by Robyn DeHart
“No one is concerned,” he assured her.
“But I have been gone so frequently these last few weeks.”
He nodded.
“I worry about Mother’s care.”
“Willow, my dear, no one in this family holds you responsible for your mother’s care save you. Go and live your life, we will all be here when you return,” he said.
The doorbell rang again. She kissed him again, then slipped out the front door and closed it behind her, not even allowing James entrance into the house.
“Eager?” he asked.
“We have much to do today,” she said.
He nodded and led the way to the carriage.
“We are not making as many visits today as we’d planned,” he said as the carriage lurched forward.
“Why is that?”
“I’m questioning my original theory on the motive of the murder. And these visits seem redundant when we are going to see these women at the exhibit and can question them there.”
She was unable to decipher if this change of events was positive for her father. “Where are we going?”
“To the Duke of Argyle. He’s finally returned to town. He was the primary fund patron of Mr. Drummond. Presumably he knew the man to some degree.”
Before she could ask any more questions, the carriage stopped in front of a sprawling brownstone estate complete with ivy climbing up to the second story windows.
Willow stood silently at James’ side as he showed his badge to the butler and waited for entrance. The butler led them to the music room and turned to go. It was a huge room, but it held very few windows, and those that were there were lined with heavy dark green draperies. The electric lighting gave off a yellow glow, providing the only light, as the fireplace sat like a cold, empty box at the end of the room. A large black piano sat in one corner and next to it was a harp.
Within moments a slightly plump but very attractive woman swept into the room. “I’m afraid my husband is not home this morning. How may I be of service, Inspector?”
“This is Miss Willow Mabson, she’s assisting me today,” he said. “Might we ask you a few questions regarding Malcolm Drummond?”
The duchess looked at the door behind them, her hand paused at the side of her face. “Please sit,” she said with a tight nod. “Would you care for some tea?” The tea service was set up on an ornate table right in the center of the sitting area.
James absently stirred his tea, which Willow now knew he liked with sugar but not cream. He seemed different today, distant perhaps. He’d deliberately sat away from her in the parlor and had only made eye contact when absolutely necessary.
“Now then,” the duchess said, “what’s this about Mr. Drummond?” Her hands worried the fabric of her skirt.
“He’s been murdered,” James said.
She swallowed her sip of tea, then set her cup aside. “I didn’t realize,” she said, her face and tone completely devoid of emotion.
“So you didn’t see anything about it in the papers?” James asked.
She smiled sweetly and Willow guessed the woman was only a year or two older than she, while, Willow knew, the Duke of Argyle was a much older man. “I don’t read the papers very often, Inspector. My husband tends to tell me what he thinks I need to know or what I might find of interest. The rest, I’m afraid, remains a mystery to me,” she said with an airy laugh and a wave of her gloved hand.
James nodded and smiled politely. “Then forgive me for being the bearer of bad news, Your Grace.”
“Please call me Camille.” She shook her head. “It is a shame.” Camille took another sip of her tea. “Murdered, you said? How dreadful. I suppose my husband did not deem this information appropriate for me.”
Willow wrote down everything: every moment, tone of voice, anything that might add to the woman’s answers. The duchess was young and pretty and evidently was very well kept by her wealthy and powerful husband. She seemed perfectly content to sit idly by and allow him to dictate her life. Something Willow could not abide.
She felt a twinge of sympathy for the woman. The duchess might have immeasurable wealth and a man to warm her bed, but she did not seem to have a mind of her own. ’Twas a pity.
“How well did you know Mr. Drummond?” James asked.
“I can’t say that I knew him all that well. But I did sit for portraits on more than one occasion. For my husband, you understand.”
The Duke of Argyle was, after all, the photographer’s most lucrative supporter. Willow allowed her eyes to wander around the room and they landed on James. He was thoughtful with his questions, probing without being disrespectful. Willow knew from the broadsheets that many felt the plainclothes detectives were an infringement on their rights, unassuming men who milled about among them gathering up their secrets. Evidently James knew how to handle the aristocracy being civil and polite but not too friendly; yet, he had been a completely different man when they’d visited with Mulligan.
There he had been strong and almost overbearing, standing at his full height and speaking loudly, in short, curt sentences. Here, he had one leg crossed over the other with his hands folded in his lap. He spoke softly in long, languid questions and with a subtle smile on his face.
He was charming, Willow had to admit that.
“Mr. Drummond and your husband must have known each other fairly well,” James said. “Your husband was the sponsor of Drummond’s upcoming showing, is that not correct?”
“Yes, my husband is a friend to many artists of varying styles. He has a soft spot for those who struggle to bring beauty into our world.” She smoothed her coral silk skirt and smiled prettily.
“So, there are others whom your husband financially supports?” James asked.
“Not at the moment, but there have been others. In the past. Let me think.” She counted silently on her fingers. “There was a poet once. A handful of painters. I’m certain there were more before we married, but those are the ones whom I have known.”
“And how was your husband’s relationship with those men?”
Camille blinked her wide eyes. “My husband is a difficult man,” she said cautiously, “but a prudent businessman. He invests in these artists because he generally feels they can earn him some income.” She smiled. “He’s practical that way.”
“So, in other words,” James said, “your husband was not a friend to these men—he merely paid them and hoped for a healthy return.”
“You could say that. I understand this is a practice among many.”
“Indeed it is, Your Grace,” James said.
Willow continued to jot down all of his questions and Camille’s answers. She couldn’t help but wander back to what James had said in the carriage about there being a different motive for Drummond’s murder. Up until this point, they’d been running on the assumption that it was a disgruntled husband or lover of one of the women mentioned in the photographer’s journal—as James suspected these women had had relationships of sorts with Drummond.
But her mother wouldn’t have had an affair with the man. Perhaps she had known him at some point before she’d married Willow’s father, but she hadn’t left the house very often in the last ten years. That was just one more reason why she knew her father was innocent. Perhaps James’ new feeling regarding why Drummond had been killed would point them in the direction of the real murderer.
“I’m so sorry my husband was not here to answer these questions himself,” Willow heard the duchess say. “I’m certain he would have been more helpful than I have been. I can give him a message if you would like,” she offered, “as I most certainly can not speak for him.”
James stood. “Thank you, but I believe we’ll see him at the exhibit this Friday. I trust you will be in attendance as well?”
“Indeed,” she said.
“Very well, we will see you both there.”
Willow nodded to the duchess, then followed James out into the hallway and then out the front door.
He glanced down, then nodded. “Thank you.”
“Will you explain more about what you said on the way here?”
“About the motivation? Not now, but soon. I want to do a bit more digging to see if I’m onto something, and then I’ll let you know,” he said.
She frowned. “That doesn’t enable me to participate in the investigation, James.”
“I know. But you’ve already seen and heard too much that a lady like you should never have to endure. I will not present any more of that environment to you. Allow me this concession and I will fill you in on all the details. You have my word.”
She knew he wouldn’t offer his word lightly. He might go about things differently than she would, but once he gave his word, he was a man of honor. She nodded. “I don’t like it,” she said.
“I know you don’t. You will have to trust me in this, Willow, because I can not give you any more than that.”
She met his eyes and knew she did. She completely trusted him. And that was terrifying.
Willow found her father as he was leaving his bedchamber, closing the door behind him. He gave her a weary smile. “I finally got her back to sleep. She’s been so restless these last few days.”
“How about some tea?” Willow suggested.
He inclined his head and followed her down the stairs to her mother’s parlor. After she’d rung for tea, she sat and eyed her father. He looked old and tired. Not sleepy tired, but weary tired, tired from the inside out. She reached over and patted his knee.
“I know she’s difficult, Papa.”
“She is your mother. And I love her.”
“Of course you love her.” She had been wanting to ask her father and hadn’t had the opportunity of speaking with him without her mother present. Willow poured him a cup of tea and then waited until he’d taken a few sips before she proceeded. “How well did you and Mother know Malcolm Drummond?”
He stopped in mid-sip and set the teacup down. “It was several years ago—you and Edmond were quite young. Malcolm had only been in town a short while, and photography, as we know it today, was still in its infancy. Your mother and I met him at a weekend house party. She agreed to sit for a photograph as a gift to me.”
He reached for his teacup and set it in his lap. “You have to understand that this was the beginning of your mother’s episodes and her behavior was new to me. I wasn’t certain what to make of her outbursts. I thought perhaps she was unhappy in our marriage.” Draining his cup, he leaned back in his chair.
Willow’s nerves had tightened and apprehension filled her. She had been expecting her father to tell her they knew him briefly, he took some photographs and that was it. That what appeared in Drummond’s journal was a fabrication by a lonely, lovesick man. But that did not look to be the case.
“This isn’t anything I should discuss with you,” he said.
“But Papa, any information you have might be helpful to the investigation.” She didn’t want to tell him that James still considered him a suspect. “I am nine and twenty and more than old enough to hear whatever it is you have to say.”
He stood abruptly and moved to the mantel, facing away from her. “One photograph turned into three and I admit I suspected that she might be having an affair with the man.” He released a harsh laugh. “That was not the truth, however; she loved me and I should have trusted her. Should have protected her.”
“Protected her from what?” Willow prodded.
“From that bastard. She went over there one day and was having one of her episodes. I’m not certain how it all happened, but he convinced her to pose for him again. This time in nothing more than her flesh.”
The words raked over Willow like hot coal and it seemed as if the world had stopped turning. No longer could she hear the clock ticking in the corner. The crackle from the fireplace seemed to have disappeared and even her breathing was silent. Her mother had been one of those women.
Her father turned around with anger brewing in his eyes. The hardened features startled Willow, as she’d never seen her father so much as swat at a fly. “I wanted to kill him,” he said. “With my bare hands I wanted to suck the life from him for doing what he did to my beautiful wife. She didn’t know what he was going to do with those photographs. But he”—his face tightened even more—“he knew exactly what he was doing.”
Willow had nothing to say. No words of comfort came to mind, because all she could hear were her father’s words. I wanted to kill him. She didn’t even hear him approach until he was seated once again across from her.
“I’m sorry, child,” he said. “You should never have had to know about that.”
“That was what the big argument was,” she said.
“Sorry?”
“You and Mother had that big fight, and after that she stopped going out, stopped going to balls and the theatre.”
He nodded. “Yes, that was when it all changed. After that she got much worse. Perhaps if I hadn’t yelled at her the way I did.”
She wanted to tell him no, that that couldn’t be the reason her mother’s illness had progressed. But again she found no words. She needed to be alone.
“Excuse me, Papa,” she said, and left the room.
Climbing the stairs to her room, her mind wandered. Betrayal, fear, confusion—she felt them all. Was James right? Could her father have been the one who killed that man?
She shook her head fiercely. No! Her father was incapable of such an act. It was wrong to question what she knew in her heart to be true.
Willow wanted to scream. Wanted to open her mouth and yell as loudly as she could, but she couldn’t do that; it was improper and would not solve anything. Reaching the second landing, she turned to the right to head to her bedchamber and stopped. Perhaps she could take a walk, get some fresh air and clear her head.
Turning around, she headed back down the stairs and out the French doors in the back of the house leading into her mother’s small but lovely garden. It was already dark out and the cool night air hit her bare forearms and hands. She walked down the first row, the moonlight and her memory her only guide.
“Willow dear, is that you?”
Willow turned to find her mother standing behind her.
“What are you doing out here? Papa said you were asleep. Are you chilled?” Willow tucked her mother under her right arm.
“I was asleep, but I woke up and needed some fresh air.” Her mother chuckled. “You always were a bit mothering, even as a small child. It used to make Edmond batty.”
Tonight it seemed that her mother was rather lucid. Willow loved these moments. She linked their arms and they strolled amidst the fragrant bushes.
“I have the very best family there is,” her mother said. “It would be my greatest joy for you and Edmond to find the same.”
“I encourage Edmond all the time,” Willow said.
“But what of you, my dear?”
“I am happy here. With you.” She smiled at her mother.
“You take very good care of me, and I know I am rather trying at times.” She shook her head. “But there is more to life than caring for your parents. You need love and a life of your own.”
It all sounded nice and Willow did want those things, but it seemed unlikely she would ever find them. “Papa loves you so very much,” she said.
“Yes, he does. You will find that too, I know you will. But if you’re not out there making yourself available to the single gentlemen, then they will not know how wonderful you are.” Her mother cupped Willow’s face and kissed her cheek gently. “I wanted you so badly, did you know that?” Her eyes glistened with tears. “After your brother was born, I knew I was becoming more and more ill and I had had such a difficult birth with him. But I knew I was destined to have a little girl. I knew you would come to me.”
Emotion welled up inside of
Willow and threatened to spill over. She had never heard such words from her mother. Willow couldn’t tell her mother that she’d spent the better part of her adult life acting the content spinster. It would break her heart to know her daughter had done everything she could to remain unmarried.
“Willow, dear, is everything all right?” her mother asked.
No, everything wasn’t all right, but she couldn’t burden her mother with that. “Everything is fine,” Willow said.
Her mother smiled, but there was a sadness to her eyes. “Promise me something.” She grabbed both of Willow’s hands.
“Anything,” Willow agreed.
“Promise me you’ll find love and make your own life. Promise me that you won’t sacrifice yourself for my sake. I couldn’t bear that.” She shook Willow’s hands as she spoke.
She could certainly promise to try to find love, but Willow knew that was unlikely. “I shall only marry for love, Mama.”
Her mother squeezed her hands. “You’re a good girl, Willow, you know that, don’t you?”
“Let’s get you inside before you catch a chill. The wind is beginning to pick up.”
“Very well.”
Willow walked her mother inside and stopped beside the staircase.
“I won’t forget that promise, my dear,” her mother said.
“Nor will I. Good night, Mother.”
Her mother climbed the stairs and disappeared inside her bedchamber.
It had been an empty promise, Willow knew that. She’d never find love. Not now. Perhaps there had been a time when she was younger, when love might have been an option for her. But now it was too late.
It was wrong, she knew it, but for once she wished life had delivered her something different. Everyone had their problems, she knew that, but she had seen so many other women her age whose lives seemed less complex.
Her parents would not live forever, so once her duty to them was completed, where would that leave her? Alone. Completely and totally alone.
She could probably find a man who would take her for a wife, an older gentleman looking for companionship during his last years. But a marriage without love, that would be no worse than a lifetime on her own.