Sam shook his head. “I have to confess that I feared the doddering old dear did, in one of her more deluded moments, actually kill Roderick and perhaps even Geoffrey months ago by some subtler method.”
“Understandable suspicion, but no. She doesn’t have the presence of mind for something subtle or sustained. Or the strength for this knife attack.” Yancey frowned pensively. “Or the height, actually. I’m thinking of the depth and the angle of the knife’s plunge.”
Sam could only stare at this most remarkable of women. How she excited him on every level. “You are amazing, do you know that?”
She smiled prettily, a delicate flush staining her cheeks. “Not amazing at all. Merely well trained and amply experienced.”
“Well, thank God and Mr. Pinkerton, then. Now, what about Scotty? Although I hate to believe it, certainly had Roderick gone to your room to do you harm and Scotty encountered him, I believe he would be capable.”
“I agree, but Mrs. Edgars says Scotty wasn’t there. Just her and Nana. He must have come in moments later because your housekeeper awoke in his arms, remember. But even so, I don’t suspect Scotty. For one thing, he would have had no need of a weapon.”
“That’s true. Scotty could merely have pinched Roderick’s head off, had he chosen to do so. But I can vouch that Scotty is nothing if not honest. If he’d killed Roderick, I believe he would have simply said so.”
“Well, there you have it,” Yancey said brightly. “Two suspects eliminated. You’re getting very good at this, Sam.”
“I’ve had a bit of practice of late.”
Her expression sobered. “Oh, I’m so sorry. My remark was unthinking.”
Sam smiled his forgiveness and shook his head. “Think nothing of it. The truth is I’d best be getting good at this, what with my family dropping around me like flies. But with Roderick dead, Yancey, we’re fresh out of villains.”
She shrugged. “Maybe not. He may still be your villain—and someone else’s for some unrelated reason that got him killed.”
Frowning, Sam felt numb inside. “I see what you mean. But … murder. And for whatever reason. I can’t imagine. It boggles the mind, Yancey.”
“It does—if you’re not used to dealing with such treachery on a daily basis.”
“As you are, you mean?”
“Yes.” She looked down at her whisky and then up at him. “I worry sometimes that I will become hard and that life will mean nothing to me. Or death, I should say.”
Sam gripped her hand. “That’s not the woman I held in my arms last night, Yancey. You have such a good heart. And you’ve had your share of suffering. I discovered that last evening, as well.”
Her smile was bittersweet. “You’re a kind man, Sam Treyhorne.”
“But up to my neck in troubles.” He sat back, running a hand through his hair. “There are implications well beyond Stonebridge and even all of Somerset. Roderick’s murder will cause a huge scandal and gossip. That’s bad enough, especially for my mother who cares about these things. But I fear Scotland Yard will look upon me unfavorably since I stood to gain so much by Roderick’s death. I mean his duchy and title.”
Yancey raised her eyebrows. “I hadn’t thought of that.” A look of fierce protectiveness claimed her features. “But Scotland Yard won’t be a problem for long, I assure you. I’d like to see them even intimate that you were involved in any way. I stand ready to be your alibi.”
Sam smiled at her outrage on his behalf. How endearing.
Then she eyed him over the rim of her whisky glass as she took a sip. “You weren’t involved, were you?”
Sam sat up sharply. “You suspect me? But you just said you are my alibi.’”
She shrugged, her face alight with her teasing grin. “I am, but I had to ask. It’s what you pay me to do.”
“Is it? Well, then, you’re fired.”
She shook her head. “You can’t fire me again, Sam. You already did once this morning.”
He thought about that and then remembered. “I did, didn’t I? Well, it was under exceptional circumstances. Consider yourself rehired.”
“Thank you. I will.”
“Well, then, all things considered, what do we do now?”
“We? Not we, Sam. This is possibly a new case, one not related to my reasons for being here in the first place. That being so, I—and I alone—will conduct my interviews of everyone in this household. Then I will expand my investigation to Roderick’s last hours, starting with where he went last night and whom he saw. And why he did.”
“But we know where he was and who he was with. He told us.”
“Yes, he did. But I’d like to find out for myself if it’s true. Remember, he said he would not be back until midday. Rather bright and early for him to be back here, then, don’t you think? And what was he doing in my bedroom? All very curious, if you ask me. Roderick certainly had his secrets and it will be my job to uncover what they were.”
Just then, they were interrupted by a knock on the door.
Chapter Twenty-one
Sam exchanged a look with Yancey. Without a word passing between them, he set his drink down, and she did the same with hers. He picked up his gun, and she pulled hers out of her waistband. They both secured their weapons in their laps … primed and ready, but out of view of whoever was at the door. Only then did Sam call out, “Come in.”
The door opened and in stepped Mrs. Edgars. Behind her was Scotty, his new hat, as always now, perched atop his big head and he himself seemingly as unmoved as ever, despite the morning’s events. Of course, Sam had to admit, tragedy was becoming the usual fare at Stonebridge. At any rate, Scotty had escorted the housekeeper here. Taking his job as policeman seriously, he was.
The middle-aged housekeeper’s expression was every bit as severe as her demeanor. Her thin lips pursed, she dipped a somewhat less than deferential curtsy. Sam mentally excused her behavior, though, thinking that no doubt she was angry over the staff being shut up and not able to perform their duties under her direction. Add to that her moral disapproval of his and Yancey’s drinking this early in the day. Compounding their sin were the two glasses sitting directly on the wood of the desk, where they could leave rings. How many times had she complained to him of this habit?
Eyeing the woman now, Sam recalled his past complaints to his mother regarding his housekeeper. Mrs. Edgars was very proprietary in her attitude toward him and his belongings, he’d said. But that attitude, his mother had assured him, was why his brother Geoffrey had hired the woman in the first place. Mrs. Edgars cared as much for the occupants of Stonebridge manor as she did for every item that occupied it. And you couldn’t buy such loyalty as that, his mother had concluded.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Your Grace,” Mrs. Edgars said now, shooting a withering glance Scotty’s way. “I didn’t wish to do so at this moment, in your time of sorrow. Yet Scotty insisted that I do. Left to my own devices, I assure you I would have held off—”
“I understand, Mrs. Edgars. What is it?” Sam was in no mood for long explanations. “If Scotty thought it important enough to interrupt, then it is.”
The housekeeper, clearly insulted, pursed her lips and held her hand out. All but crumpled in her white-knuckled grip was a letter. “Very well, then. It’s a letter, Your Grace. It’s only just arrived.”
“Special courier,” Scotty added, his expression as blank as ever.
“Special courier?” A start of surprise flitted through Sam. He looked to Yancey, thinking to gauge her reaction to this, but encountered only her profile. Her green eyes, narrowed like a cat’s, were riveted to the housekeeper’s face. Sam’s heart thumped a warning. Barely moving his head, he subtly looked back and forth between the two women. Mrs. Edgars was giving Yancey as good as she got in the way of antagonistic looks.
With his gun still gripped in his right, hidden, hand, Sam held his left hand out to his housekeeper, waggling his fingers. “I take it the thing’s not addressed to you, Mrs. Edgar
s, or you wouldn’t be in here. So let’s have it, then. Come on. Hand it over.”
He was purposely and uncharacteristically brusque with her, hoping for a telling or unthinking response. Obviously Yancey harbored suspicions or at least a healthy dislike for his housekeeper. Sam had never liked the woman, either. He found himself wondering exactly why Geoffrey had hired her fifteen years ago when, as a young man of twenty, he’d inherited the title upon their father’s death.
But the woman disappointed. Her expression severe, her entire demeanor disapproving, she nevertheless obediently walked toward Sam … yet kept her eyes on Yancey, even as she held the letter out to Sam. “Here it is, Your Grace. But it’s addressed to Miss Calhoun. And it’s from Scotland Yard.”
* * *
The door closed behind Scotty and Mrs. Edgars. Only then did Yancey allow herself to look Sam’s way. She saw his frowning, considering gaze. “What, Sam?”
“I saw that look you had on your face. You suspect Mrs. Edgars of something, don’t you?”
She nodded. “I had the distinct impression that had Scotty not known about the letter’s delivery, we never would have seen it.”
“Hmm.” Sam frowned, rubbing at his bottom lip. Then he pointed at her. “But it’s not like you to be as obvious as you were in that look you sent her. Which tells me that you wanted her to know that you have your doubts about her. Am I right?”
The man was too smart by half. “Yes. But it’s nothing I can put my finger on. All I can say is she hasn’t liked me from the moment I set foot inside Stonebridge. And I’m certain that finding out that I’m an impostor, and a Pinkerton as well, sent here to snoop through her business doesn’t sit well with her.”
“Her business? How’s any of this her business?”
“It’s not. But I believe that’s how she sees it. Think about it. She’s in charge of the day-to-day running of Stonebridge, as well as of everyone who is employed here. And she has been for many years—long before you came home, as you told me. So my suspecting any of her charges is a slight to her ability. Add to that she wasn’t told at the outset who I am. She probably feels tricked or like a fool. No one likes that.”
“True. I didn’t like it, either. But that’s not all you think because you said you don’t believe she would have given us this letter.” He held it in his hand and waved it at her. “You suspect her of something, don’t you?”
Yancey shrugged dismissively, purposely playing her cards close to her chest. She suspected Mrs. Edgars of plenty … but she had no proof and wasn’t about to involve Sam until she knew something definite. “Not suspect, really. She could just be insulted at being tailed by Scotty and at being treated as a suspect. After all, she said only that she wouldn’t have interrupted us at this time to bring it to our attention.”
“Now you’re defending her.”
“I’m not. I’m trying to be fair.”
“Have it your way.” Sam narrowed his eyes at her. “But did you see how tightly she was holding this letter? Her knuckles were bone-white. What do you make of that? Simple insult?”
“Perhaps.”
“Oh, fine. Keep your detective’s thoughts to yourself.” Yancey bit back a grin at his frowning countenance. “Here.” He held the letter out to her. “It’s addressed to you.”
He handed it to her, stood up, and stalked over to the tall, narrow window that was open to the day’s warmth. Yancey smiled affectionately at his giving her his back. He wanted to play detective with her. A dangerous game that was, and one she wasn’t about to allow.
She laid her gun on the desktop and opened the letter. Pinkerton letterhead. She swallowed, instantly recognizing the handwriting. Mr. Pinkerton’s own. Her heart pounded with dread and anticipation—anticipation of the answers to their questions that hopefully would be contained within the report, and dread for what they could mean for Sam.
She looked up at him, standing there so stiffly. “Sam?” He turned around, his face haggard and his jaw beard-stubbled. Yancey’s heart went out to him. The poor man had been through so much already. “It’s from Mr. Pinkerton.”
“I supposed as much,” he said, exhaling. “So read it to me. What does he have to say?”
Still seated but turned in his direction, Yancey read quickly and silently, her dread overtaking her anticipation. She looked up from the letter, hoping her sympathy for him was evident in her expression. “Oh, Sam, there’s news here of Sarah. I am so sorry.”
He pressed his lips together and looked down at the carpet. “Then this other Sarah, the one who was killed, was my wife?”
Yancey wanted to go to him, to hold him. But she couldn’t seem to move and didn’t really know if she should. “Yes. There’d been a recent switch in doctors, Sam. Apparently they were less than scrupulous and easily bribed into turning her out so she’d be vulnerable.”
Sam scrubbed a hand over his face. “That poor creature.” He lowered his hand, revealing to Yancey the raw expression on his face. “How frightened she must have been. When lucid, she was very much a child.”
Yancey’s heart ached. She could only imagine Sarah’s confusion and terror. “What those doctors did wasn’t your fault, Sam. You were faced with an awful situation back then, and you did the best you could by her.”
He shook his head. “I wish I could believe that. And perhaps you’re right. But I still blame myself. I should have visited more often, asked more questions of the doctors. But I—”
“Sam, the administration of the hospital is not the same as when you admitted her. You couldn’t have known.”
But Sam wasn’t ready yet to forgive himself. “Sarah was ten years older than I, Yancey. And I never loved her. I never did.”
Yancey’s heart beat dully. She felt hollow, very fragile, as if she could break. Sam looked much the same way. “You don’t have to tell me this, Sam.”
“Yes I do. If I’m to have any chance at all with you, Yancey, any chance at happiness, I want you to know this.”
She was afraid she would shatter and fall to the floor. The diamond ring on her finger was suddenly too heavy for her hand. She felt very much the impostor that she was. A numbing coldness crept into the back of her throat, but inhaling for courage, she said, “Then go on. I’ll listen.”
Looking everywhere but at her, much as if he couldn’t bear to see judgment in her eyes, he began. “I’m as bad as Roderick, Yancey. I married Sarah for her money and nothing else. Yet she loved me, by all indications, and I—” He stopped, swinging his tortured gaze Yancey’s way.
She felt numb. “What is it, Sam? Tell me.”
His gray eyes were bloodshot and rounded with emotion. “I sometimes wonder if because of that, because I didn’t love her and she loved me … I wonder if I drove her mad.”
Yancey’s heart tore. “Oh, Sam, you poor thing, no. You’ve been holding all that inside? Oh, you poor, dear man.” She tossed the letter on the desk and went to him, throwing her arms around him. Sam immediately crushed her to him, burying his face in her neck. His breathing was troubled, rapid and heavy, and he felt too warm, as if intense emotion had heated him through and through. Desperate to heal him, somehow knowing this was her only chance to get through to him, Yancey spoke rapidly, telling him what was in her heart.
“Sam, you mustn’t think that. You mustn’t. No matter your reasons for marrying her, I’m sure you were good to her. Good heavens, Sam, the things you’ve told me about her and how hard you tried? She was ill, Sam. You didn’t do that. Look how good you are with Nana and Scotty and your mother and everyone else around you, including me. You couldn’t be more kind, Sam. And that’s all I need to know.”
She pulled back from him and cupped his emotion-ravaged face in her hands. “You’re a good man, Sam. A good man. And I love you. Do you think I could if you weren’t? Do you?” Overcome, he simply shook his head no. Yancey chuckled. “There. You see? You agree with me. You are wonderful.”
His grin was fleeting. He nodded but refused t
o meet her gaze, though Yancey tried to trap it. Sam cupped her hands in his, kissed each of her palms in turn, then released her and stepped back. He sniffed and swiped a finger under his nose. His behavior told Yancey he was striving for equilibrium, for recovery. “I suppose you could be right.”
She clasped her hands together tightly to keep from reaching for him again. She wanted so very much to hold and comfort him, but her woman’s instincts told her she mustn’t. His pride would only suffer for her continued sympathy. So she stood there, so close yet so far away, and forced a bright smile to her face. “You may suppose all you want, my dear man, but I know. And I’m a good detective with excellent instincts. So you have to believe me.”
Giving him no time to gainsay her, Yancey picked up his whisky and handed it to him. Sam took it and drank it back. He set the emptied glass back on his desk and pointed to the letter from Mr. Pinkerton. “We should see what else he has to say.”
Yancey nodded and picked up the report. She read quickly, relating to Sam aloud as she went. “Let’s see, Mr. Pinkerton goes on here to say that the Englishman I killed knew Thomas Almont—a train robber who had nothing to do with your case—from a previous trip to Chicago.” Yancey looked up at Sam. “Your poor mother didn’t do much investigating of the man’s reputation before she hired him. Apparently he was a less than honest private detective.”
“Mother didn’t investigate at all. She wouldn’t know how to begin. She told me he came recommended by a friend of hers whom she wouldn’t name but who had past need of his services and discretion.”
The Marriage Masquerade Page 32