The Matchmaker's Lonely Heart

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  She was not about to admit as much to the detective, however, or even to her cousins. She needed some time to consider the matter, to let it settle in after having allowed her heart to think that Mr. Radcliffe, a man with manners that could illicit swooning and an appearance to rival the handsomest of princes, might court her, Amelie Hampton. The disappointment was heavy.

  Detective Baker straightened his jacket as he reached her side. “Ladies,” he said, “shall we go exploring, then?”

  Amelie looked down at the scavenger hunt list in her hand, surprised to see it crumpled. She quickly tried to smooth it flat.

  “Well done, detectives,” she said, grudgingly including Detective Winston in her compliment. “We are fortunate indeed you are in attendance tonight.” She did manage a genuine smile for Detective Baker as he glanced over her shoulder to look at the list.

  “Any man would have done the same thing,” he mumbled, his glance flicking to her face. She knew in that moment that he’d seen Mr. Radcliffe’s lack of response.

  “I do not believe that is true, Detective,” Charlotte commented. “There were many men between you and Mrs. Blakestone who did not lift a finger.” She tilted the corner of her mouth in a smile, which signified to Amelie that the detectives had earned her cousin’s respect.

  Amelie sighed and frowned, again looking at the list but this time not seeing the words on it. Charlotte would certainly side with Detective Baker in overt criticism of Mr. Radcliffe and his potential criminal acts. She realized her pride might be her downfall; it certainly wouldn’t be the first time she’d been stubborn because her heart didn’t want to admit she might have been wrong. She matched couples for the Gazette regularly; how on earth had she so badly mismatched her own?

  “Detective Winston,” Miss Trunsteel interjected, “suppose you and Miss Caldwell and I begin our search? I do not mind admitting I am a competitive sort.” She smiled, and Amelie reluctantly admitted she was free to like the woman again now that she no longer desired Mr. Radcliffe’s attention.

  Detective Winston smiled, and it quite transformed his face. Amelie blinked; he looked downright pleasant. “In that case, Miss Trunsteel, is it? Miss Caldwell? I suppose we had better be about the business of winning this challenge.” He glanced at Detective Baker, who lifted a shoulder in response, but nodded.

  Charlotte looked at her copy of the list. “I propose we begin in the conservatory. On the back of the paper is a map of the house, and I believe that is just down the hall this way.” She gestured to the right.

  “We shall begin in the library, then,” Eva said. “To the victor go the spoils!”

  Charlotte dashed away, and Eva bolted for the stairs. Amelie couldn’t help but smile as the front hall cleared and she and Detective Baker followed Charlotte down a wide hallway that was lit with gas sconces that cast a low glow.

  Detective Baker chuckled. “Do you share your cousins’ competitive spirit?” he asked Amelie as they rounded a corner.

  “Probably not so much against them, specifically. Eva and Charlotte grew up together in the same town and were raised more as sisters than cousins. Such circumstances are likely to foster an element of playful competition, I suppose.” She smiled. “I would pity anyone who crossed either of them, however; retribution from the other would be swift and painful.”

  They followed Charlotte through a wide, arched doorway and entered a large room with a domed glass ceiling through which the dark sky was visible.

  “Oh, my,” Amelie said, taking in the splendid room. “This is lovely.” She turned to the detective, who was also looking up at the beautifully shaped iron supports that gave structure and form to the glass-paneled ceiling. “I find myself increasingly curious about the Misses Van Horne. Their story is likely a fascinating one.”

  “We shall inquire about it later,” Charlotte said, scanning her list. “We’ve a game to win.”

  “Charlotte,” Amelie laughed. “There is time enough.”

  “You saw Eva! She took to that staircase at a dead run.” She glanced at Detective Baker. “How clever would you say your partner is? Well versed in riddles or games with clues?” Charlotte waved the paper.

  The detective frowned as he considered the question, which to his credit, he appeared to take seriously. “He is quite clever, I would say. Quick-witted, talented with pen and paper.”

  Amelie made a sound of disbelief. “I’d decided to refer to him as ‘Detective Witless.’”

  Detective Baker looked at her in surprise. “Whatever for?”

  She frowned and hoped she didn’t look as impetuous as she felt. “As it happens, I wondered why you brought him here. I assumed from his blunt questions to Mr. Radcliffe that he was either unaware of your investigation and desire to foster good will, or he knew and did not care.” She sniffed. “Seemed rather daft to me.”

  Detective Baker laughed, and Amelie found herself surprised a second time that evening at how one simple expression could so transform a face. “Detective Winston is quite an amiable fellow. In fact, most would proclaim him the friendlier of the two of us.”

  “Certainly hid it well, did he not?” Charlotte commented as she examined the room. “To what end?”

  The detective glanced at the door and lowered his voice. “I asked him to join us here this evening. The intent was to provide a foil to my burgeoning ‘friendship’ with the gentleman.”

  Amelie nodded. “Of course. Sound investigative technique. Convince the subject to confide in the one who is friendly by applying pressure from the surlier party. Very well, I am obliged to reform my opinion of Detective Winston. I wipe the slate clean as it concerns him.”

  Detective Baker’s mouth twitched. “He will be relieved to hear it.”

  She scowled. “You needn’t be patronizing, sir. I am well aware he has no need of my good opinion, even though I am part of your investigative efforts. I do not suppose you mentioned that to him?”

  “I have shared all pertinent information with him.”

  “Hmm. An evasive answer, but I shall retreat. Charlotte, the clue about keys that fit no lock must refer to either a pianoforte or a piece of written music. I see both.” Amelie wrote her answer next to the clue, as did Charlotte.

  “An angel’s dream is most likely the harp,” the detective added.

  “Good, good,” Charlotte nodded. “And a ‘courtly bow.’”

  Amelie wandered toward the glass walls, looking out into the large back garden. The world outside was dark, and rain began to patter on the ceiling. The garden was full of thick, tall foliage through which she saw glimpses of lantern light. She folded her arms tightly against a sudden chill. The darkness outside, while lending a certain cozy charm to the room, felt foreboding.

  “I wonder if ‘a courtly bow,’ could be this violin bow,” Charlotte commented. “Not the same, but neither are pianoforte keys the same . . .”

  As Amelie was about to turn away from the window, a shadow caught her eye. She frowned and looked closer, and when her breath fogged the glass, she wiped it away with her sleeve.

  “What is it?” Detective Baker asked, joining her at the window.

  “A movement against the light, a shadow—I am not certain. Perhaps nothing.” Amelie blinked, straining to see into the night.

  Charlotte joined them and looked in the same direction. “Perhaps the wind?”

  Detective Baker pointed at a grassy plant that shifted slightly under a small gust of wind. “The wind is not blowing too much at the moment; was the movement more significant than that? Do you think it was a person?”

  “It could be,” Amelie said, but was beginning to doubt herself. “This evening has been such an odd one, my brain is likely playing all sorts of tricks on me.” She shrugged. “Either way, there’s certainly nothing wrong with a person taking a stroll in the garden.”

  “In the dark?” Charlotte sai
d just as Detective Baker said, “In the rain?”

  Amelie looked again at the spot where a small path disappeared into the trees. It had been a long day, and her eyes were tired.

  “A servants’ entrance off the kitchen, perhaps? Someone leaving for the day.” Detective Baker stood close behind Amelie and peered into the garden again.

  She looked up at him, noting the stubble along his jaw and the subtle scent of freshly laundered clothing. It was not, she realized, unpleasant. He placed an arm on the glass, encircling her on one side, and she felt his warmth. At first, she resisted leaning back against him, but as he leaned closer to peer through the glass, she gave into the urge, allowing herself to rest lightly against him. She thought she heard him catch his breath, but when she glanced up at him, his attention was focused on the garden.

  He slid his arm from the window, but rather than pulling away entirely, he placed a hand on her shoulder, warming the chill that seeped in from the cold glass.

  “We must hurry,” Charlotte finally said, turning away from the window. “Eva will be through her second room by now.” She didn’t look at Amelie or the detective, but a smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. “I am marking the third clue as a violin bow,” Charlotte called, scribbling on her paper as she hurried from the room.

  “Are you cold?” Detective Baker asked, his voice little more than a whisper against Amelie’s ear.

  “A bit.”

  He moved his hand down from her shoulder and rubbed her arm. “Let’s move away from the windows.”

  She remained in place, looking again at the garden, which by now was completely blurred by the rain. “I truly believe I saw something. Someone.” She shook her head. “I may be losing my mind.”

  She felt his chuckle against her back. “If so, you’re in good company, Miss Hampton. I fear we’re all a bit mad.”

  The rain increased and fell from the roof and down the sides of the windows in long rivulets. “We should join Charlotte,” Amelie said, but remained in place.

  “After you.”

  She looked up at him and turned, and his hand finally fell away from her arm. “Detective,” she started. She suddenly wanted him to know that her feelings for Mr. Radcliffe had changed. Would he find her fickle, though?

  “Yes?” He swayed toward her but then shoved his hands in his pockets and took a half step back.

  She frowned, feeling as though the moment was heavy with something she couldn’t define. “I—nothing,” she finally finished. Her cheeks warmed, and she began making her way from the room. He matched her stride, and Amelie felt herself blush.

  In the corridor, Charlotte was some distance ahead, and Amelie called for her to wait. “Detective,” Amelie said, “I could not help but notice the odd exchange between Mr. Radcliffe and the Great Prospero.” She glanced around, confirming that they were the only three in the vicinity. “I am quite convinced they know one another.”

  Charlotte looked over her shoulder. “I am certain of it. He nearly snarled at me when I asked him.”

  Amelie nodded.

  “Miss Hampton, does this mean you are in agreement with the reasons for this whole”—Detective Baker waved his hand and encompassed their surroundings—“exercise?”

  Amelie sighed, conflicted. Did she truly believe Radcliffe capable of murder? “I am not convinced of that, necessarily, only that he claimed to not know the man when clearly he does.”

  The detective nodded. “The only reason I can think to deny their association would be to help the entertainer maintain his ruse. Their exchange, however, seemed much more a taunt on Prospero’s part than any sort of support from Radcliffe.” He spoke the last in an undertone as they reached the double doors leading to a spacious ballroom.

  “Why the need for such quiet?” Charlotte asked. “Both men in question have left already.”

  “I’d rather the others not hear me discussing them.”

  Charlotte shook her head as she consulted the list of clues. “I would be more surprised if nobody else has discussed them. The entirety of Prospero’s performance and their exchange, in particular, was strange.”

  They entered the ballroom where a few other groups were already searching for answers to the clues.

  The detective again looked at the paper Amelie held and scanned the room before the corner of his mouth tilted up in a smile. “‘Rebellious love.’ That balcony.” He pointed to the second floor entrance, where a staircase traveled from the doorway down to the floor. To the right was a small balcony.

  “Oh!” Amelie laughed. “Of course! It’s a Juliet balcony. That is very clever of you, Detective.”

  He modestly tipped his head, smile remaining, when Amelie heard a faint sound that she couldn’t quite place. She held up her finger and went back to the entrance, listening.

  Now, the sound was unmistakable. She turned back to the others in the room, many of whom were watching her curiously. “Someone is screaming,” she said, and ran from the room.

  We hardly need mention the importance of sheltering your fair daughters from life’s uglier circumstances. Limit their social engagements to properly chaperoned visits to the theatre or to house parties hosted by People of Consequence.

  —The Care and Keeping of Girls and Young Women

  by Miss Hortence Strongberry

  Michael rushed to follow Miss Hampton through the ballroom entrance and down the length of the hallway. She’d not been wrong—someone was screaming. Though, given their hostesses’ eccentricities, he’d not have been surprised to find it part of the evening’s entertainment.

  He neared Miss Hampton as she ran toward the front hall, just as Winston and the others came running down the stairs. The screams were followed by sobs, and Miss Hampton stood at the threshold of the large foyer, eyes wide. She’d stopped as if afraid to take one more step.

  She looked back at him and held out her hand. “Detective?” she whispered.

  He reached her side, anxiety growing, and placed a hand under her elbow.

  “Look!” Miss Hampton said.

  A pool of blood was spreading on the floor at the feet of the sarcophagus. The thing itself was cracked open, and someone had clearly been placed inside. An arm was visible, from which blood dripped steadily off the fingertips. Michael approached it cautiously, still unable to see who was inside. He felt the wrist for a pulse. There was none, but given the amount of blood on the floor, he hadn’t expected to find the victim alive.

  Mrs. Groot, the screamer, had fainted into her husband’s arms. He also looked like he might drop to the floor, but Miss Caldwell swiftly helped him take her into the parlor. Winston regarded the scene, along with Miss Duvall, who stood next to Miss Hampton in shock.

  Michael had a sneaking suspicion of who might be inside the sarcophagus. He glanced at Winston. “I hope you brought your sketchbook.”

  Winston patted his jacket pocket, still looking at the large coffin.

  Michael motioned to a maid and the butler, indicating they should come close to help if necessary. He took a breath and cleared his throat, addressing the group gathered in the foyer. “Ladies and gentlemen, where are the Misses Van Horne?”

  The crowd rustled, offering up the women in question, who hurried forward with identical expressions of concern that turned quickly to shock. To their credit, they did not so much as sway or faint.

  “Am I to understand this is not part of the evening’s entertainment?” Michael asked the women.

  “Certainly not,” Ethel Van Horne replied. “We never stage this sort of thing until much closer to All Hallows’ Eve.”

  Michael opened his mouth to reply but thought better of it and instead cleared his throat again. “Ladies, please gather all of the remaining guests into the parlor, and instruct everyone to remain in the house until we know exactly what has happened.”

  The small crowd
shuffled through the hall, passing by Winston, who stood next to the puddle of blood so nobody would walk in it. Michael approached the sarcophagus, noting Miss Hampton hovering nearby and watching, her hazel eyes a mixture of shock and interest.

  “Do you wish to join the others in the parlor?” he asked her quietly.

  She swallowed, but responded, “I wish to remain here, but I’ll not get in your way.”

  “Very well.” He turned to Winston. “Let us open the thing enough to see who it is.”

  Winston nodded and went to the opposite side. Together, they slowly widened the gap between the two halves of the coffin. It was a feat easier said than done, however, because the amount of blood spreading on the floor still grew. The sarcophagus was heavy and awkward, and Michael had visions of the whole thing tipping forward.

  “A bit more,” Michael murmured to Winston. “Just a bit more . . . Stop!”

  The victim’s head fell forward and rested on interior of the sarcophagus lid. Michael exhaled. His earlier presumption had been correct, and the victim was one of the two he’d suspected they’d find.

  He heard Winston’s low whistle from the other side. “The Great Prospero has met an untimely end, it would seem.”

  A butcher knife protruded from Prospero’s chest, and although Michael still did not have a clear view of the body, when he moved the man’s jacket to the side, he spied two more spots of blood on the shirt. He’d been stabbed at least three times, possibly more.

  “I oughtn’t jump to conclusions,” Winston said, “but if we do find fingermarks on the knife handle, I think I know to whom they’d belong.”