Deadly Curious

by Cindy Anstey

  Daphne tipped her head and nodded. “I find the whole thing distressing, Mr. Fraser; discussing it will not change that. However, if you are going to walk up to Allenton Park with us, could we discuss the murder in the privacy of the upper road?”

  “Absolutely.” Mr. Fraser gestured forward and they stepped into the crowds, strolling at a comfortable pace past the busy shops. As promised, they stayed away from the topic of murder for the time being. Their discussion comprised, instead, observations about the weather. It was not particularly scintillating conversation, and the topic was happily dropped upon venturing past the last house of West Ravenwood.

  The road was dappled with sunshine as they walked along under the tall elms. Bees chased the wind and birds filled the air with melodies. Daphne was quiet for some minutes before Sophia realized that her cousin was deep in thought about Andrew.

  “There was no hint,” she said eventually. “His death changed our lives forever, and yet we had no warning. The sun came up at the expected time. Cook burned the toast, Father hid behind his newspaper at breakfast, William had gone for a ride, and Mother was still abed. All very normal.” She kicked a rock further up the road. “Nothing prepared us for the horror.”

  Sophia blanched and stepped closer to Daphne. She wanted to offer some words of comfort, but everything had already been said, many times over.

  “We were told that his suffering would not have been long due to the depth of the wound. I suppose that was some comfort. The underbrush was well and truly trampled. Constable Marley decided that it meant Andrew had been waiting for someone, likely pacing.”

  Mr. Fraser tsked appropriately and made sympathetic noises. He hesitated for a moment and then squared his shoulders. “Do we know who that someone was? Whom he was waiting for? Actually, let’s go back. I have none of the details.

  “When was your brother murdered, Miss Waverley? Is there an estimated time? Who found his…” He hesitated once more. “… his body?” He cleared his throat and continued. “Where was he found? Who examined the body? Were there signs of a struggle such as premorbid wounds or bruising? Was the time of death determined? How would someone with murderous intentions know where to find Andrew—alone and vulnerable?”

  “Stop, Mr. Fraser, please! Give me time to answer.” Daphne took a deep, ragged breath. “Andrew was found by one of the groundsmen, sent for that purpose, and he was killed in July of last year. Mr. Reyer, the village surgeon, examined Andrew’s body. He had been stabbed. Bruising was not mentioned within my hearing, and as to the killer finding him—” Daphne laughed; it was an abrasive sound, not at all jubilant. “Andrew was a ladies’ man, and a man of habit. It was likely a common meeting place for a romantic rendezvous.”

  She swallowed convulsively and Sophia knew her cousin to be struggling with her emotions.

  “You keep saying ‘man,’ Daphne,” Sophia chimed in. She wanted to give her cousin a breather, a break from the horrendous memories. “Mr. Fraser might get the wrong impression.” She turned to the Runner with a troubled expression. “Andrew was but three and twenty. Still quite young.”

  “Indeed. Twenty-three is young; though three years older than I am at present, Miss Thompson.” Thoughts of a puzzling nature flit across his face until he returned his gaze to Daphne. “Please, continue.”

  “There is not much more to tell. The knife was not found. Animal traps and snares were discovered in the vicinity, lending to the theory that Andrew happened upon a poacher and was killed by him for fear of being revealed. That was the motive Constable Marley suggested. But the case has gone nowhere.” Daphne blinked rapidly, and then continued quickly to hide her discomfort. “Most people think it was an accident. But how can someone be stabbed by accident? It was a deep wound; it would have required a strong thrust. And then, Constable Marley insinuated that Father had something to do with it. That made no sense at all.”

  Lost in thought, the three continued to walk down the road in silence. The whinny of a horse in a nearby field brought them back to the here and now.

  “But that can’t be all, Miss Waverley?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Something has happened. There’s been some change—Mr. Waverley referred to it and Constable Marley implied it. I would not have been called in otherwise.”

  “Unless Uncle Edward was getting frustrated and wanted fresh eyes,” Sophia said.

  “Yes, true enough. And yet, I’m convinced that there was a new incident. What could that be?” Mr. Fraser shook his head, a thoughtful expression etched into his handsome features.

  “New?” Sophia turned to stare at Daphne as she came to an abrupt halt. “Do you know?”

  “There was something,” Daphne said, swallowing convulsively. “Something awful. I could hardly believe that Father carried it into the house, let alone crowed with pleasure at his find.”

  Sophia touched her cousin’s arm. “What do you mean? What did he find?”

  “The knife. He found the knife that killed Andrew in Glendor Wood.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Listening at the Door

  The silence between them was deafening, and the day suddenly darkened as the sun slipped behind a cloud. The half light augmented the strained atmosphere, and the steep climb to the manor became a challenge.

  “Where did he find it? And why does your father believe it is the knife that was used to kill your brother?” Mr. Fraser asked with careful diction, as if he were weighing the value of each word.

  “Yes, evidence,” Sophia said, pleased to recognize the tactics that were being adopted by the Runner. “What evidence was associated with the knife to make Uncle Edward believe it to be the … one that—?”

  Uncomfortable with the direction of her thoughts, Sophia broke off. She was being too blunt, too cavalier about Andrew’s death. Andrew had been a bully, and quick tempered, but his sister had loved him.

  Sophia should think before she spoke. It would be a lesson well learned.

  Fortunately, Daphne was too lost in her own thoughts to realize that Sophia had been tactless.

  “I really don’t know why he thought so, but he was convinced of it.” Daphne stopped walking and turned toward Sophia. “Things are not as they should be, Sophia, not at all. We are still at sixes and sevens; I was not exaggerating when I wrote.” After taking a ragged breath, she continued. “I’m scared,” she said without a quiver of emotion in her voice—no melodrama.

  Such stoic conduct from her cousin was more unnerving than tears. “What are you scared of, Daphne?” Sophia asked, trying to sound unruffled and in control of her own fears.

  “I think someone is trying to kill me,” Daphne added in a whisper. Then, glancing at Mr. Fraser. “It’s likely nothing,” she said with a false laugh. “Just accidents, mistakes, lapses in judgment … nothing at all.”

  Mr. Fraser frowned. “Accidents? What accidents?”

  Daphne’s face puckered as she considered. “I tripped on a toy horse that had been left on the stairs,” she said. “Nearly tumbled down to the tiled floor of the entrance hall, but Sophia caught me.” She turned to Sophia, giving her a warm look of appreciation.

  Mr. Fraser blinked in surprise. “A toy? Are there children at Allenton Park?”

  “Exactly. You see the problem.” Daphne nodded with approval. “No, no children at Allenton. There haven’t been for some years. The toy came from the nursery, which hasn’t been used since I was a tot.”

  Sophia had tried to find a reason for the toy being on the stairs but had yet to devise an alternative theory. She had questioned the butler on the way out the door, and when receiving no new information, she had questioned the footman. All to no avail; everyone was puzzled as to how the toy came to be on the stairs.

  “And then last week, just before I wrote to Sophia—the reason I wrote to Sophia—a box of sweets arrived as a mysterious gift; the donor was not identified. They were placed on the front step with my name. Mrs. Curtis—our housekeeper—” she ex
plained, “brought them up to me. I quite enjoyed the treats … but they made me sick as a dog. The physician thought that they might have gone off or been poisoned. Mother spoke to Constable Marley but he did not investigate—just suggested that we don’t eat anything left on our front step again.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Weak advice. Not in the least helpful,” Sophia said, making a conscious effort to smooth her furrowed brow. She was rather put out with Constable Marley and his cavalier attitude.

  “Why would anyone try to poison you?” Mr. Fraser asked. His tone was even and professional, but his eyes were stormy.

  Sophia gazed up at the sky, paying little heed to the placement of her feet. “Did the box have a manufacturer’s label? We could find out who sells those type of sweets in town. They might be able to say who bought them. A description, at least, would be a start.”

  Mr. Fraser leaned forward to look at Sophia. He tipped his head and frowned as if surprised by her question. “Excellent idea.”

  Sophia smiled warmly at the young gentleman, inordinately pleased by the comment and his look of admiration.

  “Yes, indeed, it is a good idea,” Daphne said as she shook her head. “But unfortunately, the box was thrown out long ago, and I didn’t notice anything on it before it was trashed. Just a plain white box with a blue ribbon.”

  Once again, the three lapsed into silence, their footsteps in unison as they trudged up the hill. As they came to the crest, the whole of Allenton manor was laid out before them. The wide drive circled around a colorful bed of dahlias in the center of the lawn and continued up to the front door. The opening front door.

  A female figure emerged, wearing a yellow day dress embroidered with winding leafy vines and small roses. Her full sleeves were cuffed at the wrists, and had flounces around the neckline. It was an elegant display that surprised Sophia; the ensemble exhibited a sophistication seldom seen outside London.

  Daphne stiffened and then dragged in a heavy breath. “Charlotte is here.”

  “Ah, so this is Charlotte,” Sophia said. “You’ve mentioned her several times but I do not recall who she is.”

  “You’ve met, though I believe it would have been several years ago,” Daphne said, speaking quickly. “Last time you were in West Ravenwood, Charlotte would have been away at finishing school in Bath. She is Mrs. and Reverend Dewey’s daughter, but she has become quite attached to Mother. They plan charity events and the like throughout the year.”

  Daphne’s voice became harsh and her steps slowed. “We are not particular friends. Though, as I said, she is great company for Mother.”

  Sophia glanced in Mr. Fraser’s direction. She was not surprised to find that he was absorbed by the approach of Charlotte Dewey; Charlotte was a handsome young woman. Her features were striking—reddish blond hair, blue eyes and a wide mouth that dimpled under her cheeks. Looking demure and biddable, she bobbed a shallow curtsy when she reached the trio in the center of the drive.

  “Hello, Charlotte,” Sophia said to fill the conversational void; it had suddenly gone silent. “It’s been a long time. I didn’t recognize you.”

  “A long time, indeed, Miss Thompson,” Charlotte agreed, and then turned to Mr. Fraser. “Mr. Waverley is expecting you. That is … I mean … you are Mr. Fraser, are you not?” She continued after seeing his nod. “He is waiting in his study.” She moved to the side, allowing him space to step past her.

  “Shall I do the introductions?” Sophia asked quickly, trying to smooth over the awkward moment. She didn’t want to see Mr. Fraser rush off right away.

  After the presentations were complete, Sophia made certain to include Mr. Fraser in the niceties of health inquiries and weather comments before he decided that he would leave them to their chat. He offered a backhanded wave as he entered the manor, and the door closed behind him. Sophia was disappointed to see him go but turned back to Charlotte with a smile.

  “I didn’t know you were coming today,” Daphne said. Her expression more than her words offered the question: Why are you here?

  “I came by to visit with your mother, Daphne.” Charlotte flapped her hand over her shoulder in a wide swoop to indicate Allenton manor. “Mrs. Waverley wants to hold a charity event—something to benefit the poor of the parish. We’ve been considering a booth at the fair, a gala party, or contest of some sort. The funds would go toward the parish children’s education. It is most generous of her to take the time to organize such a thing.”

  “Yes, Mother does enjoy helping the less fortunate.” Daphne glanced at the front door and took a half step in that direction. “And what did you decide?”

  Charlotte’s brow furrowed, and her expression was pained. “Nothing yet. Our meeting has been postponed. Mrs. Waverley is distracted—rightfully so, but distracted nonetheless, by your father, Miss Thompson.” She glanced at Sophia.

  “Aunt Hazel has not seen my father since Andrew’s funeral last year,” Sophia said. “They have much to discuss and news to relate.”

  “That was certainly evident.” Charlotte gave a half laugh … almost a giggle. “They were rather animated, guffawing and talking over each other. Splendid to see after so many months of brooding.” Charlotte glanced toward the door as if she could see through the wood. “The distraction is just what your mother needs.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Daphne said with a frown, likely not appreciating the familiarity of the reverend’s daughter. “I’m sure you will be able to discuss the charity event with my mother soon enough. You need not despair.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Charlotte nodded, mistaking Daphne’s commiseration for support.

  * * *

  Once inside the grand entrance hall, Daphne headed down the central corridor to the drawing room to return the repaired pendant to her mother. Sophia headed to her uncle’s study near the foot of the staircase. She hoped that she hadn’t missed too much of the meeting between Mr. Fraser and Uncle Edward. Rapping on the door in a firm but nondemanding manner, Sophia stood back waiting to enter. She had heard the murmur of voices as she had approached the door, but they broke off as soon as Sophia’s knuckles brushed the wood.

  “Yes.” Uncle Edward pulled the door open, exposing a medium-size but comfortable paneled room, sporting hound and horse paintings on the walls as well as four wingback dark leather chairs in the center of the room. An ornate George III desk sat against the far wall.

  “I was wondering if I might sit in on your meeting, Uncle? Daphne has asked me to help with the investigation.”

  Uncle Edward chuckled. It was not a happy sound, but one that was forced and grated her nerves. “Has she? Teasing you, I think. What a suggestion.” He continued to chuckle until he noticed that Sophia had not returned his smile. “Certainly not! What was she thinking? What are you thinking? Young ladies do not involve themselves in murder! It’s … it’s … it’s unnatural.” Uncle Edward turned an unusual shade of red as he huffed and stammered.

  A squeak and a tap on the floor tiles behind her alerted Sophia to someone’s approach. Shoes or boots scuffed across the porcelain.

  “What would your father say if he knew?” Uncle Edward pounded the floor with his cane.

  “Knew what?” Sophia’s papa asked, peeking his head over Sophia’s shoulder. “Are you causing problems again, Sophia?” He patted her arm with affection.

  Sophia pivoted to look at him. He grinned at her, looking more relaxed than he had in months; the lines around his mouth had all but disappeared and his folded brow was … well, not folded. Getting out from under the oppression in Welford Mills had done him a world of good.

  “Warren, please talk to your daughter,” Uncle Edward insisted. “It is most unseemly for a young girl to want to involve herself in murder. Unseemly and vulgar. Yes, yes, quite out of good character. This is a case for the professionals to investigate.” He started to close the door. “If she needs something to do, there are ladies’ magazines in the drawing room, with dress patterns and hair … suggestions.” A
nd with that final condescension, he closed the door—rather firmly.

  “But, Papa,” Sophia began, turning to face her father. “I’m not interested in dress patterns.”

  “Yes, I know, my dear. But I have been instructed, as you heard, to tell you that it is most unseemly for a girl to become involved in murder—”

  “He said, for a young girl to want to involve herself in murder.” Sophia curled up the corner of her mouth, preparing to debate the issue. “Unseemly and vulgar.”

  “Yes, yes, too true. He did say that. And apparently this is a case that requires professional investigation.” He waved at the footman, standing stiff and straight by the front door. “Could you bring us a chair, please?” He turned back to Sophia. “And you should know there are ladies’ magazines in the drawing room, with dress patterns and hair … suggestions. Did I get it right that time?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Right there.” Papa pointed the footman, who now carried a Chippendale chair with a green seat cushion, to the right side of the study door. “Now sit, Sophia.”

  Sophia sat with a very ungraceful drop and offered her father a scowl.

  “Excellent. Now, I direct you to sit here, thinking about everything we have just discussed. You will have to be quiet for a fairly long time. You might hear voices coming from the study…”

  Sophia sat up straight and leaned to the left, closer to the door.

  “But you will have to ignore everything that is being said within the study and contemplate dress patterns and—”

  “Hair suggestions?”

  “Exactly.” Then lowering his voice so that only Sophia could hear, he asked, “What are you doing, by the by?”

  “I am hoping to help Mr. Fraser solve Andrew’s murder.” Then she touched her father’s arm and met his gaze. “For a purpose, Papa. Not idle curiosity or a burning desire to be a busybody. I must find an occupation, now that my marriage prospects are near zero. And after a great deal of reflection, I have decided that I would like to be an investigator. A Bow Street Runner.”