by Blythe Baker
“Did anything suggest that something so terrible was going to happen?” Mr. Jerome asked. “Anything he said before leaving or perhaps anything in his demeanor?”
“No,” Mrs. Montford said for me. “He was seemingly annoyed that I asked him to leave early but he did not appear greatly distressed or anything akin.”
“You said the police investigated already?” Mr. Jerome asked me.
“Yes,” I said.
“Did they find who did it?” Mrs. Townson asked, sounding hopeful.
“No,” Mrs. Montford said. “Not as of last night. Certainly not as of today, for I would have seen it in the newspapers, as you would have.”
“I suppose you are right,” Mr. Jerome said. “I wonder why they have not published this news yet.”
“Perhaps because they have not yet found who is responsible?” Mrs. Montford asked. “It is hard to know why the authorities make these decisions.”
“He is well known in the city,” Mrs. Townson said. “I imagine they do not wish to be inundated with questions from admirers and colleagues.”
“Though I cannot imagine they will wish to delay for very long,” Mr. Jerome said. “People will question his whereabouts anyway and many will be terribly unhappy if they find out that his death has been covered up.”
“I think so, as well,” Mrs. Montford said. “Which could mean they will be working diligently to find whoever is responsible. Which is good. I do not fancy the idea that the streets so very near my own are as unsafe as they now seem to be.”
“Where was he found dead?” Mr. Jerome asked.
“Down by the nearest church,” Mrs. Montford said. “Close to the post office. It seems there is a rather unsavory pub down there that the officers believe might have had something to do with it.”
“I wonder who could have done such a thing,” Mrs. Townson said.
“Well…” Mr. Jerome said, glancing over his shoulder at the clock on the wall. Only five minutes remained in the intermission. “There are a few people who have been open about their dislike of Mr. Hill. I imagine the authorities will have gone after them, and as such, we might very well see their names in the paper.”
“Who?” Mrs. Townson asked. “Enough to kill the poor man?”
Mr. Jerome pressed his finger to his lips, looking around nervously. “Careful, Mother, we do not need to draw unnecessary attention,” he said, adjusting his footing. He dropped his voice, leaning in. “There are two that come to mind right away. First, Mr. Hill’s brother, Mr. Robert Hill.”
“The banker?” Mrs. Montford asked.
Mr. Jerome nodded. “Indeed,” he said. “You know him?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Montford said. “The Colonel was acquainted with him.”
“I see,” Mr. Jerome said.
“Why do you think it was his brother?” I asked in a small voice.
He turned his deep, twilight blue eyes onto me. “Their dislike of one another was well known,” he said. “They were hardly ever seen together, and apparently the last time they were, the argument they had was heated.”
“I see,” I said.
“The two men were quite different,” Mrs. Montford agreed. “Mr. Robert Hill is prominent in society as well, but he is highly respectable and has developed a reputation for strict propriety, an important characteristic to find in a banker. Mr. Jonathan Hill, an eccentric artist, was known for his passionate work and his flashy personality, which was a stark contrast.”
“Not something terribly unusual for siblings,” Mrs. Townson said. “Who else do you suspect, dear?”
“Mr. Sedgewick,” Mr. Jerome said. “The museum curator for that new gallery near Hyde Park.”
“Yes, I know the one,” Mrs. Townson said with a nod.
“Why him?” Mrs. Montford asked.
“I heard, about two months ago, the man refused to show Mr. Hill’s newest collection,” Mrs. Townson said.
“That was it,” Mr. Jerome said with a snap of his fingers. “I could not quite remember what it was but I remembered they had a spectacular feud.”
“But why?” Mrs. Montford asked. “Why did he not want to show Mr. Hill’s art, as prominent and new as he was? Would that not be beneficial to the curator?”
“That’s the strange thing,” Mr. Jerome said. “No one knows particularly why Mr. Sedgewick disliked Mr. Hill so much. No one has been able to learn the true reason. Of course, there was speculation but the two men never admitted why.”
“How interesting…” Mrs. Montford said with a heavy sigh, just as a trio of chimes from a bell sounded through the room, signaling the end of the intermission.
“We are in for a world of drama,” Mrs. Townson said, looking up at her son. “With an artist dead and these two men of great importance possibly responsible, this will be a great scandal for certain.”
“Yes, Mother,” Jerome said. “A great scandal indeed.”
7
I leaned over the railing, peering down to the foyer. Nearly a quarter of an hour had passed by and I had barely moved. My elbows had begun to ache, pressing into the wood of the banister as they were, and the foot I leaned on had begun to tingle with numbness.
I wondered if this was what hawks felt like, watching and waiting, biding their time to strike their prey. Except this was not at all like that, as I was not hunting and my target was not prey.
My target, instead, was more of an…observation. I watched him as he polished the knocker on the front of the door, a fir wreath leaning against the doorframe near his feet, waiting to be hung. It had been tied up with a lovely, golden bow, the inspiration clearly drawn from Mrs. Montford’s evening at the theater.
Mr. Fitzroy whistled as he rubbed the bronze knocker and then gazed at the metal to check his work.
I tilted my head to the side, the same question chasing itself around in my mind.
Should I ask him? Or should I leave it be?
I had made Mrs. Montford a promise and I intended to keep it. I did not want to get caught up in the whirlwind of Mr. Hill’s murder, just as she had asked me not to.
Yet, when she and I were at the theater, she had engaged in the conversations she had with her nephew and Mrs. Townson. She had actively asked questions about what could possibly have happened to Mr. Hill. She wanted to know who could have killed him.
I understood part of it was nothing more than concern for her new living arrangements. The idea of a murderer on the loose was unsettling. If Mr. Hill’s murderer was found, then she could rest easier.
I watched Mr. Fitzroy tie another golden ribbon to the back of the door, drape it over the top until it hung down over the front of the door, and then stoop to fetch the wreath.
I realized, after some deep thought on the matter, that Mrs. Montford did not mean to ignore the matter entirely, as I had originally expected. I had thought that her request of me was because she, too, wanted to put the matter behind us and not dwell on it. The conversations at the theater, however, proved that may not have been entirely true.
She very much wanted to know what had happened and who had committed the murder. She simply did not want me to be the one to find the truth.
I pursed my lips, uncertain how this realization made me feel.
I had been the one to witness the murder. Of anyone, I should have the most invested in learning the truth, for no other reason than I would then be able to sleep better at night knowing that the answers had been found. The loose ends would have been neatly tied up and I could return to my life as normal.
At the same time, I knew full well that it mattered little how I felt about it. Mrs. Montford was right; there was no need for me to be any further involved. I should not desire to be. Not only was it unsafe but there was also nothing I could do to help. I had given the authorities all the information that I could.
Mr. Fitzroy adjusted the wreath, rolling it just a hair more to the right, before straightening the ribbon and the gold bow on the front. The wind sent the tail ends of it d
ancing but it seemed to hold. He took a step back, careful not to catch his heel on the edge of the top stair, and tilted his head to see if he liked it. I saw him nod briskly before stepping back inside and shutting the door.
It was nearing three o’clock. Mrs. Montford would be taking her tea in the parlor soon. I would need to be there, as would Mr. Fitzroy.
If I were to speak with him, it would have to be now.
I started down the stairs with a deliberate gait as if I had come from one of the upper rooms. I hoped he would notice me, for I knew he would see it as strange if I struck up the conversation.
“Ah, Miss Fairweather,” he said, stooping to pick up a few stray fir sprigs off the floor. “A woman’s eye is precisely what I need at this moment. Might I ask for your opinion on a particular matter?”
“Oh…” I said, coming to a stop at the bottom of the stairwell. “Well, all right, I have a few moments I can spare.”
He beamed at me and threw open the door once more. The cold December air rushed in over the doormat and sent the ends of my dress fluttering.
“Here, what do you think?” he asked, gesturing to the wreath. “Do you think this will please Mrs. Montford?”
“Yes, it certainly will,” I said, nodding. “She will be quite pleased, indeed.”
“Good,” he said with a relieved smile. “There is still a great deal I am uncertain of. I do not wish to displease her.”
“She is not terribly exacting,” I said. “You have done a fine job.”
“Thank you,” he said.
This might very well be one of the few chances I would have to ask him a question or two without interference by anyone else. It was nothing more than curiosity, I told myself. I simply needed the answers for myself.
“I am certain she is most pleased to have someone so well acquainted with London in her household,” I said. “She knows the city, of course, but it has been years since she and the Colonel were here last.”
“Yes, that is what she has told me,” Mr. Fitzroy said, thoughtfully. “I cannot imagine a great deal of it would be foreign to her, apart from some of the ebb and flow of politics and changes in social status, that sort of thing.”
“You used to work for a family here in town, yes?” I asked.
“That is correct,” he said with a nod, though I noticed his smile slipping somewhat. “Sir Norris and his wife, Lady Adella. They were an astonishingly generous family and it was my honor to serve them for almost twenty years. I worked temporarily in the home of their son until I was able to find a new place of employment. He kindly took me in after his parents passed away. His father had, nearly three years ago now, but his mother came down with a terrible illness just six months ago, and she died within the week.”
“Good heavens,” I said. “I am sorry.”
He gave me a tight smile. “Yes, well…Mrs. Montford is an equally wonderful mistress. I look forward to serving her.”
“Are you from London originally?” I asked.
“I am,” he said, straightening the bow on the wreath again, as if to make it even more perfect than it already was. “Is it that obvious?”
“Not obvious,” I said. “I am simply happy that you were able to find further employment in the city of your childhood.”
He looked over at me. “You are thoughtful, Miss Fairweather. It is a wonderful thing to be able to remain here. I had considered looking for work out of town but it never felt right. London is my home and I had no interest in leaving.”
“I can understand that perfectly,” I said. “It can be difficult to leave one’s home.”
He stopped, reaching to pick up yet another fir sprig that had sprung loose from the wreath. “Oh, I am terribly sorry. How insensitive I am, you having only just left your own home to come here. This all must be terribly strange for you, the new city, the new house…”
“Well, I am from London myself,” I said. “Though I spent most of my childhood in one of the city’s orphanages.”
His face brightened. “Well, welcome home, then,” he said. “How long has it been since you were here?”
“Years,” I said. “Mrs. Montford hired me straight from the orphanage.”
“And now you have returned,” he said. “Are you pleased to be back?”
“I must admit that my feelings on the subject are quite complicated,” I said, looking away.
“I shall not pry. It is none of my business,” he said with a smile. “There… Well, thank you, Miss Fairweather, for your opinion on the decorations.”
I stepped back inside and Mr. Fitzroy closed the door.
This may have very well been the natural end to the conversation but I had not yet asked my questions. He had somehow shifted the conversation back onto me and I had not gleaned what I had hoped to.
“I must admit, when I left London, I did not remember there being so many…dangerous occurrences,” I said hesitantly. “Has something so drastically changed since my departure?”
“You must be referring to Mr. Hill’s death?” he asked. “I suppose I should not be surprised, given how you… Well, I am certain you do not wish to discuss it.”
“That is what I meant, yes,” I said. “I do not remember murders happening so…”
“If you think they happen frequently, allow me to give your mind some peace,” he said. “This is a large city, and as such, there is crime. Thankfully, a great deal of it is confined to a few specific areas, areas that you were likely instructed to avoid entirely as a child. What happened with Mr. Hill is an uncommon occurrence. A rarity. Almost an anomaly.”
“That is a comfort,” I said. “It is a shame, though, is it not? That he died. I have been hearing just how incredibly loved he was by the city.”
“That he was,” Mr. Fitzroy said, reaching for a spool of golden ribbon on the long, narrow table running along the wall. “His success had been booming. A year ago, hardly anyone knew his name. He had only recently come into the fame he became known for, the art that has been seen all over the city. His name was on everyone’s lips, especially concerning a piece called Humility.”
“Yes, he described it to Mrs. Montford and me,” I said. “He did seem surprised that we were not familiar with it.”
Mr. Fitzroy nodded, pocketing the ribbon and starting down the hall. I fell into step beside him as he spoke again. “I suppose you would not know about his work, of course,” he said. He sighed, shaking his head. “To be perfectly honest, I knew him in name only. I had not seen a painting that he had done, apart from the one he started of Mrs. Montford.”
He stopped suddenly, giving me a sidelong look.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I have only just realized…” he said.
He took a few steps forward and peered in through the door to the sunroom.
I followed him and looked in after him.
Just off to the side, near the window, stood the easel with the canvas that Mr. Hill had been working on. It was obviously a work in progress, with the stripes of blue and yellow and grey, indecipherable pieces of a puzzle.
“That will never be finished,” I murmured under my breath.
“No, it won’t be,” Mr. Fitzroy said. He shuddered. “That is a troubling thought, is it not? Makes it all a bit too…real.”
“Real, indeed,” I said, frowning.
“I am sorry,” he said, turning away. “My thoughts have derailed. At first, I realized that this was the last piece of art that Mr. Hill ever worked on. As such, it will likely become the most sought after painting he has ever done. It will be worth a fortune.”
My eyes widened as I followed him down the hall. “An unfinished painting?” I asked.
“Certainly,” Mr. Fitzroy said. “There will be people clamoring for it once they realize that Mrs. Montford has it.”
“Even if it is her painting?”
“Of course,” Mr. Fitzroy said. “They will offer a handsome sum for it, mark my words.”
I swallowed, my throat t
ight and dry. “It seems so morbid.”
“It’s more about appearance, of course,” Mr. Fitzroy said. “Mr. Hill’s reputation is what they want, in order to inflate their own.”
“I suppose you are right,” I said.
He stopped just outside the door to his personal quarters and gave me a small smile. “I imagine that you are having a hard time with all of this. I cannot blame you. Not in the least. I did not help by bringing you to look at that painting and making you think about his work in that way.”
I lowered my head. “Yes, well… I likely am handling the whole affair better than those closest to him,” I said. “I imagine they are grieving terribly right now.”
“Yes, I imagine they would be,” Mr. Fitzroy said. “I do not believe he was married or had any children of his own, however.”
“I did hear he had a brother,” I said. “From Mr. Townson.”
“Mrs. Montford’s nephew?” Mr. Fitzroy asked. “Yes, he would know.”
“Are you familiar with the man?” I asked, trying my best to keep my curiosity in check.
“Mr. Robert Hill?” he asked. “Yes, I am familiar with his name. He is a banker here in town.”
“So I have heard,” I said. “As well-known as his brother was.”
Mr. Fitzroy nodded. “They say he is a quiet sort of fellow, not at all like his brother. In fact, word has it they had little in common.”
“That is precisely what Mrs. Townson said,” I told him. “She said that Mr. Robert Hill is known for his ethics, while Mr. Jonathan Hill was passionate and eccentric.”
“Precisely worded,” Mr. Fitzroy said.
“Mrs. Townson also said that the two men did not get along,” I said. “Even had a rather terrible argument.”
He lifted an eyebrow as he stepped into his study. “You seem to know a great deal already,” he said.
I did not deny it. “Perhaps, though it makes me wonder if their great difference had anything to do with their dislike of one another.”
“It is certainly possible,” Mr. Fitzroy said. “Though I think it might have been something more specific.”