Deadly Curious

by Cindy Anstey

  Jeremy was done walking gingerly through this investigation; the clock in his head was ticking louder than ever. It was all too clear that the killer was still active and had no compunction about how many lives he took. Jeremy needed to find Andrew and Stacks’ murderer before anyone else was added to the killer’s inventory.

  The Bow Street Runners had taught him that it was best to start at the beginning. That had been his problem; he had investigated willy-nilly. Jeremy needed to begin at the beginning—and quickly, to make up for lost time.

  Pacing back and forth in front of the gate while he waited, Jeremy used the time to formulate a theory: The most logical premise involved poachers. Andrew’s murderer must have had an accomplice in the house, or the killer was a poacher and a member of the staff. That would explain all the incidents in the house.

  Jeremy’s theory ran as such: Andrew had been meeting someone—a female person for a lascivious purpose?—in the woods, but Andrew had, instead, disrupted a poacher. In fear or anger, the encounter had ended with Andrew being fatally stabbed. Jeremy had to find the person Andrew was waiting for. This person might have seen something or someone suspicious.

  Jeremy leaned toward the likelihood of a romantic tryst—with someone not acceptable to his or her family, otherwise there would have been no need to hide the rendezvous. Shirley Chips was on Stacks’ list. Was she the type of young woman who would throw good sense to the wind and meet a young man in private? She would have to be found and questioned.

  Now, as to Stacks. Did the investigation into Andrew’s killing lead to Stacks’ murder? Why? Had questioning the people of West Ravenwood been the catalyst? Had the killer felt threatened? Poison, the surgeon had agreed with Jeremy the previous night. It was fast acting and had to have been administered within the hour—therefore, at Allenton Park.

  But it had been a cavalier act, brazen and without compunction, for others could have been hurt. If poison had been in the brandy, Stacks might have offered a sip to someone else. Were it in the tea, it could have been commandeered as it made its way down the table. Poisoning Stacks had been a rash act. A careless tactic—yes, the killer couldn’t have cared less if others had been hurt in the process, and that was assuming Stacks had been the target. It certainly was a puzzler.

  “Am I late?”

  Jeremy jerked his head up to find Mr. Waverley standing by the open gate watching him pace. He was dressed much more casually than Jeremy had seen before, all in browns with a country cap. “No, sir, not at all. I’m early.”

  “And thinking hard, it appears.” Mr. Waverley gestured to a well-defined path that set out across the lawns toward the woods.

  “Yes, but coming to no conclusions—as yet,” Jeremy said as he fell into step, feeling frustrated and angry. Frustrated by the lack of progress and angry that Stacks had paid such a high price for being a Bow Street driver. He glanced at the older man and saw that his jaw was clenched and his brow was deeply folded, and moderated his mood. After all, the man had lost his son to this monster. “I wish this were not necessary, sir. I know it is difficult.”

  “It most certainly is,” Mr. Waverley snapped and then added in a softer tone, “but if it sees the job done … if seeing where Andrew was killed helps, it will be worth it.”

  “So much time has passed that I can only rely on your memory of the scene, sir,” Jeremy explained.

  With a curt nod, Mr. Waverley lapsed into silence. Leading the way as the path narrowed, he gestured to his right and then his left. “Glendor Wood proper that way, and there, the trail eventually comes out on West Ravenwood Road.”

  The woods grew thicker, though it was still easy to see that the forest floor had been groomed. Twigs and collections of leaves were few and far between, and the path was well defined. Finally, they came to a clearing—a quiet glade—and Mr. Waverley guided Jeremy to the edge, near an ancient elm that was gnarled and covered in moss.

  “Here,” Mr. Waverley said, pointing to a spot off the path near the elm. “His feet were tangled in a rabbit snare. His hands were on the wound in his gut, but the knife was gone and the ground was soaked in blood. The grass by the tree was flattened; looked like he sat for some time waiting. There were multiple footprints all around—by the tree, on the path. All around, but indistinct.”

  “In which direction did they lead?” Jeremy asked, glancing around the glade to get his bearings. “Were they side by side or facing one another?”

  “I said they were indistinct,” Mr. Waverley grumbled, then he swallowed visibly. “Besides, the glade was full of people by the time anyone noticed the prints.”

  “What time of day was Andrew discovered?” a voice asked from behind them.

  Startled, the two men flinched and pivoted. Sophia was mere feet behind them.

  “I didn’t hear you approach,” Jeremy admitted. It had been less than an hour since they parted and yet he was pleased to see her … actually, no, he wasn’t. They were at a murder scene. Not the place for one Sophia Thompson, despite her ambition to be a Bow Street Runner; she should be cutting her teeth with thievery or fraud, not murder … if she was going to be part of the police force, that is.

  With a lackluster shrug, Sophia acknowledged his comment. “I was trying to be quiet.”

  “You should not be here, Sophia. Go back,” her uncle commanded. “Back to the manor.”

  * * *

  With a frown and a shake of her head, Sophia stepped closer to the gnarled elm tree, tamping down her irritation as she did. “What time of day?” she asked again, ignoring her uncle’s order. “Would Andrew have been squinting into the sun? Could he have been blinded and not seen his assassin coming? Was it a trap?”

  “This is not a healthy environment for a young lady, Sophia—even one who has aspirations of being an investigator.” And then her uncle slowly shook his head as if in resignation. “I might as well talk to the moon. You are as obstinate as the day is long, Sophia Thompson,” Uncle Edward said, clicking his tongue. “I see shades of your father in you.”

  Sophia half smiled and offered another shrug. “Thank you, Uncle Edward,” she said, ignoring the peevish tone of his unintended compliment. “So, would Andrew have been blinded by the sun?”

  Uncle Edward made a sound deep in his throat that was part growl and part groan. “No. Visibility would have been fine—there was no mist or fog that evening and the surgeon believes Andrew was killed in the early evening, twilight. His body was discovered in the morning by Glen Phillips, one of the Allenton gardeners.”

  “Really?” Jeremy sounded surprised. “Glen Phillips?”

  “What of it?” grumped Uncle Edward, leaning casually on his cane.

  Sophia swiveled slowly, examining the forested area around them. “A rather strange place for a gardener; his duties would not involve the wooded areas,” she said. “Though, it would appear to be a well-kept copse.” She pointed to the raked grasses and leafless area surrounding the elm. “It has been groomed, and recently, it appears. Someone looking for something, perhaps?” She glanced up, meeting Jeremy’s eyes with a contemplative squint.

  “Looking for the knife?” Jeremy turned to Uncle Edward. “Was this you?” he asked, waving his arm in a circle to indicate the whole of the ravine. “Did you tidy up the place?”

  The more Sophia stared through the trees, the more it became clear that someone had taken a rake to the long grasses. Leaves were heaped in small piles scattered around the copse.

  “Me rake? The very thought! Don’t be ridiculous!” Uncle Edward stepped closer to one of the piles of leaves and broken branches, poking at it with his cane. “I searched the path to West Ravenwood first, then the trail east of here, leading back to the manor. The knife was under a stump in a hollow, as if someone had tossed it there. Casually hidden, but effective … until I examined the ground with my cane and poked it in every hole.” He frowned at Sophia, likely realizing how driven and obsessive he sounded. “I wouldn’t use a rake,” he finished lamely.


  “Well, someone did,” Sophia said, bending to pick up a brown and curled leaf.

  A sharp pop echoed through the glen.

  Something hard knocked Sophia to the ground. She landed on her back in the pile of detritus with a stone pressed between her shoulder blades. The fall left her winded, the stone was sharp and there was a weight on top of her that prevented her from breathing deeply. It was all vastly uncomfortable.

  She squirmed and shoved at the weight, trying to get it off.

  “Yes, yes, I’ll move in just a minute, Miss Thompson.”

  “Would like to breathe,” she said in gasps of shallow breath.

  Jeremy shifted slightly and they were nose to nose.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked, observing how blue his eyes were beneath his deeply furrowed brow. Suddenly, her concern for him eclipsed her need to breathe. “Are you all right?” she asked again.

  Jeremy shifted and slid to Sophia’s left side. They continued to lie prone, staring at each other, listening.

  A new sound could be heard echoing across the glade; branches snapped and feet pounded the ground as someone fled. The sound of footsteps faded until, at last, there was silence. Not a true silence, as the trees rustled, birds called, and insects hummed. There was no way to tell which direction the running feet had taken—the echoes ricocheted, bouncing everywhere.

  “Someone was shooting at us,” Jeremy said in a half whisper. “But I think they’re gone now.”

  Sophia started. “Someone is what?! Are you certain? Oh no, Uncle!”

  Sophia pushed against Jeremy, trying to see around his body. “Check on Uncle, Mr. Fraser!” she shouted, ignoring his directive to be quiet.

  Jeremy jumped to a stand, then hauled Sophia up from the ground. “Mr. Waverley?” he called, swinging his head from side to side, scanning the bushes and the ground. “What’s that?” he asked, tipping his head to listen to an unexpected sound.

  Sophia stilled. Out of the relative silence came a moan, some words she did not recognize spoken harshly, and then another moan. She whirled around and looked behind her.

  Uncle Edward was lying on his side, with his knees pulled up to his chest. He kept shifting his shoulders and each time he did so, harsh words tumbled out of his mouth. Sophia was fairly certain her uncle was swearing. It was most unusual.

  “Uncle! Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Well, I’m not having tea!” he snapped, trying to sit up with his arms crossed at his chest.

  “Here,” she said, offering her hand. “Let me help you up.”

  Jeremy offered his hand as well.

  Uncle Edward laughed. It was a sickly sound without any humor, and he took neither her nor Jeremy’s hand; instead, Uncle glared at his right bicep.

  Sophia stared at it as well. The dappled sunshine created a pattern on the upper sleeve of Uncle’s coat … except the shadow on the brown coat was not actually a shadow. When she touched the material, her fingers were coated with a deep red, dripping liquid. Then she noticed the frayed hole. “Oh good Lord, Uncle! You were hit!”

  “Yes, it would seem so,” he said, and then grit his teeth. “It’s a damned shame; this is one of my favorite coats.”

  Sophia ignored her uncle’s attempt to minimize the incident and checked to see that he was not bleeding profusely. She gulped and swallowed, breathing deeply for calm, as she pulled his coat away from the hole in his arm. Jeremy leaned forward to take a look as well.

  Sophia sighed in great relief. Uncle had been lucky—very, very lucky. The bullet had only grazed his arm. Painful, but not lethal. For a moment or two, they stared at the weeping wound and then, after realizing that it required some sort of wadding or binding, Sophia lifted her skirt to her knees and yanked on her petticoat.

  “Here let me,” Jeremy said when the material refused to tear. He reached into his pocket and drew out a folded knife. He drove the small blade into the hem and tore the material from there. The linen ripped in an uneven line, climbing higher than was seemly.

  “Careful, young man,” Uncle Edward said through a clenched jaw.

  Jeremy turned three shades of red, stammered an apology—twice, three times—and offered the dangling end to Sophia to complete the job.

  She had soon ripped a length of material free from her petticoat and folded it over the wound. “Just lean on me, Uncle,” Sophia said after seeing him sway a touch. She exchanged a glance with Jeremy and then helped Uncle Edward to his feet. He roared out a string of religious words that had nothing to do with asking the Almighty for counsel.

  Taking the green sash from the waist of her cream gown, Sophia tied it around the wound and then, supporting his elbow, she tucked his cane under her arm and assisted her uncle back to the path. Jeremy secured Uncle Edward’s other arm as they guided him back the way they had come.

  “Is all well?” William asked, calling across the distance. He was sitting astride a brown Arabian with a black mane at the edge of the woods. “I heard the blast of a rifle.”

  “Come quickly, William!” Sophia shouted. “We have to get your father back to the manor straightaway. He’s been shot!”

  * * *

  The household was at sixes and sevens for the rest of the day. William remained calm; in the woods, he had helped his father up onto his stallion and then led the horse to the manor at a rapid pace, trotting at his father’s side. As soon as they entered the stable yard, William sent one of the grooms for the surgeon.

  Aunt Hazel screamed when she saw Uncle Edward being led through the front door. She ordered William to send for the surgeon—which he had already done—and had helped Uncle upstairs to his room. Uncle found this most undignified and complained profusely, but as he could only shout between bouts of pain, Aunt Hazel ignored his protests.

  Daphne turned a ghastly color when she saw the blood on the entrance tiles. She rushed to her father’s side, but once she saw that he was not at death’s door, she distracted him with inane teasing; though her continuing pale complexion caused Sophia some concern. Papa suggested informing Constable Marley, setting him to the task of identifying the shooter, but Sophia pointed out that they already had a Bow Street Runner on the case.

  When all was said and done, Uncle Edward was in pain but not fatally injured; the wound incapacitated his left arm but fortunately he was right-handed. Aunt Hazel spent the evening by his side, leaving the large dinner table to seat a mere party of five with Papa acting as host. Jeremy was invited to join them for the meal and they all tried valiantly to not discuss the shooting, Stacks’ demise, or Andrew’s murder.

  Within no time, rumors were rampant in West Ravenwood about who was involved in the latest shooting. Gossips doled out blame lavishly. The majority deemed poachers responsible for Uncle Edward’s condition, but Sophia wasn’t convinced. “Poachers” seemed an easy target—a nebulous and faceless people.

  Still, she kept her opinion to herself. There were too many variables to jump to any conclusions.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Tumbling Down

  Poisons, not rifles, were on Sophia’s mind when Betty brought a letter into the drawing room from her mother the next morning. Sophia had entertained a small hope—very small—that her mother might enlighten her about various poisons, their sources, and the symptoms; Mama had often extolled her knowledge of plants and their properties. Though it was more likely that she meant when and how to tie up roses, Sophia had taken a chance that her mother might prove helpful.

  While her last letter to Risely Hall had been full of questions, Sophia received a reply amounting to exactly nothing. Mama, instead, complained about Papa’s decision to stay in West Ravenwood a little longer. She related anecdotes of Henry’s latest escapades with Walter Ellerby and—in what was surely meant to be an amusing account—about a robin redbreast in the twiggy syringa near the garden gate. Really, it was most unhelpful.

  Sophia sighed heavily as she glanced toward the window. A particularly strong gust of wind threw
the rain against the glass. It would seem that the weather was conspiring against her, too.

  She huffed, in a dejected sort of way.

  Continuing her investigation with Jeremy had been her intent for the day, but it was not to be. Jeremy had sent a note blaming the rain for his decision to seek out Andrew’s cohorts on his own. Sophia was quite certain it had more to do with the commercial areas of town in which two of Andrew’s friends worked—shabby, though not squalid.

  Either that or he was trying to be kind, allowing her to spend the day fussing over Uncle Edward. However, Aunt Hazel had thrown herself into the role of fusser-in-charge, and required no assistance from Sophia—or Daphne, for that matter. William had taken himself off somewhere, and Papa was ensconced in the library.

  The library. What an excellent place to bide awhile, a place full of information. Books galore about many subjects.

  Such as … poisons.

  Sophia could not, should not, blame the weather, Jeremy, or Uncle Edward for her inactivity; it fell on her own shoulders. Spending the day rehashing events was getting her nowhere. Besides, she needed a distraction—not necessarily from the case, but from her fellow investigator.

  Jeremy was often in her thoughts. Too often. His expressive face and compelling personality jumped from her memories and into her mind regularly. She stared into the air and tapped her toes, lost in thought—invariably about Jeremy Fraser, Bow Street Runner.

  Yes, she definitely needed a distraction.

  Sophia carefully folded the letter from her mother, and then tore it in half.

  Daphne, lounging on the settee, looked up from her fashion magazine full of the latest styles from London and raised an eyebrow. She flipped a page with a snap—a snap of impatience, it would seem. “Why are you just sitting there?” Daphne asked, her tone peevish.

  “I wasn’t just sitting; I was think—”

  “You should be investigating! That’s why you came to Allenton—to help discover Andrew’s murderer. And now that they’ve tried to kill Father, too, what are you doing?” She shifted in her chair as if trying to straighten her skirts. “You’re staring out the window.” A loud harrumph demonstrated just how annoyed Daphne felt.