by Blythe Baker
I bit the corner of my mouth and looked away from her. “I don’t have much to go off of yet.”
“Then you have to go downstairs,” Catherine said, almost begging now.
I didn’t want to go downstairs and insert myself into the interviews, but I also didn’t want to let Catherine down. She was distressed, and her plan wasn’t entirely without merit. I could learn some valuable information that might help point me in the right direction.
So, despite the exhaustion that kept my eyes half-closed, I put on a wool skirt with a white blouse and sweater, powdered my face, and adjusted my curls. Catherine stood in the doorway the entire time, as though she didn’t trust I would go downstairs if she left.
“This wedding has gone to your head, Catherine,” Alice said from beneath the covers. “You have become far too bossy.”
Catherine ignored her sister and saw me to the top of the stairs before she darted back into her own room.
I didn’t hear the sergeant’s voice until I reached the entrance hall. The staff was being interviewed in the formal sitting room at the front of the house. The doors were half-closed, allowing me only a sliver of a view into the room, but their voices drifted out clearly. He was speaking with George, Lord and Lady Ashton’s driver.
“And you have worked for Lord and Lady Ashton for awhile now?” the sergeant asked.
“Yes, sir,” George said. “I worked for them for many years, and then briefly worked for their niece, Miss Rose Beckingham, before returning to work for the Beckinghams.”
George made no mention of the fact that he was fired from his position as the Beckingham’s driver due to their suspicion that he was a criminal. I could not blame him for omitting that detail. He was innocent, as it turned out, so it seemed self-sabotaging to mention it.
“For James and Eleanor Beckingham?” the Sergeant clarified.
“Yes, Lord and Lady Ashton,” George said.
“Would it be safe to assume you’ve met a great deal of their family members over the years?” he asked.
George hummed in the affirmative. “I’ve driven many of their family around London or delivered Lord and Lady Ashton to their homes for a visit. I don’t often speak with them on a personal basis, but I recognize many of them.”
“And did you recognize Augusta Whitlock when she arrived?”
“I had never seen her before the day she arrived here at Ridgewick,” George said. “I’d heard her name plenty, but she was not a regular visitor to the Beckingham home.”
“When you heard her name, what was the context?” the Sergeant asked. “Were Lord and Lady Ashton fond of Augusta Whitlock?”
There was a long pause, and I pressed myself closer to the wall next to the door, aching to hear his answer. Finally, George sighed. “Truly, not many people spoke favorably of Augusta Whitlock. I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, but from the little I knew her these last few days, she was confrontational.”
“She fought with the other guests?”
“Yes,” George said.
“Did any of these fights stand out as particularly noteworthy?”
“As a matter of fact,” George said. I heard his chair squeak as he leaned forward. “Lady Ashton assigned her servant to watch after Augusta Whitlock, and it did not end well. Mrs. Whitlock accused the servant of stealing from her.”
“Did she steal from her?” the sergeant asked.
“A necklace was found in her room,” George said, his voice sounding unconvinced. “I’ve known Miss Brown for a year, and she was always a sweet, quiet woman. Nothing had ever gone missing before this weekend, so it seemed surprising to me. Though, I was also surprised when Miss Brown was dismissed by Lady Ashton for the theft. She raised her voice to Lady Ashton and threatened Augusta Whitlock.”
I had to cover my mouth to conceal a gasp. How had I forgotten that detail? Miss Brown’s parting words before leaving the property had been a threat. If I have anything to say about it, this will be the last time you treat anyone this way.
“She threatened her? How?”
George spoke in a higher pitch than normal to mimic Miss Brown’s voice. “If I have anything to say about it, this will be the last time you treat anyone this way.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“I believe she also called the woman ‘horrid,’” he said.
The Sergeant hummed, and I could hear the scratch of his pen across paper, taking notes. “But Miss Brown was dismissed from her duties, yes?”
“Yes,” George said. “But I did see her on the property the day of Augusta Whitlock’s death.”
I froze to the spot, my heart practically leaping from my chest. How was I just now hearing about this?
“What was she doing here?” the Sergeant asked.
“I’m not sure,” George admitted. “I didn’t speak to her. I saw her from afar. Everyone was on the lawn for the party, and I saw her walk in a side door into the kitchen. I made to follow her and see why she’d returned, but then Augusta Whitlock fell and the screams from the lawn distracted me. I didn’t see her again.”
“You haven’t seen her since that day?”
George made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded like a denial. “No, I haven’t.”
The interview began wrapping up, and I knew I could not be found standing outside the door. Besides, the information George had shared was enough that I didn’t need to listen to any more interviews. Miss Brown threatening the deceased the day before her death was troubling, but did not necessarily connect her to the murder. However, now that she was also placed at the scene of the crime the day it occurred, there was no denying that she had moved up on the suspect list.
I crept out of the entrance hall and down the narrow hallway where the staff quarters were located.
Miss Brown’s door was closed and there was no light coming from underneath the door, so I quietly turned the handle and stepped inside. One panel of the curtain was pulled back, allowing muted light from the sunrise to filter into the room, and enough light to see by.
I’d thoroughly searched Miss Brown’s room a few days earlier, so I noticed, at once, that there were things missing that had been there when she’d stormed out. The Bible next to her bed, for one, was no longer there. Gone, too, were the few plain dresses she’d had hanging in her closet and the shoes beneath them. I didn’t know whether Lady Ashton had ordered her things to be packed away or whether Miss Brown had come back to the house to collect them herself. Perhaps, that was why she’d returned to the house the day of the garden party.
Just as I had during the first search of her room, I looked under the bed and under the neatly tucked covers of her bed. I ran my hand along the baseboard and the cracks of the wooden floor, searching for any floorboards that would lift or hiding places we had missed on the initial search. I found nothing. There was a hairbrush that looked like it had fallen to the floor from the top of the dresser and slid beneath the night stand, but beyond that, the room was clean. Desperate for any kind of clue that could connect Miss Brown to Aunt Augusta’s death, I crawled into the closet.
There were a few crates stacked in the corner that looked like they had been there for years and were labeled as seasonal decorations, but before I could open them, I noticed a thin layer of dust on the left side of the closet. The rest of the closet was slightly dusty, but this powder had a different appearance. It was white with a slight shimmer to it.
I did not recall noticing it the first time we were in the room, though I was not the one who searched the closet. Lady Ashton had taken on that task, and the shoe prints appeared to match the high-heels Lady Ashton most often wore—Miss Brown was usually seen in flats. If the footprints were truly Lady Ashton’s, then it meant the dust was present before Miss Brown was dismissed from her duties.
I leaned forward, my nose almost touching the floor, and smelled the powder. There was no noticeable odor. Then, I ran my fingertips through it. The powder clung to my skin easily. The particle
s were incredibly fine and even the slightest exhale sent them wafting in the air like a puff of smoke. Perhaps it was makeup? A pressing powder of some kind? Even so, I couldn’t imagine why it would be in the closet.
I was still kneeling in the closet when I heard the hinge of the bedroom door squeak open. I jumped to my feet immediately and spun around to find Nicholas Whitlock slowly closing the door to Miss Brown’s room.
He was dressed and ready for the day in brown wool pants, a tan jacket, and a striped collared shirt beneath. His hair was dark and slicked to the side. Still, his shoulders were hunched as he moved, as though he was trying to make himself smaller than he really was, and his shoes stepped lightly. I knew at once he did not know I was in the room with him.
“Nicholas?”
His spine lengthened in an instant, and he jumped backwards in surprise, his legs hitting the edge of Miss Brown’s bedside table. The lamp teetered dangerously but did not fall.
“Miss Beckingham,” he said, hand to his chest, his breathing coming in fits and starts. “What are you doing in here, Rose?”
I brushed my hands on the fabric of my skirt, cleaning my fingers of the powder. “I believe I could ask you the same question.”
Nicholas stared at me for a moment before he smiled. “I suppose you are right. Though, truthfully, I believe I know why you are here.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You do?”
He nodded and took a step towards me. The room was already small, but with his broad shoulders filling the space, I felt even more crowded. Trapped.
“I’ve heard from a few of the other guests that you solved the last murder that occurred in this house,” he said softly, taking another silent step towards me. “I suspect you are attempting to do the same thing again.”
I was in Miss Brown’s room pursuing her as a suspect, but that did not mean I had forgotten Nicholas Whitlock’s motives. The less he knew about my investigation, the better.
“The police seem perfectly qualified to resolve this matter. I’m sure they do not need my help,” I said. “In the last murder case you mentioned, the police were not investigating at all, which is why I was forced to become involved.”
Nicholas nodded, but I could tell by the slight turning up of his mouth that he did not believe me. “Well, then your reasons are a mystery to me,” he admitted. “As for me, I came here to search for more of my grandmother’s belongings. Or for some kind of evidence that would connect Miss Brown to the crime.”
“You believe she may have been involved?” I asked.
“My grandmother is the reason she lost her position, which seems like a motive for murder. Not for a sane mind, of course,” he said. “But to the deranged, any slight is enough to turn them violent.”
“True,” I agreed. “Though, I hardly thought Miss Brown was deranged. She was a loyal servant to my aunt for the last year. It is hard to imagine her capable of such a thing.”
“Stranger things have happened,” he said with a wink. But before I could respond, Nicholas moved to the window and drew the curtain, cloaking the room in darkness. When he turned back to me, he was half-hidden in shadow. “You claim you are not investigating the murder, and perhaps you truly are not, but I hope I can persuade you otherwise.”
My heart was thundering in my chest. The room was too small and too dark and too isolated. I felt as though I was suffocating. “You want me to investigate the murder?”
“You’ve done it before,” he said. “Several times, if the other guests are to be believed. I do not know the police, but I know you, Rose. Well enough, at least. I’ve seen enough of you to know that you are an honest woman, and I would feel better knowing you had a hand in capturing my grandmother’s killer.”
“That is very kind of you to say, Nicholas.”
“I meant every word,” he said, crossing the room in three long strides and laying his hand on my shoulder. It all happened so quickly that I could not run away or keep my distance. My stomach tangled into knots as I looked up into his face, realizing how helpless I was in that moment to defend myself against him should he wish to hurt me. “I would really like for you to help me catch Miss Brown.”
I smiled up at him, my lips trembling with nerves, and then slowly side-stepped his hand and moved around him towards the door. Nicholas made no move to stop me, but I was still much too aware of his presence behind me and how easy it would be for him to rush forward and block the door—my only escape. When I reached the door, I turned the handle and stepped halfway through it. A draft from the hallway ruffled my skirts, and I felt like I could breathe normally again. I would get out.
“If it would help ease your suffering, then I will keep my eyes and ears open over the next few days for any signs of who could be responsible,” I said. “I will do my best to catch whoever is guilty.”
Nicholas beamed at me, his teeth reflecting light even in the dim room. “Thank you, Rose. I truly appreciate it.”
I did not want to leave him alone in Miss Brown’s room, but I also could not force myself to remain in the enclosed space with him for another moment. So, I nodded, stepped into the hallway, and hurried back up to my room where Alice was still sleeping.
15
Despite the excitement of the morning, the rest of the day passed slowly. Nicholas remained inside, not yet ready to face the entire party of guests, and Catherine and Charles too remained busy prepping for the wedding they desperately hoped would still happen. After breakfast, Charles and Vivian Barry moved out onto the grass—the first guests willing to do so since Aunt Augusta’s death—and the rest of the table soon followed after.
Aunt Ruth and her three daughters had been angry and sullen ever since their attempt to move from Ridgewick Hall to the Inn had been foiled, but even they could not resist the allure of the warm sunshine and the soft breeze moving through the trees. Sitting out on the lawn, the sound of bird calls and swaying grasses filling the air, it was hard to remember the chaos of the garden party. The screams and cries for help as Dr. Shaw worked on Augusta Whitlock. That memory seemed too dark and distant for such a beautiful day.
Alice stayed close to me, watching me slightly more carefully than she ever had before, but doing nothing else to suggest the secret she had learned about my identity. When she wasn’t observing me, she was running into the house to see if Nicholas needed anything. Vivian Barry had been doing her best to cater to Nicholas’ needs during his time of mourning, and Alice seemed determined to out-do her. She found some reason or another to knock on his door three different times between breakfast and lunch and wrapped up a scone from the afternoon tea tray in a napkin to take to him since he did not come down for lunch.
Part of me wanted to know what Nicholas was doing alone in his room, but another part of me wanted nothing to do with him. Guilty of the murder or not, he made me uncomfortable, and I was happy to not have to be near him. I wanted to warn Alice away from him, but I knew it would be pointless. Not only would she not listen to me, but my warning her away would likely only increase her affections for the man even more. Lady Ashton whispered to her daughter multiple times that he was her cousin, and Alice insisted her interest in him was familial, but everyone could see through that. She had an infatuation that I hoped would end as soon as everyone returned to their normal lives and he was not within walking distance anymore.
Anytime Lady Ashton went back into the house to check on Catherine or talk with Lord Ashton, the guests began whispering about Augusta Whitlock’s death. They did their best to be respectful around Catherine and Lady Ashton, but they were understandably consumed with curiosity about the events surrounding it.
“I can’t believe they really think it could be a murder,” Aunt Ruth said to one of her daughters, though she said it loud enough for everyone in the grass to hear. “The woman was elderly. It seems obvious to me that she died of old age.”
Lady Harwood harrumphed in disagreement. “She stumbled about the garden as though the ground was falling out from
beneath her. I don’t remember her doing that the first day she arrived. In my opinion, the illness came upon her suddenly.”
“Illness?” one of the Blake daughters, who I suspected might have been Margaret, asked. She curled her legs underneath her on the grass, adjusting her pale blue dress over her knees, and turned to her mother, concerned. “No one mentioned anything about an illness.”
“Because she was not ill,” Aunt Ruth said. “She was old.”
Lady Harwood turned her body away from Aunt Ruth as though she would not deign to speak to her, and instead spoke to the air, he voice carrying across the grass. “Everyone will see the truth when we all contract the same illness. Locked in this house as we are, like wild animals in a cage. It will not be long before we all begin to exhibit symptoms.”
One of the maids carrying an empty glass into the house coughed to clear her throat, and Lady Harwood lifted a finger in the air, eyes wide. “You see? No, it will not be long now.”
Dr. Shaw sat in a chair near Lady Harwood doing his best to ignore her. He had taken her temperature too many times to count and could do nothing further to reassure her she was not dying, so he stayed quiet.
Aunt Ruth and Lady Harwood continued their debate, each of them pretending they were not talking to one another, though they responded to each other’s theories, and I adjusted my position in the grass. My hands were beginning to tingle from holding them behind me to prop myself up. However, when I sat up straight and folded my hands in my lap, they continued to tingle. Soon, the tingling became a constant burn. As though my fingers were positioned ever so slightly too close to a raging fire. I stared down at my hands, turning them over in my lap, studying my skin. Was it just too much sun or were they beginning to turn red?
“Rose?” Alice asked, leaning in. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, fine,” I said, tucking my hands in a fold of my dress.
She nodded and went back to relaxing on the grass, but I could feel her eyes on me. I tried to ignore the pain in my skin, but the longer I sat there, the worse the sensation became. Finally, I excused myself and hurried up towards the house. Once inside, I went straight into the washroom.