by Cindy Anstey
“Rather drastic to shoot at someone even if they have caused an insult.”
Jeremy glanced at Sophia, noting her stiff stance and suddenly unanimated expression and quickly continued. “Or was Miss Waverley the target … to frighten her, to keep her at home? Though why, when she is not actively involved in the investigation remains to be determined.”
“It might have nothing to do with Andrew’s death or the investigation.”
“True enough, but then what? A robbery gone awry? A secret admirer hoping to ride to the rescue?” He took a deep breath and continued. “Perhaps the shot was meant to scare you both and the family. A warning—do not venture further!” He said the last phrase in a deep booming voice, as if it were from on high. He was rewarded with a laugh—though it was slight and Sophia still appeared concerned.
“Really! That was rude!” a voice said from inside the conservatory. The tone was prickly with insult.
Jeremy nearly jumped out of his skin, but hid it with a quick turn of his head. Two faces with wide eyes stared back at him. “Ah. Miss Dewey and Miss Waverley, good morning,” he said affably, stepping closer to the broken window, affording a comfortable conversation. “I was speaking to Miss Thompson and meant you no insult.”
Charlotte harrumphed—actually harrumphed—and did not look mollified.
“It’s early for a call, Mr. Fraser,” Daphne said. “Even a business call.” She blinked on realizing that she had just criticized Charlotte as well, but the reverend’s daughter was distracted. She was staring at Sophia.
“You have leaves in your hair.” Charlotte looked from Sophia to Jeremy, her cheeks growing red.
“Do I?” Sophia asked and then turned to Jeremy. “We really should not frolic in the bushes, Mr. Fraser. Apparently I have leaves in my hair. They gave us away.”
Jeremy found it difficult to keep a straight face. “Perhaps not,” he said when he had mastered his amusement. He reached up and pulled a curled leaf from the crown of her head and offered it back to Sophia with a deep bow—as if the object were a beautiful rose.
Playing her part, Sophia dropped into a deep curtsy. “Thank you, kind sir,” she said, taking the shriveled brown leaf with reverence. But the act fell apart as her enjoyment won through. With a laugh, she offered the leaf to Daphne and then Charlotte, and when neither took it in hand, Sophia tossed the leaf to the ground.
“Charlotte is waiting for Mother to finish her morning meal and requested a visit to the conservatory. Apparently, the shooting is being discussed all over town,” Daphne explained in a rush; perhaps she was discomposed by the silliness. “She wished to see where we were nearly killed.”
“Oh yes, I was so concerned,” Charlotte said, clearly forgetting that she was supposed to be piqued. “Thank heaven you and Daphne are safe. Mrs. Waverley would have been so upset had something happened to either of you.”
Jeremy nearly snorted at the understatement.
* * *
Lifting the paper off the small bedroom desk, Sophia sighed and shook her head. She had taken an hour to list all the people in and about the manor at the time of Andrew’s death, as well as the present. The lists were almost identical. Sophia was a little light on the names of the servants and their roles within the house and required a consult. Charlotte might be gone by now, and so Daphne would be available and brimming with information, or so Sophia hoped.
Pushing away from the desk, Sophia rose. Investigating required a fair amount of questioning, thinking, and rethinking—mental exercises that she found invigorating. But there was a noble purpose to her questions now: solving a crime. What could be more rewarding than assuaging the pain brought on by the premature ending of a life? Yes, Sophia nodded to herself, she had found the perfect way to spend her days.
She glanced out the window just in time to see Jeremy disappearing down the drive. She watched for a moment, noticing his relaxed loping pace and his confident posture. She was strangely drawn to the young gentleman, and upon introspection, she realized it was not entirely his position as a Runner that quickened her heart. She was very much attracted to his smile and the mischief in his eyes when he teased.
With a heartfelt sigh, Sophia watched until Jeremy disappeared around the curve of the drive, then she headed downstairs. Unfortunately, when she stepped onto the main floor, the mixture of voices emanating from the drawing room told her that Daphne was still ensconced with Aunt Hazel and Charlotte. The consult would have to be postponed.
Stepping backward across the tiles, Sophia considered a chat with Uncle Edward as an alternative. She glided across the floor to the study and pressed her ear to the door. She could discern two distinct voices, but the oak muffled the sound, making the identification of said voices difficult.
Grabbing the door handle, Sophia thought she might open the door a crack—just enough to identify the occupants. Then she could decide on whether she was comfortable causing a disruption or if she would wait until later.
“What are you doing?” Mrs. Curtis asked. Her collection of keys jangled noisily as she traversed the hall, coming from the back of the house.
“I was hoping to get Uncle alone,” Sophia explained. “But he seems to have company, likely my father. I was hoping to ask him—Uncle Edward that is—some questions regarding various … various members of staff. Oh wait. Mrs. Curtis, you are the very one I should talk to! You would know better than anyone.”
“Know what?” the woman asked suspiciously. “What are you up to?” She frowned and ran her hands down her skirts. It was a habit that Sophia had noticed before.
“I’m making a list of Allenton Park occupants at the time of Andrew’s death and those that are here now. I would like to compare and cross off names—there are so many.”
“Suspects?”
“Possible suspects.”
“It’s not your job, Miss Thompson, and you should leave it to the professionals.”
“I would like to be one of those professionals—a Runner—one day, Mrs. Curtis. I’m helping Mr. Fraser with the investigation.”
Mrs. Curtis sputtered a laugh; it was full of disdain. Then she held out her hand, onto which Sophia placed the list. She kept her pencil at the ready for changes and alterations.
“Hmm. You’ve done quite well. Miss MacIntyre should be added to the first list—but not the second. The under-gardener’s name is Glen—Glen Phillips.”
“Tall man with a bushy beard?”
“Indeed.” The housekeeper shifted, as if preparing to continue on her way. “Oh, and Marty Sneed is the new boot boy,” she added, handing back the pages.
“Excellent. Thank you.” Sophia clutched the papers to her bodice, pleased that her memory had served her well. She made the amendments and then, lifting her skirts with one hand, Sophia dashed up the stairs to her room. She grabbed Investigating Murder and Mayhem and tucked the list pages inside.
As she would be more comfortable waiting for Daphne in the library, Sophia started back down the staircase. Lost in thought, Sophia did not watch where she was going.
Her feet suddenly went out from under her, and she slammed down onto her posterior. Her book and papers fluttered to the ground. The hard landing jolted her, and Sophia squeaked pathetically, breathing deeply.
Shocked, Sophia frowned at her hands, now propping her up on the stairs, and tried to reason out what had happened. With a thud, Sophia slipped to the next step and so on down until she reached the bottom on her bottom.
Struggling to her feet, and very glad that she had not made any noise and drawn a crowd, Sophia dusted off her skirts, arched her back, and rubbed her posterior where it had come in contact with the steps. She turned to stare at the bottom step where the bright, cheerful ball that had caused her accident sat half inflated. It looked quite innocent, bright blue with a square of red and white candy stripes.
The fact that it was not in the nursery or the attic was odd—very odd indeed. Like the toy horse that Daphne had tripped over, it was out of
place. There was nothing threatening about the ball.
And yet, situated as it had been in the middle of the staircase almost guaranteed that someone was going to step on it. Sophia was just lucky that she had fallen backward onto the most padded part of her anatomy. If she had pitched forward, she could have snapped her neck.
* * *
Sophia was very attentive for the rest of the day. She watched her feet, her path, even checking around doors before entering a room. She was not afraid, really … just aware that someone at Allenton Park had bad intentions. Whether it had anything to do with her investigation of Andrew’s death or was merely a grudge, Sophia could not say. Whether it was directed at her, she could not say, either; everyone in the family used the staircase.
Though, the same could not have been said about Daphne’s ruined dress. That had felt personal, directed against Daphne. Informing her aunt and uncle about the destruction had elicited stoic silence from Uncle Edward and a sigh of weariness from Aunt Hazel. Neither was very helpful.
Sophia was left with even more questions. Was the villain a member of the staff or the family? Questions heaped high and wide with nary an answer.
It wasn’t until the end of the evening that Sophia had a chance to speak to Daphne about the ball on the stairs; her cousin was more than a little disturbed.
“Last week, I stepped on a toy horse. This week you tripped on a ball. Someone is going to be hurt!”
“I think that is the point. The villain moves among us,” Sophia said with unintended drama. “In the house, or at least has access to the house.” She was beginning to share Daphne’s sense of foreboding.
“Is this the same person who killed Andrew?”
“I don’t know.” Sophia gnawed at her bottom lip. “Poachers would not have access to the attic to grab a toy and the dress in your wardrobe…”
They were seated on Sophia’s four-poster bed, having retired for the night. Betty was busy stoking the fire across the room and hanging Sophia’s gown in the wardrobe. “I’m beginning to understand why you felt so desperate. It feels personal. And we’re no further ahead in our search for the culprit.”
“It feels as if someone is playing with us—trying to escalate our fears. Enjoying our misfortune.” Daphne turned her face toward Sophia, distress written in every line. “What would cause such animosity that murder becomes a viable option?”
“Is murder the intent? Or is it merely harm: a broken leg here, a bundle of nerves there?”
“Andrew—”
“Andrew might be an exception,” Sophia said.
“Do you think the poachers are trying to stop the investigation?”
Sophia stared at the carpet, considering. “I’m not convinced that poachers are involved. I could be wrong, of course. Enclosure has caused great trouble for many people, but if murder is the intent…” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “That line has already been crossed—why not … continue?”
Daphne grabbed Sophia’s hand squeezing it tightly. “Are we going to be murdered, one by one?”
“No, no. I’m saying the opposite. The reason Andrew was killed might not be the same reason we’re being threatened now. Might not be the same villain, at all.” Sophia huffed. “Listen to me. I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. Don’t know what to think, except that I’m tired and keyed up. We need a good night’s sleep.” Sophia pulled her hand free and stood.
“Mr. Fraser is going to catch him … them.” Daphne nodded with great intensity—looking reassured, for no reason that Sophia could discern.
“Of course, a devoted and able investigator.” Sophia wanted to throw her name in the hat, too, but Daphne was looking for comfort. She would rest easier thinking that the fate of the Waverleys was in the hands of a Bow Street Officer and not a green girl who was making it up as she went along.
CHAPTER NINE
Called Back
Jeremy leaned his elbows on the table, trying not to look dejected. Apparently without success.
“The investigation not going well?” Stacks asked. He continued to fill his fork to capacity and popped it into his mouth with an audible hum of pleasure. “We’re not heading back to London anytime soon?”
“No. Certainly not this week.” Jeremy frowned. “Tell me, Stacks, you’ve been a driver for many a Bow Street Officer. How long does a case such as this usually take?”
“Well.” Stacks pushed his empty plate to the center of the table and leaned back in his chair. “It takes as long as it takes. The villain don’t normally stand up and wave.”
“No, I hardly expected that.”
“So, no idea who yer chasing as of yet?”
“Several ideas, actually, but none seem to pull all the threads into a tidy knot.”
Enough time had passed since Andrew’s murder that Jeremy was dealing with clouded memories as well as missing facts. It was not surprising that Constable Marley was stymied and looking at Mr. Waverley with suspicion. The knife that likely killed Andrew—belonging to Mr. Dankworth—had been hidden in Glendor Wood and only found recently by Mr. Waverley himself. That discovery was very convenient and rather unlikely. And yet, Jeremy was not convinced that the gentleman had contrived the discovery or murdered his son, if for no other reason than a motive was missing—a significant part of the puzzle. Besides, Mr. Waverley had asked for Bow Street to investigate. He’d hardly be paying the Bow Street Runners to chase after himself.
There had been enough “incidents” since Jeremy’s arrival that they could be taken as red herrings—diversions, misleading clues—making Jeremy think the killer was still active and trying to distract him.
Poachers were still on Jeremy’s possibility list, as well. Poaching was a hand-to-mouth existence, trapping small animals to put on the dinner table. Until recently, it was lawful for the townspeople to trap. But the laws had changed, and those animals were now considered to be the property of the landowner. Now, tables were empty, children went hungry, and parents became desperate. Desperation could often turn to violence. Still, poaching did not explain the incidents inside the manor.
Jeremy had also learned that Andrew was not considered an upstanding citizen, often getting into trouble. Ruining seeded fields, knocking down haystacks, flirting openly with milkmaids, and generally causing mayhem. And if Andrew was not killed for something he did, perhaps it was something that he saw. He might have witnessed something that his companions did not wish to be known, like treason, theft, or embezzlement.
Jeremy straightened, pulling his elbows off the table. He needed a new approach. He needed help.
“Stacks, have you ever assisted a Bow Street Officer?”
“Grabbing a culprit or some such?”
“No, I was thinking of something more mundane. Doing some legwork. Talking to people.”
“Ah yes.” Stacks smiled a pompous sort of smile. “I did some o’ that for Officer Jefferies. He were chasing down a thief in Brighton, an’ he needed me to speak to the blacksmith on the sly. You know, quiet like.”
“Yes, exactly. And…”
“And Constable Norris when ’e were investigating that fire in Manchester what took out the Hardy Factory.”
Jeremy nodded, relieved. “I’m going to put you to work, too, Stacks. I need you to ask around, get the names of Andrew Waverley’s chums when he was in West Ravenwood. Tradesmen, merchants, and the like will be more willing to talk to you. They don’t quite know what to make of me … I’m straddling two worlds. Anyway, people are quite observant about the troublesome antics of upper-class young men.”
Stacks nodded. “Gets ’em riled.”
“Exactly. But that anger imprints the mind.” Jeremy rubbed his hand across his forehead, thinking. “Yes, you get the names and I’ll interview his friends. I just need to know Andrew’s cohorts—the ones he chased trouble with … Because that is something I’ve learned: Andrew Waverley was not an angel. Constantly pushing the limits of acceptable behavior.”
Jeremy frown
ed at the table. “And not just the boys, ask after his lady friends, as well. He liked chasing skirts. I just need to know who to talk to, who to interview. I’m getting nowhere fast, Stacks. I have a feeling that time is of the essence. I need another set of feet on the ground.”
“Thought Miss Thompson were helpin’ you.”
“She is, in a manner of speaking,” Jeremy said, not sure of the protocol. “We have to tread lightly and at the same time move the case along. I don’t know how long it was meant to take—I was rushed on my way so quickly, I didn’t think to ask—but I can’t stay too long. It’s already been two weeks since I left.”
Stacks smiled and raised his shoulder in a half shrug. “I don’t mind staying. I rather like it here.”
Jeremy nodded, grabbing his journal from the table. He said farewell to Stacks, ignored the stares and dark looks of the other patrons, marched out of the inn, and was halfway to Allenton before he realized where he was going.
Drawn to the manor for the wrong reason—it, or rather she, being Miss Thompson. He had no real purpose … no, wait he could think of something. Yes, an excuse, a reason for disturbing the household this early in the day … again.
And the more he thought, the more he knew that he should view the Waverley rifle cabinet while there. He had dug the lead out of the conservatory post and would like to see if it matched any of the rifles owned by the family.
It was a valid line of inquiry; however, Jeremy was greatly disappointed—it would not require Sophia’s company.
* * *
Sophia, too, was disappointed when Uncle informed her that Mr. Fraser had come and gone by the time she arrived at the morning room to break her fast. She had wanted to talk to Jeremy about the hazards around the manor. Just that. Nothing more. Well, she might admit to enjoying his company … but only to herself. Yes, just talking and company. Although … even when focused on the serious nature of their investigation, Sophia quite liked the feel of his arm beneath hers as they walked side by side. Yes, just talking, company, and walking.