Sweet Asylum

by Tracy L. Ward

  Standing rigid the inspector mumbled to himself slightly and surveyed the remains of the barn with a fleeting interest.

  Ainsley himself had come prepared to shift beams and stones, knowing it would be the best way to determine the cause of the fire. It unsettled him to see the inspector so reluctant to investigate.

  “Shouldn’t we seek out the cause?” Ainsley asked.

  Marley chuckled out one side of his mouth, still fingering his shiny buttons. “I’m afraid the cause has been lost in the heat.” The inspector began to walk back toward Ainsley. “We may never know what caused the fire.”

  Ainsley surveyed the damage. Some of the stone walls remained upright while others had collapsed, either from something falling into them or the beam which held them in place caught. Ainsley saw a tangle of beams and rocks. Beneath he could see the floorboards had been burnt away. However, the floorboards farther into the structure were blackened but not completely consumed.

  Something in the coals caught the sun and reflected a beam of light back at Ainsley as he searched. It was only a flash and then was gone. Ainsley stopped midstep and retreated, keeping his eye trained on the spot where he had first seen the glint. After a few attempts he could not recreate the light so he knelt closer and used a nearby stick to sift through the coals.

  “What is it, Mr. Marshall?” Garret asked.

  Ainsley could hear him drawing closer behind him. “I’m not entirely sure.”

  Inspector Marley kept his distance and Ainsley wondered if the man doubted his sincerity. Perhaps he was threatened by the prospect of Ainsley finding a lead before he had even decided the fire was worth investigating.

  Finally, Ainsley saw the glint of sun again. It was a piece of thin glass, broken on all sides from a larger piece. The piece was partially blackened by soot from the fire. Ainsley lifted it to the sun and found it had a curve to it. “It’s from a lamp,” he said, turning the piece over so Garret could see.

  Garret took the shard and laid it out on his open palm while he fingered it. “The entire barn was fitted with lamps,” he said, a look of confusion spreading over his face. “They could be taken down and moved to wherever needed.”

  “So the presence of glass is not unusual?” Inspector Marley asked, a self-satisfied grin spreading over his face.

  “That is curved glass,” Ainsley pointed out. Suddenly, he stooped down and pulled an iron frame from beneath a plank of wood. The frame had once been a lantern and, though mangled, it still bore the relative shape of a straight-sided lantern. “I believe the lanterns that outfitted the barn were geometrically straight.” Ainsley raised an eyebrow, playfully challenging Inspector Marley’s conclusion.

  Garret looked from the lantern frame to the glass in his hand. “But it was early evening,” he offered. “No one would need a lantern with the sun still so high.”

  “Not even in a barn sheltered by trees in the west?” Ainsley looked over the outline of where the barn once stood. “By the looks of it we are in the middle of a rather wide building. I’m guessing even in the middle of the day this particular spot would be darker.”

  “I suppose I never noticed,” Garret said, giving a look to the inspector. “I’m only ever in here long enough to retrieve a horse and pitch some hay.”

  “The lanterns would not have been lit,” Inspector Marley said, clearing his throat. “The expense for fuel alone would make that clear. Perhaps folks at The Briar are not accustomed to such…economy.”

  Ainsley could not help but grin at the presumption. He looked to Garret but the man avoided his gaze.

  “The truth is,” the inspector began to retrace his steps through the ash, “we may never find a cause. Any evidence was lost in the heat of the fire.” Once safe from all hazards he pulled at the hem of his jacket and adjusted his collar before raising his notebook and beginning to write.

  “That’s not good enough,” Ainsley said as he picked his way toward the detective. “We owe it to this family to find out how this happened.”

  Ainsley watched as the inspector pursed his lips, pressing out air and making an odd sucking sound. “Mr. Owen, you tell me what happened,” the inspector said after a moment. “Where were you when the fire broke out?”

  Garret bore the look of a whipped dog, unable to look the detective or Ainsley in the eyes. He looked almost apologetic, as if he agreed with the detective that he and Ainsley were wasting his time.

  “I was in the lower field,” he said, “seeing to a horse that injured his foot in his last race.”

  “Wasn’t Red Runner, was it?” Inspector Marley turned to Ainsley, tapping his chest as if they were old friends. “My wife loves that horse. Wins for her every time.”

  Ainsley’s jaw tightened.

  “No,” Garret said. “Wasn’t Red Runner.”

  “Who else was here on the property?” Ainsley asked, eager to get to the details.

  Garret shrugged. “Everyone. Ivy, Samuel. A few of our farmhands. Mr. Thornton, of course, he came to run Elixir before their hunt next week. He brought his brother as well but he only watched. I could see them from the field.”

  Inspector Marley wrote feverishly, trying to keep notes as Garret spoke. “Anyone else?”

  “I have half a dozen hands on the farm at any given time,” Garret said. “And any number of clients.”

  “Any near the barn?” Ainsley asked.

  “I can’t say,” Garret said. “John was with me. Other than that I can’t be sure.”

  “They should all be interviewed,” Ainsley said.

  “Well now, let’s not be hasty,” Inspector Marley said with a laugh. “I couldn’t possibly interview them all.”

  “Isn’t that what you are paid to do?” Ainsley asked.

  The inspector gave Ainsley a stern look before returning his attention to his notebook. He jotted his notes slowly, which created an agonizing wait for Ainsley, who had seen much better detective work in the city.

  “I will see who I can find,” Inspector Marley said, heaving a great breath before replacing his notebook in his pocket. “Now, show me this body.”

  Chapter 17

  Neer think to hurt me so;

  There was a feeling of unease gnawing at Margaret. She found herself jittery and light, which was so unlike her usual assured self. The past year had changed her irrevocably, but she did not like this anxiety that lingered, circulating inside her like a sink of water rushing all at once for the drain. In order to busy herself and distract her churning mind, Margaret tracked Jamieson down in the pantry and asked him to let her into the potter’s shed.

  The country butler gave her a half smile over his clipboard. “Those doors have not been darkened for some time,” he said. “Give it a day and I’ll see to it Maxwell tidies it up for you.”

  “I haven’t a care to wait,” she said. “A few spiders and such don’t bother me in the slightest.”

  Jamieson lowered his clipboard, holding it primly in front of him with both hands. “What is it you intend to do?”

  Margaret was taken aback by his inquisition. Her intention was to tackle the gardens, pull out the dead and crusty remains so that the live plants could have more space and access to the sun. She wanted to revitalize things, perhaps return them to their previous splendor while working out her inner tensions. Hacking and yanking at weeds and overgrowth appeared oddly therapeutic. She may never have handled the task before, but the butler’s doubt in her seemed highly unwarranted.

  “What does anyone do?” she asked with a shrug. “I intend to do the best with what we have.”

  There was a time when Margaret would receive anything she asked, especially from the family’s servants. A child raised in a noble family with governesses, nannies, and tutors enjoyed concentrated attention day in and day out. Often doted upon for being the only girl, Margaret was given special attention and, for many years, was allowed to do as she pleased.

  But as an adult she was coming to realize that she was far from free. Wit
hout being able to call herself mistress, the servants held more power than she. She realized, as the butler stood opposite her, that he was under no obligation to grant her request.

  To her relief, Jamieson relented. He called over her shoulder to Maxwell, who looked out of place in the kitchen, an apron about his waist and a generous helping of flour coating his hands. “You there,” Jamieson called, “Assist Miss Marshall with the gardens. The set of keys are in the cupboard at the end of the hall.”

  Maxwell nodded as he wiped off his hands. Margaret swore she saw Cook give a sigh of relief as the city butler removed his apron and exited the room. Margaret followed, a burgeoning smile tickling the corners of her mouth.

  “How is the country treating you, Maxwell?” Margaret asked as the butler led the way down the hall.

  “I believe the country air agrees with me, miss,” he said, looking over his shoulder to offer a smile.

  A shallow cupboard hid in the wall nearest the door and housed nearly twenty sets of keys to various locks scattered about the estate. It took some time for Maxwell to discover which ones were intended for the shed.

  “And the other servants, have they been agreeable?”

  Maxwell licked his lips and Margaret’s expression fell. “Tensions are high, miss,” he said by way of offering an excuse. “There has been a great deal of stress.”

  Margaret nodded, recognizing for the first time how the sudden arrival of so many people was affecting the normally subdued country estate. She doubted the dead body in the cold cellar was helping matters much.

  “Julia told me some of the kitchen girls refused to work this morning,” Margaret said as Maxwell plucked two canvas aprons from a nearby hook.

  Maxwell nodded. “Said something about not wanting to share the air with the body, miss.”

  Margaret nearly laughed out loud at this. “You are far more sensible, aren’t you, Maxwell?”

  “The air is still a hundred times better than what could be found in the city, even if I do have to share it with the deceased Mr. Owen.” Maxwell gave Margaret a funny little nod and wink before opening the door and allowing her to pass through.

  The gardens themselves were a collection of slightly raised beds arranged in an ornate, complicated design. Meant to be walked through at a leisurely pace, the garden included flowering plants and medicinal herbs that Margaret remembered her mother installing when she and her brothers were still under the care of a nanny, and not yet the governess. Positioned between the east wing and the kitchen addition, the gardens dominated the courtyard. Though sheltered from the worst of the wind and the harshest afternoon sun, the garden now looked overgrown and neglected.

  As Maxwell rummaged through the weatherworn potting shed, Margaret took a survey of the work needed and quickly decided much would need to go. She imagined under some of the bushes and brambles lay hidden plants screaming for sun. A quick rummage through the foliage reinforced her theory and without a moment of hesitation Margaret began a fury of work. She ripped at browned stems and tore through a pile of dead and decaying leaves. When Maxwell appeared at her side he brought a rickety wooden wheelbarrow and an assortment of tools.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just watch me do the dirty work?” he asked, slipping on a pair of garden gloves.

  Margaret smiled as she wiped her brow. “Certainly not. You can see to the bushes there,” she said, pointing a few paces away. “They need to be cut back and shaped, if you have the patience. Mind your hand though,” she said, indicating the bandage. “I wouldn’t want you aggravating your injury.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  After a time Julia arrived to join them. She worked alongside Margaret, though she had trouble matching her mistress’s frantic pace.

  “Look at this,” Margaret said, between puffs of breath. “Look how much we’ve done.” Margaret gestured to the long row of greenery she had exposed under the dead foliage and smiled. “I do believe I have done more work this past hour than I have done my entire life.”

  Julia smiled and continued her work as she spoke. “That might be a slight exaggeration,” she said, glancing to her mistress.

  “Perhaps,” Margaret answered. She paused for a break and watched Maxwell as he inched along the bushes, pruning with more precision than was truly necessary. “I know now why my mother enjoyed it out here,” Margaret said, sitting back on her heels. “In the city, I feel like I am being spied upon every waking moment, where out here I feel free to do as I please.” Margaret eased her pace as she spoke but never entirely stopped her progress. “Her friends teased her relentlessly. Father as well. They all asked if she missed good theatre, or visiting the shops. I once overheard Father call her feral. Perhaps he thought it would entice her to return to civilization.”

  “And you, miss?”

  Margaret shrugged. “For many years I held no opinion one way or the other. I preferred my mother’s company, difficult as she was in recent years, so I stayed here. Even when Daniel and Peter left for school I stayed.”

  “That was good of you, miss,” Julia said.

  A smile touched Margaret’s lips. “I think a quiet country life suits me best. Or at least it will once Peter returns to the city. I think I’ve had just about enough of his sulking.”

  “Do you think it likely Mr. Marshall will return to the city soon?” Julia asked as she dove under a bush to retrieve a handful of dead leaves.

  “Most certainly,” Margaret said. “He likes to think he can retreat, forget a world beyond this house exists but I know him better than anyone. One day his sense of duty will return and he’ll head back to his morgue, back to those who need him most.”

  “He’s a good man, your brother,” Julia said definitively as she pulled back from the bush, “if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “He was once,” Margaret said looking up to the house that loomed over them. “I can’t say what he is now.”

  Margaret saw Julia’s gaze drop to her hands as a nervousness overtook her. As if knowing she was being watched, the maid tried to offer a playful smile but Margaret saw through it.

  “Shall I start on the other side, miss?” Julia asked brightly, offering an opportunity to change the subject.

  There was something happening to Julia that Margaret hadn’t noticed before, something about the way Julia’s eyes brightened when they spoke of her brother. Even though the maid had always been pleasant and jolly Margaret saw a lightness in her features, a contentment that hadn’t been there before.

  Margaret could feel her heart rising in her chest as the realization dawned on her. “Please, not Peter,” she said, trying to find her breath. “Anyone but him.”

  Margaret rose suddenly, unable to think or even grasp what had all but been confessed to her. There was no need for Julia to speak because Margaret knew. Perhaps she had known long before that moment and now her inkling had been solidified.

  The garden spun as she found her feet and she was forced to stand momentarily as she pressed an open hand into her bodice. She pulled at the lace scarf around her neck, and was thankful for the cool breeze that instantly soothed her.

  “Has he shown an interest in you?” Margaret asked, without thinking of the implications. “Of course he has,” she said, answering her own question, and resigning herself to the evidence.

  Julia scrambled to her feet, a look of panic washing over her. “Lady Margaret… I…”

  Margaret shook her head and began rubbing mindlessly at the scar on her neck.

  “Margaret?”

  Jonas’s voice found them from the door to the house. He smiled when she looked toward him.

  Julia used the hem of her apron to dry her tears and Margaret scrambled to find her scarf, which she had let fall to the gravel walkway. Hastily, she replaced the lace around her collar, and was slightly assured that she had covered her wound before Jonas could see.

  “Jonas,” she said, struggling to keep an even tone to her voice. She could feel Julia behind her, tu
cking the lace around her bodice.

  She turned to Julia. “Haven’t you something to do in the house?”

  “Yes, miss.” Julia gave a slight curtsey but avoided lifting her gaze.

  Jonas gave a confused look. “I’m not interrupting, am I?” he asked.

  Margaret forced herself to look away from the house. She was worried her anger would get the better of her and cause her to do something she’d regret. Her brother, and his flirtatious nature, had compromised her own maid, the only servant she could call friend. She wondered how far they had taken their attentions.

  “Margaret, what is it?”

  When Margaret looked to Jonas he betrayed his worry. He glanced back to the house just as Julia disappeared through the door.

  “How long have you know about them?” Margaret asked pointedly. “About Peter and Julia,” she clarified when he didn’t answer straightaway.

  At first he looked as if he would deny any knowledge but then he lost his resolve. “A few weeks,” he said.

  “And you didn’t say anything to me?”

  “You’ve made it very clear your brother’s exploits are of no interest to you,” Jonas said, smiling.

  “You find me amusing?” Margaret crossed her arms over her chest.

  “I find you entirely amusing.” Jonas stepped closer, which forced Margaret to raise her chin to look him in the eyes. He placed a hand on the side of her face and rubbed her cheek with his thumb. “You can hardly object to them,” he said.

  Margaret felt the warmth of his other hand as he pressed it into the small of her back. She closed her eyes and for a moment she was able to find relief from the anxiety that threatened to overtake her. Her fears for Ivy, her distrust of that family, and concerns regarding Peter had a stronger hold on her than she realized. When she was with Jonas, all those worries disappeared and all she wanted to do was live in his embrace. Happy and comforted.