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

by Blythe Baker

  I looked at Mr. Jerome and he simply watched me patiently. At the very least, he seemed to understand that I had a great deal on my mind and he was willing to give me the chance to work through it.

  “Well…” I said, rigidly spreading my palms over my skirt, seeing my fingers tremble ever so slightly. “I…”

  No. I can’t, I realized. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him. I just wasn’t ready to speak of the emotional turmoil I was going through since being surrounding by so much death recently. I couldn’t share it with him. I couldn’t share it with anybody.

  “I greatly appreciate your offer, I do. However, I must admit that I am still far too troubled about the matter to discuss it. I hope you understand that this is a matter of…of my own heart and not at all a rejection of your wish to help.”

  “I understand,” he said. “Mr. Hill’s death has many in the city disturbed. They all want answers, though likely not as much as you might.”

  “I understand all too well…” I said, my voice trailing off.

  “And you saw nothing identifiable about the killer?” he asked. “I know we discussed this at the theater but I cannot quite remember what you said.”

  I thought back to the alleyway, of the brief moment when the struggling men had moved out of the shadows and into a narrow ribbon of light from a streetlamp. At once, my mind attempted to withdraw from the images to protect myself, to ensure the vile, sharp fear and worry did not spread through my body once more.

  I saw the flash of the knife in my mind’s eye, with the spot of darkness in the blade, a spot that perhaps had been a hole in the knife?

  A hole in the shape of a star? I wondered.

  Now that I thought about it, the idea seemed utterly preposterous. A star in the blade? Was that even possible? More likely, it had been something stuck to the blade, or perhaps nothing more than a shadow, a shadow that my mind contorted into something that was not at all there. There was no merit in sharing the thought, as unlikely and uncertain as it was.

  “And you mentioned something about a pub?” he asked. “That the killer had come from that side of the street?”

  “The pub was on that side of the road, yes,” I said. “Of course, it is entirely possible the killer had not exited from it.”

  He mumbled something under his breath, his brow furrowing.

  “I’m…sorry?” I asked.

  “My apologies,” he said, scratching his chin. “I wonder if the police investigating the matter bothered to look there for anyone who might have had any tie to the painter. What did you say was the name of the one you spoke with? Sergeant Peterson?”

  “Parsons,” I said. “And I imagine he would have looked there. It is the only other business on that narrow strip. Unless the person responsible hid themselves in the post office or perhaps down the other end of the street.”

  “Yes, well, it certainly would be a place to start, would it not?” Mr. Jerome asked, his expression thoughtful. “I do wonder if Sergeant Parsons has done so.”

  “I would certainly hope,” I said. “I—”

  “Jerome, what are you doing here?”

  I was on my feet at once, my cheeks flushing pink. “Mrs. Montford!” I exclaimed, dipping into a curtsy. “My apologies, ma’am, I was simply answering some of your nephew’s questions.”

  I was sharply aware of how it might look to her, seeing the two of us chatting alone in such a comfortable way.

  “There is my dear aunt,” Mr. Jerome said, rising gracefully to his feet, striding toward her. “I hoped I would see you before I left.”

  She peered around him to give me a questioning look.

  “I was looking for you, of course,” he said with a smile in his voice. “I had hoped you would make an exception for me but you have a loyal maid in Anna. She was firm with me, saying that you did not wish to be disturbed.”

  “Well, she was right,” Mrs. Montford said. “However…”

  She stepped around Mr. Jerome and strode toward me, a letter decorated with filigree in her hand.

  “What is it, ma’am?” I asked.

  She cleared her throat. “I have been personally invited to an Ivory Lane art gallery, where the funeral for Mr. Hill is to be held tomorrow evening.”

  My stomach dropped. It seemed that I could not escape news of Mr. Hill, even when I did my very best to stay away from it.

  “The letter is from a friend of mine,” Mrs. Montford said. “The family of Mr. Hill asked her to get in touch with me, knowing that I was his last client before he passed away. They suggested I may wish to bring a guest with me.”

  “I shall happily accompany you, ma’am,” Mr. Jerome said, stepping up beside her. “I would hate for you to go alone.”

  “I have no intention of going alone,” Mrs. Montford said, and she looked at me, her gaze sharpening. “I should like Anna to come with me, as I hope that it will help her to find some closure on the matter.”

  Mr. Jerome looked at me, as well, and his expression was thoughtful.

  “Yes, I think that is a fine idea,” he said. “Allow her to make peace with it.”

  The color left my face, like snow melting off a rooftop. “Me, ma’am?” I asked, as if there might be some misunderstanding.

  “Do you not agree?” she asked. “Because if you think that this will be more difficult for you than not, I will take Jerome. I simply thought it might be just what you need to allow you to separate yourself from the matter.”

  Separate myself? Would it truly?

  “I think you should come with me,” she repeated. “You were the last to see him alive.”

  I was, wasn’t I? I thought.

  “Very well,” I said with a nod. “I will come. Perhaps it will be as you say, ma’am, and I will be able to put it behind me.”

  “Very good,” she said. “Now, I suppose we must prepare. What does one wear to a funeral held at an art gallery?”

  10

  I had heard over the last few weeks, since arriving in London, that Mr. Hill was a popular fellow. I had learned that the waiting list to have him come to a person’s house to paint a portrait for them was now well into the next year, with the earliest availability being sometime near the end of August.

  It still surprised me, however, when Mrs. Montford and I arrived at the art gallery to see the mass of people there to pay their respects to the man in question, a man who had only found celebrity in the last few years.

  As I stepped up the wide marble stairs to the art gallery, flanked on either side by topiaries of beasts and birds and carved stone fountains shooting water into the twilight sky, I felt quite sure that I was not prepared for just how important artists were to the social circles they were involved in.

  “I have not seen so many people since the wedding of the Duke’s daughter,” Mrs. Montford said to me under her breath as we reached the top of the stairs. “I have heard time and time again of this Mr. Hill’s popularity but this seems a bit…”

  What Mrs. Montford truly thought, I never would know, as we stepped in through the wide open doors leading into the gallery.

  The gleaming marble floor was flanked on either side by tall white walls. The only color in the room came from the lavishly dressed attendees and the paintings and sculptures that ran up and down the length of the room.

  My stomach twisted as I caught sight of a black casket at the far side of the room, rows of chairs turned in its direction as if Mr. Hill would pop out from it to deliver a speech. The people in the large open room, however, seemed entirely indifferent about the dead body in their midst.

  It was chilling, watching people chat with one another, smile, and carry on as if they were at some pleasant Christmas party. Mrs. Montford and I had donned the traditional black and I was beginning to feel as if she and I would stand out amongst all the colorful clothing and vibrant, flashy hats.

  “I am beginning to think that I misread the letter,” Mrs. Montford muttered. “Surely, it cannot have been so long since I have at
tended a funeral that I am out of touch with the social graces.”

  “No, ma’am,” I said as a woman wearing a dress as green as a parrot strode in past me, beaming at someone further inside. “I am starting to believe we may very well have come to the wrong location, if it were not for the…the…”

  I did not like to say the word. The last time I had seen Mr. Hill, it had been his dead body. Now, here he was once more. I had thought I would never see him again.

  “Oh, Beatrice! Hello!” said a woman in a dress covered in thick red velvet. As she strode over toward us, I wondered how in the world I could have possibly missed her upon our entrance.

  “Mrs. Myers,” Mrs. Montford said with a tight smile, her shoulders tensing. “Good evening. How serendipitous that we would meet here.”

  “Yes,” the woman said. Her hair, an ashen grey, had been twisted into tight curls and pinned around her head, a beaded headband helping to hold it in place. “I heard you were the guest of honor this evening.”

  My stomach twisted. A guest of honor? Who ever heard of such a thing at a funeral? And why?

  Mrs. Montford’s eyes narrowed. “I believe you have been misinformed,” she said. “I was invited just yesterday.”

  Mrs. Myers laughed, a cawing sound reminding me of a raven. “Misinformed, she says,” she said with a playful yet demeaning wave toward Mrs. Montford. “Oh, Phillip, look who it is? Dear Beatrice has arrived.”

  “Right on time, as well,” said a man who had turned at the call of Mrs. Myers. He reminded me of a walrus, his large brown moustache tickling his round cheeks. “Pleasure to see you this evening, Mrs. Montford.”

  “Pleasure,” Mrs. Montford said.

  The dull expression on her face seemed lost on the couple, as Mrs. Myers turned to give the room a sweeping wave. “As you can see, we have had a wonderful turnout,” she said. “Not that I am at all surprised. As soon as we heard of his death, we knew that news of a funeral would be soon to follow. Anyone who was anyone was asking about it and finding a way to be invited.” She pressed her lips together like a child with a secret. “We, of course, were some of the first invited, being as close with Mr. Sedgewick as we are. He invited us personally, of course.”

  Mr. Sedgewick… Where have I heard that name before? I thought.

  She laid a hand upon her husband’s chest, her expression suggesting she was practically bursting with pride.

  “We have taken it upon ourselves to greet the guests as they come in. Mr. Sedgewick is terribly busy, as you can imagine, taking care of all the other things that curators need to do.”

  Her husband nodded his head. “Indeed. Allow us to show you around. Introduce you to some of the guests.”

  Guests? At a funeral? It is as strange a notion as the invitations themselves.

  Mrs. Myers gave a grand sweep of her arm, looking further into the room. “And of course, one cannot miss these stunning pieces of art,” she said, striding over to the white wall, a lovely landscape painting hanging there in a silver frame. “See this? This is by Jacques Monroe. Talented man, come from France. He and his wife fled here across the channel in the dead of night, stowing away in a ship. The interesting part? The two of them painted this together, and this painting is a memory of the moment they reached the other side of the channel.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Mrs. Montford said, looking up at the painting.

  It was lovely, with an emphasis on the bright golden beams of light that stretched out over the channel depicted in the piece.

  “And over here, we have an absolutely gorgeous piece named simply Wave. It is anonymous. Mr. Sedgewick has not revealed who it is by, though I am certain he knows,” Mrs. Myers said with a smirk.

  The painting was aptly named. From first glance, I might have assumed it was simply a window overlooking a piece of the ocean, frozen in time. I had to resist the urge to reach out and touch the canvas, feeling and almost believing that if I did, I would be brushing against the surface of real water.

  “I have never seen anything like it,” Mrs. Montford said, squinting as she stared at it. “Truly, it seems so real.”

  We continued down the wall, Mrs. Myers continuing to carry on about the different pieces of art as we went. I lagged behind them and could not help but allow my gaze to drift over the room.

  It startled me just how…happy everyone seemed to be. If I had been able to ignore the casket at the far end of the room, so prominently on display that it might have been a part of the exhibit, I might have suspected that we were simply at some sort of glamorous opening for another artist.

  The thought drew my gaze back to the casket. I saw a group of people lingering near it, staring at it, leaning their heads together as they gazed at it.

  My stomach twisted.

  I sincerely hope that was not the intention…

  Mrs. Myers gasped as we reached an indent in the wall. We were not far from the casket now, and the rows of chairs stretched along the room beside us.

  Peering over Mrs. Montford’s shoulder, I saw a white box, the same shade and texture as the wall, with a wooden bust of a woman sitting upon it.

  “This is one of the prized pieces,” Mrs. Myers said. “Is she not the most beautiful woman that you have ever seen?”

  My eyes swept over the bust, which was the head of a woman and most of her shoulders. She was stunning, almost lifelike, like a nymph or a fairy. Her hair swept around her head as if rustled by a nonexistent wind and her eyes, though lifeless, seemed to be staring off into some great adventure.

  The artist had given her only one adornment; a necklace of stars.

  With a start, I realized that I recognized the woman.

  “Lady Grove…” I said in a low voice.

  Mrs. Montford and Mrs. Myers both turned to look at me. “Why, yes, it is,” Mrs. Myers said, appearing almost mystified by my answer. She looked sidelong at Mrs. Montford. “It’s a rather startling likeness, is it not?”

  “My heavens, it is,” Mrs. Montford said. “I thought I recognized her.”

  “Yes, it is a remarkable piece of craftsmanship,” Mrs. Myers said.

  “Someone carved this?” Mrs. Montford asked.

  “Yes, by hand,” Mrs. Myers gushed with a beaming smile. “It took the artist a full three months. I hear that he hardly left his studio. Worked day and night, hoping to create the perfect likeness.”

  “And who might the artist be?” Mrs. Montford asked.

  “Mr. Jasper Fields,” Mrs. Myers said, giving her a wide-eyed smile. “And yes, it is the Jasper Fields.”

  Mrs. Montford returned her gleeful expression with a blank one.

  “You do not know Jasper Fields?” Mrs. Myers asked, clearly aghast. “My dear, where have you—oh, that’s right. You have only just returned to London. I suppose there is a great deal that I must catch you up on.”

  Mrs. Montford gave her a tight smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Myers. How thoughtful you are.”

  “I am simply looking out for you,” Mrs. Myers said.

  I had heard that name as well, though this one came back to me more readily. The maids at the party of Lady Fitzwilliam. They had mentioned the artist by name.

  That is quite interesting, I thought.

  Mrs. Montford looked back at the bust. “What does the lady think of it?” she asked.

  “Oh, she was thrilled,” Mrs. Myers said. “Absolutely thrilled, I say. Would you believe it if I told you there was a story with this sculpture?”

  “I might,” Mrs. Montford said. “I imagine that all artists have elaborate stories with their work.”

  “Yes, but this one is good, I tell you,” Mrs. Myers said. “You see, Mr. Fields and the late Mr. Hill were close friends, but at the same time, there seems to have been some sort of…mysterious rivalry that both men held for the attentions of Lady Grove.”

  She gestured to the bust of the beautiful woman, who seemed so serene.

  “Apparently, both men held great affection for her but she was never abl
e to choose. That being the case, both allowed their love to become part of their work, their own personal way of honoring her and trying to win her heart,” Mrs. Myers said.

  “That sounds somewhat fanciful,” Mrs. Montford said.

  “Yes, I imagine it is,” Mrs. Myers said. “But isn’t that just the sort of tale that works with such a magnificent piece?”

  The tale might have been fanciful but at least part of it was true. Mr. Hill had been Lady Grove’s lover. Sir Fitzwilliam’s maid had told me as much at the dinner party that Mrs. Montford had attended just a few nights ago. I had seen the way Lady Grove had wept. Mrs. Montford had surely seen as well.

  I glanced sidelong at her. Perhaps Mrs. Montford is merely pretending?

  “You said that Mr. Fields and Mr. Hill were friends?” Mrs. Montford asked.

  “Yes, they certainly were, despite any possible jealousies,” Mrs. Myers said. “Which is why his piece is displayed so close to the casket. You see, Mr. Sedgewick did it as a means of honoring their friendship.”

  Mrs. Montford glanced around the room and her gaze suddenly sharpened. “Is that not Lady Grove, just over there near the doors?”

  I turned to look over my shoulder and I found her immediately. She wore a heavily sequined dress of deepest, inky black. As I had always seen, she was surrounded by a group of gentlemen all trailing after her, a personal entourage.

  “I wonder what she really thought of the piece,” Mrs. Montford mused.

  I thought back to the party where I had seen Lady Grove sobbing hysterically. Now, seeing her stride in with such purpose, a stricken, hardened expression on her beautiful face, her cheeks stained with tears…

  There was no doubt in my mind; Mrs. Montford did know the truth, just as I did.

  I supposed the next question would have been if this Mr. Fields also loved Lady Grove as much as rumor claimed he did and if that would truly have been enough to start such a story around the piece.

  “Is there to be a ceremony of any sort?” Mrs. Montford asked. “Or is everyone going to pay their respects as they see fit?”

  “This is not some formal event, darling,” Mrs. Myers said. “That is not how Mr. Hill would have wanted it to be, you see. He was such a…passionate man. He lived and breathed his art.”