Chapter 12
Preston’s voice filled the front hall and drifted up the staircase to where Waverly was perched below a painting.
He was entertaining a visitor, but Waverly was less concerned about his goings-on than about investigating her uncle’s art collection.
This painting before her depicted a woman standing in a pasture with a dairy cow.
Softly muted pastels. Spring colors. It was beautiful.
The artist had signed the work in the bottom right corner in red paint: Vallée.
The name sounded significant. A French artist? Of course, Waverly didn’t know one painter from another, and Uncle Leopold had never included her in his dabbling in the art world.
But perhaps there was something about this painting that would give her a clue as to why her uncle thought Newton Creek would perish after he died . . .
“Miss Pembrooke!”
Waverly jumped, and Aveline mimicked her reaction. They both stared at each other in a moment of terror. Aveline’s hand flew to her throat while Waverly’s covered her mouth.
Recognizing the maid, she quickly dropped her hand to her side. “You frightened me!”
“You frightened me, miss!” Aveline said. She bit her lip, and when Waverly released a nervous giggle, Aveline joined her.
“I fear we’re both convinced we’re also to be murdered,” Waverly stated.
“Or haunted,” Aveline added.
Waverly nodded, then dared to ask, “Did you hear anything strange in the night?”
Aveline’s eyes widened. “Should I have?” She swallowed visibly.
“No, no,” Waverly replied and swept a hand through her hair nonchalantly.
No reason to alarm Aveline at the moment, yet Waverly couldn’t shake the idea that she’d heard Uncle Leopold’s voice last night, hissing through the keyhole of her door, beckoning her to open it . . . tempting her to believe in ghosts.
Waverly then remembered that Aveline had probably approached her for a specific reason. “Did you need something?”
“Yes, miss. Mr. Scofield has requested your presence in the sitting room.”
“Requested or demanded?” Waverly retorted. She noted Aveline’s cheeks go pale again. “Never mind. I’ll come.”
On her way to the sitting room, she stopped at a mirror to check her appearance, pushing aside the black veil that hung over it.
Shadows under her eyes made her pale skin look even whiter, and her white-blond hair gave her a ghostly aura.
At the bottom of the stairs, she glanced at another painting momentarily before turning her attention to the sitting room.
On entry, Preston Scofield offered a disingenuous grin. “Ah, there you are!” He stood near the door with two gentlemen. “Waverly, Constable Morgan is here to see you.”
Constable Morgan? Perhaps he had captured her uncle and aunt’s killer, and tonight she could sleep in peace!
Waverly half smiled, straightening the black cuffs of her mourning dress.
Preston spoke with too much familiarity as he drew her farther into the room.
As he did so, Waverly took notice of the second man, Titus Fitzgerald.
His frigid eyes met hers. Why was the undertaker here? Was this regarding funeral plans?
“Welcome to Traeger Hall, Constable.” Waverly pulled from every memory of Aunt Cornelia’s example of hospitality.
She looked toward the room’s pocket doors that remained open, searching across the entryway to the parlor.
She noted, with a small bit of consternation, that someone had opened the parlor doors that she’d closed the evening before, and she could see Uncle Leopold’s feet pointing toward the ceiling.
It was evident Constable Morgan had noticed them as well. He cleared his throat, his gaze dodging between Preston and herself.
“Mr. Fitzgerald.” Waverly nodded to the undertaker.
It was all so formal and stiff, much like Uncle Leopold and Aunt Cornelia .
. . She sniffed as she righted her thoughts, and Waverly caught a whiff of sandalwood drifting from Titus’s person.
Sandalwood was much preferred to the undercurrents that were beginning to become more prominent in the parlor of death.
All three men stood until Waverly lowered herself onto the padded velvet chair closest to the door.
After last night’s bad dream or all-too-real haunting, she was as relaxed as a mouse under the stare of a cat.
Regarding cats, Waverly noted Foo’s fluffy white tail sticking out from his hiding spot behind the violet draperies that flanked the windows.
Foo lifted the tip of his tail as if in salute to her well-being. It did little to calm her nerves.
Both Constable Morgan and Titus Fitzgerald took seats across from her on a stuffed sofa in a pinkish mauve that made both men appear very out of place.
Preston stood at the fireplace, propping his elbow on the mantel with an air of authority as though quite pleased by the events unfolding before him.
Constable Morgan announced the reason for his visit with a loud, phlegm-filled clearing of his throat that turned Waverly’s nervous stomach. “Miss Pembrooke, please accept my condolences once again regarding your uncle and aunt.”
Waverly stuffed down the wave of annoyance that sliced through her. “Thank you,” she managed.
“I also appreciate your taking the time to see us. I’ve asked Mr. Fitzgerald to be here, as I believe he may help me in making sense of a few lingering questions I have.”
A few lingering questions? Why, she had a hundred lingering questions! It didn’t bode well if the constable had only a few.
“Have you found the one who murdered my uncle and aunt?” Waverly asked pointedly. She dared not look at Preston right now.
Constable Morgan cleared his throat again, only this time with less drama. “Ah, no. No, I have not. However, I do have questions.”
“So you said.” Waverly tried to be cooperative, though her mind was racing with all the possibilities, not the least of which was the likelihood the murderer stood right here in this room, his elbow on the mantel, a smug look on his face.
She caught herself. Was she being unfair to Preston?
As much as she disliked the man, perhaps the constable himself had murdered Uncle Leopold and Aunt Cornelia.
Or Titus! In fact, anyone in Newton Creek could have motive to kill her uncle.
It didn’t appear he was appreciated by them when alive, and his death might bring some financial relief to the town.
But that would mean they would’ve had prior knowledge of her uncle’s will and that Newton Creek stood to benefit from his death.
Waverly sank into her seat. If true, that only muddied the waters further.
Who would know about the will? Mr. Grossman?
She couldn’t imagine the older man being agile enough to commit two murders just to gain access to Uncle Leopold’s estate.
But then Grossman could have hired someone . . .
She glanced up at the oil painting near her in the sitting room. It was of two English Setters in full point, tails extended, noses in the air. Another Vallée painting?
Constable Morgan leaned forward in the sofa. “Miss Pembrooke, might I ask: where were you the night of the murders?”
Waverly was jolted back to the present conversation. Three sets of eyes were focused on her. She tempered her reaction, but her heart stopped. It stopped for so long, she surmised, that she should probably drop dead in about five more seconds. Or so it felt.
She looked at Titus. He stared back at her, unblinking. She glanced at Preston, who waited for her response, his expression also blank.
At last, she returned her gaze to Constable Morgan. “Why, I was . . . I was in town when I heard the bell toll.”
“Where in town, Miss Pembrooke?”
Well, that was an entirely different matter altogether. “I-I . . .” She managed to get out the one word, but all others instantly erased themselves from her mind.
Constable Morgan exchanged a look with Preston. “I have it on good authority that you were seen in the company of an unidentified man outside the stables of the Fairfield Inn.”
Waverly knew exactly whom Constable Morgan referred to. She only wished he hadn’t, as she wasn’t sure how to cover for herself, nor how to cover for the man she had no intention of identifying to Constable Morgan.
“Miss Pembrooke?” The constable was watching her. So were Titus and Preston.
Waverly remained still so she couldn’t be accused of squirming. She folded her hands in her lap and lifted her chin. “In passing, yes, but it was of no consequence.”
“I’ve a waitress who will attest to your sharing coffee with the man inside the inn. That’s hardly a passing hello,” Constable Morgan stated firmly.
Well, that was unfortunate. She never should have agreed to meet with the man in public. Waverly managed not to react in a suspicious manner. “I didn’t know sharing coffee with someone was a crime, Constable.”
“It’s not.” Constable Morgan sniffed and leaned back on the sofa. A spring in the velvet seat made a popping noise. For an irrational moment, Waverly hoped the spring would poke through and prod the man in the backside.
“I may have had coffee with him, but it was for a short period of time. Again, nothing of consequence.” Waverly silently prayed that she’d be spared from further questions on the subject.
“You’re aware that Mr. and Mrs. Leopold were both stabbed numerous times?” the constable asked, moving away from the topic of the unidentified man.
Apparently, God had heard Waverly’s prayer.
“Yes,” she answered.
The constable twisted in his seat. “Mr. Fitzgerald, would you please enlighten us as to the weapon you believe was used?”
“I’m not a doctor, mind you,” Titus replied, his eyes still fixed on Waverly. “However, as I prepared the bodies for burial, I noticed the wounds were not consistent with what I would consider to be stab wounds inflicted by a typical knife.”
“No?” The constable’s question was leading. He had a point to make, and he wanted Titus to be the one to make it for him.