Deadly Curious

by Cindy Anstey

  “He thought two of the half-dozen hunting rifles in my gun cabinet would have the capacity to spit out a lead the size of the one he dug from the post in the conservatory.” Uncle turned to Papa, continuing his observations. “Though what conclusion he drew from that I haven’t the slightest idea. Then, asked me … wanted me to accompany him to the murder site. Can you imagine? Really! That would not be pleasant in the least.”

  Uncle swiveled his head from side to side like a man watching a tennis match. “He could ask any of the servants. I’m certain they would know where it took place. I need not be the one to do the job!” Uncle’s voice had gotten shriller and louder, swelling to a point just short of yelling.

  The table of six souls was silent as Uncle’s words echoed throughout the room. Chairs squeaked as bottoms shifted, and there was a general feeling of discomfort.

  “That was a little inconsiderate of Mr. Fraser,” Aunt Hazel agreed finally. “But I imagine he means to get a description of the day Andrew was killed and any observations that you might have made. He was not trying to upset you, my dear.”

  “He likely thought it would not be any more difficult than looking through the underbrush for the murder weapon,” Sophia said, cross with the criticism on Mr. Fraser’s behalf.

  Uncle harrumphed.

  “I’m going out for a ride this morning, Mother,” William interrupted, oblivious to both the tension and the conversation. “And then I’ll pick up Charlotte for you and bring her back to the manor.”

  “Does her mother not need her at home?” Aunt Hazel asked. “Charlotte should not deprive Mrs. Dewey of her assistance.”

  “Charlotte and her mother are not on the best of terms, Mother,” Daphne said, popping a piece of buttered toast into her mouth. “They spend as little time with each other as possible.”

  Aunt Hazel looked down the table, frowning at her daughter. “What does that mean?”

  Daphne glanced at William before answering. “Charlotte is not interested in visiting the sick and elderly, nor playing the organ on Sundays. Mrs. Dewey was hoping for help in her parish duties, but Charlotte is much distracted.”

  William snorted a laugh and pushed back his chair. He sauntered out of the morning room with a swagger.

  “No question of what is causing the distraction,” Daphne said, staring after her brother.

  “They, meaning Mrs. Dewey and Charlotte, are very dissimilar,” Sophia observed, feeling her father’s eyes. The same could be said about Sophia and her mother.

  “It’s not to be wondered at,” Aunt Hazel said, as she, too, pushed back her chair.

  Sophia watched her aunt leave the room, wondering why she should not be wondering. She frowned her question at Daphne.

  “Charlotte’s adopted,” Daphne explained, and then dropped her voice to a whisper. “And rather spoiled because of it. I believe Mrs. Dewey would insist upon Charlotte’s help otherwise.”

  Sophia nodded and turned her attention back to her breakfast.

  * * *

  That afternoon, Jeremy was passed two letters upon his return to the Unicorn and Crown. He was not surprised; he had sent regular correspondence to the Bow Street office, keeping them up to date on the progress of the case. This letter, however, was not in the hand of the clerk. The writing was much more precise, and the capital letters were formed with a flourish.

  Jeremy found a free seat in the corner of the pub near an open window and broke the seal. It didn’t take long to read; Sir Elderberry was not known to ramble.

  It was as Jeremy had feared. He was taking too long. Sir Elderberry didn’t say as much outright, but rather inquired if Jeremy was in need of assistance. The support of Edgar Jefferies was offered.

  Jefferies, who had been a Runner since the days of the force’s inception, was not Jeremy’s favorite person. The officer was a braggart, impressed with no one but himself, and thought little of anyone else’s contribution to law and order. Worse yet, the man was quick with his fists when asking witnesses for information. No, Jeremy didn’t want the man anywhere near West Ravenwood. Time to put his nose to the grindstone and send a letter back to Sir Elderberry clearly stating that while he appreciated the thought, Officer Jefferies was not needed.

  Turning to the second letter, Jeremy frowned. He did not recognize the hand. Once he unfolded it, he was rather surprised to see that it was an invitation from Mrs. Waverley to dine at Allenton Park that evening. It was to be a casual affair, an al fresco meal on the back lawn, as soon as the heat of the day ebbed.

  She apologized for not inviting him sooner, but she had not realized that he was the son of Lord Nathan Fraser of Bath. It was so hard to keep track of the children of the aristocracy, she complained, especially the younger sons … and she hadn’t thought to check her baronetage list. She did not mention that Mr. Waverley had been aware of Jeremy’s social standing; her husband had clearly not shared this information with his wife. There was a slight tone of admonishment as if Jeremy’s decision to find employment as a Bow Street Officer had contributed to her ignorance.

  Jeremy was nonplussed. He didn’t know whether to be insulted that the invitation was based on his family connections—something that was a gift of birth and not hard work—or be insulted by the patronizing tone regarding the Bow Street Runners. He chose neither, but instead asked for pen and paper from the innkeeper, and wrote out an eloquent acceptance. The note was sent up the hill with a message boy, and Jeremy sat back and ordered a dark ale.

  “There ya be,” a voice just over his right shoulder said.

  Before Jeremy could turn, Stacks edged past the neighboring table and sat on the chair across from him. The man dropped a piece of paper on the table. “I took it upon meself to have Sandra, the barmaid”—Stacks looked across the room and winked at someone, likely Sandra herself—“write up the list, being as I cannot form me letters.”

  “Excellent reasoning, Stacks. Though, I should have asked if you knew how to write. My mistake.”

  “No problem, Mr. Fraser. It be a great excuse. I quite like spending time with Sandra. And now I got ya five names: three fellas and two girls. I had ta ask around a fair bit—got the cold shoulder from most. But the grocer, he knew what was what. Talkative, I tell ya! Had to tell me all about rotting turnips and potato eyes before I could get him to the subject of Andrew Waverley’s friends.”

  Jeremy lifted the paper. “Todd Rummage, Baxter Temple, Gene Smith, Shirley Chips, and Audra Pratt.”

  “All from West Ravenwood—except Gene Smith, of course.”

  “Why of course?”

  “Everyone knows that the Smiths are from Dorchester.”

  Jeremy snorted a laugh. “Yes, common knowledge.”

  “Oh, an’ I didn’t have Sandra write down Charlotte Dewey’s name, as I believe you already know that Miss Dewey and Mr. Waverley were sweet on each other. They were often racing through town in his barouche, causing a fuss and scaring the chickens. There was talk of the two being … well you know, close. Met on the sly—which just means the family didn’t know. Townspeople would see them coming and going.”

  “Miss Dewey has transferred her affections to the other brother,” Jeremy observed.

  “It be a year—or nearly that.”

  “You’re right, Stacks.” Jeremy sat back, tucking the folded paper into his jacket pocket. “Change of subject. I’ve been invited to Allenton Park for dinner, and I would like to arrive in the carriage.”

  Stacks nodded with approval. “Not a problem, Mr. Fraser. I’ll run by the stable and get it arranged. I’ll meet ya round front in an hour. That do?”

  Jeremy smiled. “Absolutely.” This dinner would be the perfect time and place to learn more about Andrew. And if it proved to be an uninformative evening, it would not be a complete waste of time, as he would have the opportunity to talk more with Miss Sophia Thompson.

  A most enticing prospect.

  * * *

  “His father is a baron?” Daphne asked for the fifth—
or was it sixth?—time as the girls dressed for dinner.

  Sophia nodded yet again. “That was what Aunt Hazel said. Uncle Edward was not pleased to have him join us for dinner, but Aunt Hazel insisted.”

  They were in Daphne’s room with her maid, Susan, and Betty. Sophia was putting up her hair—as dictated by her age—while Susan buttoned the back of Daphne’s dress. Daphne’s hair flowed prettily down her shoulders—as dictated by her age. One year made such a difference.

  “Did you know?” Daphne asked, looking at Sophia in the mirror with wide eyes.

  “No, but I’m not surprised. He is educated and mannered. We don’t just talk of Andrew and the investigation, you know.”

  “Oh?”

  “Oh” was a deceptive one-syllable word; it could have many meanings. In this case, was Daphne asking: “What else do you talk about when not discussing Andrew?” Or “Do you think I should be interested in him?”

  Choosing to interpret Daphne’s “oh” as the latter, Sophia laughed, turning in her chair. “Mr. Fraser is not for you, Daphne.”

  Daphne lifted her chin and sniffed defensively. “And why not?”

  “Mr. Fraser is a fourth son. Required to work. You need someone who is footloose and fancy free, otherwise your parents would not approve.”

  With a short nod and a small giggle, Daphne agreed. “Yes, yes, indeed. I forgot about that part. Besides, I have Dylan to consider.” She flicked her hand in Sophia’s direction. “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “You and Mr. Fraser. You could work together. It would be so sweet.”

  Sophia bit her lip to prevent an impertinent remark. Daphne had not meant to touch a nerve, and Sophia was not even sure which nerve she had pricked. It could have been the word “sweet” and the condescending tone that accompanied it—or it might have been Sophia’s realization that she had been thinking along the same lines. Though, she would never use the word “sweet” to describe the turmoil of happy and anxious emotions that Jeremy Fraser’s presence invariably created.

  Yes, the prospect of working in tandem with such a talented young detective was rather exciting—no, thrilling … no, nice. Yes. It would be nice to work with him. A partner. In the business sense.

  Sophia watched as her cousin pinched her cheeks and wrinkled her nose at the image in the mirror. “I should probably warn you, Mother invited the Deweys to join us as well.”

  Sophia sighed silently and followed Daphne into the corridor.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Confusion and Convulsions

  That evening, the weather was most cooperative. The temperature and humidity dropped to a comfortable level, and the threatening clouds meandered away. When Sophia and Daphne stepped through the French doors onto the patio, a long table covered with vases of flowers and sparkling silverware had been set up on the far side, overlooking the distant rolling hills and church steeples. Comfortable chairs had been brought out to a gathering area where the rest of the family and the Deweys waited. Jeremy was still to arrive.

  “It was so very kind of Mrs. Waverley to include us this evening. Mother was quite thrilled by the invitation,” Charlotte said as they neared her.

  She reached out and fingered the lace on Sophia’s sleeve. “That’s lovely. Is it Irish?” she asked. Then seeing Sophia’s confusion she added, “Or Belgian?” She laughed. “Never mind. I don’t know the difference, either.”

  With a wistful expression, Charlotte sighed and then sauntered over to where the Deweys were standing with the Waverleys, swaying her skirts in a graceful rhythm as she walked.

  “Such a pretty gown,” Aunt Hazel said to Charlotte as she approached. Her smile was genuine, though a touch sad. “I recognize it.”

  “Yes, Andrew liked the color on me…” Charlotte’s expression changed, a frown flitted across her face. She glanced toward William and lifted her chin. “Thank you. It is rather flattering. My mother chose the style.”

  Sophia glanced at Mrs. Dewey, who was wearing a serviceable gown of charcoal gray, with a stark white embellishment of lace at the cuffs and collar. The woman laughed a little too brightly, and said, “No, no. Not a style I would choose. That dress came from London. I believe the modiste there suggested it.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” Charlotte agreed. She glanced over her shoulder to the servants putting the last touches to the table settings as Mrs. Curtis hurried them along. “My mistake.”

  Not long after, Benton announced Jeremy’s arrival. Upon his entrance onto the patio, Jeremy greeted one and all with a general bow. He then strode into the group with his shoulders back and his eyes scanning the company. They stopped when he met Sophia’s, and he gave her an extra nod.

  His expression was flattering, and Sophia was quite prepared to call the evening a success before it had even started. It was not surprising when Jeremy joined their somewhat select group in the corner.

  “How goes the investigation?” Papa asked Jeremy as he sauntered over to join the younger group. It was a genuine question without any hidden meaning; he displayed no criticism or affront at the presence of a Runner in their social gathering.

  “Well enough, sir. Though the case seems to reach out in all directions. It’s complicated.”

  “Not surprising.” Papa nodded and then proceeded to compare the search for clues to a capricious wind.

  Smiling politely, the younger members of the gathering said little, waiting for dinner to be called. When it was, Sophia was pleased to walk beside Jeremy to the table; they could sit next to each other without making any show of doing so. Less fortunately, Uncle Edward was on Sophia’s right, and Mrs. Dewey directly across from her.

  Mrs. Dewey had most of Uncle Edward’s attention, which was to Sophia’s taste, and while the older couple discussed land management—ad nauseam—Jeremy discussed police procedure and pointed out that observation was one of the investigator’s best tools. He said this as he dipped his bread in his wine, meaning to use the olive oil. Good-natured chuckles echoed around the table when he lifted his bread to his mouth, and he gasped at the unexpected taste. When he declared this soggy morsel tasty, Sophia grinned but declined his offer to do the same with her bread.

  And so the evening proceeded through five courses and varied conversation. Discussion of the coming fair brought the table back together. With only ten diners and the informal setting, the table became lively, and discussions crossed back and forth across the table. It was deemed excessive to be confined to converse with only those next to you, though it was traditional.

  “Same fair as last year.” Aunt Hazel looked pleased. “I hope the leather maker will be there again; my soft dove-gray gloves were ever so comfortable. I’d like another pair—in beige, perhaps.”

  “I’m more interested in the games,” Daphne remarked. “Last year there was a turning wheel, and if you could guess where it would stop, you won a prize!” She laughed. “I almost won twice last year.”

  “Yes, but you had to play twenty times,” William said unhelpfully. “To almost win!”

  Daphne pulled her napkin from her lap and scrunched it into a ball.

  “Ah, ah,” Aunt Hazel admonished. She wagged her finger at Daphne, who huffed and dropped the cloth back onto her lap.

  “What kind of fair is it?” Sophia asked. “A hiring fair? Or a harvest fair?”

  “A little of both,” William said with confidence. “There will be townspeople there with pitchforks and brooms, looking for work, while others will have brought squash and cauliflower for cooking.”

  “Still, it is unlikely to be as lively this year as it has been in the past,” Charlotte said, spearing her pear in white wine and popping it into her mouth. “Andrew will be on many people’s minds; it will temper the jocularity by a significant amount.”

  Suddenly the table hushed as everyone turned toward Charlotte. She seemed oblivious of the attention, continuing to enjoy her dessert. As the silence lengthened, it became louder until at last Charlo
tte noticed and looked up.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, dropping her gaze to the table. Her hands stilled and she seemed to shrink. “Did I say something … oh dear. I did. I am so sorry.” She put her hand to her mouth looking upset. “I didn’t mean to say that.”

  “Best keep the conversation away from disagreeable subjects, my dear,” Aunt Hazel gently suggested.

  Charlotte flushed. “Yes, of course. It was most inconsiderate.” She swallowed deeply. “Though, we cannot hide the fact that Andrew was murdered, Mrs. Waverley. It will be on everyone’s mind.”

  The patio echoed with silence—sharp and uncomfortable. It lasted several moments.

  “True enough.” Sophia looked up, almost surprised that the voice that broke the silence was her own. “But if we all make an effort to avoid the subject, it will be easier on the family.”

  She glanced at Aunt Hazel and saw that while her aunt’s color was now high, she did not look overwrought. However, the same could not be said of Uncle Edward. His complexion was gray and his face unanimated; was he even breathing?

  “Excellent advice, Miss Thompson.” Charlotte lifted her eyes briefly and then returned her stare to the plate before her. “But I’m concerned that an abundance of decorum might not be in the family’s best interest. After all, no one talked about Howard Tuff, and as a result his murder was never solved.” Charlotte turned her head in order to look at Sophia sideways. “I would hate for Andrew’s murder to go by the wayside.”

  “Not likely to happen, Charlotte. We have a Runner here to solve the case, remember.” Sophia patted Jeremy’s arm as if the company needed to be reminded of whom she was referring.

  Taking a sip of her lemonade, Sophia watched Charlotte over the edge of her glass, wondering how close the young lady really had been to Andrew. She seemed to be over the most acute sorrow caused by his death, but not entirely ready to put it behind her.