Colin had come upstairs, changed into evening kit, and gone back down in less time than it had taken Meg to finish retaming my unruly hair, and I wanted to speak to him privately before Simon and my mother joined us in the drawing room. I did not find him in the house, but a helpful footman directed me outside, where he was discussing something with one of the grooms. I pulled a wrap around my shoulders and went off in search of him. The stables, behind the house and to the east, formed a large compound situated around a courtyard. The stone buildings provided ample space for our horses as well as room above to house the grooms. I stood back some distance, before he had seen me, and watched him. His every move was an exercise in elegance. Adonis would have wept in shame to be compared with such a man.
When he turned away from the groom, I stepped forward, called to him, and gave a little wave, blushing at the memory of our time together in his study.
“My dear, your cheeks are a perfect match for your gown,” he said, planting a soft kiss on my lips. “You grow more beautiful daily. Aphrodite would tremble in your presence.”
“You are too kind.” I could feel myself blush. “I need to arrange a quick stop in London followed by a trip to Dover, after tomorrow, of course, when I have exhausted any leads I find in Melton Carbury. And while in London, I shall need to telephone Germany.”
“My, you are industrious,” he said. “All this since you left me in my study? I cannot say I’ve accomplished anything beyond getting dressed for dinner.”
“You were rather vigorously engaged when I last saw you,” I said, “so don’t be too hard on yourself. You needed some rest.”
“London and Dover, eh?” he asked. “Do tell the details, and then I shall share with you what our industrious groom had for me.”
“You first,” I said. “Mine will take longer.”
“Both Lily and Prudence have come forward and admitted they saw a figure outside the servants’ entrance the night of the murder.”
“Yes, I am aware of that.”
“Lily is certain it was a man. Prudence isn’t sure. But Johnny has just informed me that he heard a voice that night. A woman crying.”
“Why did he say nothing until now?” I asked.
“He thought it was a cat.”
“A cat? We don’t have cats at Anglemore. Your foxhounds would eat them.”
“I would allow nothing of the sort,” Colin said.
“I am quite confident Bellerophon would eat me if you left me unguarded and alone in the house. I can have no faith in creatures bred to tear a defenseless fox to shreds.”
“You know I share your opinion of fox hunting. That is why we don’t allow it at Anglemore.”
“Precisely why the hounds are likely to eat any available cat or unaccompanied lady. We have thwarted their purpose in life.”
“You are most amusing, my dear,” Colin said. “I should have married you ages ago. At any rate, cats were apparently rampant at Johnny’s previous place of employment, and more than once he mistook their mewing for a child crying. A few hours ago, he mentioned to one of his fellow grooms that he thought it odd he hadn’t heard the cat again since the night of the murder. At which time someone pointed out to him that there are no cats here. He realized his error and asked to see me.”
“He is certain it was a woman?” I asked.
“Reasonably.” Colin ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. “It is as unlikely that a man would be crying outside our servants’ entrance as it is that someone would mistake him for a cat.”
“Would you like me to speak to Lily?” I asked. “I could ascertain just how confident she is in her identification.”
“That is an excellent idea. I don’t believe I was intimidating when I spoke with her, but she might respond better to you.”
“I shall have a chat with her after dinner.”
“Now tell me about this proposed trip of yours. Why do you need to telephone Germany?”
“I have had a very interesting series of wires,” I said. “Walk with me and I shall tell you all about them.”
By the time we had finished discussing our options (and meandered no small distance through our grounds, taking in not only the formal garden but the walled garden, the lake, the abbey, and two follies as well before reaching the house, all the while Acastus and Pollux at their master’s heel), my mother and Simon were already in the white drawing room waiting to go into dinner. The meal itself was uneventful, despite my mother’s constant insistence on discussing the numerous ways in which she found Rodney and his valet inappropriate until I told her that if she did not stop, I would retire to the Red Indian’s tent. After port and cigars (my mother being the only person who exited to the drawing room in favor of sherry), I left Colin and Simon and asked for Lily to be sent to me in the Spanish room, deciding the library felt too large for speaking to the young and sometimes timid housemaid. I wanted Lily to feel as comfortable and safe as possible.
“You called for me, madam?”
“Thank you for coming so quickly, Lily,” I said.
“What can I do for you?”
“Take a seat, please,” I said. “I want to speak to you about the night of the murder.”
Her face went a shade paler as she sat on the chair across from mine, perching on its very edge, her back straight and her eyes unblinking. “I told Mr. Hargreaves everything I could remember.”
“I am interested in the figure you saw outside the house.”
“He seemed bulky and was dressed in dark clothes,” she said. “That’s all I know, milady. I wish I had noticed more details.”
“It would have been difficult to in the dark. Are you absolutely certain it was a man?”
“I was,” she said. “He seemed too large and hulking to be a woman, but now that I’ve been asked so many times I’m starting to doubt myself. How can I be sure?” She was clenching her hands so hard her knuckles were white. “I didn’t know at the time I was seeing something that mattered. If I had I’d have been more careful to better remember. I promise you that, milady.”
“Don’t worry yourself,” I said. “I know you are doing the best you can, and it would be wrong of anyone to expect more. It is important that I make sure we know everything we can about that night. Did you hear any sound when you saw this person?”
She squeezed her eyes shut and then, after a moment, shook her head with an almost violent force. “No—no, I don’t think so. The window was shut.”
“You were upstairs. It is not surprising you heard nothing.”
“Did someone else hear a sound?”
“Yes,” I said. “One of the grooms, Johnny, thinks he heard a woman crying.”
“Crying?” she asked. “No, I know I didn’t hear that, and I doubt the person I saw would have been crying. I can’t quite explain it, but he seemed more menacing than sad. Of course I couldn’t see his face, so I could be completely wrong. Who do you think it was?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” I said. “If you and Prudence hadn’t both seen someone, I would be inclined to dismiss it altogether. But you both did, and now we have Johnny’s account as well. Can you remember if everyone was present and accounted for in the servants’ hall when you went back downstairs?”
“I can’t say that I particularly noticed,” she said, “but I know I didn’t think anything was out of the ordinary.”
“Did anything else strike you as unusual that night?”
“Not until Lord Montagu collapsed.”
“Thank you, Lily. Please do come to me if you remember anything else, even if it seems too small a detail to matter.”
“I will, madam, I promise.”
*
Colin and I were in Melton Carbury before nine o’clock the next morning. We started by interviewing the villagers, trying to learn whatever we could about the Fitzgeralds. We found they were much liked by their neighbors, who considered them to be helpful and pious. Cora taught Sunday school and was always available to assist childre
n who were struggling with their lessons. The vicar was an integral part of every family, there for baptisms, marriages, and deaths. No one had much to say about the missionary work he had undertaken at the beginning of his career, but there was no reason to expect anyone to know much about it.
Confident that there was nothing else to be learned from the villagers, we went to the vicarage. While Colin spoke to her father inside the house, I went to look for Cora in the garden. She was sitting in an alcove formed by ancient yew trees, with a piece of embroidery on her lap, her head bent over her work. I called a greeting and sat next to her on the bench.
“I was wondering, Miss Fitzgerald, if you could tell me more about the night of Archibald’s murder?” I asked. “I had occasion to visit the family you had previously mentioned to me. Lady Matilda heard of their plight and was concerned about the health of the children. She asked me to accompany her to the house.”
“How kind of you,” she said. “I wish you would have told me. I should have liked to go along as well.”
“The widow said that only one of the children had been ill, and that he was already much better.”
“What a relief. She must be very pleased. The poor woman has enough burdens without having to contend with disease ravaging her family.”
“Hadn’t you told me all the children were under the weather?” I asked.
“I always assume everyone is at risk when a family living in such close quarters is facing illness. Particularly children. They are so vulnerable.” She tugged at her thread, which appeared to have got tangled.
“A very sensible strategy,” I said. “Tell me about what happened when you arrived there that evening. It was evening, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. The sun had long since set.”
“Do you know what time it was?”
“Not precisely, no.”
“So you got to the house. What happened next?”
“I went inside and examined the children,” she said and thrust her needlework onto the bench beside her. “I must say, Lady Emily, I am getting the distinct feeling that I am being interrogated, and I do not appreciate it. I was doing my duty that night, helping a family in need. Why all these questions?”
“Were the children awake when you arrived?”
“Yes, of course. How else would I have examined them?”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
“Even the little ones?”
“I already told you, yes.” Her tone was becoming more and more strained. “What are you really asking me? Do you think I killed the man I loved?”
“If I wondered that, I would ask you directly,” I said, meeting her flashing eyes with my own calm gaze. “I do, however, know that you called on the farmer’s widow quite late in the evening, and she told me that all the children were already in bed, fast asleep. She insists that you did not set foot in the house.”
“So you are calling me a liar?”
“I am asking you to explain the discrepancy in the two versions of the story.”
“How on earth should I know?” she said. “Did it occur to you that I might be the one telling the truth? Or do you take the word of an uneducated, overworked woman over mine?”
“Your stations in life have nothing to do with it,” I said. “I do not see that the widow would gain anything by lying. You, on the other hand, do have a connection with the murder victim. I would be remiss in my duties if I did not come back to question you again after hearing the widow’s story.”
“You are welcome to do whatever you wish,” she said, “but I cannot make up answers to suit your pleasure.”
“So you stand by your original statement?”
“I do. Why wouldn’t I?”
“And you have no explanation for why the widow has such a different memory of the evening?”
“None in the least. Perhaps I should have checked her own health more carefully. She might have been affected by the fever as well.”
“Sarcasm does not become you,” I said.
“You might consider, Lady Emily, that she could in fact have had reason to be less than candid, even if she did remember what actually happened. You arrive, unexpectedly, with Lady Matilda. Her house is in disarray—it is filthy—and her children are running wild. She is living there on nothing more than the goodwill of the Scolfield family. Lady Matilda’s grandfather let her stay in the house after her husband died even though none of the children were yet of an age to be able to do enough work on the lands to justify the expense. Do you really think she is going to admit to even more weakness? Her only hope of remaining in her home is to make Lady Matilda—or now, Lord Montagu, but she wasn’t to know that at the time—believe that her children are strong and healthy and mere months away from being of real use to the other farmers on her land.”
“It is an interesting theory, Miss Fitzgerald,” I said. “I shall give it due consideration.” Miss Fitzgerald stared at me, her face unmoving, her eyes boring into my own.
“Thank you.” There was no kindness in her words.
“I did not mean to offend you,” I said. “You must understand the seriousness of the problem before us. We have to find justice for Archibald Scolfield. You of all people should see the value in that.”
“I know.” She dropped her head into her hands. “It is not so easy for me. I thought he loved me. I believed all the sweet words he said to me, and gave my love to him freely and wholeheartedly, only to find I have been a naive fool. How could I have ever thought he would want me when he stood to inherit a title and an estate? He needed a gracious lady with status and reputation, someone who could entertain political guests and help forward his career. Not the silly daughter of a vicar.”
“You are too hard on yourself,” I said. “There is nothing silly about you, and your experience assisting your father both here and during his missionary work would have been ample preparation to be the wife of a marquess.”
“Be that as it may, he needed a wife with rank from a family at least as prestigious as his own. I knew that, or at least I should have done. I certainly did in the beginning, when I could hardly believe he loved me in any serious way. Yet he was so adamant about not wanting what was expected of him, not when it came to society. He insisted again and again that he wanted to rally the nation against social inequality and that he needed someone like me by his side in order to do it. By then, I believed him because I wanted to.”
“He sounds like a young man in search of a mission,” I said, “and that does not mean his feelings for you were anything short of sincere.”
“I appreciate that you are trying to make me feel better, but it is not going to work. I should have found a more suitable husband.”
“I didn’t realize Lord Montagu was interested in a political career,” I said. “What were his specific plans?”
“He never really talked about a precise strategy, but aren’t all young men in positions like his interested in politics, especially once they’ve inherited? I should have thought his involvement a foregone conclusion.”
“I think, Miss Fitzgerald, you give the upper class too much credit. Countless men like Archibald are content to do nothing but sit around their estates talking to their dogs and shooting birds.”
“Archibald wanted to travel.”
“You had mentioned that.”
“I thought he perhaps wanted to be involved in the diplomatic service,” she said, pulling a face. “I guess I did not know him so well as I thought.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that he deserved to be murdered,” I said, “but I think you may be better off not married to him.”
“I should like very much to believe that,” she said.
“Please forgive me for having upset you,” I said. “I hope you can understand I am bent on finding whoever committed this heinous crime. If, in the course of the investigation, I ruffle a few innocent feathers, I consider it a small price to pay in exchange for justice.”
“I d
o understand, Lady Emily, and I assure you I will do whatever I can to help you in the matter. In the meantime, I was wondering if I could speak to you about the new Lord Montagu? Are you aware of him harboring any romantic attachments? A lady in my unfortunate position is in dire need of any distraction she can get.”
*
I was glad when Colin came to collect me in the vicarage garden. Miss Fitzgerald was quite unstoppable when it came to asking questions about Rodney. “I cannot decide,” I told Colin as we climbed back onto our horses, “whether she is genuinely interested in him now, or if this is all a throwback to her girlish crush. Nor can I tell what to make of it all in the context of her so-called fiancé’s death.”
“She can’t be too broken up over the loss of him if she’s so taken with someone else.”
“Unless it is nothing more than a way of turning her grief into something more manageable.”
“Do you believe she lied about her visit to the farm?”
“I do,” I said.
“Why would she have lied?”
“If she did kill Archibald, her story would have provided an alibi, though not a good one if it is so easily exposed.”
“She could have panicked when you initially spoke to her and told you the first thing that came into her head.”
“Yet she did go to the farm,” I said. “That could have been a deliberate attempt to give herself an alibi. She might not have thought the widow would have anything different to say to us.”
“Most likely she assumed the widow would back up whatever story she had told. If you had merely asked for confirmation of what Miss Fitzgerald said, I have no doubt the widow would have given it without a second thought. Instead, you asked her what happened, which made her tell it as she remembered without any outside influence. Well done making her actively provide an answer.”
“Thank you,” I said. “What did the vicar have to say?”
“He told me about his years in India with Cora, two to be exact. He spent the better part of a decade as a young man doing missionary work and traveled all over the world. When he returned to England, he married, and his wife died soon after their daughter’s birth. When he thought Cora was old enough, he wanted to return to his previous task, but after they had been in India a little over a year, he started to realize the girl would be better off in England.”
Behind the Shattered Glass: A Lady Emily Mystery (Lady Emily Mysteries) Page 13