Chapter 13
THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER
The game’s afoot!
—Henry V
As I made my way from the game larder to the lesser drawing room, I realised the lights, doused for the game of sardines, had been lit.
Every sconce, lamp, and candelabrum blazed, banishing the shadows.
It was little consolation. The very air of the place felt different to me now that murder had been done here, and I wondered if I would ever feel quite as I once had about my home.
Just as I approached the drawing room, the door was flung open and Alessandro bolted out, his face twisted with emotion.
“Ah, Julia!” he cried. He rushed to me, but before he could engage in any impropriety, I raised a hand. He stopped in his tracks, scant inches from me. He took my hand in his.
“Alessandro. I see that you have heard about Mr. Snow. It is a terrible thing.”
He shook his head. “Julia, I do not understand this. I knew nothing until Lysander came and found me. I was on the other side of the Abbey, in the room with all of the plants. I cannot think of the word.”
His brow furrowed in concentration, or perhaps in frustration.
“The conservatory?” I hazarded.
“Si, conservatory. I was there, and Lysander came to look for me. He said that Signore Snow has been murdered in the chapel, and that Miss Lucy, she has confessed to this horrible thing.”
I could feel the confusion emanating from him. I had left Father and Brisbane to finish their preparations in the game larder, and I knew I had but a moment until they appeared. For either of them to find me in a tête-à-tête with Alessandro was not a complication I relished.
I adopted my most soothing tone. “Yes, it is frightful. And what Lysander told you is correct. But my father has matters under control, and we must soldier on.”
He started, his skin going quite pale under its usual olive cast. “Soldiers? There will be soldiers here?”
“No, my dear. It is simply an expression we English use. It means we must do our duty and not give way to emotion.”
Alessandro blinked at me, and I realised then how impossible it would be to explain the concept of a stiff upper lip to an Italian.
I turned him and prodded him toward the door. “Come now. Father wishes us all gathered in the drawing room, and he will be along any minute.”
He cast a doubtful look at me over his shoulder, but he went without a murmur. If only every man in my life were so biddable, I thought ruefully. He paused at the door to permit me to enter first, and I made at once for the chair nearest Portia.
In the drawing room, the assembled company was solemn.
Brandy and tea had been supplied, but no one seemed very inclined to partake.
Cups and glasses were clutched in pale, nerveless fingers, and Charlotte for one, trembled so badly I thought her cup would shatter in its saucer.
Plum stood by the window, glowering at the blackness beyond.
Violante was grasping Ly’s hand so tightly their fingers had gone white.
“Where is Aunt Dorcas? And Hortense?” I whispered to Portia.
“Bed,” she murmured. “The old fright was tired, so Hortense saw her up to bed. Then she told Aquinas she was retiring herself. Something about a headache. They would not have heard the screaming, and I thought it best to let them be.”
I nodded. “Time enough for them to hear of it tomorrow.”
By way of reply, she took a deep swallow of whiskey, closing her eyes for a long moment. I could just see the fine lines at their corners, newly incised from fatigue. I felt a rush of affection for her then, and covered her hand with my own. She grasped it, and a ghost of a smile touched her lips.
Portia looked up in relief a moment later when Father entered, but it was Emma who rose, deadly pale but composed.
“My lord uncle!” she cried, her lips trembling. She bowed her head and raised a handkerchief to her mouth.
Father patted her back, a trifle awkwardly. “There, there, my girl.”
“What happened?” she asked him, simply, as a child might have done.
Father shook his head. “I do not know, save that Mr. Snow is murdered, by her hand, Lucy claims. She refuses to leave the chapel, and I have respected her wishes.”
“But why?” Emma demanded, pulling away. “It is so cold there. Why can she not go to her room?”
“My dear,” Father said, moving to take a chair by the fire, “I would have been perfectly willing to confine her to her room if she had wished it. She remains in the chapel by her own choice.”
“Confined to her room?” Emma followed him, sinking to a needlepoint hassock at his feet. “Why must she be confined at all?”
Sir Cedric interjected, his face stormy, “I imagine his lordship feels he has no choice.” His voice shook, as though he held the reins of his emotion, but only lightly.
Father said nothing, but merely looked at Emma, waiting for her to comprehend. Portia handed him a whiskey, and he gave her a feeble smile in thanks.
Emma shook her head slowly. “You cannot believe it of her. She could never have done this.”
Father took a sip of his whiskey. “Child, there is a dead man in my house, and a girl who claims to have killed him. I am compelled to believe her.”
Emma gave an anguished sob and tore at her handkerchief, shredding the fine lawn with her nails. “No! I will not believe it.”
The rest of us were silent as Emma gave vent for a moment to her emotion.
Charlotte and I caught one another’s gaze, and I was moved to see she looked quite devastated by our family’s tragedy.
Portia went to pour whiskey for Brisbane and myself, while Sir Cedric sat, his face betraying his disquiet.
He seemed to be struggling, and I wondered if he doubted Lucy.
They had known each other a bare two months.
Was he pondering now if the girl he loved so passionately was capable of bashing a man over the head with a candelabrum?
Henry Ludlow simply stared into the depths of his teacup as though scrying for answers.
His eyes were shadowed, and he looked desperately tired.
Perhaps he felt guilty for his outburst in the chapel, condemning Lucy as she stood, her hands wet with the blood of Lucian Snow.
Or perhaps he was relieved to think his kinsman had been spared marriage to a woman capable of such atrocity.
From the window, Plum moved to stand behind Charlotte’s chair, his face pale in the shadows. She did not turn to look at him, but her back relaxed a little, and I noticed that Brisbane watched the pair with as much interest as I did.
After a moment, Emma composed herself, wiping her eyes and smoothing her hair. “So she must be turned over to the assizes?”
Father shook his head. “Tomorrow I will send to Scotland Yard for an investigator and hand this matter over to the proper authorities. Any local justice will be seen as tainted.”
Emma’s face fell, and I knew she must be thinking of the little girl whose plaits she wove with ribbons when they were children, the little girl she comforted with bedtime stories.
Father looked at her, his eyes warm with sympathy.
“We have this short time until the investigator arrives to gather any evidence that the courts may take into consideration when choosing to exercise leniency.”
His tone, however, left small doubt that he considered leniency an unlikely prospect.
I had thought she would weep afresh at this, but she merely nodded and resumed her seat next to Sir Cedric.
Sir Cedric rose, his face purpling with rage. “I have heard quite enough. I will not have my future wife treated like a common criminal. She will be released now, and I will take her away from here myself.”
Father rolled his glass of whiskey between his palms. His voice was deadly pleasant.
“I think not, Cedric. This is my home, and the girl is my relation. You are not yet married, therefore you have no rights in the matter. If you do not care for my management of this affair, you are free to go. But if you stay, you will not question me again.”
For a moment I thought Sir Cedric might actually have an apoplexy on the spot. He raised a shaking finger at Father.
“How dare you, sir! Your high-handedness is not to be borne. I will not have her treated with such suspicion.”
“She will be treated with suspicion the whole of her life if you do not do as I say!” Father roared, slamming his whiskey glass onto the table.
“Do you not see that, man? Everywhere she goes, whispers will follow her. Everyone she meets will wonder, did she get away with murder? The taint will live with you forever, poisoning your lives, and it will poison your children’s lives as well.
Is that what you want?” Father demanded brutally.
Sir Cedric opened his mouth, then closed it again, gaping like a newly caught fish. Finally, he gave up the fight and dropped heavily into his seat. “I will put all of my resources at her disposal,” he said hollowly. “I will do everything in my power to secure her freedom.”
Emma murmured her thanks, and I caught Brisbane’s glance. I believe in that moment we were thinking the same thing: for all Father’s breeding and Sir Cedric’s money, Lucy had confessed to murder. It seemed rather a good bet she would swing for it.
Father cleared his throat. “I have asked Lord Wargrave, as he has some experience in these matters, to prepare the reports and statements the courts will require. You will all cooperate with him fully, should he choose to avail himself of your assistance.”
Father’s tone left no room for misinterpretation: this was an order. The rest of us, accustomed to such directives, merely nodded. But Charlotte King dropped her teacup.
The delicate handle snapped and tea splashed over her pretty slippers.
“Experience?” Her eyes flew from Father to Brisbane. “My lord, what can his lordship mean?”
Brisbane regarded her coolly. “His lordship means in my capacity as a private inquiry agent.”