s hard to say. I saw her this morning. She laid the servants’ table and helped Dora ready tea for Mrs. Sanders and Mr. Giles. I thought she went upstairs next to distribute the linens and turn on the water heaters. She might have done, or not. I really can’t say. I didn’t think to keep an eye on her.”

  “No, of course not.” Phoebe thought a moment. “The morning fires were all properly lit and no one complained of cold water. Which suggests she disappeared sometime around luncheon.”

  Mrs. Sanders appeared in her office doorway. “When I get my hands on that girl—” She broke off and rearranged her angry scowl into look of concern. “My lady. I didn’t know you’d come down.”

  “I’m worried about Connie, Mrs. Sanders.”

  “As are we all, my lady. I only wish I could say it was unlike her to be scarce when there was work to be done. But we know what happened the other day. Eva, have you checked outside for her?”

  “No, but I will.”

  “I’ll come with you.” Phoebe followed Eva to the courtyard door and selected a cloak at random from the pegs. The garment hit the floor with fabric to spare, and she raised the hem clear with both hands. “It doesn’t make sense that she’d sneak out with food for the children again. Not after last time, and especially when she knows we’ve made arrangements for just that very thing.”

  “I don’t understand it either, my lady.”

  Phoebe loathed saying her next words, but they needed to be voiced. “I can only plead her case so far. If she proves completely undependable, I cannot go on insisting Mrs. Sanders spare her the sack.”

  Eva hugged her cloak tighter about her. “I know,” was all she said.

  They went out through the courtyard gate and made their way past the kitchen garden to the hothouses. “There are no new footprints,” Phoebe observed.

  “Nor any sign of village children. Nor Connie, for that matter.”

  “Did someone check her room? Perhaps she’s ill.” Phoebe couldn’t help hoping that was the case. But Eva shook her head.

  “Dora went up. Connie wasn’t there.” Then Eva’s eyebrows went up and a slight smile curved her lips. “Wait a moment. I think I might know where she is. With Nick Hensley. Come, my lady, let’s return to the house.”

  “But why would she be with Mr. Hensley?” Phoebe pushed the question out with her frigid breath as they hurried back to the service courtyard. As they reached it, a motor came rumbling up the drive, parking just outside the courtyard wall. A moment later, Mr. Hensley himself came trudging through the open gates. He slipped on the snow, now an icy slush, and waved his arms about to catch his balance.

  Eva ran to his side and reached to steady him. “Is Connie with you?”

  “Hello to you, too, Evie.” His gaze lighted on Phoebe, and he immediately straightened and retrieved his arm from Eva’s hold. He bobbed his head. “My lady. Is there something wrong?”

  “Yes, Connie seems to be missing, Mr. Hensley. Please say she went to town with you. I assumed you went to town in the groundkeeper’s lorry.”

  The old lorry with its open bed and wooden railings was used by the servants to haul equipment around the estate, or to drive into town and back. Phoebe herself had driven it during the war to bring their Red Cross supplies to Bristol and Gloucester. Clearly Mr. Hensley had gotten Mr. Giles’s permission to motor into town.

  “I went to visit Vernon, my lady,” he said. “But Connie wasn’t with me.”

  Eva heaved a sigh. “She’s nowhere else. I was almost certain she must have gone with you.” She cast an imploring look at Phoebe. “Now what?”

  Mr. Hensley frowned. “You don’t think she’s run off, do you?”

  “I don’t see why she would,” Eva replied.

  “Come, let’s go back inside.” Phoebe motioned to the door. “We’re not helping Connie by catching our deaths out here.”

  As soon as she spoke, she wished she hadn’t, or hadn’t used the word death. What if Connie hadn’t shirked her duties today? What if something infinitely more dreadful had happened to her?

  Once Lady Phoebe left to return to the library, Eva and Nick went to continue their chores in the valet service room. She had finished with Lady Wroxly’s suit and now turned her attention to pressing the wrinkles out of her ladies’ fine silk chemises and petticoats. “So tell me, Nick, how was Vernon?”

  “Grateful for the books you sent.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “I know. He’s despondent, I’m afraid. Certain he’ll be found guilty.”

  “It does seem more and more likely that he’ll go to trial. There must be something we’re missing. Some clue that would lead us to the real killer.”

  “Assuming it isn’t Vernon,” Nick said quietly.

  “How can you say that?” she snapped.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know Vernon at all well, and so I cannot go on faith alone. And neither can the police, I’m afraid. You’re quite right. Without any other substantial clues, he’ll go to trial.”

  Eva’s stomach sank. “And be convicted.”

  “In all likelihood.”

  Voices in the corridor penetrated the gloom that settled around her, and upon recognizing the slight brogue of one of them, Eva crossed the room to look out. “What’s he doing back? Maybe he knows something about Connie.”

  “Who’s back, Evie?”

  Without answering she strode into the hall. “Constable Brannock, what brings you to Foxwood?”

  Standing with Mrs. Sanders, Miles Brannock tipped his helmet to her as he un
wrapped the muffler from around his neck. “Certain questions, Miss Huntford. If that’s all right with you.” He grinned as he spoke, but that didn’t soften his intended mockery. Eva angled her chin at him.

  “I thought you might be bringing news about Connie, our housemaid. She hasn’t been seen since before luncheon.”

  Mrs. Sanders spoke before the constable could reply. “He’s not here about Connie. I’m afraid that girl’s whereabouts are still a mystery.”

  A wave of disappointment swept through Eva, followed by a smidgeon of hope. “Have you learned something new, then? Something to help Vernon?”

  Before replying, the constable said to Mrs. Sanders, “Please send for Mr. Phelps, ma’am.” When the obviously puzzled housekeeper walked away to use the inter-house telephone in her office, Miles Brannock turned back to Eva. “I might have, Miss Huntford, but there’s nothing conclusive yet.”

  “It involves Mr. Phelps?”

  His gaze slid past her. “I can’t say.”

  A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed that Nick stood watching from the service room. Eva turned back to Constable Brannock and crossed her arms defensively. “It must, if you’re having him sent for.”

  “Now that I think about it, Miss Huntford, I might ask you the very same questions I have for Mr. Phelps. I haven’t forgotten what was inside your Christmas box either.”

  “Me? I’ve already been questioned.”

  “So has Mr. Phelps. Come with me.” He led the way to Mrs. Sanders’s office and poked his head inside. “Ma’am, might I use your office for a few minutes?”

  Mrs. Sanders rose from behind her desk. “I have to confer with the Countess about tonight’s dinner anyway, so, yes, you may use my office. Mr. Phelps is on his way.”

  The constable didn’t bother closing the door, but he drew Eva to the desk and spoke in a murmur. “What do you know about Lord Allerton’s Victory Bond fraud?”

  “What?” The question took her by surprise. “Very little. Only what Lady Julia told us yesterday when you were here.”

  “And have you ever heard anyone in this house, staff or family, talk about these bonds?”