Murder by Magic

by Rosemary Edghill

  “And he was my lover,” Sir Kenneth finished. “You are surprisingly well informed, Meredith, given your distaste for London society.” He looked at Olivia. “Bertram was my lover, but he was expected to wed a young heiress who would save his family fortune, so we agreed to end it. Unfortunately, Featherstonehaugh discovered our liaison and threatened to tell Bertie’s family if he did not pay a considerable sum. Bertie knew he could not see his family ruined. He chose the honorable way out.” Sir Kenneth smiled bitterly. “He did not come to me, damn him. But now Fen has been paid in full.”

  Olivia sat down in the nearest chair. “But Fen—everyone liked him! He could not have committed such a heinous act.”

  “But he did. He fooled all of us—and one can only conjecture what else he may have done to earn this death.” He shook his head. “No, I did not murder him, Lady Olivia. Motive I may have, but not the means. I am half his size.”

  “It is true,” Kit said. “There are no marks upon the body save those made by Fen himself during his struggles—here, and here, where he clawed at his own throat and chest. The shirt is torn, but there is no outward sign of strangulation. The manner of his death might remain a mystery if you could not See inside him, Livvy.” He knelt again and ran his fingers along the victim’s neck. “Sir Kenneth is an Invisible. He could have come upon Fen unaware, but his hands or a garrote would have left marks or bruises. There are none. Fen’s skin is completely clear.”

  “A pity,” Sir Kenneth said. “I hope you do not find the murderer—if, indeed, you still wish to. Good night, Lady Olivia. Meredith.”

  “You will not leave the grounds?” Kit asked.

  “I would not wish to display a guilty conscience, would I?” Sir Kenneth saluted Kit with a crooked smile and bowed to Olivia, closing the door quietly behind him.

  “Well?” Kit said, rising. “Who could have done it, Livvy? If what Sir Kenneth says is true, and Fen was capable of blackmail, he might have had any number of enemies.”

  “But one of my guests—it doesn’t bear thinking of.”

  “Who else? A housebreaker? No common thief would be likely to possess skill beyond the Residual, and Residual magic could not kill. This was the work of entailed magic.”

  Olivia frowned and perched her weight on the edge of the massive oak half-tester, an informality she would not have ventured in other company. “You do not detect any particular scent?”

  “Of the murderer, no. There is a rank odor of cologne—Fen’s—which effectively obscures any other smell.” He wrinkled his nose. “That is not so strange as the fact that I cannot tell if the magic is male or female. When exactly did he die, Livvy?”

  She concentrated, willing her body-sense to replace normal sight. The Residual gift was erratic at best. “This would be so much easier if my grandmother had bequeathed her Talent to me,” she said. “It is not as if she has any other heirs, or uses it herself.”

  “She only wishes to protect you from the pain of others’ suffering. She has become a recluse to avoid sensing illness and disease she cannot heal.”

  “I am not my grandmother,” Olivia said with a sniff. She glared at the body. “I can sense the damage inside his throat and chest. Definitely a lack of oxygen. He has not been dead more than two hours.”

  “Then you must know which guests have a ready alibi. Who is here, Livvy?”

  “You would know if you had come to the party yourself,” she chided. “There is Sir Kenneth, and Lord Angus Ware. Both have rooms in this wing, as does Jonathan Highet, who is next door, I believe. Also Miles Chatham, Lady Isolde Swansborough, and Fanny Thursfield. And their servants, of course.”

  “But servants, like our theoretical housebreaker, would not have the necessary Talent.”

  Olivia nodded. For the past thousand years in Albion, members of the peerage and gentry with ancient connections to the royal house had passed on their family magic, whatever form it might take, to their chosen heirs—one male and one female in each generation. A father might choose the firstborn heir of his lands, or a different son entirely. A mother could select any of her daughters upon whom to bestow her Talent.

  In such a way entailed magic had spread across Albion, even touching commoners to some small degree in the form of Residual gifts that every son or daughter of a Bearer received at birth. Residual magic might make for amusing parlor tricks or convenient shortcuts, but it could not murder.

  “I cannot account positively for the whereabouts of any of my guests at the time Fen was killed,” she said. “Most were in their rooms dressing for dinner. You said that you could not tell if the magic is male or female.”

  “Quite. But I would hazard a guess that strangulation is a man’s work.”

  “Even if it leaves no mark?” She tapped her chin. “But that would mean Highet, Miles, or Lord Ware. It cannot have been Highet—his Talent is fire. I see no sign of burning, do you?”

  “None whatsoever. But if Highet is roomed next door, he may have heard something.” Kit joined her on the bed, swinging his legs in the air the way he had done when they were children. “Miles Chatham . . .”

  “That is impossible! He loathes his own magic. Ever since the war . . . he carries an intolerable burden of guilt. And he is a man of the church.”

  “But he is a Puppetmaster. He can control the movements of others. Might he not have simply paralyzed Fen’s lungs?”

  Olivia shuddered. “He has no motive! None of them have an obvious reason to kill Fen.”

  “Neither did Sir Kenneth,” Kit said dryly. He stared intently at the body and jumped down from the bed.

  “What is it?”

  “Water.” He crouched by Fen’s head and lifted a fingertip glistening with liquid. “Coming from Fen’s mouth. Yes, and now I smell it as well. What is Lord Ware’s Talent?”

  “Water-summoning.” She sucked in a breath. “Do you think—can he have drowned Fen from inside?”

  “Or Fen might simply have drunk a glass of water before he was killed. Still, Ware must be questioned. They all must, Livvy.” He straightened. “It might be less awkward coming from me.”

  “No. They are my guests. My responsibility.” She slid down and straightened her skirts. “And I know how much you hate crowds.”

  “Well, then. I will stay here to see that the body is not disturbed. Perhaps I will discover something else I’ve missed.”

  She clasped his hand. “Thank you, Kit.”

  Though she could not make out his eyes behind the smoked lenses, she knew that their usual scarlet blaze had dimmed to a soft glow. “Take care, Livvy.”

  She slipped out of the room, assumed a dignified mien, and went downstairs to the drawing room.

  All the guests were gathered there, dressed for dinner and looking uneasy. Lord Ware, Jonathan Highet, and Miles were engaged in desultory conversation by the mantelpiece. She was surprised that Ware had not cajoled the others into one of his perpetual games of cards. Sir Kenneth had just finished a tumbler of whiskey from the decanter at the sideboard. Lady Isolde and Fanny Thursfield glanced up at Olivia with obvious relief.

  Announcing the murder was out of the question. She must speak to each man individually, without raising suspicion.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, “I am sorry to have neglected you. There has been a small disturbance which I am attempting to correct.” She smiled. “Lord Ware, if I might have a word?”

  The middle-aged gentleman excused himself from the others and hastened to her side. Olivia saw at once that he moved like a man afflicted by some guilt or shame.

  She drew him into the adjoining library and asked him to sit. He remained where he was, fidgeting from foot to foot.

  “You have discovered it,” he moaned. “I knew you would. I am so terribly sorry.”

  Olivia was grateful for the chair beneath her. “Lord Ware?”

  “It is an odious habit, I know,” he confessed miserably. “But Featherstonehaugh trounced me at écarté on Thursday last—won eve
rything I own. Who will believe he cheated? I have been desperate to find the money to pay him. He will ruin me if I do not.” He mopped at his brow with a stained handkerchief. “Just a small, friendly game in the servants’ hall—I saw no harm in it. I daresay that any footman is more plump in the pocket than I. But it was unforgivable, I realize that now.”

  “You were gambling with the servants?”

  “With your coachman,” he said, shamefaced. “And he beat me, too. It is no more than I deserve.” A small rain cloud formed over his balding head and began to weep on his shoulders. “Fen has been casting me evil looks ever since I arrived at the Hall. When he comes for the money, I do not know what I shall do.”

  “Then you do not know . . .” She got up and paced the length of the room. Either he was an accomplished actor, or he did not know that Fen was dead. His guilt was of a much more mundane variety.

  “Can you forgive me, Lady Olivia?” he said.

  “Of course.” Motive Ware had, and means if the water proved a clue, but had he the stomach for it?

  “Oh, thank you,” Lord Ware said. The rain cloud vanished, leaving streaks on his coat and droplets on the carpet. “I am sorry to have brought my personal misfortunes to your door. I will leave immediately if you wish—”

  “No. No, I would prefer if you stay and behave as if nothing has happened. I will not speak of this, I promise.”

  Ware bobbed and kowtowed his way out the door as if taking leave of the Queen herself. Olivia remained behind, dreading the next interrogation. She had known the Reverend Miles Chatham since childhood; he was one of the gentlest souls in Albion.

  With a heavy heart she returned to the drawing room. At the door she caught a flash of movement down the hall and saw a man and woman locked in a hasty embrace—Mary, Lady Isolde’s maid, and Lord Ware’s valet.

  “George,” Mary whispered. “I—” She glimpsed Olivia and flushed, breaking free of her lover’s hold. George took a step after her and looked back at Olivia. He hesitated, bowed his head, and hurried away.

  Olivia preferred to be blind to the servants’ liaisons, as she was to those of her guests. She shook her head and entered the drawing room, glad she was not responsible for disciplining them.

  The guests were arranged much as before, except that Lord Ware was the one drinking. She walked to Miles’s side and touched his arm.

  “Vicar,” she said formally, “I have need of your counsel.”

  He exchanged a final word with Highet and followed her from the room. This time she could not sit, and Miles searched her face with concern, his high brow creasing beneath graying sandy hair.

  “What is it, Olivia?” he asked. “What troubles you?”

  “Oh, dear,” she said. “I cannot . . . It is most distressing . . . Lord Featherstonehaugh is dead.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Swiftly, before she could change her mind, she told Miles what she and Kit had discovered. He became more and more grave as she spoke, until he looked as though the very weight of the world rested on his narrow shoulders.

  “I am so sorry, my dear child,” he said. “How terrible for you. I will not ask why you have called me here. You have decided to investigate the crime yourself before calling the authorities, and I am, naturally, one of the suspects.”

  His frankness was both an embarrassment and a relief. “It is merely a formality,” she assured him. “You were my father’s dear friend. I know what you experienced during the war, and that you would never, never use your powers—”

  “As I did so recklessly then. Yet, as much as I despise them and my own weakness, those powers are not gone. They remain within me.” His expression grew strange and distant. “I could use them to reach inside a man’s body. I could force him to play Punch at my command, dance in St. James’s Square, turn a knife against his own flesh.”

  Or freeze a man’s lungs in his chest. “But you did not. Could not. You have no reason.”

  “But I did have motive, my dear.” He met her eyes with his clear, tormented gaze. “Fen served in the war, for a very short time, before his elder brothers died and he inherited both title and Talent. I was with him when he committed an act of unforgivable cowardice that led directly to the deaths of four of his men. I stood by when he charmed the Board of Inquiry into believing his lies.” He made a sick sound in his throat. “Guilt is the devil’s mount, and it runs where it wills.”

  “But not to cold-blooded murder!”

  He opened his mouth to reply but was forestalled when Kit walked into the room, not troubling to knock.

  “I wish I could have come earlier, to spare you both this unpleasantness,” he said. “But what I have to tell you will clear Mr. Chatham of any complicity.

  “It was not a man who committed this murder, Olivia. It was a woman.”

  Olivia sank into her chair. “But I thought you said you could not determine the gender of the magic.”

  “Yes, and that troubled me. My nose is usually somewhat keener than that.” He glanced at Miles without the usual wariness, for the vicar had known of his “gift” since his childhood. “But perhaps my shortcomings may be forgiven. You see, Fen must not have arranged to bestow his Talent upon an heir before his death. When I examined the body more thoroughly to see what I might have missed, his magic was in the process of dissipation—freeing itself into the ether. Because it did not pass to a chosen recipient of his line, I was able to detect all of its nuances as it dispersed—including the taint of his killer.”

  “A woman?” Olivia demanded. “Who?”

  Kit sighed and scratched his chin. “The signature was so muddled that I defy even the Lord High Magician to decipher it. That it is female I am sure. Beyond that . . .”

  Female. Olivia felt the beginnings of a headache. She now knew enough of Lord Featherstonehaugh’s vices to suspect that even a woman might have some motive to kill him. But here, under her own roof? Timid Mrs. Thursfield, frightened of all men? Lady Isolde, witty and bright . . . and one of the few who had avoided Fen with obvious dislike?

  “Miles,” she said quietly, “would you be so kind as to ask Mrs. Thursfield to join me?”

  “Of course. And if I may be of any comfort, you know I am near.” He let himself out of the room, and Kit took up a position behind Olivia’s chair. His fingers settled on her temples, attacking with precision the very portions of her skull that ached so abominably.

  “Mrs. Thursfield,” Kit mused. “She hardly seems a murderess. Rather more like a partridge hen stuffed with giblets, and about as formidable.”

  “Men always make the mistake of discounting women in any activity of moment,” Olivia said, too relaxed to raise her voice above a murmur. “But even I have been guilty of that.”

  “‘Guilty’ being the operative word,” Kit remarked, and cocked his head toward the door. Mrs. Thursfield crept into the room with tiny steps, her head bobbing ever so slightly. Unlike Lord Ware, who had worn guilt on his sleeve, she hid it among her skirts like a clandestine affair.

  “Mr. Chatham said that you wished to see me,” she said in a low voice, making herself very small—no mean task when nature had so inclined her to abundance. “Have I . . . have I done something to displease you, Lady Olivia?”

  Olivia had felt sorry for Mrs. Thursfield ever since she had observed the nasty way Mr. Thursfield treated his wife at the Duke of Devonshire’s ball. She had resolved then and there to invite the young matron into her circle, but Fanny Thursfield had a remarkable gift for fading into the background and remaining unnoticed no matter how often she was lured into games or conversation.

  Her great asset—besides the figure her husband evidently did not appreciate—was her Talent of Preservation. On her first visit to Waveney Hall, she had presented Olivia with a single, perfect red rose, still lifelike yet frozen in a single moment for all time. Olivia did not understand the mechanism, but Kit had once referred to it as a “field” of some sort, perfectly molded to the shape of the rose and se
aling it from air and decay.

  Just as a person of Mrs. Thursfield’s abilities might seal a man from air and life without so much as touching him.

  “Not at all,” Olivia said. “You have been a perfect guest. It is just that I have a small question or two regarding Lord Featherstonehaugh, and you may be able to shed some light on—”

  Mrs. Thursfield’s rather pretty eyes widened, and her legs began to buckle. Kit rushed to catch her. He delicately sniffed the air over Fanny’s lolling head and cast Olivia an unreadable glance. “Jonathan Highet,” he said with unusual brusqueness. “Have you been with him, Mrs. Thursfield?”

  Fanny’s cheeks suffused with violent color. She gazed from him to Olivia in terror. “Do not tell my husband,” she whispered. “I beg of you.”

  She had taken a lover? It was far more daring on Fanny’s part than Olivia would have believed possible. “I will say nothing, but you must tell me all you know. Why did you swoon when I mentioned Fen?”

  Her skin went from red to white. “He was . . . he was my—” She burst into tears. “He said he loved me. He held me in his arms and whispered such promises, and then he . . . he cast me aside like . . . like—”

  “There is no need to further examine her,” a masculine voice said from the open doorway. Jonathan Highet strode into the room and claimed Fanny’s trembling hand. “I have heard that Fen is dead. Fanny knows nothing of it. Yes, Fen took advantage of her loneliness. He seduced her and amused himself at her expense, and she has good reason to hate the bastard, but she was with me—last night, and today, until we came down for dinner.”

  Fanny lifted her head. “It is true, and I am not ashamed!”

  She had certainly proven to be something of a surprise, and if such a mouse was capable of taking two lovers in defiance of her tyrannical husband, she might also be capable of murder. Highet’s obvious love for Fanny and his anger on her behalf was a motive as well. But they provided alibis for each other—a sticky situation indeed, though Olivia was certain that Fanny’s terror was of her husband and not the result of an accusation of murder.