Chapter Thirteen #2
“We’ll talk about this later,” Nate promised. This was neither the time nor the place for such a discussion. The last thing they needed was someone overhearing Bridget accuse Lady Eamont of murder.
*
Bridget expected the mood at breakfast to be somber, but she was both surprised and repulsed to discover that the guests filtered into the breakfast room, chatting like it was any other day.
They filled their plates with eggs, sausage, and kippers and ate with relish.
Lady Eamont seemed especially cheerful, eating with gusto as if she were celebrating Madam Bouffant’s untimely demise.
“I wonder where she was going so early in the morning?” Lady Darby cracked her boiled egg with her teaspoon. “Before the sun had even risen, and without a candle. It’s no wonder she fell down the stairs—silly woman.”
Thankfully, Lady Darby remained oblivious that Madam Bouffant had been Lord Eamont’s lover and not a widow from France.
But her comment seemed to resonate with a few of the other guests, who glanced at one another, and unsettled Lady Eamont, who promptly closed her mouth and pushed her plate away as if she’d ingested a spoiled egg.
Lord Eamont’s mood was difficult to decipher because he kept a stiff upper lip and ate his food while showing no sign of his earlier distress. But Bridget noticed the sparkle in his eyes that had been evident whenever he’d gazed at Madam Bouffant had disappeared.
She glanced at Jefferson. His face was pale, and he toyed with his food.
Like Bridget, he seemed to have been severely affected by the death that morning, and she would have respected him for it if it weren’t for his earlier comment about Madam Bouffant having broken her neck.
He’d spoken with such authority as though he’d known for certain what had happened.
But how could he have known that detail?
Could he have been the one to have caused it?
Everyone else at the table, including Lord Frederick, appeared to have a healthy appetite.
And why wasn’t Frederick upset? At the very least, Madam Bouffant had spent a fortnight with him when they’d journeyed to the Lake District in the same carriage.
Yet here he sat, eating his kippers as though nothing had happened.
Bridget put down her fork and eyed the guests, watching each one with suspicion as they ate their breakfast and gossiped amongst themselves.
Suddenly, they all seemed like heartless killers—just like the people who’d driven a stake through her papa’s heart.
People are capable of immense cruelty. And anyone sitting at this table could be a murderer.
The smell of bacon and kippers rose to Bridget’s nostrils, making her nauseous. She could not stomach staying in the breakfast room a second longer.
Pushing back her chair, Bridget stood up and barely managed to excuse herself before exiting the breakfast room.
She retreated to the library, which had long been her sanctuary.
Thankful to find it empty, she sat on the window seat and gazed out at the garden, hoping Windermere’s calm waters would erase the haunting image of Madam Bouffant’s battered body from her mind.
The actress had been so animated and vivacious in life that the sight of her broken and bloodied body at the bottom of the stairs was almost impossible to comprehend.
Guilt gnawed at Bridget. She should have told Magistrate Hunt about the ring incident.
Lady Eamont had framed and falsely accused Madam Bouffant, and she’d been keenly aware of the courtesan’s relationship with her husband.
Bridget didn’t blame Lady Eamont for her jealousy or anger.
Madam Bouffant and Lord Eamont had done her a grave injustice, but that was no excuse for murder.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
Bridget looked up to see that Nate had entered the library with Bijou in his arms. “May we join you?”
Bridget’s heart warmed on seeing her dog, especially cuddled next to Nate’s chest. She smiled and stretched out her arms to receive him. “Of course, you may.”
Nate placed the terrier in Bridget’s arms and sat down beside her.
“I bumped into Eliza as I was coming downstairs. She’d brought him back from the garden.
And I told her I’d deliver him to you myself.
Although, I must say she didn’t seem too pleased about handing him over to me.
One would think I’d asked her for her firstborn. ”
“Never mind Eliza.” Bridget kissed Bijou’s head and inhaled his scent. He smelled like fresh grass. “She takes her responsibilities quite seriously, and she knows how much I cherish Bijou. How good of her to remember to take him outside, even with all the commotion today.”
“And how are you?” Nate asked. “I noticed you left your breakfast untouched.”
“I still can’t believe it. I can’t stop thinking about her—lying there on that cold, hard floor.
I can’t imagine what she must have been feeling during her final moments as she tumbled down those stairs.
Was she frightened? Did she feel pain?” Bridget spoke about Madam Bouffant, but even as she did, she thought of her father—alone, distressed, and friendless in his last moments and beyond.
She cradled Bijou, and he tucked his head in the crook of her arm, bringing her instant comfort.
“We’ve all had a terrible shock this morning. But it will pass,” Nate said.
Bridget shook her head. “No, it won’t. Not unless we tell Magistrate Hunt what we suspect. He needs to investigate this death. We must tell him what transpired between Madam Bouffant and Lord and Lady Eamont.”
“Do you think the magistrate will take your suspicions seriously? One doesn’t go about accusing a viscountess of murder without any proof. And even with proof, it’s not something that can be done lightly. Your magistrate doesn’t seem like the type to risk his position for a courtesan’s death.”
“You’re right.” Bridget caressed the now-sleeping Bijou.
“It grieves me that Magistrate Hunt lost all interest in Madam Bouffant the moment he discovered she was a courtesan and a mistress. And to think he then had the temerity to scold me on the caliber of guests I allowed into my papa’s house.
I am ashamed that I felt I owed him an explanation as to why that poor woman had been permitted to stay.
It’s as though her death doesn’t matter to anyone at all.
But I cannot simply erase her from my mind as though she’d never existed.
Courtesan or not—if Lady Eamont or someone else pushed her, then that person must be held accountable, or I will not be able to rest.”
Nate ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. “Lady Eamont or someone else? You suspect all our guests then?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. There’s some reason to suspect Mr. Jefferson.”
“Jefferson! Why?”
“It was something he said. Lady Luxton made a rather cold comment about the big commotion that had been made in the wake of Madam Bouffant’s death—quite callous.
” Bridget saw Nate wince and felt pleased that he seemed to agree with her sentiment.
“To which Jefferson replied, ‘She broke her neck. Of course, there’s a ruckus.’ Then later, when Doctor Elias examined the body, he pointed out that Madam Bouffant had, indeed, broken her neck. ”
Nate frowned. “That doesn’t prove anything. Mayhap he deciphered that she broke her neck from the way she was lying and all the blood.”
“But that’s not everything. I heard him mumble something about Andrew—‘It’s Andrew all over again,’ or something to that effect.
What do you think that means? Could ‘Andrew’ have been another one of his victims?
And then there’s the implication from Lady Luxton that he might have been one of Madam Bouffant’s patrons. ”
“That seems a bit far-fetched,” Nate said.
“I shouldn’t doubt it. He seemed extremely anxious at breakfast. He hardly touched his food, and whenever he picked up his fork, his hand trembled.”
“Perhaps the other guests are unfeeling. Jefferson is a rather sensitive person, I think.”
Recalling Jefferson’s blanched face and quivering hand, Bridget nodded. “Perhaps you’re right. How long have you known him?”
“About a year. He’s a close friend of Dodsworth. That’s how I met him. Decent chap.”
“Where is he from?”
“I’m not sure. Devon or some such place. Why does that matter?”
Bridget shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s an inkling I have. In truth, I don’t know what to think. Any one of them could have pushed her.”
“Or none of them,” Nate said. “If you ask me, it is quite plausible that she slipped and fell down the stairs. She was foolish to go creeping around in the dark without a lantern or a candle. But I suppose that is a good thing, too, because she may well have set the house on fire.”
“Take Adelia and Lydia Eamont, for instance,” Bridget continued, disregarding Nate’s comment.
Her intuition told her something wasn’t quite right, and she couldn’t ignore it.
“Their father wasn’t exactly discreet in his carrying on with his mistress, and they likely resented or even hated Madam Bouffant.
And what of Lord Eamont himself? I doubt Madam Bouffant was the faithful sort. ” Bridget’s mind whirled with theories.
“Wait a minute!” Nate said firmly, catching both Bridget and Bijou by surprise.
The dog lifted his head and Bridget straightened, looking to Nate for an explanation.
“You must be careful. You cannot go about making accusations—not to these people. They have power. The magistrate has already ruled this death was an accident. You’d need a confession from someone to make him change his mind. And that isn’t very likely to happen.”
“If she were a lady instead of a mistress, the magistrate would not have dismissed her death that easily—and I suspect neither would anyone else,” Bridget said accusingly.
Nate blew out his breath. “You’re right. But all I’m saying is that we do not know what happened, so we cannot go around making wild accusations.”
“Then what do you suggest we do?” A heaviness settled in Bridget’s chest. She’d been unable to punish those who’d mistreated her papa, but she would not allow another injustice to go unpunished on her watch.
Bridget pressed Bijou closer. Something deep within her soul plagued her.
She thought about that morning and the thunder that had woken her.
The way she’d heard a scream, but dismissed it, calling it the shriek of the Banshee wind, and gone back to bed.
But what if it hadn’t been the wind after all…
“What is it?” Nate interrupted her reverie. “Why are you frowning so?”
“Two screams,” Bridget said, more to herself than Nate. “The first one came in the middle of the night—I thought it was the wind—the storm was such a cacophony of howls and shrieks, I couldn’t tell. But now, I believe I was mistaken.”
“What do you mean?” Nate asked.
“Later, I awoke to a second scream. That’s when I ran out to investigate and saw poor Madam Bouffant at the bottom of the stairs.
” Bridget blinked, remembering Madam Bouffant’s deathly pale face, slack jaw, and glassy eyes staring into the abyss.
“She was definitely already dead. I don’t know why I didn’t realize it before, but I think she’d been lying there for some time.
I can’t be sure because I didn’t touch her, but she looked stiff, and her blood was dark.
It didn’t look fresh, like the blood that comes out from a cut on one’s finger. ”
“Yes, I noticed that too,” Nate said.
“Which means that the first scream I heard was hers and the second one came from someone else.”
Nate raised his eyebrows. “So, you think it possible someone else discovered the body, screamed, and then ran away? One of the servants, perhaps?”
“I do.” Bridget put a hand on her beating heart. “If only I’d reacted faster and not dismissed the first scream then I could have—”
“What? Saved her? Stopped the killer singlehandedly?”
“I don’t know.” Bridget massaged her temples. “Maybe she didn’t die instantly. Mayhap, I could have gotten her some help. Oh, how awful. I feel terrible.”
“You mustn’t. There’s likely nothing you could have done. She would not have survived such a nasty fall.”
Bridget stood and placed Bijou in his bed.
The terrier raised his sleepy head, half opening his eyes as if to object before settling back to sleep on the soft pillow inside his woven basket.
She knelt to stroke the pup on the bridge of his nose.
“At the very least, I could have offered her comfort during her final moments. She must have felt so afraid.”
“You heard the doctor, it’s likely she died instantly. Besides, you’re doing your part now by trying to learn the truth, and if someone is guilty of pushing her, we will bring her justice.”
“Do you mean that?” Bridget stood and turned to look at Nate, searching for confirmation in his deep-blue eyes.
Nate nodded. “We can do some investigating ourselves—subtly, of course. We’ll start by questioning the servants.
And I suppose I can try to root some information from the guests if only to ease your mind.
Still, it’s a dangerous path to take. We’d best hope that our questions work to prove everyone’s innocence, or I may be forced to close Villa De Lacey’s doors. ”