An Uninvited Corpse (An Anna Fairweather Murder Mystery Book 3)

by Blythe Baker

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Well…” he said, peeking out into the hall, staring up and down the hallway. “I do not like to speak of my previous employer’s acquaintances, but I suppose I have already said that I am aware of Mr. Robert Hill.”

  He scratched the back of his neck.

  “It was not long before my mistress passed away,” he said. “He came to dinner one evening, an evening with a rather long guest list. He did not know my mistress particularly well but he was invited at the request of one of the other guests. At that dinner, I overheard an interesting conversation he had with another guest, in which he spoke of his brother. One of the other guests had brought up Mr. Jonathan Hill’s work, and at once, Mr. Robert Hill turned his nose up about it all. People thought it surprising, asking why he was not proud of his brother’s success. He insisted it had nothing to do with his art and more to do with his character. He proceeded to tell the room that his brother was desperately jealous of him, particularly his wealth.”

  “I suppose that is not so terribly strange,” I said. “Artists, unless they are discovered, are hardly known for being wealthy. In fact, the saying starving artist had to come from somewhere.”

  “Indeed,” he said. “And I can see why that may not be surprising. However, what was strange is that—and this was Robert Hill’s claim, and I had no way of verifying it—he claimed that his brother broke into his home and stole money from him.”

  “Truly?” I asked.

  He nodded. “That is what was said,” he said. “And I doubt he would boldly proclaim such a thing unless he truly believed it, at least not to a room full of people of influence.”

  “Hmm…” I said.

  “At the time, I would have thought nothing of it,” Mr. Fitzroy said, striding over to his desk and turning on the lamp upon it, filling the room with a warm glow. He pulled the ribbon from his pocket and set it in a basket resting on the chair beside him. “However, in light of Mr. Hill’s death, it might…”

  “It might what, Mr. Fitzroy?” I asked, urging him to speak the words that I had thought myself.

  He stared absently down into the basket of decorations waiting to be put up for Mrs. Montford. “It seems strange, given their relationship. Theft is no small matter. Thievery is a crime, often punishable by time in prison.”

  “I imagine so,” I said. “I suppose the question would be why Mr. Robert Hill did not have his brother arrested.”

  “Unless he lacked the proof,” Mr. Fitzroy said.

  He stared into the distance for a short while, squinting his eyes.

  Then he looked up at me.

  “Why are you so interested? I would have thought the topic of Mr. Hill’s death would be revolting to you,” he said.

  “It is,” I said. “It is revolting.”

  “Then why are you dwelling on it still?” he asked.

  I hesitated.

  “I do not know,” I admitted. “Seeing Mr. Hill murdered right before my eyes…” I shook my head. “I suppose in a way it makes me feel responsible.”

  “Responsible?” Mr. Fitzroy repeated. “Miss Fairweather, you—”

  “I know, I know,” I said. “I realize how foolish that sounds. “I do not want to be involved but I cannot help but think, is it not wrong for the killer to get away?”

  “Of course it is,” he said. “I am certain that you are not the only one who thinks that way. There are many who will be wondering what happened and why it happened.”

  He picked up the basket and tucked it into the crook of his arm.

  “However, I must tell you that while I have not known you for long, I should hate to see harm come to you,” he said.

  “Thank you, Mr. Fitzroy, but I—”

  “Which is why I must tell you,” he said, taking a deep breath, “you should be careful. I fear that you may be treading into dangerous territory.”

  A shiver of fright wriggled its way down my back. “How do you mean?”

  “Meddling in these affairs could draw unwanted attention from unwanted people,” he said. “I know as well as you do that it is not good for a killer to go free, but you were not the target of the attack and so are not in any danger. You should ensure that it remains that way.”

  I nodded at him. “Do not worry. I have promised Mrs. Montford that I will not get any further involved. I intend to keep my promise.”

  “That is a relief to hear,” he said. He then gave me a small smile. “Do your best to forget all of this, won’t you?”

  “I will,” I said. “Of course. Thank you for your time and your insight, Mr. Fitzroy.”

  “Anytime, Miss Fairweather,” he said. He lifted the basket in his arm. “Well, I am going to get back to these. I would like Mrs. Montford to be able to enjoy this Christmas season for as long as she can. She deserves it after all the agony that she has had this year.” He looked pointedly at me. “And you should enjoy it, too. Christmas comes but once a year and it is a time for peace.”

  “You are right, of course,” I said. “Thank you, again.”

  His smile widened as he sidled past me out the door and started down the hall, whistling through his teeth as he went.

  As I watched him go, I repeated his words in my head.

  You were not the target of the attack and so are not in any danger. You should ensure that it remains that way.

  It should have been the sort of statement that I could brush over, attributing it to nothing more than concern. However…a niggling thought came to mind.

  What if the killer did see me at the end of the street? I had not considered it until the butler had told me that I was not in any danger. I was not the target of the attack.

  If the killer had seen me, would he not have then tried to come after me?

  Yes… Yes, he surely would have.

  I turned and left the study, keeping my head low, a new fear welling up within me.

  What if I was in danger? What if I was not truly safe at all?

  8

  As the Christmas season was settling in, Mrs. Montford had been receiving invitation after invitation for dinner parties and balls and luncheons from various people. It must have lifted her spirits, for she seemed interested in what she would wear to these events and how she might juggle them all without having to cancel.

  I could not remember a time where she had wanted to socialize quite so much but she certainly seemed eager.

  The evening after my conversation with Mr. Fitzroy was one such event, a dinner party at a Sir Fitzwilliam’s home. It seemed that this dinner was the one for the season, or at least Mrs. Montford said as much as she frantically searched through every gown she owned before we departed. “Oh, blast it. I should have had Mrs. Green make a new dress for me.”

  “But Mrs. Montford, you did not receive the invitation until three days ago,” I said as I sat back and watched her paw through her wardrobe.

  She glanced at me over her shoulder, her eyes flashing. “Yes, but I should have known I would need a dress. It is Christmas, after all. Everyone will be having some sort of party. I would have needed it either way!”

  She finally settled on a lovely burgundy dress, floor length and trimmed with black lace, that suited her better than any of the modern cuts. She seemed to stand taller in it.

  “You look twenty years younger, ma’am,” I told her as I settled her fur wrap over her shoulders. “The color is very becoming on you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, giving me a quick glance. “I am pleased that you have allowed Selina to lend you her dresses. We must get you to a seamstress. We are in London now. Even you will be expected to dress to a certain standard, as your appearance is a reflection upon me.”

  I had indeed allowed Selina to lend me another dress but she had given me little choice in the matter. I was uncomfortable in some of the more fashionable dresses, feeling immediately out of place. However, was it not my task to blend in? Selina had assured me that the latest fashions would help me to do ju
st that, and I supposed she was right, though it did not help me to like it any better.

  The car took us through the city, and we traveled a short distance to a lovely rowhouse near a beautiful park. As we pulled up, candles burned in each window. Red ribbons had been tied to the posts at the bottom of the front stairs. Warm, golden light filtered out onto the sidewalk, which was dusted with the first snow of the season.

  Mrs. Montford was helped from the car and I followed closely after. She did not dawdle on the sidewalk, instead quickly making her way up the stairs. The door opened as soon as she approached and we were greeted by the household’s butler, a plump man with a grey beard.

  “Might I take your wrap, ma’am?” he asked as he closed the door swiftly behind us.

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Montford said, shrugging it off as he helped.

  “Allow me to take you to the other guests, who have gathered in the drawing room,” he said, with a sweep of his arm.

  I followed after Mrs. Montford as he led us down a wood-paneled hall lined with portraits to a room filled with laughter and light. I recognized few of the guests but they all knew Mrs. Montford at once.

  “Mrs. Montford, welcome,” said a woman seated in a group of chairs near the large fireplace. A game of cards was ongoing between her and half a dozen other guests, a game that had stopped when we entered. She had lovely red hair, all pinned neatly into place at the nape of her neck, apart from a few loose curls. Her easy smile and heavy-lidded eyes told me that she was akin to a fox, sly and sharp.

  “Lady Fitzwilliam,” Mrs. Montford said. “How good it is to see you.”

  Lady Fitzwilliam got to her feet and glided across the room to my mistress. She took Mrs. Montford’s hands in her own, while wearing a sheepish expression. “My, but you do look wonderful. How can I adequately apologize for not going to you after the Colonel passed?”

  “Do not worry,” Mrs. Montford said. “Trips to the countryside are not convenient for everyone. I received your letter, however, which I cherished.”

  Lady Fitzwilliam’s expression softened and she squeezed Mrs. Montford’s hands. “I am pleased to hear it. I have thought of you often. It gladdened me to hear that you have come to London. We can all take much better care of you here.”

  “Well, I appreciate the thought and I am happy to be here,” Mrs. Montford said.

  “Do you plan to make London your permanent home, then? Or are you only staying through the winter?”

  “I have not yet decided,” Mrs. Montford said.

  “Then it seems we have time to convince you,” Lady Fitzwilliam said with a glint in her eyes. “Come with me. You can join in the game next round.”

  Mrs. Montford followed the Lady’s lead, leaving me standing near the door.

  I flushed, looking around. What was I to do?

  “Psst.”

  I turned to see a young woman standing near the wall, wearing a simple grey dress. She waved me over to her.

  “Are you Mrs. Montford’s personal attendant?” the girl asked, her hazel eyes wide.

  Perhaps Selina’s borrowed dress was not as fashionable as I had imagined, I thought, if my role could be so easily identified.

  “I am her maid,” I said.

  The girl nodded. “Her personal attendant, then,” she said. “You can come stand with me.”

  I sidled up along the wall beside her, thankful to be out of the center of the room and out of the sight of many of the guests.

  The girl, who might have been three or four years younger than I, beamed at me as I looked over at her. She had thick, dark hair braided in a pair of plaits that met at the nape of her neck, which was long and slender. Her smile was cheerful and the warmth in her expression reminded me at once of Selina. “Hello, there,” she said. “My name is Fannie. Fannie Winston.”

  “Hello, Fannie,” I said. “My name is Anna Fairweather.”

  Her smile grew. “What a pretty name,” she said, tilting her head to the side. She reminded me of a songbird, the way her voice trilled and the manner in which she carried herself.

  “Who do you work for?” I asked her.

  “Lady Fitzwilliam, of course,” she said brightly. She looked about the room, hearing the table of guests where Mrs. Montford had sat burst into laughter. “Oh, isn’t this time of year so terribly exciting?” she gushed. “I cannot wait to see what wonderful things happen. It is almost overwhelming, is it not?”

  “It certainly is,” I said, eyeing Mrs. Montford.

  She seemed to be doing well enough, smiling at a gentleman beside her who was speaking with her. He nodded, smiling as well, and together they shared a chuckle about something.

  “And look at my lady’s tree,” Fannie said, gesturing to the handsome fir nestled into the corner of the room. “Do you see those fabulous bulbs hanging from the branches? They are handblown glass from the Richards downtown.”

  “Oh,” I said, nodding along as if I knew the name. “How nice.”

  “Isn’t it splendid?” Fannie asked, sighing with great contentment as she stared lovingly at the tree. “I think it might be my favorite in the whole house. No…in the whole city!”

  The girl certainly was enthusiastic.

  “I heard from my lady that Mrs. Montford has only recently come to town,” the girl said. “And it was because her husband died. Is that true?”

  “Yes, it is,” I said. “We have come from Maidstone.”

  The girl nodded. “Yes, I thought I heard her say that. How are you liking London? It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

  A small, wriggling worry poked its ugly head up from inside my heart. “It is quite the experience,” I said politely. I had little interest in telling her about my past and hoped that she would leave the whole conversation alone. As much as she seemed to enjoy conversation, I realized I might have to steer the topic away.

  Just as Fannie opened her mouth, likely to ask yet another question, I heard a soft sob from the other side of the room. At once, my head swiveled around. I saw a small group that appeared to be growing standing around a woman in a chair near the window.

  “That is Lady Grove,” Fannie told me.

  “Lady Grove,” I repeated. I had heard the name before.

  Through the shoulders of some of the people that had hurried over to try and discern the problem, I saw a beautiful woman with golden hair and a face like a porcelain doll. She shook her head but it was clear that something had upset her quite a bit.

  At once, I recognized her.

  She was the woman outside the theater, the one surrounded by all those men, laughing. It was hard to miss a woman as lovely as she was.

  “Oh, dear,” Fannie said with a frown. “Poor Lady Grove. My lady wondered if she would be this way.”

  “Is everything all right?” I asked, nervousness beginning to grow within me.

  Fannie sighed rather dramatically, her shoulders rising and falling. “Who can know?” she asked with a shrug. “The poor woman has lost the love of her life.”

  “Oh…” I said. “That is unfortunate.”

  “Yes, it is,” Fannie said. “At least, I can only assume that he was the love of her life, the way she has been so distraught. My lady said that she made quite a spectacle when she learned of Mr. Hill’s death at the salon.”

  A pit formed in my stomach. Mr. Hill…her lover?

  “Such a shame, too,” Fannie said, shaking her head. “As well loved as Lady Grove is, she has been sought after by many men. It seems there was something special about Mr. Hill. I heard my lady say the man in question is that painter everyone has been talking about. The one who was killed?”

  My heart skipped. I had known that the truth would spread soon after it happened, but to hear it stated so starkly, as if it were common knowledge?

  There is no mistaking it. By now, the news is common knowledge.

  “It’s almost poetic, really,” the girl said.

  I did not want to ask what, precisely, was poetic. I knew that she would s
hare her thoughts regardless.

  She did not disappoint.

  “For an artist to die in such a violent, tragic way,” she said, sounding almost wistful.

  I turned a horrified stare toward her.

  She looked up at me, seemingly not at all noticing the astonishment in my face. “Have you heard about his death?”

  It seemed she had heard about the death but perhaps knew little of how the event had come about, or of a certain young woman who had witnessed it all.

  “You said Lady Grove and this Mr. Hill were lovers?” I asked, hoping desperately to change the trajectory of the conversation. I did not want to hear any more about his death and instead found the fact that he had captured the heart of one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen rather…intriguing. Perhaps somewhat unbelievable, given his vain and eccentric personality.

  “Yes, they were,” Fannie said with a firm nod. “From what I have heard, everyone knew of it. I saw them here a time or two, at one of my lady’s parties. It is interesting, you know. His death seemed to come at such an odd time. Well, not that death ever happens at a good or predictable time, but it seemed to be strangely convenient, considering the way some of the people in his life had such problems with him.”

  I shifted uneasily beside her. This was, of course, not the first time I had heard these claims. In fact, it seemed that everyone knew this about him. “What do you mean by that?” I asked.

  “Well…” she said, dropping her voice further and turning away from the group in the corner. Lady Grove’s sobbing was only narrowly drowned out by the conversation of the people around her, all trying to help. “I heard my lady discussing with Sir Fitzwilliam the matter just last night. Over dinner, of course, where I hear all the latest gossip. Well, the question still remains, who killed the fellow? No one seems to know. The poor man walked down an alley and ended up dead, without a trace of who could have done such a thing.”

  She shook her head, sparing a glance for Lady Grove.

  “However, Sir Fitzwilliam reminded my lady that there were many people who had a bone to pick with that man. Said he had enemies near and far. He imagined some such stories were fabricated, of course, but he imagined many were true.”