by Eliza Casey
Cecilia opened her handbag and showed Mary the scraps she had taken from the cottage. “Did you write these, then?”
Mary frowned as she studied them. “No. I did write her, but I made sure the notes were kind, loving. Flattery was the only thing with a chance to work with Mother. I wouldn’t say words like this, and it’s not my handwriting.” She lifted them to her nose for a long inhale, above the dry dust of the tower. “That’s Monty’s cologne, though. Like these handkerchiefs, see?”
“So this is from Monty?”
“It . . . it could be. But why would he be writing to my parents? He knows it can do no good.”
So Monty had blamed the Prices, particularly Amelia, for his misfortunes. He had been threatening her, followed her to Danby Village—and when Amelia refused to even pay attention to his notes, to give up her work, had he gone and pushed her to her death?
Cecilia closed her eyes and remembered what everyone had said about that terrible night. Amelia stayed up late alone; Cora’s mind was thick from medication; Anne thought she had heard voices, thought she heard the Winters’ car leave, but couldn’t be sure. A man walking away from Primrose Cottage. Everyone had thought it was Guff, but what if it was Monty Winter, visiting his mother-in-law late at night to try to persuade her one more time, who shoved her in a fury? What if Guff had only come upon her later, and taken the ring for opportunity? Or maybe Monty even sold the ring to him, insult added to injury.
“Mary,” she asked, “was what you said at the inquest true? You went to sleep early the night of your mother’s rally and heard nothing until morning?”
“Yes, of course. Monty brought me some cocoa—my stomach was delicate that night, too, after we met with Mother and she refused to help us again. I fell asleep, and next thing I knew it was bright morning. And they said Mother was dead then. Why do you ask?”
“Mary,” Cecilia said slowly, careful not to frighten her. “I think maybe we should get out of here . . .”
* * *
Jane couldn’t find Mr. Winter at first. The Danby gardens were very crowded now, masses of people playing croquet and lawn tennis, having picnics on the grass, trying their hands at quoits, buying scarves. Lady Avebury and Miss Clarke were talking to Mr. Brown and Lord Eversham under the shade of the open-sided tea tent. Lord Avebury came up to them and pointed something out, making them all laugh. Her ladyship and Miss Clarke both stared up at Lord Eversham with wide eyes from beneath their feathered and flowered hats, and Jane couldn’t really blame them. He was good-looking, and seemed charming. Rich, too, probably, with a big house just like Danby somewhere. Lady Cecilia could do worse, and maybe, just maybe, she herself could be lady’s maid to a marchioness someday.
Jane sighed. No time for such pie-in-the-sky dreams right now. A murderer was still loose somewhere in the neighborhood, and Mary Winter was ill. Maybe Mrs. Winter was the killer herself, as Lady Cecilia speculated. Jane wondered if she should find Dr. Mitchell first, or the inspector. But then she glimpsed Mr. Winter over by the lemonade stand. She hurried toward him.
“Mr. Winter!” she called, and he spun toward her, startled, just as he was pulling some coins from his coat pocket. Jane noticed it was the same jacket he wore at the séance, black piped in tan, unusual for the country.
Her sudden shout had made him spill the coins onto the grass—as well as a crumpled scrap of fabric, white linen handed with green, purple, and white silk, ripped apart roughly at one end. Mrs. Price’s torn suffrage sash.
Jane couldn’t control the horror on her face fast enough. His expression hardened; his eyes turned to shards of ice. Jack darted forward and caught the scrap in his sharp little teeth, running away with it. He disappeared into the thick stands of trees just beyond the formal gardens, his orange fur vanishing amid the fading greens and vivid golds. Jane ran after him, afraid she would lose him, and Monty was in close pursuit. She could swear she heard his heavy breathing, his crashing footfalls close behind her, and her heart pounded so loudly in her ears that she could barely hear anything else. She’d never been so terrified, not even when the ship sank underneath them coming from America.
Monty’s fist caught her apron, ripping at the lace-edged tie, but she managed to slip out of it and keep running, chasing Jack’s orange plume of a tail. In the old teahouse just past the lake, she saw two faces peering out in shock—Rose and her footman beau, Paul. Rose looked guilt stricken at abandoning her bring-and-buy post, but that seemed comically immaterial now.
“Find Inspector Hennesy, Rose!” Jane shouted as loudly as she could, not slowing down. She had to warn Lady Cecilia. “Send him to the old tower!”
She reached the tower several steps ahead of Monty Winter and tried to slam and lock the heavy door between them. But there was no longer a bar or lock, as no one ever used the tower, and the old wood was thick but crumbling. She saw a fallen beam nearby and slid it across, hoping it might hold, before she ran headlong up the winding staircase, just behind Jack and his prize.
She found Lady Cecilia and Mrs. Winter in the round watch room at the landing and slammed the door there behind her. The windows in the room were glassless but a little wider than the ones above or below, for keeping watch for Saxon marauders. Dried leaves crunched underfoot on the stone floor, making Jane’s boots slide. Cecilia and Mary rose to their feet, eyes wide with panic.
“He’s—he’s following me,” Jane gasped, her ribs stabbing with pain. “He had the scrap of Mrs. Price’s sash!”
Jack dropped it from his sharp little teeth, as if to demonstrate.
“What do you mean . . . ?” Mary whispered, but there was no time to say anything else.
The door slammed open with such force it became unhinged and crashed to the floor, scattering dust and leaves. Mary screamed at the sight of her husband, his stony face and icy eyes, looming above them.
Cecilia wrapped her arm tightly around Mary’s shaking shoulders, and Jack picked up the scrap again as if to keep it safe. So, it was Monty Winter all along, not his wife or father-in-law, not the thief, not Cora Black and her ghosts or Mrs. Palmer and her Union ambitions.
Monty looked down at the scrap and back to his wife. His expression seemed only mildly interested and vaguely disappointed, as if a play he’d paid a lot to see had fizzled terribly.
“I do wish you had not seen that,” he said softly. “I was a great fool not to dispose of the—thing much earlier. Now, whatever shall we all do about this?”
* * *
Cecilia scooped up the scrap from Jack before Monty could indeed dispose of it, and dragged Mary and Jane back with her to the side of the room, near the window. She knew there wasn’t far to go; the ruined room with its crumbling old stone walls had only the one door to the stairs, which Monty blocked, but if they could distract him, she could surely shout for help out the window opening. She could hear the echo of voices and laughter from the garden. If only she was louder . . .
“I certainly was a fool to hold on to that blasted thing,” Monty said with a laugh. “So forgetful of me. But I did have so many things on my mind lately, thanks to your dreadful family, Mary dear. What a useless lot you turned out to be! And your viper of a mother—I should have known you would be made of the same stuff in the end. I suppose at least she and your sister are not quite as stupid as you.”
“Stupid!” Mary screamed. As if that was the worst of this situation. “I loved you! I’ve always been a good wife to you.”
“A good wife?” Monty said softly. “I married you because your family was meant to be of use to me. And your mother’s insanity cost me my position.”
“You cost yourself your position!” Cecilia couldn’t help but retort, remembering what she had heard in the offices of Bird and Wither. “With your incompetence. Mr. Jermyn would never have hired you! And it was you who tried to knock me off my bicycle, wasn’t it? There in the lane? You should be ashamed of yourself. Yo
u could never have been a true gentleman.”
“You interfering little witch. Yes, I saw you going past on that absurd contraption and thought I could send a little warning. You should have listened,” Monty said. “You’re as bad as the other harpies who don’t know their place, earl’s daughter or not. Now you’ll pay, too.”
He suddenly lunged at Cecilia, who, caught by surprise, stumbled back over the hem of her dress and hit her already-sore shoulder on the stone wall. Mary wailed, and Monty’s hand snatched bruisingly at Cecilia’s arm.
She kicked out at him, but she tripped over a loose stone on the floor. Fear and anger made everything hazy in her eyes. Monty dragged her toward the window, her kid shoes slipping and sliding on the stone floor, and she made herself go limp and heavy. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jane rushing at Monty’s face with her fingernails, yet she was too far away.
Suddenly, a golden-yellow streak shot upward with a yowl, and Jack twined himself around Monty’s feet as he landed. He sank his fangs in deep, through his trousers and skin. Monty gave a yelp of pain and kicked Jack, sending him flying against the wall. Cecilia yanked herself free and tumbled to the floor in a heap.
But Jack had done his job well in those few seconds. Monty lost his balance, and Cecilia, on the ground, stuck her leg out as far as she could, tripping him. With a terrible shout and then a piercing scream, he tumbled back through the window, where he had intended to drag Cecilia. The shriek ended abruptly with an ominous thud—then silence, before a clamor rose up from the horribly interrupted party.
Mary ran to the window and peered out, screaming and screaming as if she would never stop.
Jane dashed to kneel beside Cecilia, her expression horrified. “My lady! Are you hurt?”
“Jack,” Cecilia gasped. She let Jane help her to her feet, and they both hurried to poor Jack. He lay in a heart-stoppingly still heap of marmalade fur on the cold floor, and Cecilia had never felt such fear.
“Oh no, no,” she sobbed. She gently touched Jack’s soft little head—and was rewarded by a soft “mrow” and a bright-green eye blinking open.
“Oh, thank heavens, darling Jack,” Cecilia said, carefully gathering him into her arms. Jane kissed him on his nose, and he settled against Cecilia with a sigh. “You are a hero, Jack!”
* * *
“So, let me see if I understand this rightly, Lady Cecilia,” Inspector Hennesy said doubtfully. “Montgomery Winter was the murderer.”
Cecilia shivered and drew the blanket someone had brought her closer around her shoulders. They sat in the library, Jane next to her on one of the red leather settees, Lady Avebury hovering in the corner, poised as if she would run to her daughter at any moment. Anne had taken Mary, to be questioned later, back to Primrose Cottage with a sedative from Dr. Mitchell. The garden had emptied out, everyone eager to spread the gossip that a murder had occurred at Danby Hall. Again.
“Yes,” she said. “Because he blamed Mrs. Price for losing his employment. Even though it was his own incompetence at his job, as I am sure they can tell you at Bird and Wither in Town. Or Mr. Henry Price could tell you. He refused to help his son-in-law any longer. Jane and Mrs. Winter also heard it all. I really do feel like such a fool!”
The inspector looked puzzled. “A fool, Lady Cecilia? And why is that? For getting trapped with a murderer in a tower? I admit it’s not something I’ve seen before, but hardly impossible considering the criminal mind.”
Cecilia sniffled. “Well—that, too. I shouldn’t have taken Mary there. Mostly because I, well, I did think for a while it might have been Mary.”
“Mrs. Winter?” Inspector Hennesy looked even more confused. “You thought a woman could have done such a murder, Lady Cecilia? Her own mother? Why?”
Cecilia glanced at her mother, who was watching her with such worry. She thought of their own relationship—such deep love, such irritation sometimes, so much bafflement about where the other one was really coming from. She could never hurt her mother, but she had learned that people were sometimes capable of truly dreadful things. “Because of the letters, and what she said at the inquest. She admitted she had written seeking some sort of reconciliation, but nothing like those scraps at Primrose Cottage. And she was so very opposed to her mother’s work, so ambitious for her husband. She wanted a comfortable life as a successful lawyer’s wife. Surely, desperation to hold on to the life she knew would drive her do things she wouldn’t ordinarily even think of. You must see such things all the time in your work, Inspector.”
“Er—yes. Certainly. But not usually from ladies.”
“Then you should watch carefully, Inspector Hennesy,” Cecilia said. “Women have fewer options, you see. Marie Manning, for instance, or Constance Kent. But it was Mr. Winter this time. Who knows what might happen next?”
“Quite. I think we’ve learned a great deal about the feminine nature this week, have we not, Sergeant?”
Sergeant Dunn looked utterly baffled, as if he certainly hadn’t learned a thing about the “feminine nature” from the whole messy Price business. “If you say so, sir.”
“I’m sure you’ll both be happy to get back to a nice, peaceful city,” Jane said.
“I’ve certainly had quite enough of fresh country air,” Inspector Hennesy said, snapping his notebook shut. “Do you have anything to add, then, Lady Cecilia? Miss Hughes?”
Cecilia and Jane shook their heads. “I am afraid that’s all we can tell you, Inspector. Maybe Mrs. Winter can add more once she is feeling calmer.”
“Very good. You can go, then. I will speak to Mrs. Winter and Miss Price later today.”
Cecilia remembered how Mary looked when her sister led her away, utterly pale and shocked. “I’m not sure she can be of much assistance yet.”
“Nevertheless, one must do one’s duty,” Inspector Hennesy said.
Cecilia thought he sounded just like her grandmother. “Certainly.”
She tugged the blanket closer around her, like a cloak that might protect her from those awful, flashing memories of that day, Monty Winter trying to kill her then tumbling to his crushing death. Mrs. Caffey had just come in with a tray of well-sugared tea and some of Mrs. Frazer’s best raspberry tarts, and Lady Avebury busied herself pouring out the drinks and urging Cecilia to drink more of it, to eat something. It took a few minutes for Cecilia to escape and follow Jane from the room.
To her surprise, she found Sergeant Dunn waiting in the foyer while Inspector Hennesy spoke to Mr. Brown just outside the front doors. The sergeant looked quite surprisingly shy as he glanced at her.
“Yes, Sergeant Dunn?” she said. “Did you have another question?”
He glanced surreptitiously at his boss, who was still out of earshot. “No, I—that is, not about the case, no. I just wondered . . .”
“Yes?” Cecilia said, as gently as she could.
“Is Miss Hughes—walking out with anyone?”
Cecilia almost laughed in surprise. So she had been right! The sergeant was sweet on Jane. But was Jane sweet on Collins? It was all much more pleasant to think about than murder. “Not that I know of, Sergeant. I doubt Miss Clarke would want to lose her lady’s maid right now.” And Cecilia certainly didn’t want to lose her friend. Jane and Jack had made life at Danby much less lonely since they arrived. Yet Sergeant Dunn did look so dear and earnest as he asked. “Perhaps, once things have settled a bit, you might like to call on her? Her half days are usually Wednesdays.”
He looked quite relieved. “I just might do that. Thank you, Lady Cecilia.”
“Sergeant!” Inspector Hennesy barked. “What are you yammering on about over there? Our work isn’t finished, you know.” Mr. Brown had gone, and the inspector loomed in the doorway.
“Yes, Inspector. Of course. Right away.” The sergeant put his helmet back on and hurried away.
Cecilia turned away, only to come b
ack when the inspector called her name.
“Was it only those letters that made you suspect Mrs. Winter, Lady Cecilia?” he asked.
Cecilia thought of all she and Jane, and Annabel, too, had done in the last few days, all they had heard in London. But she decided it would be far more useful if Inspector Hennesy thought her a silly Society fribble than a busybody—just in case such an unlikely situation ever arose at Danby again. Not that it would, of course. Surely, life was going to go back to tea parties and lawn tennis and dancing with sweaty-palmed cricket chaps again. This year’s church bazaar would just pass into legend.
“It was the séance,” she said.
He looked baffled. “Séance?”
“Yes. Miss Black is a spirit medium, didn’t you know? She held a séance at Primrose Cottage to contact Mrs. Price. It was most enlightening.”
Now he scowled. “A séance?”
“Yes. The other side can be most fascinating, Inspector.” She gave him one more light smile and decided to go back to fetch another cup of tea from Mrs. Caffey.
As Cecilia gulped down the welcome, bracingly strong and sweet brew, she saw that her mother had gone around to sit on the terrace with her father, Annabel, Patrick, and her grandmother. Mr. Brown had joined them as well, with the ruins of the empty bazaar just beyond. It looked most strange, the abandoned tents, the overturned tables, and a tea party on the terrace as if nothing had happened.
“I never knew the countryside could be quite so wildly fascinating,” she heard someone say, and she turned to see that Lord Eversham was still there. He, too, looked utterly unruffled, perfectly dressed in his stylish brown suit, and bright hair shining. His eyes were full of laughter, though they held a tinge of concern.
She was shocked he hadn’t fled with the others, to spread the word of the curse of Danby Hall. To forget he had ever danced with or sent flowers to that odd Lady Cecilia Bates.