“We could tell Ambrose we overheard some guest gossiping about it. He doesn’t have to know the, um, specifics of how we obtained the information.”
“If it can be avoided, I’d rather not meet him at dawn,” Carlisle agreed.
Violet saw Strathaven enter the courtyard and go to Emma. From the way Em bounced up, Violet knew there was news. Sure enough, Em and His Grace headed her way.
“There goes our privacy,” Carlisle sighed.
“I’m sure we can arrange some time alone in the not too distant future,” she said.
His eyes lightened. “But your reputation—”
“Now you’re worried about my reputation?”
“I’m always concerned on that front,” he said, his manner lordly, “and take the necessary precautions. You’ll note we’ve yet to be caught.”
“That is because, Lord High and Mighty, I am a modern miss with more than a little ingenuity at her fingertips.” To emphasize the point, she held up her hands, wiggling her fingers. “You’ll recall that I was the one who found the hidden lever in the wardrobe.”
“Yes, well, I’ll grant you have a talent for manipulating hard objects.” Although his mouth remained stern, crinkles fanned from his eyes, which were smiling wickedly at her.
She could actually feel the blush rising up her face. He laughed just as Emma and His Grace arrived. Both of them looked surprised, no doubt because seeing Carlisle with anything but a scowl was rare.
The men exchanged bows.
“Is there news?” Violet asked.
Emma nodded. “Dr. Abernathy is ready to share his results. And I spoke to Ambrose: he’s agreed to let you be a part of this—as long as you’re careful and supervised by me.”
Vi threw her arms around her big sister. “Thank you, Em!”
“No thanks needed, dear.” Emma’s glance slid to Carlisle. “I’ve been in your shoes, after all.”
Chapter Twenty
The meeting with Dr. Abernathy took place in Billings’ study. Footmen were posted outside the door and ushered in Violet, Richard, Emma, and the duke, locking the door behind them. Clearly, Billings wanted no interruption and no gossip leaked out to the other guests.
Their host was at his usual position at the desk. Behind him, the painting of the dead game fowl formed a rather apropos backdrop, given the grisly topic of the meeting. Ambrose and Marianne were already present, and Dr. Abernathy, the beetle-browed Scottish physician, was talking with Thea and her husband, the Marquess of Tremont.
Violet brought Richard over to introduce him.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, my lord.” Thea’s hazel eyes twinkled. “My little sister has said so much about you.”
“Thea,” Vi said in mortification.
Richard’s jaw turned ruddy. “Good things, I hope.”
“Exceedingly good things,” Thea said cheerfully.
Tremont, a handsome man with gilded hair and grave eyes, put his two cents in. “Anyone who can keep up with Violet is an intrepid fellow in my books.”
More than once, her brothers-in-law had been placed on chaperone duty.
“Crumpets, I only lost you that once,” Violet muttered. “Now I never hear the end of it.”
“As everyone has arrived, we can begin.” Ambrose, standing by the side of the desk, called the meeting to order. “Dr. Abernathy has graciously come from London to conduct an examination of the deceased, Monique de Brouet. If you would share your results, Doctor?”
Dr. Abernathy inclined his head. “Let me say at the outset that Mr. Kent charged me with discovering the cause of Madame de Brouet’s death. Given that this is a science yet in its infancy,” he said in his thick brogue, “I cannot guarantee the accuracy of my conclusions, only give you my best estimation of the truth.”
“You’re all we have,”—Billings gave a dismissive wave—“and that’s better than nothing.”
Bristling, the good doctor drew himself up. “What I have to share is based on careful observation and consideration of the facts. It is most assuredly better than nothing.”
“Go on, Doctor.” Ambrose shot a warning glance at their host.
“Verra well. I found a laceration on the victim’s right temple, approximately an eighth of an inch deep, one inch wide and three inches long. Those dimensions match those of the mantelpiece ledge in the library. The blood on the mantelpiece corroborates its connection to the injury.”
“We already know she hit her head,” Billings said. “Was it an accident?”
“That I cannot conclude from the physical evidence.”
“Then we’re no better off than where we started,” the banker said in disgust. “In that light, I don’t want to drag this matter out any further. Kent, you will close the investigation and tell Magistrate Jones it was an accident—”
“On the contrary, Madame de Brouet’s death was no accident,” Dr. Abernathy said.
“You said so yourself: you don’t know whether she fell or was pushed into the mantel,” Billings retorted.
“That is true. But I do know what killed her. And it was no accident.”
Vi worked it out first. “You mean… it wasn’t the blow to the temple that killed her?”
“Precisely, Miss Kent.” The physician gave her an approving nod.
“Then what caused her death?” Richard said.
“Asphyxiation.” At the silence that greeted his pronouncement, the physician added, “I believe she was smothered.”
~~~
Monique de Brouet was murdered… and Wick’s ring was in her hand?
A deep chill pervaded Richard’s gut.
Kent’s brows drew together. “Will you elaborate upon how you arrived at that conclusion, Dr. Abernathy?”
“Of course.” Dr. Abernathy’s pedantic tones reminded Richard of his old professors at Eton and Oxford. “To begin, I do not believe that the wound at the temple was sufficient to cause a fatality. There would have been some bleeding, yes, and the victim might have lost consciousness for a brief time, but I do not think she died from the blow. This led me to look for other clues as to the cause of death, and I found several. For one, the deceased had bloodshot eyes, a common sign of asphyxiation. Second, there was bruising around her mouth and nose, again consistent with smothering. Given that, I examined the victim’s oral cavity and discovered several distinct fibers.”
“Fibers of what?” Kent said.
“A yellow fabric of some sort.”
The investigator stroked his chin. “From, say, a pillow?”
“The most common weapon,” Abernathy agreed. “I found one yellow pillow on the sofa in the library that could be a match for the fibers. But the lack of blood on this particular pillow makes it an unlikely culprit given the victim’s profuse bleeding. This leads me to believe that the murderer used a similar pillow—and took it with him because of the telltale stains on it.”
“From a decorating standpoint, the presence of a second yellow pillow makes sense,” Mrs. Kent said. “Pillows oft come in matching pairs; it would be odd to have just one of a design.”
“Billings,” Kent said, “will you alert your staff to look for the mate to the yellow pillow?”
Their host’s nod was reluctant.
“So one hypothesis would be that Monique hit her head, loss consciousness, and came to… only to be smothered by a pillow?” the duchess said meditatively.
“That would be a logical possibility, yes. And there’s one more thing.” The physician removed a folded handkerchief from his pocket and placed it on Billings’ desk. Unwrapping the linen, he removed a thin gold chain, letting it dangle for all to see.
“This was caught inside the bodice of the victim’s gown. The chain is broken. It might have happened during the attack, but I can’t be sure.”
Richard had a sudden hunch. Had Monique been wearing Wick’s ring on that chain? If so, the killer might have seen it and recognized the golden opportunity…
Billings rose, his face se
t in determined lines. “We can’t let any of this leak out.”
“For the safety of the guests—” Kent began.
“Trust me, my associates can take care of themselves. As for the others,”—Billings waved a brusque hand—“I’ll hire on extra footmen for security. Moreover, Magistrate Jones has insisted upon posting his men at the gates. He’ll be monitoring everyone going in and out. Now I’ll leave the rest to you, Kent—but do it tactfully, understand? Discretion is everything.” Billings straightened his waistcoat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have guests to attend to.”
After the door closed behind him, Kent said with a scowl, “Did he just tell me to solve a murder tactfully?”
“I’m afraid so.” Mrs. Kent touched his arm. “Never mind him, darling. We need to focus on our strategy.”
“Quite right,” Strathaven said. “Now that we know how the victim died, we’ll have to refine the list of suspects.”
“Beginning with Miss Ashe,” the duchess said. “Strathaven and I did speak with the maid she mentioned, Mary, who attested to the fact that she helped Miss Ashe to bed. We don’t know that Miss Ashe stayed there, of course, but she can be vouched for from one to two in the morning.”
“If, as I estimated, Monique’s death occurred an hour or two before she was found—thus between one and three in the morning—that gives Miss Ashe at least a partial alibi,” Kent muttered. “Given Dr. Abernathy’s conclusions, I propose that we draw up a new list of all those who had a connection with the victim. Who might have a motive to kill her.”
“Lord Wormleigh ought to be on that list,” Violet blurted.
Kent’s gaze swung to her. “Why do you say that?”
Her eyes met Richard’s briefly; he sent a prayer up that she knew what she was doing.
“Because I, um, heard some ladies gossiping about it last night. At the ball. I don’t know who they were since there was a screen between us. But they, um, claimed a servant saw Lord Wormleigh and Monique having words the night she died, and Wormleigh was seen outside the library later on that evening.”
“Excellent observation skills, dear.” Her Grace sounded impressed.
Violet flushed, squirming a little. Richard could tell it made her uncomfortable telling her family a lie. On the other hand, she couldn’t very well announce the truth: that she’d overheard Mrs. Sumner and Price whilst she and Richard had been hiding together beneath the wardrobe.
“Yes, well done, Vi. We’ll put Wormleigh at the top of the list.” Kent jotted in his notebook.
“Cedric Burns should be on there as well,” Richard said, “seeing as he was Monique’s colleague.”
Kent scribbled. “Any progress on the victim’s maid?”
The duchess shook her head. “The sleeping draught that the housekeeper, Mrs. Hopkins, gave Jeanne put the woman out like a light. Jeanne was still asleep this morning. But after this meeting, I’ll try to speak to her again.”
“I’ll go with you. If anyone knows a lady’s secrets, it’s her maid,” Mrs. Kent said.
Fear came as a sudden rush. In the commotion, Richard had forgotten about the maid and what she might know. Wick had said no one knew about his affair with Monique, but he probably hadn’t considered the woman’s servant. Was Jeanne aware of her mistress’ lovers? Would she identify Wick as one of them?
“May I come too?” Violet said quickly. “I met Jeanne before, so perhaps she’d be willing to talk to me.”
“Good thinking,” her sister said.
Violet looked at him, and the message in her eyes was amazingly clear.
Leave it to me. I’ll take care of it.
With no better options, he exhaled, nodding slightly. The truth was that it felt good to have someone at his back. To have someone he could… trust.
“Three interviews gives us a place to start,” Kent said. “I’ve also heard back from my partners, Mr. Lugo and Mr. McLeod. They will be handling the investigation on the London end, questioning Monique’s known associates and searching her residence for clues. They expect to report here in three days’ time.”
Three days. The news further wound the coil in Richard’s gut. In London, the investigators might discover evidence of Wick’s affair with Monique. They might place him on the list of suspects. An invisible net was closing around Wick.
Looking at Violet, Richard saw his own emotions reflected in her eyes. Concern—and steady determination. The hourglass had been tipped. They had three days’ time to find the true killer and prove Wick’s innocence.
Chapter Twenty-One
The group agreed to split up the tasks. The men were to take on Wormleigh and Burns whilst the ladies spoke to Monique’s maid. Thea and Tremont had been assigned the duty of chaperoning Primrose and Polly.
Ambrose muttered to Thea and her husband, “Sorry to give the pair of you the most perilous mission of all. Polly won’t be a problem, of course—but keep a close eye on my daughter, will you? Of late, Rosie has been attracting trouble the way honey does flies.”
“Don’t worry about a thing.” With a teasing smile in Vi’s direction, Thea said, “How much worse could she be than Violet?”
Seeing the twitching lips around her, Vi resisted the impulse to stick her tongue out at her sister. She felt quite proud of her growing maturity.
“Very amusing, Thea,” she said loftily and left it at that.
They went off on their assignments. As Violet followed Emma and Marianne to the servant’s wing, her anticipation was threaded with worry. What would Jeanne reveal about Monique’s past? Did the maid know about her mistress’ lovers, including Wick? If she did, how should Violet handle the situation?
Em led the way down the servants’ stairs into the kitchen. The large room buzzed with activity, maids and footmen racing to and fro in an orchestrated frenzy. They stopped short at the sight of three upstairs guests in their domain, bowing hastily as Vi and the others walked past.
Vi, for her part, was momentarily distracted from her worries by the scent of baked goods and roasting meat. Her belly rumbled; it had been hours since lunch. She paused and eyed a platter of sandwiches resting on a counter.
“Go ahead and take one, miss.” The cook, a jolly bespectacled woman in a pristine apron, nodded at the sandwiches. “I’ve got plenty.”
Violet didn’t need to be asked twice. Thanking the good woman, she took one of the triangles and bit into it with relish. Buttery bread, spiced ham, and chutney—heaven. She took another and caught up to the others, munching.
“Goodness, couldn’t you wait for supper?” Emma said.
“I’m hungry,” Vi protested.
“Tartarus,” Marianne said with a faint shake of her head.
A woman dressed in dark bombazine approached them and curtsied. Her tidy appearance and air of command conveyed her status as the top female servant of the household.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace. Ladies. How may I assist you?”
“Hello, Mrs. Hopkins,” Emma said. “We’re back to check in on Jeanne.”
The housekeeper shook her head. “Such a terrible business. One can’t blame the poor woman for succumbing to shock. I hope you’ll find her in a better state.”
Em continued to lead the way into the servant’s hall, a long and narrow space dominated by a large trestle table. On one wall hung rows of small metal bells, and Vi spotted the names of the guests written beneath each. Whenever a chime went off, some member of the staff had to abandon their tea or whatever tasks they were doing at the table and dash off.
Violet followed Emma through a warren of hallways and up three flights of stairs until they reached their destination: the garret floor. The cramped corridor had doors on both sides.
Em went to the first door on the right and knocked briskly. “Jeanne? It’s the Duchess of Strathaven. I’ve come to see how you’re doing.”
No reply.
“Do you think she’s asleep?” Marianne said.
“The sleeping draught ought to have worn
off by now.” Frowning, Em knocked again.
“Try the knob,” Vi suggested.
Em did. “It’s locked.”
“I’ll go find Mrs. Hopkins.” Marianne was already heading down the hallway.
“Hurry,” Emma called after her. To Vi, she said in worried tones, “I have a bad feeling about this.”
Vi, too, felt a sinking sensation in her stomach.
Marianne returned with the housekeeper, who produced a key and unlocked the door. When she attempted to push it open, it wouldn’t budge.
Vi tried as well, to no avail. “She’s barricaded it from the inside.”
“We’re going to need your strongest footmen, Mrs. Hopkins,” Emma said.
Off the housekeeper went again whilst Em and Marianne implored Jeanne to let them in.
Vi had another idea. Going over to the next room, she knocked. When there was no answer, she turned the knob, and, luckily, the door swung open.
Entering the cramped room, she saw at a glance two small cots, one rickety washstand, and—yes!—a dormer window protruding from the sloped ceiling. She went over and pushed up the pane of glass. Peering outside, she saw that the window to Jeanne’s room was also open… and it was only about six feet away. She gauged the slope of the roof with an expert eye: it was nearly horizontal at the edge and easy to traverse.
True, the ground did look rather far away from three stories up, but Vi had completed far more challenging tasks. This would be a piece of cake compared to balancing on a tree limb, for example, or standing on the back of a moving horse. Decision made, she swung her leg over the sill and climbed out. Keeping her body close to the tiles, she began to inch her way over to Jeanne’s room.
One foot… two feet… three…
“Good Lord!”
Emma’s voice startled her, and she jerked, kicking loose a tile. It tumbled, shattering on the gravel below. Vi kept her balance and her eyes on the goal.
“Gadzooks, don’t interrupt me,” she said. “I’m trying to concentrate here.”
Behind her, she heard Emma’s muffled prayer.
…four feet… five…
The Viscount Always Knocks Twice (Heart of Enquiry Book 4) Page 17