Chapter Fourteen
D ropping to a crouch as he landed, Solomon dragged Constance down with him and whipped off both their hats with his free hand in case they poked up out of the ditch. Fortunately, the weather had been fine for some time, and the ditch was dry.
Which didn’t stop Constance’s glaring at him. She opened her mouth, no doubt to give him the verbal blistering he deserved, so he hastily dropped the hats and put one finger to her lips.
He was not wearing gloves, and the touch was unimaginably intimate. He held her crouching body close against his to prevent her keeling over. She was curved and fragile and he could smell her skin, and the floral perfume in her hair that was uniquely Constance. Her parted lips were so soft under his fingertip that he knew a powerful urge to trace their shape in a slow, sensual caress.
The rhythm of her breath quickened as she stared at him, her expression changing from stunned curiosity to…what? Something gentler. She had the most beautiful eyes of anyone he had ever seen, layers of sorrow and sweetness and joy, a profound compassion that had always drawn him, and, surely, a mysterious, enticing passion.
It was she who freed her gaze first, releasing him to concentrate on the beating hooves that had led him to this moment of confusion. He let his finger fall from her mouth as she turned her head away. He knew he should release her completely, but he didn’t want her to lose her footing. Really.
He had never forgotten the feel of her in his arms the first time they met on a foggy night in London, when he had whisked her out of the path of a falling body. That purely instinctive response had got lost somewhere in the fascinating contradictions that were Constance Silver. And they had to be lost again now as the single horseman rode around the bridle track toward the wood.
Very carefully, he released her and raised his head above the parapet, as it were. The rider was not John Niall. He was older, straighter, grayer.
“Colonel Niall,” he murmured.
Constance shuddered, causing him to glance at her in sudden anxiety. Did she regard him like Darby? She wasn’t looking at him but continued to shake. Hastily, he shifted position and found her whole face brimming with hilarity. She was laughing, silently and uncontrollably.
Perhaps it was relief, but suddenly his own lips twitched as mirth surged up. He knew without words they were both imagining being caught in this ridiculous position.
“Perhaps we should just have wished him good afternoon,” she said unsteadily.
“We can run after him if you like.” As Colonel Niall vanished into the trees, Solomon picked up the hats, plonked them on their respective heads, and climbed out of the ditch before reaching down to help Constance.
This time, he kept his hold impersonal and brief. Stupidly, he felt too shaken to do anything else. Though he thanked God for the gift of laughter.
Constance pointed with the hand he had just released. “There’s a building of some sort down there. It looks like a barn.”
“It’s on Maule’s land,” Solomon said, “but it must be within our fifteen minutes’ walk from the Nialls’ house. We can probably guess what’s in it, but for the sake of thoroughness, let’s look.”
It was only as they crossed the bridle path and got a closer view that he realized where they were.
“This is Sarah Phelps’s farm. That must be her barn.”
Mrs. Phelps did not take kindly to people on her property, so they approached with some caution. Constance touched his arm, a welcome contact that brought relief as well as foolish pleasure. He followed her gaze and saw Mrs. Phelps in the distance. A deep, racking cough reached Solomon, though it didn’t seem to slow the woman down. Her back to them, she appeared to be digging up vegetables near her cottage. Behind a dry stone wall near her, a few goats and sheep were grazing a patch of scrubby land. At the other side, a cow raised her head and regarded Solomon and Constance with interest.
The barn was enclosed on all sides, although the half-open door at the side was hidden from Mrs. Phelps’s view. Solomon slipped around the barn and inside, Constance at his heels.
The barn was surprisingly neat. A penned area for animals in the winter, stacks of hay and winter feed against the walls. Boxes of layered apples, some vegetables, and drying herbs hung up. Solomon moved toward the latter, while Constance went toward the haystacks.
Rosemary, sage, feverfew—nothing dangerous like foxglove or monkshood.
“Solomon.”
He turned toward Constance’s voice and found her gazing between two large haystacks. On a thick pile of clean straw was piled two folded blankets and two pillows. And poking out between the pillows, the thin sleeve of a nightgown.
*
It was the first day since the death of his daughter that Colonel Niall had ridden around his land. He knew John had kept his eye on things, but that wasn’t really good enough. The land needed its lord.
As he let his horse walk the last of the way back to the house, he realized he felt almost…good. He had been so anxious for so long, so worried what Frances would say or do next that he had been living on his nerves for years. He still cringed at the many narrow escapes, at the shameful, illegitimate birth of his grandson among strangers.
In retrospect, India had been the best of times. She had behaved better there, subdued by the trials of birth and loss—and, he had hoped, brought back to the sense of duty and propriety he had tried so hard and so fruitlessly to instill.
Coming home had been the mistake. He had thought they were safe with Maule remarried. Frances had told him Maule was not the father of her child, though she had refused to say who was. Even when he lost his temper and whipped her, she had kept silent on that score. In fact, she laughed, which had fed his deeper fear that she was truly mad.
Now he wondered if mad was better than bad. Certainly, she had seemed determined to bring shame after shame upon them all.
He dismounted and gave his horse over to the care of the groom, uttering a grunt of acknowledgment.
He realized with surprise that he was moving easily as he strode almost jauntily toward the house. What was this feeling? This surge of energy, of well-being? He entered the house, nodding to old Worcester, who loyally kept so many family secrets, and felt whatever it was intensify. It was…
As recognition dawned, he stopped with one foot on the first step. The feeling was the absence of Frances . It was relief.
*
“How utterly bizarre,” Solomon said. “I would not have thought Frances the type to enjoy such rustic trysting among the old smell of animals. Besides, it makes no sense. Surely Sarah would have noticed. Why would she keep silent?”
“Blackmail, I suppose.” Constance frowned and reached out to touch the drooping sleeve of the nightgown. “Only… I don’t think this belongs to Frances. It’s too old, too rough.”
His breath caught. “It’s Sarah’s ? She sleeps here? Why?”
Constance shrugged. “With sick animals, perhaps? Everything’s neatly folded and prepared. I doubt she does it every night. Damnation, Solomon, I thought we had actually found something at last.”
“Well, let’s go before she finds us . I’ve never cared for old women’s curses.”
He meant it as a throwaway remark, but her eyes suddenly sharpened. “Who dared curse you, Solomon Grey?”
“A mad old woman in Jamaica. She cursed my brother David and me when we were children, for dragging down her clean washing twice in as many days, even though we hadn’t meant it.” And for years he had been afraid that her curse had come true. He still wasn’t sure it hadn’t, for he and David had been separated only months later, and the loneliness still corroded his heart, never mind whatever it did to David.
“Old women’s curses are just temper tantrums,” Constance said firmly. “They mean nothing and influence nothing.”
They stepped out into the daylight, which, along with Constance’s words, felt like relief. It wasn’t, of course. They mystery of Frances’s death remained. As did the loss of his brother.
*
Constance wasn’t sure what to make of Solomon’s mood. There had been a moment—several moments—in the ditch when his gaze had seemed to melt her bones. Breathing had been unaccountably difficult. The laughter had helped, releasing the tension, and then he had been back to aloofness, and now this vulnerability over the past and his lost twin brother. She suspected it never really left him. But the self-blame she would not allow, not if she could help it.
“It’s probably about the right time to catch Dr. Murray at the inn,” he said as they turned onto the familiar road that led past The Willows to the village. “If you think Laing’s patience might have run out.”
Constance was tired and her feet were sore. She really didn’t want to walk to the village and back. She wanted a comfortable seat and a cup of tea as soon as possible. She seemed to have spent most of the day walking and achieving nothing, and right now, she wasn’t convinced they could learn any more from Dr. Murray.
However, she rarely gave in to weakness.
“Why not?” she said, and turned to see a pony and trap rumbling down the road toward them. One of the Fairfield Grange stable lads drove the shaggy pony, and sitting on the trap with her disdainful nose in the air was Bingham, Frances Niall’s personal maid.
The lad holding the reins touched his cap to them and slowed. “Drop you at The Willows if you like,” he said cheerfully.
“I don’t suppose you’re going as far as the village?” Constance asked hopefully.
“Hop on. Taking Miss Bingham to catch the stagecoach to London.”
Only then did Constance realize the maid had a large bag with her. She seemed stunned when Constance condescended to climb up onto so rustic a vehicle, with Solomon’s polite aid. He climbed after her, and all three of them jolted their way down the road.
“So you’re off to London?” Constance said. “Do you have a new post already?”
“I’m to interview for one, but the agency says if I don’t get it, there are plenty of others to be had.”
“I hope you have somewhere to stay,” Constance said uneasily, for London offered a horde of dangers to a girl not up to snuff. Bingham said she had come from there in the first place, but she was also na?ve enough to have got into trouble.
“No,” she said, “but I’m told it’s easy enough.”
Constance delved into her reticule and found a pencil and someone else’s calling card, which she scribbled out. On the back of it, she wrote an address. “Go here, if you need to. It’s respectable, cheap, and safe.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Bingham said in clear surprise. “Everyone is being so kind. The colonel and Mrs. Haslett both gave me lovely references. And now you give me this. I feel guilty for being so glad to leave.”
“I think your position has been difficult,” Constance said tactfully.
“You’re telling me. Everyone swore Miss Frances was an angel—which she weren’t, not by a long chalk—and then it got even worse when she died. The funny thing is, I’m almost sorry for her now.”
“Why is that?” asked Constance, who shared that inexplicable pity.
Bingham shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. I just find that house oppressive.” She lowered her voice so the lad wouldn’t hear. “The colonel’s so strict, and I gather the late mistress was so sour faced she’d curdle the milk. Maybe if I was able, I’d have rebelled, too, and taken my temper out on other people.”
“Is that what Miss Frances did?”
“I think so, yes. I told you she weren’t happy.”
“Why was that, do you think?” Constance asked as they passed the turning up to The Willows.
“Crossed in love, I expect. Always trying to make him jealous, if you ask me, only he never was.”
Constance felt a jolt of excitement. Deliberately, she did not look at Solomon. “Who?”
Bingham leaned closer. “Sir Humphrey. I told you before, I reckon it were always him she had a thing for. Not saying he returned her affection, mind. No secret notes ever came from The Willows. But I’m sure that’s why the colonel’s so convinced Lady Maule is the culprit.” Bingham smiled suddenly. “Don’t look so worried, ma’am. I won’t talk about it in London. No one wants a lady’s maid who can’t keep her mouth shut.”
*
“It always comes back to Humphrey,” Constance said discontentedly over her tea and toast at the inn.
“If you believe her,” Solomon said. “She didn’t give him that kind of importance the last time we spoke to her, did she?”
“No, but she’s out of the house now. I got the impression she was being more open and honest.” Constant sighed and picked up her teacup. “Though not necessarily right.”
“It’s possible Frances remained obsessed with him,” Solomon said thoughtfully. “Perhaps because he was the one man she could not manipulate. That doesn’t make him her murderer.”
“But she could manipulate him. She told him Elizabeth was a whore, and he doesn’t quite disbelieve it, does he?” Constance drank her tea and helped herself to another dainty piece of buttered toast. “There’s something we’re not seeing.”
“Something we’re not meant to see. I can’t even see Dr. Murray.”
“Shall we give up looking and start thinking?”
“We can’t do any worse that we have so far.”
*
Dinner at The Willows was another slightly tense affair, so Constance decided to ask questions.
She addressed Sir Humphrey. “I don’t suppose you know if Sarah Phelps happens to have had any sick animals recently?”
He let out a crack of laughter. “I shouldn’t think they’d dare. Certainly, I’ve never known any to die, not even her chickens.”
“She cares for them religiously,” Elizabeth put in.
“Then why do you suppose she sleeps in her barn?” Constance asked.
“Carrying eccentricity too far,” Humphrey said. He scowled. “No wonder she’s got a bad chest. Dr. Murray went up to see her today, said she was wheezing like a…whatever it is that wheezes badly.”
“Did she let him treat her?” Elizabeth asked in surprise.
“Lord, no, sent him away with a flea in his ear. She only ever tolerates Laing, so I don’t know why Murray even bothered. But with luck she’ll stop sleeping in the barn!”
“Why would she sleep there, anyway?” Elizabeth asked. “It’s only a step to her cozy little cottage, and it must be chilly in the barn by this time of year.”
It was another nagging, annoying little mystery, but Constance couldn’t see how it affected the main issue of who had killed Frances and put her body in the lake. She meant to spend the evening writing down everything they knew and trying to make sense of it. At first, she had been too eager to absolve Elizabeth, and then she had become too absorbed in the cruelty and tragedy that was Frances’s life to see what must surely be under her nose.
However, the evening turned out quite differently. She and Elizabeth withdrew as usual, leaving the gentlemen to their port. But before she could excuse herself—she was itching now to begin—sounds of disturbance issued from the hall.
“What now?” Elizabeth groaned.
The butler appeared, stiff with outrage. “My lady, the policemen are here again. They seem to imagine you will see them at this time of the evening.”
“Oh dear,” Elizabeth said, panic flitting across her face. “I suppose you had better show them in.”
“In here , my lady?” He seemed even more scandalized by this sacrilege.
“The sooner they’re dealt with, the sooner we may be rid of them,” Elizabeth said, straightening her shoulder. “Show them in, Manson.”
“Perhaps,” Constance intervened, “he should also inform Sir Humphrey?”
A flash of fear crowded into Elizabeth’s eyes, as though she didn’t really want him there, but some instinct told Constance they might need his forceful presence.
“Yes,” Elizabeth said huskily, “do that too, Manson.”
“Very good, my lady.” The butler bowed and departed.
Hastily, Constance moved to sit beside Elizabeth on the sofa, giving her hand a quick squeeze for strength.
“The police, my lady,” Manson announced with clear distaste, not even troubling with their names.
Inspector Omand eased into the room almost apologetically. But Constable Napier, hard on his heels, positively strode in, passing his superior and issuing a curt bow that was more of a disdainful nod.
“Inspector,” Elizabeth said graciously, wisely ignoring the underling.
“Forgive the intrusion, Lady Maule,” Omand said, bowing with more respect than grace. The constable cast him a glance of contempt. “But new information has come to light, and we are obliged to ask you a few more questions.”
“Please, sit,” Elizabeth said distantly, indicating the solitary chair opposite the sofa.
It was a clever move, establishing her superiority and excluding the mere constable from their circle simply by the placement of chairs. But as Inspector Omand sat, Constable Napier picked up an upright chair and carried it across the room to sit beside his superior.
Elizabeth continued to ignore him. “What can I tell you now, inspector?”
“You understand it is expected of us to confirm all the information we are given concerning our case.”
“Of course.”
“We have just come from London,” Omand said, holding her gaze. “Perhaps there is something else you would like to tell us about your life before your marriage?”
Elizabeth paled. Constance had to concentrate on keeping still so that she didn’t grasp her friend’s hand. Omand’s eyes, outwardly benign, missed nothing. Napier’s were avid—he was eager for the lady’s fall, or perhaps just to prove his own cleverness.
A low growl issued from the door.
“No there isn’t, you insolent jackanapes,” Sir Humphrey barked. “For one thing, it’s not remotely relevant to your investigation, and for another, it’s none of your dashed business. You may leave!”
As Maule strode into the room, Constance quietly vacated her place beside Elizabeth, to let him sit there instead. She chose a more distant chair, from where she could still hear and see everyone present.
Maule’s face was an impressive, angry glower, his bushy eyebrows almost hiding his eyes and meeting across the bridge of his nose. It should have terrified the policemen, but Omand, although he looked meek, remained clear eyed. Young Napier was almost triumphant.
“Sadly, sir, I may not leave just yet,” Omand said. “My duty requires me to investigate, and I’m sure the matter is easily solved. Perhaps, however, her ladyship would prefer to answer in private?”
“Her ladyship would not,” snarled Sir Humphrey. “Say what you came to and be damn—”
“Humphrey,” Elizabeth said quietly, and he subsided, merely taking her hand in a show of support that at least relieved Constance of one worry. Until she glanced at Napier and saw the gleam of victory in his eyes brighten. He was sure that support was about to be broken.
“Very well,” Omand said in a resigned tone. “You previously stated, my lady, that you are the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. George Lorimer, who reside at Cedar Grove, Kensington, and that you came from there to The Willows to take up employment as governess to Sir Humphrey’s children.”
“I did,” Elizabeth said. Her shoulders remained tense. She knew what was coming.
Napier leaned forward. “Would it surprise you to know that Mr. and Mrs. Lorimer denied they had a daughter?”
Elizabeth lifted her chin. “No, it wouldn’t surprise me at all. They disowned me.”
“So we established,” Omand said with a glance of annoyance at Napier.
“Then what the devil is your business here?” Humphrey demanded. “Family quarrels are scarcely your concern.”
“They are when they reflect on the character of a murder suspect,” Napier said.
Sir Humphrey shot to his feet in fury, his fists clenched, while Napier gazed back at him with undisguised insolence.
Inspector Omand rose also. “Perhaps you’d be better employed taking notes, Napier,” he said acidly. “Too many speakers drag the matter out unnecessarily. Forgive my constable, Sir Humphrey. He is young and overeager.”
Sir Humphrey allowed himself to be mollified, and resumed his seat with dignity, although his scowl remained firmly in place.
“Mr. Lorimer informed us,” Omand said, also sitting down again, “that he cut all ties with your ladyship when… Are you sure, my lady, that you would not rather have this conversation in private?”
“Quite sure,” Elizabeth said with dignity. “Although your tact does you credit, both my husband and Mrs. S— Grey are aware that my parents disowned me for bearing a child out of wedlock. I still fail to see that it is a matter for the law.”
Napier leaned forward once more, apparently unable to contain himself, until Omand snapped his fingers without looking at him and pointed to the notebook on the constable’s knee.
“It is not, of course,” Omand agreed. “But the trouble is, this leaves a certain part of your life unaccounted for.”
How much did they know? Hiding her dread, Constance glanced from the inspector to Napier.
“How on earth is that relevant?” Humphrey exploded. “We were married months before the Nialls returned from India! And Lady Maule lived here for almost a year before that.”
“You must have a very forgiving nature, sir, to employ a governess with such a past,” Napier said. “And then to marry her.”
Sir Humphrey’s fists clenched again, his face a mask of anger. Before he could rise, Omand said between his teeth, “Wait in the hall.”
“With all respect—” Napier began, although he clearly had none.
“ Now, ” Omand snapped. “Close the door on your way out.”
For an instant, Napier looked as if he would disobey even this direct order, though in the end, he rose with ill grace and walked very slowly to the door, so focused on his own outrage that he brushed against Constance’s skirts without noticing.
Omand did not wait for his departure. “I apologize once more for my constable’s insulting words. He seems to forget you are a justice of the peace. And then, he still sees life in black and white like a child, with no understanding of the complications faced by responsible adults. I hope he will learn before it is too late for his career. And his character.”
The door closed with a decided click .
Elizabeth’s shoulders relaxed slightly. Constance did not. Of the two policemen, she had always known Omand was the wiliest and most dangerous, because he troubled to understand people.
“My wife was the victim of an unscrupulous, evil man,” Humphrey said stiffly. “There has never been a question of forgiving her. She remains what she has always been, a good and proper lady.”
Elizabeth blinked rapidly, as though trying to be rid of sudden tears.
“And such sentiments do you both credit, sir,” Omand said. “The world can be a dangerous and censorious place, and ladies often have little power in it.”
“That is very perceptive of you, inspector,” Humphrey said.
“Which is why Miss Niall was so unusual,” Omand continued. “Having spoken to several of the servants at Fairfield Grange, I am led to believe she seized her own power through—er…knowledge she acquired about various people. Loath as I am to think it, Lady Maule, did Miss Niall ever imply she knew anything to your discredit? Such as, perhaps, your illegitimate child?”
Elizabeth swallowed convulsively. “No,” she said. “She never implied she knew anything about my child. He was adopted, if you are wondering.”
“That must have been difficult for you,” Omand said, his eyes kind—too kind. “We made inquiries at all the usual hospitals and such like, and none of them know of you. My lady, where did you have the baby?”
Elizabeth twitched her brow. It was not the question she had been expecting, and she did not see the trap. Constance did.
“Where?” Elizabeth said a little wildly. “At the home of my friend, Mrs. Grey.”
Omand spared Constance a glance. She offered a faint smile and prayed he hadn’t also inquired into who she was. “And where do you reside, Mrs. Grey?”
“Just off Grosvenor Square,” she said steadily.
“In a quiet cul-de-sac,” he murmured. “A discreet establishment.”
Damn and damn and damn… “No more than any with such an address.”
Sir Humphrey was looking puzzled, Elizabeth anxious.
“And when exactly did Lady Maule—Miss Lorimer, as she was then—join your household?”
“She came as my guest,” Constance said. “And I cannot quite recall the precise date.”
“I can,” Elizabeth said disastrously.
It was all Constance could do not to glare at her. Be silent, for your own sake. Or at least lie…
She didn’t. “It was Monday the eleventh of March, 1850. I will always remember the date for Mrs. Grey’s kindness.”
“As no doubt,” Omand said, “you remember the date of your parents’ un kindness.”
“What?” Elizabeth said, bewildered.
“Your father states he told you to leave on the morning of the eighteenth of February, 1850. Exactly where did you go before you found refuge with Mrs. Grey?”
The wretched man knew perfectly well that Constance wasn’t Mrs. Grey.
But it was Elizabeth who really concerned her. Tears of shame and confusion filled her eyes. And Sir Humphrey was staring at her as if he had never seen her before.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “It was such a terrible time for me. I was so afraid.”
“Of course you were,” Omand said soothingly. “Quite understandable. My trouble is, Lady Maule, that this gives you a motive. I think Frances Niall found out about this lost time and tried to blackmail you with it. Whether for money, or to quit the field of competition for your husband’s affections.”
His words seemed to slam into Elizabeth, devastating her, and yet Humphrey made no move to comfort her or counter the inspector’s conclusion.
“But she never did,” Elizabeth protested.
“Would it surprise you to know she had made inquiries with a solicitor in London? And if we could find your missing three weeks, so could the solicitor. Lady Maule, with regret, I have to arrest you on suspicion of the murder of Frances Niall.”