Chapter 3 #2
No potion could change someone’s belief, but the magic instilled in the bottle Clio pressed into Lady Pestlewit’s hand would give the woman a boost of confidence, which might help her see the intrinsic worth she held far beneath her skin.
‘And lucky you, we are running a one-day sale on this cream.’ Clio walked back to the counter and wrote the price of the potion minus a 20 per cent deduction into the ledger.
She could hardly charge her full price when Lady Pestlewit had doubtlessly been fleeced by Madame Rachel for the enamelling which had left her in such a sorry state.
‘Shall I add this to your account, or would you like to pay for it now?’
Lady Pestlewit sniffed and pulled out a crystal-beaded coin purse. ‘I shall pay in full. I’ve had quite enough of debts, I’ll tell you.’
Clio made a notation in the ledger and wisely kept her thoughts to herself.
After plunking down the exact change, Lady Pestlewit tapped her gloved finger on the counter, lingering. ‘You’ve heard the dreadful news about Viscount Beachley, I suppose.’
My reward for giving her a discount: free gossip.
As it was gossip about the very man Clio was investigating, she found herself unusually interested. Opening her eyes wide, she aimed for a look of shocked innocence. ‘Not at all. Has something happened?’
Lady Pestlewit, in addition to being demanding, proud, and entitled, was also one of the biggest chinwaggers in the beau monde. If anyone had information on a potential murderer in Mayfair, it would be her.
‘I heard from my lady’s maid, who spoke with the viscount’s chambermaid, who got it on good authority from the housekeeper that the poor man has been,’ Lady Pestlewit paused, looked over each shoulder, then ushered Clio closer, ‘murdered!’ Her whisper might as well have been a shout.
If anyone else had been in the shop, they would have heard everything.
Honing her best attempts at play-acting, Clio leaned back, hand at her throat, and gasped. ‘No! Do they have any idea who might be the culprit?’
Lady Pestlewit shrugged, though her keen eyes betrayed her. She might be a vain woman with no confidence, but she could ferret information from a rock. Perhaps Clio should recommend her services to Uncle Lachlan. ‘Apparently, his wife has gone missing.’
‘Ah. Well. Most murders are committed by someone close to the victim.’
Lady Pestlewit tapped her finger on the counter.
‘Or perhaps, there have been two murders. My lady’s maid said the chambermaid told the laundress, who is a close friend of hers, that the housekeeper never got along with Viscountess Beachley.
And according to the footman whose sister works in our kitchen, the housekeeper got into a huge row with the viscount only two days before his…
’ She shuddered, and before she could say the word again, Sir Robin flapped his wings.
‘Murder!’ he cried helpfully.
Clio’s heartbeat increased. ‘Really?’
Lady Pestlewit sent Sir Robin a searing glare before turning back to Clio. ‘You’ll never guess who they were arguing about.’
Clio shook her head, actually breathless to hear Lady Pestlewit’s next words.
‘Lady Violet Beachley! The missing viscountess herself! Apparently, the viscount knew of his housekeeper’s dislike for his wife, and during their fight, the footman overheard him shouting, “You will not disparage Lady Beachley so grievously! How dare you make such accusations!”’
‘Accusations about what?’ Clio leaned forward on the counter.
‘Well, that’s just it. My maid doesn’t know, no matter how boldly I pressed her. I suppose the footman only heard a few pieces before the viscount stormed out.’
‘Shocking.’
Lady Pestlewit shuddered. ‘Well, you know how dangerous servants can be.’
‘I know how dangerous people can be, regardless of their station.’
Lady Pestlewit nodded as though Clio had agreed with her before continuing. ‘I’d wager all my pin money that the housekeeper killed them both.’
Dear goddess, she is ridiculous.
Dear goddess, she could be on to something.
Viscountess Beachley’s disappearance was certainly suspicious, but it wasn’t evidence of her guilt, even if the woman was prone to slapping her husband.
Could both the husband and wife be victims?
Clio didn’t sense another spirit in the house, but not all deceased became haunts.
Perhaps Lady Beachley was killed and transitioned on her own as most spirits were wont to do, or perhaps her ghost attached itself to a different location.
In Clio’s experience, spirits were not trapped in the place they died.
There were a myriad reasons why a ghost might choose to linger in a certain locale.
She had heard spirits could even link themselves to a person, following them wherever they might move.
Just because Lady Beachley’s ghost wasn’t in the Mayfair mansion didn’t mean she was still alive.
Is Lady Beachley the murderer or another victim?
Before Clio could ask Lady Pestlewit any more questions, Ellie returned from her errand in a flurry of mint-green skirts.
‘Lady Pestlewit! How lovely to see you again.’ Ellie’s soft voice brimmed with honest joy before she quickly grew serious. ‘Oh dear. I see you’ve been suffering the ill effects of Madame Rachel’s enamel—’
‘Strawberries!’ Clio shouted over her sister, causing Ellie’s ferret to pop out from her coat pocket and chatter a rebuke at Clio. Ophelia did not appreciate anyone yelling at Ellie.
‘Ah. I see you still have that rat.’ Lady Pestlewit’s lip curled as she glared at Ophelia.
‘Ferret, Lady Pestlewit.’ Ellie smiled warmly at the woman as her familiar hissed what Clio could only imagine to be a ferret version of some highly inappropriate language. Thank the goddess ferrets didn’t mimic like ravens, or they would be in very hot water with Lady Pestlewit.
‘It is a rodent, and all rodents are the same. Filthy creatures.’
Where Clio would have been tempted to scorch the woman’s hair with a wild spark from the fire, Ellie just laughed.
‘Oh, Lady Pestlewit. You say the funniest things.’ She was the opposite of Clio in both appearance and temperament.
Probably a result of different fathers. Their mother had kept both men for only a night, knowing she wanted children, but had no interest in a husband.
If only her disdain for marriage had remained, Aspen might still be with them instead of choosing love and death in equal measures.
Ellie’s sunny hair and bright complexion – gifts from an English lord – complemented a disposition that saw a new friend in every stranger, a rainbow in every stormy sky, and a promise of goodness to come in every difficult situation.
A direct contrast to Clio’s darker colouring and far more pragmatic nature.
No one would guess they were sisters except for the shape and clarity of their eyes – though Ellie’s were a bright blue to Clio’s glowing amber.
They also shared an unusual birthmark high on the inner thigh of their opposite limbs.
Of course, few people ever saw the star-shaped stain.
Their cousin had a similar marking over her breastbone.
The ancients would consider it a blessed symbol of the divine feminine.
More current opinion would label the wine-red marking a cursed witch mark.
Maybe it was just a birthmark shared by many of the women in their family.
Whatever caused the shape to form, Clio was grateful they no longer lived in a time where women were stripped naked to search for such sinister evidence of their evildoing.
Ignorant fools. Most witches want only healing for others, and yet we are painted as the Devil’s handmaidens by men threatened because of our knowledge. Why any woman would want to tie herself to such a pompous creature I shall never understand.
Inexplicably, Lieutenant General Grey popped into her mind as clear as if he were right in front of her.
Without warning, she was sucked into a vivid vision.
Thomas stood outside a stately country home. His. She knew it, just as she knew this was a memory from his past. But unlike her vision with Viscount Beachley – and every other ghost encounter she’d experienced – she was not inside Thomas’ mind. She was watching him from a distance.
Her skin tightened in the frigid air. Grief and guilt filled her like ocean water rushing into the hull of a sinking ship.
She felt Thomas’ black despair as if it were her own.
He reached out for the handle of the large oak door, but his fingers were shaking too much to grip the brass.
Whatever or whoever was inside that home created an ache in Thomas that fractured his heart into jagged pieces.
Every cell in his body wanted to open the door, but fear kept him frozen.
After a moment of hesitation, he turned and walked down the impressive stone stairs, his silver cane tapping a hollow rhythm as he reached a horse being held by a footman.
‘Shall I tell her you came?’ the footman asked, his eyes never quite reaching Thomas’ gaze. It could have been an act of deference, but it felt more like embarrassment. Clio felt Thomas’ reaction: shame followed swiftly by anger.
‘No. It would only make her hate me more.’ In a graceful move that made Clio’s belly clench, he mounted the horse, still holding his cane like a sword, then squeezed his impressive thighs, and flew away from the home.
Gravel flew from beneath the animal’s hooves as Thomas’ black cloak flapped around him like wings in flight.
He was running. From someone. Fear blended with impotent rage like ink swirling into water.
Clio’s hair caught in the rush of air, and an ebony strand broke free, brushing her cheek with the soft caress of someone’s fingers.
Goosebumps erupted on the back of her neck and over her arms as a charge of energy stroked down her spine.