Chapter 17
THE SEVENTEENTH CHAPTER
Truth will come to sight, murder cannot be long hid.
—The Merchant of Venice
I was surprised to find Sir Cedric standing outside Lucy and Emma’s door, shouting at the footman who barred his way. Sir Cedric was clearly in a temper, his usually ruddy complexion dark red at the ears and nose. The footman, William V, I think it was, looked at me with something like desperation.
“Good morning, Sir Cedric,” I greeted. “Is there something I can do for you?”
He looked from the footman to me with narrowed eyes, silent for a moment as if he were trying to place an unfamiliar face. Tiny flecks of saliva had gathered at the corners of his mouth, and I felt a little rush of pity for Lucy.
“Lady Julia. I have a mind to see my fiancée, but this buffoon will not open the door to me.”
I cleared my throat gently. “Well, it is rather inappropriate under the circumstances.”
His complexion darkened further still and I began to fear he would have an apoplexy, an eventuality too gruesome to consider. To begin with, there would be no place to store another body.
“The circumstances are, my fiancée is ill, and no one will give me news of her and she will not see me.”
I gave him my most winsome smile. “How terribly frustrating for you. Why don’t you go and have a cup of coffee, or perhaps a nice cigar? I will speak with Lucy and bring you news of her straightaway.”
The narrow eyes relaxed a little. “Will you? Straightaway?”
I patted his arm, drawing him away from the door. The footman seemed to sag a little in relief. “I promise. Sometimes ladies do have these little indispositions. I am sure it is nothing for you to concern yourself about.”
“She better not have taken a chill in that chapel last night. I warned March not to leave her there, and if she falls ill from it, I shall know who to blame,” he warned me.
I smiled again. “Lucy has suffered a very great shock, and we all want what is best for her. Now, you go and make yourself quite comfortable and I will do what I can.”
He thanked me grudgingly and took his leave, glancing back once or twice darkly at the footman. When he had rounded the corner of the dorter, the boy leaned against the door.
“Oh, thank you, my lady. I could not make him understand that Lord March said to admit no one except yourself or a maid. I thought I would have to hit him, and I do not think his lordship would have approved of that.”
I smiled at his earnestness. “You might be surprised, William. Has anyone else attempted to see the Misses Phipps?”
He thought for a moment. “No, my lady. The maid brought them a tray for breakfast, and Lord March was here very early to look in on the ladies.”
“Very good. And how long have you been here?”
“Mr. Aquinas fetched me out of bed a few hours before dawn to keep watch and let no one past. He said it was on Lord Wargrave’s orders, and when Lord March came he said that Lord Wargrave had been quite right.”
I nodded. “Excellent. You were perfectly right to refuse Sir Cedric.”
He blushed with pleasure. “Thank you, my lady.” He stepped aside smartly and opened the door for me.
The room was warm and quiet, and I moved inside, motioning for William V to close the door softly behind me.
“Julia,” came a feeble voice from the bed. I approached, surprised to find Emma awake. Lucy slumbered on, curled as tightly as a puppy against her sister. Emma held out her hand to me and I took it. It was cool and light as a bird.
“How are you feeling?” I asked her in a whisper. Lucy stirred but did not wake.
Emma gave a short shake of the head. “As well as one may expect. Uncle March was here earlier. He explained about the laudanum in the brandy.”
Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and I tightened my hand over hers. She smiled mistily at me.
“Julia, I cannot imagine who would do such a thing to us.”
I hesitated. I did not like to pose such a question, but it must be asked. “Then you did not…” My voice trailed off.
She shook her head, almost angrily. “Of course not. How could I do such a thing to my Lucy?” She turned her head on the pillow to look at her sister nestled against her.
“I am sorry, Emma. It was a possibility, you know.”
She closed her eyes. “I know.” We sat in silence so long I began to think she had drifted into sleep. But then she opened her eyes and looked at me.
“That would have been the coward’s way, and I am no coward,” she said, more to herself than to me.
Before I could reply, Lucy stirred and raised herself a little. “Lie down, dearest,” Emma told her. “You must not tire yourself.”
Lucy obeyed, and I moved around to her side of the bed. She turned, giving me a sad, sleepy smile. “Hullo, Julia.”
I moved straight to the heart of the matter. “Lucy, I know this has been a terrible shock for you, but you must know that your family stand with you. We know you did not do this thing.”
She laid the back of her arm to her brow, staring up at the ceiling. She made no reply, and I went on. “Lucian Snow was not killed by your hand. We know this for a fact. The evidence says he died of strangulation, by a hand much larger and stronger than yours.”
Without preamble, a sob erupted from her, tearing from her throat. She folded in half, her face to her knees, keening. Emma started for her, but I put an arm about Lucy’s shoulder.
“I do not know why you claimed you did this, but we know you did not. And we will make certain the authorities know it as well.”
Suddenly, Lucy stumbled from the bed to the washstand and began to retch.
She had eaten nothing, but she doubled over, heaving until the spell passed.
Emma went to her and stroked her back, murmuring soothing things until she finished.
Then I handed her my handkerchief to mop her face.
When she was done, she looked a great deal more lucid than she had since we had discovered her bending over Lucian’s body.
She returned to the bed, and when Emma had tucked the coverlets firmly about her, Lucy clutched at my hand, pressing it to her hot face.
“Oh, Julia, I do not know what happened. All I remember is leaving the drawing room to play sardines, then a great blackness. There is simply nothing there until I came to when you found me, standing there…” She broke off, her voice catching, but with a great effort of will she mastered it.
“I have thought and thought, but I cannot retrieve any memory of the time between. I only know that I saw him there, broken, and I knew I had struck him. I knew that I must have done something unspeakable.”
I thought of the Easter holidays Lucy and Emma had spent with us as children, of the little nothings that sometimes went missing, children’s trinkets, but usually something of sentimental value.
I thought of how Lucy’s nose always itched when she lied about whether she had seen them.
Always, that telltale little twitch, giving her away.
I watched her now, pressing the handkerchief hard against the tip of her nose.
“Did you see anyone when you were playing sardines?”
Lucy shrugged helplessly. “I do not know. I have no memory of it.” She scrubbed at her nose. “It is so cold here,” she said apologetically, not quite meeting my eyes.
We talked for a long time. Emma said nothing.
Perhaps she knew how important it was for the questions to be asked, and answered.
I questioned Lucy by every possible method, but her answers were always the same.
She had quit the lesser drawing room alone.
From the time she left until the time Brisbane and I had discovered her with the candelabrum, she had no memory whatsoever—not of sound or sight, nor even scent.
After awhile she began to droop, and I took pity on her.
I rose and Emma threw me a grateful look. “Lucy, you must eat something. You also, Emma. It’s very important to keep up your strength. I promise you, we will discover the truth.”
Emma smiled her thanks, but Lucy was not looking at me. She was staring at the ceiling again, her eyes fixed once more on the slender web of hammerbeams that hung above her head.
* * *
Luncheon was an understandably solemn affair.
Father had said nothing about Aunt Dorcas, but to my astonishment, he seemed angry rather than worried.
Violante sulked openly while Lysander chewed his fingernails and did not even pretend to eat.
Plum pushed the food around his plate as he shot significant glances at Charlotte King.
That worried me a trifle. Plum was subject to occasional fancies, not the least of which was a penchant for the role of Galahad.
He loved nothing better than to rescue damsels in distress, and Charlotte bore all the hallmarks of a lady in need of a knight.
She was a comely, vivacious widow whose engagement was likely at an end, marooned in the middle of Sussex with a houseful of people she scarcely knew and a murderer.
Even more worrisome, she did nothing to discourage Plum.
Instead she alternated hurt, puzzled looks at Brisbane with gazes of mute longing toward my brother.
With such a performance, it was a wonder she was able to eat at all, but I noticed she managed to tuck away three helpings of the curried lamb.
If she was not careful, she would soon have to let out her stays, I thought spitefully.