Chapter Thirteen
“Thank you all for your efforts. Colonel Blackwood, you came in third place in the Memory Game with your list of fourteen items out of twenty.”
Selena mustered a smile as she addressed the group seated around her on the drawing room sofas and chairs. The Yule log, a bit smaller than its former size, still burned brightly in the hearth, doing its best to reduce the wintry chill in the room.
“I say. Not bad, not bad at all!” Colonel Blackwood beamed as the group applauded his accomplishment.
Miss Thompson had come in second place, and Mr. Davis, who had named eighteen items out of twenty, had won the game. As Selena made the announcements, more clapping ensued from everyone except Mrs. Whitlock.
“I knew you’d win.” Miss Goodwin gave Mr. Davis a nudge. “You are so clever, dearest.”
Mr. Davis beamed with pride as he claimed his prize: a box of peppermint sticks.
Selena briefly caught Dr. Scott’s eye. His scarred brow raised in return.
She longed to tell him what she had discovered—that Mrs. Whitlock’s handwriting seemed to match that in the threatening notes.
But that must wait until after the party had adjourned for the evening.
She had to settle for a silent widening of her eyes for now.
“That game has given me a headache,” Mrs. Whitlock said as she rose from her chair.
Selena looked at the woman sharply, wondering if her head ached from the effort of playing the game, writing threatening notes, or a guilty conscience—or all of them at once.
“I bid you a good night,” Mrs. Whitlock added, directing an imperious look at her companion. “Miss Thompson?”
The young lady leaped to her feet. “Goodnight, everyone.”
The other guests seemed to sense this as a signal that the festivities had ended, for they all got up.
“Wait. Before you go.” Mrs. Hillman found her cane and stood. “Tomorrow is Boxing Day. I’ve given most of the staff the day off after breakfast. But my cook has prepared food in advance, so a cold buffet will be available for lunch and dinner.”
“That sounds lovely,” Colonel Blackwood said.
“Have someone bring up my hot toddy, please,” Mrs. Whitlock told Mrs. Hillman as she and Miss Thompson departed the room.
“I will make sure Mrs. Middleton has that in hand,” Mrs. Hillman replied.
Dr. Scott bowed to Mrs. Hillman and Selena. “Thank you both for a delightful Christmas Day.”
Everyone exchanged goodnights and thank yous and made their way to the door. Selena retreated to her study. As agreed, Dr. Scott soon joined her and closed the door. Selena had set up two chairs next to each other and he plunked down beside her.
“Well?” he asked, his tone and expression eager.
“Take a look.” Selena handed him the threatening note she had received along with Mrs. Whitlock’s entry in the Memory Game.
He studied the list. “Mrs. Whitlock?” His lips pursed. “The writing is similar, but not an exact match.”
“I have taught handwriting for years. No one’s writing is exactly the same every time.
Mrs. Whitlock only wrote down eight words, but her style matches the notes in so many respects.
Look at the Os. They have an identical loop.
The letters G, P, and E have the same upward tail on the final stroke.
And the capital S in Stop and Seashell is distinctive.
Rather than being composed at an angle, it is standing at attention. ”
“‘Standing at attention’?” he repeated.
“It is just a term I use to add a bit of fun to my handwriting lessons.”
Dr. Scott’s eyes sparkled, a look that made Selena’s insides vibrate to a strange rhythm.
It had probably been a mistake, she realized, to position these chairs so close together.
The impulse to brush back the lock of hair that had cascaded down over his forehead and run her fingers over that intriguing scar of his was so overpowering, she had to clasp her hands in her lap to keep them still.
“You might be right.” He handed back the pages. “That game was a clever tactic. And Mrs. Whitlock may well be our culprit. Unfortunately, though, this doesn’t prove anything.”
His words put a damper on Selena’s excitement. “What do you mean?”
“We have a possible motive—Mrs. Whitlock may have threatened or cajoled Mr. Clarke into disclosing where he’d stashed the money, perhaps to buy that jewelry collection she craves.
She may have killed him, thinking he had revealed the hiding place.
She may have gotten wind that we are searching for it and left those messages.
But we can’t prove any of that. All we know for sure is that a man died halfway down the stairs, and someone wrote two threatening notes. It’s not enough to arrest anyone.”
Selena let out a long sigh. “I guess not. But I still think she’s behind all this.
” She pressed her lips together. “I know it’s horrible of me to say this—but if it is Mrs. Whitlock, I’m glad.
She is so rude and critical, and she treats her companion in such a condescending manner.
I would feel no compunction about reporting her to the constable when he returns. ”
“Nor will I. But that’s four days away, presuming the storm ends and the trains are even running again by then.” He seemed to be lost in thought for a moment.
“What should we do in the meantime?”
He rubbed his face. “Let’s keep searching, quietly and discreetly. I doubt anyone is in danger, except potentially us.”
Selena nodded. “We can start tomorrow with the other rooms we know Mr. Clarke visited: the schoolroom and the library. I’ll think up an excuse to ask Mrs. Hillman about dragon motifs.”
“Good plan.” Dr. Scott rose and helped Selena to her feet. He brought one of her hands to his mouth and kissed it. The imprint of his lips against her flesh sent a flurry of sparks up Selena’s arm.
He stepped back and gave her a bow. “Until tomorrow,” he said softly.
“Until tomorrow,” she repeated. As the man turned to leave the room, Selena called out, “Dr. Scott?”
He turned back to face her.
“Do you think Mrs. Whitlock is truly mad enough to kill us?”
“I hope not,” was all he said before leaving the room.
*
A soft knock on the door awakened Selena from a deep slumber.
She sat up in bed, startled and fuzzy-headed. A hint of early morning light was visible beneath the window curtains. It was the second time in as many days that she’d been roused from sleep at an early hour.
“Miss Taylor?” someone called out quietly but urgently from beyond the door. It sounded like Miss Thompson.
“Coming!” Selena rose, threw on her dressing gown and slippers, lit her candle, and crossed to the door, where she halted in her tracks. A folded note lay on the inner threshold, a note that looked similar to the threatening notes she and the doctor had received.
Selena grabbed the note and read it.
I don’t like games.
Horror blazed through her. The handwriting was the same as on the other notes.
Whoever had written this must have seen through her intentions with the parlor game the night before. Which meant her study of the writing styles had been a waste of time. The culprit had no doubt disguised their handwriting, either on these notes, or when they had played the game.
But there was no time to think about that now. Selena shoved the note in her dressing gown pocket and yanked open her door.
Miss Thompson stood before her, carrying a candle and dressed in a plain, brown frock—no doubt her ‘spare dress’ since her ink-stained one had been taken away by a servant for cleaning. The young woman’s face was struck with terror. “Oh, Miss Taylor, come quickly! It’s Mrs. Whitlock.”
Selena’s body filled with dread. “Where is she?”
“In her room,” Miss Thompson explained as they rushed down the north hall corridor.
“Last night, Mrs. Whitlock was angry with me and refused to let me help her undress for bed. That’s not unusual.
I’m always to rouse her, though, at 7:30 A.M. so she can be bright and chipper by eight.
But she’s just lying there, and I can’t get her to waken! ”
Mrs. Whitlock’s chamber door was open and so were the drapes.
The whitish-grey light of a wintry dawn, combined with the radiance from the fireplace and their two candles, illuminated the disturbing scene before Selena’s eyes.
Mrs. Whitlock, still wearing the clothes she’d worn the previous evening, lay atop the tufted counterpane on the four-poster bed.
Her eyes were closed, her face was ghostly white, and her lips were blue. “Oh, no.”
Selena’s stomach twisted as she approached the bed. She gave Mrs. Whitlock a gentle shake. “Mrs. Whitlock?” The woman didn’t stir. Selena touched Mrs. Whitlock’s face. It was as cold as ice.
“Is she …?” asked Miss Thompson shakily.
“I don’t know. Wait here, I’ll get help.” Selena hurried down to Dr. Scott’s room and knocked on his door.
A moment later, he answered. He was dressed in his shirt sleeves and trousers, his face was covered in shaving cream, and he held a razor in his hand. “Miss Taylor?” Apparently taking in her alarmed expression, he added quickly, “What’s wrong?”
“I need your help. It’s Mrs. Whitlock. I fear she might be dead.”
His eyes widened. “Wait here. I’ll be two seconds.” He reappeared a few moments later with a clean face, his frock coat on, and his black bag in hand. “Where is she?”
They hurried off together. “In her chamber. It was Miss Thompson who woke me. She said Mrs. Whitlock refused her offer to help her undress for bed last night.”
When they reached Mrs. Whitlock’s chamber, Dr. Scott took Mrs. Whitlock’s pulse and his features tightened in a deep frown.
“I’m sorry. She’s gone,” he said quietly.
Miss Thompson gasped. “Dear heavens.”