Behind the Shattered Glass

by Tasha Alexander

  “Highly unlikely,” I said.

  “Have you given Cook new instructions for dinner?” my mother asked.

  “I have. It was the second alteration today, and she is most displeased.”

  “Is the menu suitable for a marquess, Emily? I know how little you pay attention to propriety. It is so important to treat nobility in the proper way. Given that your father is an earl, I should not have to explain this to you.”

  I smiled. “It would be a great help to me if you were to go downstairs and speak to Cook yourself. That way none of us will have to worry that we might offend Lord Montagu’s delicate sensibilities.”

  My mother pulled herself up taller and looked quite well pleased. “Why, thank you, Emily. This is an excellent idea. I was planning to return to Darnley at the end of the week, but I should perhaps consider staying on longer. You have so many demands on your time now with the boys, and your father can do without me a little longer.”

  “That would be delightful,” I said. I hoped she did not notice my clenched teeth. My father would no doubt rejoice for an extension of his solitude. I could only envy him.

  Downstairs

  vi

  Lily could not help feeling a smug satisfaction when she passed the kitchen and heard Lady Bromley in the midst of a rampage of criticism against Pru’s evidently substandard work. It sounded, too, like the countess was requesting more changes for dinner. Cook would not be pleased, and Lily felt bad about that, but not bad enough to change her opinion about the barrage being hurled at Pru. Lily smiled and went upstairs to dust and tidy the rooms on the ground floor. She started in the white drawing room, an airy space with bay windows and heaps of paintings that Lady Emily loved but Lily couldn’t understand. To her they looked like bad sketches with blurry lines. She preferred the collection in Mr. Hargreaves’s rooms. They vibrated with mastery, the work of artists whose talent allowed them to re-create the world with precision. Lily would be embarrassed to paint like this Monet or Renoir did. Still, they did make a lovely use of color, blues especially, she thought, and started to sing “Land of Hope and Glory” as she ran her feather duster over one of Mr. Monet’s landscapes. It was just then that Lord Flyte interrupted her.

  “Lily, what a pleasant surprise to see you here,” he said. She smiled at him. “Your song reminds me of my school days. Will it distract you if I speak to you while you’re working?”

  “Have I done something wrong, sir?”

  “Not in the least. I find I enjoy your company. You’ve a most pleasant character. Tell me about yourself. How did you come to be in service?”

  “I was just a girl when I started,” she said. “Lady Emily hired me although I was a bit young to go straight to being a housemaid. She told me I deserved a chance.”

  “She is a very kind lady.”

  “I’d wanted to be a lady’s maid, you see,” Lily said, gently dusting a Greek vase displayed on the mantel. “I thought if I could stay in school, I might be able to learn French. Real lady’s maids speak French, you know.”

  “Do they?”

  “Oh, yes.” She was nodding her head vigorously. “It’s quite important, although I’m not entirely sure why.”

  “And did you stay in school?”

  “I couldn’t, sir. My mother fell ill and we needed the income, so I started with Lady Emily in London and now find myself most happy here. I like the countryside.”

  “Why do you want to be a lady’s maid?” Lord Flyte asked.

  “I’ve always fancied seeing the world,” Lily said. “Lady Emily travels everywhere, you know, and she takes Meg with her. Meg’s been to Paris and Vienna and all kinds of places. Constantinople and Venice, too. And to the villa in Greece, of course. It’s on an island called Santorini, I think it is. She told me there are views of the sea out every single window and that the house is built on a cliff so perilous she doesn’t like to go outside at night.”

  “I see.” Simon’s eyes were warm and soft. Lily’s innocence was the most charming thing he had ever known. He loved the excitement in her voice when she named each city, her pronunciation skewed deliberately to the exotic. It was more than endearing. He had never particularly craved travel but had done the requisite Grand Tour. Now, though, seeing her excitement, he started to reconsider the position he had more or less inherited from his father, who had never appreciated travel in any form. What would it be like to visit country after country with a person who possessed Lily’s eagerness?

  “I very much enjoyed visiting the National Gallery when I was working in London, and I’d so like to see the Louvre.”

  “As I have said, you are very talented.”

  “I don’t know about that, sir, but I do enjoy drawing. A girl in my position can’t travel on her own, of course, but if I could become a lady’s maid…”

  “You, too, could see the world.”

  “Yes, sir.” Her smile brightened her face, and Simon found himself captivated by this eager girl. He wanted to give her the world she craved.

  7

  I spotted Rodney’s valet in the corridor on my way to breakfast the next morning and was deeply disappointed to see he looked essentially the same as any other valet, Red Indian or not, dressed in a coat and tie. He was not altogether ordinary, though. His face was strikingly handsome and his carriage more erect than that of a soldier. I was tempted to pull him aside and beg him to tell me about his people, about life on the vast American plains (I assumed he was from the plains), and about the thrill of seeing thousands of buffalo stampeding by.

  Fortunately (or perhaps not, so far as he would have been concerned), I resisted the urge and continued on my way. Colin and I were to interview Mr. Porter about his ill-fated experience with Archibald at Oxford, and we wanted to get started as early as possible. Mr. Porter’s tailor shop was on the high street of a medium-sized village north of Melton Carbury. It was well appointed, and the clothing samples he had on display beautifully made. He was expecting us, and we all went into the back room, where he poured tea after imploring us to sit down.

  “I say, this is awkward.” He pulled his spectacles from his face and wiped them with a handkerchief. “You’re here about Scolfield, of course, and I must tell you I never did quite understand what happened between us. We had started out mates. Met during our first term.”

  “You were in the same college?” Colin asked.

  “No. He was a Christ Church man. I was at Merton. About a week after I’d arrived, I was run down by an errant bicycle rider. Scolfield was on hand and offered his assistance. We became fast friends after that.”

  “How close were you?” I asked.

  “Close enough that I spent Christmas with his family during our first year and we traveled abroad together after that Trinity term.”

  “So what happened?” I asked.

  “It all fell apart during Michelmas term exams in our second year. I was summoned to Christ Church, where I was accused of having stolen Scolfield’s essay for a history course.”

  “Had you stolen it?”

  “Most certainly not,” he said. “I had written it myself and turned it in at Merton. Best I can tell Scolfield copied the draft. I’d left it on my desk, and as often as he was in my rooms, he would have had a thousand opportunities to take it. I told the truth, but no one believed me. I’m not from a background like Scolfield’s. My father is a gardener on an estate in Shropshire. The only reason I got an education was that our landlord took an interest in me while I worked assisting his steward when I was a boy. The steward thought I had an aptitude for learning, and his master agreed. He sponsored me at school, and I did well enough there to earn a spot at Oxford. My lack of breeding made it easy enough for the dons at Christ Church to suspect the worst of me.”

  “Did you show them the draft you had written as evidence the work was yours?” Colin asked.

  “I did, but they insisted it proved nothing. There was no way to confirm beyond doubt I hadn’t copied it from something Scolfield
had written.”

  “You were sent down?” Colin asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “Scolfield had gone to the master of the college and drawn his attention to the matter, and no one believed he would have done so had he been guilty, particularly as the essays had been turned in for different courses. If he hadn’t spoken up, it is likely the duplication would have gone unnoticed.”

  “It sounds as if he were deliberately trying to sabotage you,” I said.

  “Yes.” Mr. Porter’s shoulders slumped. “I never have been able to understand why.”

  “You must have been angry,” Colin said.

  “Of course I was,” Mr. Porter said. “Yet there was nothing to be done. It was difficult enough for me at Oxford—it was a miracle I had been accepted in the first place, really—and in the end I came to see it as not a terrible outcome. What difference would staying have made? I am not a gentleman, Mr. Hargreaves, and never will be. I would have had to work for a living regardless of whether I had a university education.”

  “You would have had so many more opportunities, though,” I said, feeling my hackles go up. “Beyond that, your life would be all the richer for having had more years of study. It is terribly unfair.”

  “Is it?” he asked. “You can say so, but my place is here. I enjoy my work, and I will always benefit from what education I did receive.”

  “You deserved more,” I said. Colin shot me a cautioning look. “Why did you decide to leave London?”

  “Not to make it easier to murder Archibald Scolfield, I assure you,” Mr. Porter said. “My sister lives in this village and has been very happy here for the better part of a decade, far happier than I ever was in London. I like being close to my nieces and nephews and find country life suits me well.”

  “Were you home the night he died?” Colin asked.

  “Getting right to it, are we? I dined with my sister and her family and then returned home. They will be happy to vouch for me. Furthermore, I board my horse at a stable in the village. You can confirm with the owner that I did not take him out that night.”

  “Was there ever any strife between you and Scolfield before the incident at Oxford?” I asked.

  “No,” Mr. Porter said. “I have gone over every minute we spent together more times than I can count and have found no explanation for what he did. I believed, and still do, we were the closest of friends.”

  “How long did you stay with his family at Christmas?” I asked.

  “A fortnight.”

  “Did they like you?”

  “Very much, or at least so I was led to believe. I was invited back for several weekends thereafter. I assure you, Lady Emily, nothing out of the ordinary happened.”

  “Did Scolfield visit you?”

  “No, but we did stay with my aunt in Dover when we were making our way abroad. She is settled nicely, running a seaside inn. Treated us like kings while we were with her. Nothing so grand as what Scolfield was used to, mind you, but he found her charming nonetheless.” He rose from his chair. “I am sorry to rush you out, but I’ve loads of work to do. I do wish I could be of more help. I have thought long about this, and the only insight I can offer is that a man who is capable of so completely turning on a friend is bound to have done it more than once. Maybe another time, Scolfield’s victim wasn’t so congenial as I.”

  I was not as yet convinced that Mr. Porter was quite so congenial as he claimed.

  “Did you ever hear from Scolfield again after you went down from Oxford?” Colin asked.

  “No,” Mr. Porter said. “He excised me from his life altogether. Not that this should have surprised me, given what he had done.”

  “Regarding the essay?” I asked.

  “Of course. There was never any other strife between us.”

  We thanked him and took our leave. “I should like very much to speak with Mr. Porter’s aunt in Dover,” I said.

  “Why her in particular?” Colin asked, taking my hand and helping me into our waiting carriage.

  “Archibald found her charming. I want to know what she thought of him.”

  We drove to the stable, where Colin leapt out to confirm that Mr. Porter’s horse had not been taken out the night of the murder. Leaving him, I continued on to Mr. Porter’s sister’s house, where I was welcomed with bright smiles, but both she and her husband seemed rather nervous. He stood behind her chair clutching the back of it with a hard grip; she twisted a handkerchief in her hands. Their comfortable parlor reflected their modest means but was kept tidy and clean. A piano, its top covered with a collection of framed pressed flowers, stood in one corner, and a portrait of the queen hung over the mantel. I heard the sound of children’s voices coming from the back of the house, their laughter spilling through the rooms.

  “We know why you are here, Lady Emily,” Mr. Porter’s sister said. “Cedric was with us on that dreadful night until approximately half ten. He went home straightaway after he left us; I’m sure of that.”

  She couldn’t possibly be sure, but I saw no need to torment her. “Did you ever meet Archibald Scolfield?” I asked.

  “Never,” she said, “but I have heard all about him. Cedric was mad about him while he was at Oxford.”

  “They stayed with your aunt in Dover, I believe?”

  “Yes. Does that cause a problem?”

  “No, but I am curious to know her opinion of her guest.”

  “She never said anything directly, but did mention, in a roundabout sort of way, that gentlemen aren’t always gentlemen.”

  “What do you think she meant by that?” I asked.

  “I couldn’t rightly say, madam. I don’t think she meant he was trying to take her silver.”

  Her husband grimaced. “Do you have more questions, Lady Emily, or are we done here? Anyone who has spent time with Cedric knows him to be incapable of murder. He is gentle and timid and so far as I know has never even been in a fight. He may have gone above his station at Oxford, but he knows his place now.”

  “That is quite true, Lady Emily, and my brother would never hurt anyone.”

  “I believe you,” I said, “and won’t trouble you further except for one thing. Would you please give me your aunt’s address?”

  Colin was waiting for me outside when I emerged from the house. He had walked from the stable. “The horse was in all night,” he said.

  “And Mr. Porter’s family corroborated his alibi.”

  “You believe them?”

  “I have no reason not to,” I said. “They seemed honest and respectable. However, he could have got a horse from elsewhere and ridden to Montagu after he had left them.”

  “Not if he was there until half ten. Montagu would have been dead before Porter could have reached him.” We climbed back into the carriage. “The trouble is, even if the sister is honest, she may not have particularly noticed what time her brother left. Do you remember when we went up to bed last night?”

  “Not precisely, but it was before eleven,” I said. “The clock hadn’t chimed.”

  “You’re certain?”

  I thought for a moment. “Yes.”

  “It was quarter after midnight when we went upstairs.”

  “You’re certain?” I asked.

  “Absolutely. I always check the time on the clock in the hall near the stairs.”

  “Either of us could be wrong.”

  “Emily.” He clasped his hands around mine. “My darling girl, I am most certainly not wrong. The point, however, is as you implied. People are notoriously unreliable.”

  “So you would recommend that Mr. Porter plan no trips abroad?”

  “For the present, yes.”

  “I should like to speak with him again,” I said.

  “To warn him to stay home?” Colin asked. “I don’t think he has the means to flee.”

  “No. For another reason altogether. I want to know every detail of the trip he took abroad with Scolfield.”

  It seemed obvious to me that there was some
thing missing in the picture we had formed of Archibald Scolfield. Those close to him had nothing but compliments for him, but when one moved beyond his immediate circle, chinks started to appear in his character. A trip abroad would have given him ample opportunity to indulge himself without worrying about proper English manners or exposing himself to society gossip. He might have shown a more honest self on the Continent. So I returned to Mr. Porter. When, three-quarters of an hour later, we took our leave and headed back to Anglemore, my husband was shaking his head. “What exactly do you plan to do, my dear? Re-create student travels abroad?”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said. “Something happened when Mr. Porter and Archibald were abroad. They were inseparable after the Christmas they spent together, but then they fell out during exams at the end of the term immediately following their trip. What changed?”

  “It needn’t have happened abroad,” Colin said. “They might have argued in a pub outside either of their colleges about cricket.”

  “It’s possible. How would you suggest we follow that particular lead?” I asked and held up the notebook in which I’d recorded everything Mr. Porter had told us. “We now know exactly where they stayed on every leg of their trip to the Continent. Some of the time it was with friends of the Scolfield family, some of the time at various inns and hotels. Let’s see if anyone noticed something awry.”

  “I am at your service.” He sidled closer to me on the carriage bench. “Your active mind is most beguiling, my dear. I’d very much like to take you home and do extremely rude things to you.” He kissed my neck.

  “I shall remember that tonight when you and Simon threaten to play billiards until dawn.” I pulled away from him and smiled. “Until then, you may have nothing but this.” I gave him an extremely long kiss.

  “I’m not sure I remember how to play billiards.”

  *

  Back at home I locked myself in the Spanish room. Much though I loved the library, with its soaring shelves, stunning view, and cavernous fireplaces, sometimes I craved more intimacy. One of the things I had adored about Anglemore from the moment I first entered the house was the way books were such a presence throughout it. The library, obviously, had the most, and was furnished in the ordinary way libraries in country estates were, but other rooms—Colin’s study, the cinnamon drawing room, all the bedrooms, and even the music room—held a respectable number of shelves. This smaller room, well situated to overlook a reflecting pool and formal garden, had originally been designed as a State Dressing Room, before the west wing was built during Elizabeth’s reign and the State Rooms all moved there. Now called “Spanish” for the leather that covered the wall from the tops of the bookcases to the ceiling, it had intricately carved paneling from the time of James I and two doors disguised as bookcases. One led to my husband’s study, the other to the servants’ passage. The library served as my own study, such as it was.