by Blythe Baker
“From what you have described, his intention is to protect those in this house, including you,” Selina said, taking another tray to the table where the rest of the glasses sat waiting to be sorted.
“You are missing the point entirely,” I said, nestling the pillow back among its fluffed brethren.
“Am I?” Selina asked. “You mean to pretend that you wish to discuss his dangerous plan, when instead you really mean to talk about the feelings you are wrestling with as a result of what he said.”
I looked away, annoyed at being so easily found out. She’s right…
Selina let out a low chuckle. “I thought as much. You rather enjoyed hearing that he wanted to protect you.”
I did like hearing it. He had flattered me, whether it was deliberate or not.
“What he said does trouble me, though,” I said, setting aside that feeling for the time being. I could pay attention to it later. “What if someone does come after me?”
“What makes you think that someone will?” Selina asked, beginning to arrange new glasses on the empty tray.
I made my way over to the chessboard Mrs. Montford had set up next to the bay window. It sat untouched since her game with Mr. Jerome that morning. I swept the wooden pieces from the board and pulled open the drawer where they belonged. With care, I nestled the pieces inside, my fingers lingering on the birch king piece…the set that Mr. Jerome had been playing with.
I did not know how to answer Selina. Why did I think that someone would come after me? “I…do not know,” I said. “Perhaps it is nothing more than fear speaking for me. But surely the rumors will have made it around the city by now. Those young women at the funeral… They somehow knew there was a witness.”
Selina gave me a tight-lipped smile before carrying the freshly arranged tray to set beside the other on the buffet. “Would the killer not have already acted if he did know?”
I frowned. “How can I be sure?” I asked.
“I would imagine that if he knew about you, he would have done all he could to cover his tracks,” she said, pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of her apron and beginning to dust the edges of the buffet and the frame of the painting hanging above it. “If you were able to compromise him, he would not want to have that sort of loose end hanging around.”
“That hardly makes me feel better,” I grumbled, although she was right.
It might only be a matter of time before something happened. Mrs. Montford may not have revealed who the witness was at the funeral but if Mr. Sedgewick had been able to discern the truth…
“The authorities know it was me. Would that information not have become available?”
“Not if they are good at their jobs,” Selina said with a frown.
I set the last chess piece within the drawer and pushed it closed. “Perhaps I am worrying too much.”
“Agreed,” Selina said.
“Still…” I said. “I do hope that, if Mr. Jerome does continue to pursue this, he will find the answers soon. I do not think Mrs. Montford can stand this much longer.”
Selina gave me a hard look but it softened after a moment or two. “I hope he does as well,” she said.
I made my way over to the credenza next to the window and withdrew a folded linen tablecloth and a set of bright red napkins. I went to the round table situated in the middle of the room. As I unfolded the tablecloth and began to spread it over the table, Selina came to join me.
“What of Mrs. Montford?” she asked as she took the opposite corners of the cloth and together we lifted it into the air. “You said she was rather…?”
“Sour,” I said, finishing my thought from earlier. “When I went in to greet her this morning, she ignored me for the first few minutes. And then, when I drew the curtains, she refused to rise from her bed. When I asked what was bothering her, she did not answer me.”
“What could it have been?” Selina asked as the cloth settled over the table.
I reached out and spread my hands across it, smoothing the wrinkles. “I could not be certain. I wondered if she had taken ill, but when I asked if I could call the doctor, she refused. She said that she was feeling perfectly well, in regards to her health.”
Selina frowned, grabbing the napkins on the chair beside me and beginning to fold them into the roses that Mrs. Montford liked so much. “How odd,” she said. “She simply did not want to get up?”
“No,” I said. “I have never seen her quite like this.”
“And you reminded her that her party was this evening?” Selina asked.
“Of course,” I said, fetching a napkin myself and beginning to fold it. “She said that she would be well enough by then but that she had no desire to come down for breakfast. I promised her I would come and help her get ready for the day.”
“But she would not tell you?” Selina asked.
“No,” I said, setting the finished folded cloth rose down upon the table. Remembering the silverware, I turned toward the credenza and passed by the writing desk.
A calendar sat upon it and I caught a glimpse of it.
The date.
December the tenth.
I stopped, my heart sinking.
“Anna?” Selina asked. “Are you all right?”
I turned to Selina. “The Colonel…” I said. “Their wedding anniversary is in December, is it not?”
Selina hurried over to stand beside me. She stared down at the calendar. “Oh my heavens,” she said. “Their anniversary. That must be it.”
“Poor Mrs. Montford. What can we do?” Selina asked. “Is there anything we can do?”
“I don’t believe there is,” I said. “This year will be the worst. I believe it will get easier, but for today, she needs her space. I wish I had remembered. I could have been better prepared. I could have arranged for something that might have comforted her.”
I looked around and found an empty crystal vase sitting on a shelf beside the bookcase. I went and fetched it and set it in the middle of the table. “Perhaps a memorial of some sort? For the party this evening?”
Selina brightened. “A fine idea. A means of honoring their marriage. Though December is not a terribly good time of year for flowers.” Then, her eyes widened. “Perhaps we can make paper flowers. We already know how.” She gestured to the napkins. “What say you?”
I grinned back at her. “I think it is a fine idea.”
“I shall fetch the paper,” she said. “But we will need red dye. I am sure Mrs. Rose has some down in the kitchen. Why don’t you go and see if she would have anything you might use?”
“I can certainly try,” I said. “Though I imagine she will chase me away. She must be preparing for tonight’s dinner.”
“She can spare a moment,” Selina said, already making her way to the desk, opening the drawers. “Tell her it is for Mrs. Montford.”
“Very well,” I said. “I shall return shortly.”
I made my way to the kitchens, the sound of metal spoons clinking and the strong scent of rosemary floating up the hall as I approached the back of the house.
The kitchen in London was a great deal smaller than the one in the Montford’s country house but it had many more modern amenities, including a stove that was much larger, two iceboxes, and an array of the finest copper cookware that money could buy.
I stopped outside the door, bracing myself.
Mrs. Rose would not take kindly to me walking in without being summoned.
It’s for Mrs. Montford, I reminded myself. Think of her. Think of what she needs right now.
I stepped inside and heard the hiss of something hitting a hot cast iron pan. Mrs. Rose stood at the stove, her back to me.
Two other workers were present, working diligently to chop vegetables and sift flour. A third person, a man I did not recognize, stood near Mrs. Rose at the stove.
Dressed in a brown suit, he had an official look to him and held a small notebook in one hand, a short pencil stub in the other. Barely glancing up from
his notebook, he spoke in a monotonous tone.
“…appreciate that your time is as limited as mine, ma’am, so I will be brief. Perhaps you can point me toward the person with whom I need to speak?”
Mrs. Rose banged a spoon against the side of the pan, obviously irritated at the presence of a visitor in her kitchen. “As I told you, sir, this is not a convenient time. She is very likely with the mistress, who has asked not to be disturbed today. I can only tell you that you or the Sergeant should come back another day.”
The brown-suited man’s eyebrow twitched upward. “Difficult as it may be to believe, ma’am, murder investigations do not wait for convenient times.”
Mrs. Rose swung around, hefting the skillet, and set it upon the worktable behind her.
It was at that moment that her eyes fell upon me and she straightened, glaring at me.
“Anna, what are you doing here?”
“I do not mean to bother you,” I said, folding my hands. “I was hoping that I might have some red dye, if you could point me to it.”
Mrs. Rose’s eyes narrowed further. “Fine,” she said. “But first, this policeman has come around to ask you questions. Do us a favor and get him out from underfoot. I cannot work with extra bodies in my kitchen.”
With an annoyed grunt, she left the skillet upon the table, still simmering, to walk back toward the door to the larder, likely to fetch the dye I had asked for.
The man swept a glance over me.
“Good afternoon, Miss…?” he asked.
“Miss Fairweather,” I confirmed. “I take it there have been new developments, if the Sergeant needs more information from me?”
“I am not at liberty to say but I will try not to take up much of your time,” he said.
“I see.” I glanced around, looking for an out of the way place to sit, but every table and surface was covered. “Perhaps we could speak with more privacy through here.”
I ushered him to the door, which he opened and allowed me to pass by beside him, out to the back of the rowhouse. Immediately, the noise and bustle of the kitchen disappeared as the door swung closed behind us.
The back of the house was a great deal less grand than the front. Mrs. Montford’s home backed up to a narrow lane that was left for deliveries and the kitchen staff disposing of rubbish. It was empty, apart from a barking dog toward the opposite end of the street and the clang of someone disposing of their trash. It was not a very pleasant setting but at least we would not be overheard.
“If we may begin now,” the officer said, returning his attention to the notepad in his hands. “I am here to follow up about Mr. Hill’s death. I understand you are our only witness.”
“Yes,” I said. “I did see what happened.”
“But you still say you did not see precisely who was responsible for the attack?” he asked. “You have thought of nothing that would help to identify the attacker? He did not seem in any way familiar, like someone you might have met or seen before or since?”
“No,” I said. “No, nothing like that.”
He searched my face and I knew he was looking to see if I was telling the truth.
He nodded after a moment and put away his notebook. “Very well,” he said. “That was all I needed to know. Thank you, Miss Fairweather, for your patience.”
He started to walk around me and a question popped into my mind.
“Why did you come all this way to ask me those things?” I murmured, watching him. “If you work for the police, then surely you know I have already answered those very questions before.”
He stopped, the bottom of his boot scraping in the gravel, and turned to regard me.
He did not say anything but something about him seemed to change subtly. His posture became more alert.
My heart began to race, although I did not know exactly why.
I should have just let him go. I should not have said anything. Yet, emboldened by the truth, more questions tumbled out of me.
“And if you do not work for the police, then…who are you? And why are you interested in Mr. Hill’s death?”
Suspicion had been swirling around in the back of my mind. Despite his dull, unremarkable demeanor, there was something not quite right about this man. A policeman ought to have been in uniform, ought to have introduced himself, ought to have called openly at the front door, rather than talking his way past the servants at the back.
The sinking feeling in my stomach grew as his eyes, now narrowed, fixed upon me.
An overwhelming warning of danger washed over me and I knew I had taken my questions too far.
Suddenly, Mr. Jerome’s words of warning swept through my mind like an errant gust of wind. The night at the theater, he spoke of Mr. Hill’s enemies—how there had been many.
The winds shifted and at once I was brought back to the art gallery, standing beside Mr. Sedgewick. He mourned the loss of a man whom he should have given pardon to. He saw a missed opportunity but his hatred had been alive and well before Mr. Hill’s murder.
He wasn’t the only one.
The night at Sir Fitzwilliam’s home bloomed to life, along with the conversation with Fannie the maid and hearing of Lady Grove’s love of Mr. Hill.
Seeing the bust of Lady Grove, carved by Mr. Hill’s friend and supposed rival in the affections for Lady Grove, Mr. Jasper Fields…
My heart stopped and I stared at the man.
The bust of Lady Grove. She had worn a necklace of stars.
The killer… his knife had a black star imbedded in the blade.
And this man standing before me…
I noticed for the first time that beneath his collar a string was just visible hanging around his neck. Upon it he wore a wooden star, smooth and polished, seemingly made from the same wood as the bust of Lady Grove.
With a sickening drop in my stomach, my knees buckling, I grabbed onto the wall beside me.
“You… You killed him,” I said, my voice catching in my throat. “You’re Jasper Fields.”
14
How foolish I had been. The facts had been staring me in the face the entire time. I had seen time and time again the single most important part of this whole affair that could have surely solved this days ago. It would have certainly not forced me into the situation in which I currently found myself.
The stars. It had always been about the stars.
The star in the knife… I had thought I had imagined it, despite the clarity with which I remembered it. How was it that I had not thought of it when I had seen the carved necklace on the bust of Lady Grove, which had been adorned with stars, all five-pointed, as it had been on the blade. It seemed the star was some sort of personal symbol this man enjoyed working into everything he did...even murder. Perhaps it was true what was said, that artists were a poetic lot.
Mr. Jasper Fields stood before me, his nostrils flaring and his snake-like eyes fixed upon me, ready to strike.
I had done it. I had found the truth.
He moved quickly, reaching into the pocket of his trousers and withdrawing a small wooden-handled blade. A carving tool meant for wooden projects, I thought. A whittling tool.
My stomach twisted in on itself, as I stared at it.
A star had been punched out of the metal.
Evidently, the star I had seen the night of the murder had not been black. It was the shadow behind the knife, a hole revealing the darkness.
“Well, well…” Mr. Fields said, clenching the weapon tightly in his hand. He took a step toward me. “Well done, then. It seems I should have come up with a better cover story.”
I took a step back, almost backing into the wall of the house behind Mrs. Montford’s. “Your knife… I saw it that night.”
“How interesting,” he said. “Perhaps I should have done better in choosing my weapon, though the chance to take his life with my own tools seemed far too fitting to pass up. I must admit, I did not think I had an audience that night. When the rumors started to fly that Mr. Hill had been
murdered and that the client he had been painting before his death had been investigated, I realized there was a chance I was seen by someone from the household.”
He looked lovingly down at the blade in his hand.
“That is when I began to hear that the police had spoken with someone that very night, asking particulars about the murder. One of those officers blabbed to his wife, who promptly turned around and told all of her friends. Someone saw it happen. A servant. A young woman.”
My heart thundered, pounding in my ears, the blood rushing and making my ears ring.
“It was easy to narrow down,” he said. “After doing a little digging, I learned all I needed to about Mrs. Montford. Which means that now, you are the last string to tie up.”
I took a sidestep toward the house, keeping my back away from the wall. “You love Lady Grove…don’t you?”
That caused him to freeze, his entire body stiffening.
“I could tell. The great care that you put into that beautiful carving of her,” I said. “I saw it at Mr. Sedgewick’s gallery.”
His jaw flexed as if he clenched his teeth.
“Jonathan Hill knew that I loved her,” he said, lowering his hand ever so slightly. His gaze hardened. “I had told him. I had carved her, and as I did, I fell in love. He was my friend, so I naturally told him my intention to propose marriage. That was when he swooped in and told me that she had confessed her love for him.”
I almost pitied him.
“He did not care for my feelings, telling me that I had not acted quickly enough, that she had made her choice,” he said. “He did not know how I pined for her. When given the chance to carve her, I thought for certain that she had asked me to do it as a means of telling me how she felt, as well,” he said.
He ran his thumb lovingly over the side of the knife.
I tried to swallow but my throat felt constricted.
“She needed a special kind of attention from someone,” he said. “The sort of attention that I could give—and I would have happily given to her. I would have given her my life.”
I took another hesitant step toward the door to the kitchens