Chapter 2
Helena Blair looked from the very dead Marquess of Kentmore to her cousin, Clio.
Hamlet, her familiar and constant companion, twitched his fluffy copper tail.
His left ear flicked back, and he tipped up his head, his black nose twitching.
The strange clicking growl, indicative of foxes, never ceased to charm Helena.
She could read his noises as easily as she read other people’s minds.
He was not a fan of all the blood. Sticky and quite stale.
Hamlet was incredibly fastidious. He didn’t appreciate the mess the marquess left when he departed. That is, if Lord Hubert Burrows had actually departed. Determining whether his ghost lingered was a task her cousin was here to accomplish.
‘Does his spirit remain?’ Helena watched carefully as Clio Blair crouched in a daring leather corset and bright-green silk skirt to touch the edge of Lord Burrows’ jacket.
Helena had never seen the dress Clio was wearing.
Once, she knew every outfit in her cousin’s closet.
But this new ensemble highlighted Helena’s fear.
Now Clio was married, she was slowly drifting away.
It felt like Helena hadn’t seen her in at least a fortnight, though it had only been two days since they worked together at their aunt’s apothecary shop – All Things Bright and Beautiful.
Clio’s spells and potions created the coveted beauty products they sold: lotions, cosmetics, and creams crafted from fresh herbs, essential oils, empowered crystals, and good old-fashioned magic.
Helena worked the counter while Clio conjured miracles in the cellar.
When the store was quiet, Clio would sit at the counter and gossip with Helena, which was grand.
But their friendship had shifted since Clio left Blair House to live with her husband.
Helena was used to walking down the hallway of their Mayfair townhouse and jumping on Clio’s bed every night. Eleanor would join them, and they would giggle over shared jokes, commiserate about some of the insipid beau monde to whom they catered, or perhaps discuss new spells they were practising.
Ellie would invariably bring the conversation around to love and marriage because she was a hopeless romantic. But Clio and Helena had stood firm together. Love was a dangerous game neither of them wished to play. Until, inexplicably, Clio did play. And lost. Or won. Depending on who you asked.
Clio would say she won as sparks scattered from her fingers and fire blazed in her amber eyes any time she mentioned her new husband, Lieutenant General Grey.
Helena would say she lost. But she was honest enough to admit her sour feelings had more to do with her own loss of a coven sister and close friend than Clio’s spirit match.
If Helena were forced to be honest, Grey was a rather decent fellow who obviously loved her cousin beyond all measure. Which was unaccountably annoying.
It is a sorry state of affairs when someone’s happiness only highlights my own discontent.
Clio exhaled loudly, reminding Helena of where they were and what they were about.
Sir Robin rubbed his sleek head against Clio’s cheek. ‘I don’t think his spirit remains. I feel… nothing.’
Damnation! I was hoping he could clear Cynthia’s name.
Clio’s thoughts drifted to Helena like whispers on a silent wind.
Clio was a firewitch who could speak with ghosts and see their memories. A craft which she used to help Uncle Lachlan with tricky murder cases, but only when the ghost remained earthbound.
It would seem Lord Hubert Burrows had no desire to stay after his rather violent demise. Lucky for him, but not so wonderful for Lady Cynthia Burrows, Clio’s new sister-in-law.
‘I’m sorry, Clio. I know you hoped he might be able to help us identify the killer.’ And definitively prove Lady Burrows’ innocence.
Clio had taken an immediate liking to her beautiful and charming sister-in-law.
Ellie was just as bad with her propensity to love whoever was in her vicinity, regardless of their worthiness.
Not that there was anything wrong with Lady Burrows.
It was just, Helena’s close family coven was expanding, and she had never been comfortable with strangers.
She didn’t trust outsiders. No matter how gooey Thomas got around Clio, or how many invitations Cynthia extended for afternoon teas and picnics in the park.
Helena wasn’t interested in changing the dynamics of her inner circle, and she had no room in her heart for new people.
Still, that hardly means Lady Burrows is guilty of murder. Stealing away my family is one thing; killing her husband is quite another.
Helena locked her thoughts onto the task at hand. Emotions had no place in the black and white work of solving murders. Thankfully, she wasn’t a sentimental fool. She preferred to focus on facts, not feelings.
Hamlet yipped. She reached down to stroke between his ears, the tension between her shoulders immediately easing.
She might not like Cynthia, but she certainly didn’t wish to see her elegant neck in the hangman’s noose if the facts showed she was innocent.
Which is why she heeded her uncle’s request. If Clio couldn’t speak to the ghost and determine who killed him, then Helena would steal the thoughts from Cynthia’s head and learn if Lady Burrows was a murderess.
As a waterwitch, Helena’s powers were inherently tied to the conductive energy linking rivers to seas, clouds to the land, and thought to action. Reading minds was a heavy responsibility, but also a thrilling opportunity to discover the truth.
Yet for reasons unknown, the idea of probing inside Lady Burrows’ head filled Helena with fear.
What if she’s guilty?
Cynthia’s secrets could destroy their entire family.
Complicating matters further was the unavoidable truth that Cynthia was infuriatingly beautiful with her wild chestnut hair, hazel eyes, and dusting of freckles over the bridge of her nose. Neither here nor there, and hardly pertinent to solving the case.
If Helena could keep her emotions separate from the investigation, she could certainly control her attraction to the suspect. But the temptation was highly inconvenient.
It had been an age since someone caught Helena’s fancy.
So why this woman? Why now?
The fates had a wicked sense of humour.
She had long ago come to terms with her sexual proclivities.
Being a sapphic ranked just beneath being a witch in the list of reasons why she might be burned at the stake.
Hardly a frightening fate when she could easily douse the flames with her witchwater, but the scandal of such accusations would ruin her reputation and, by extension, the business which provided her family’s living.
So, Helena was cautious with her consorts.
And nothing about Cynthia Burrows was safe.
First, she was married – or at least, had been married until a few hours ago.
Second, she was related to Helena – by marriage, but nonetheless.
Third, she was a proper lady – Cynthia Burrows would never step outside the carefully drawn boundaries of propriety.
Fourth, she was a suspect in her husband’s murder – which should probably rank first on Helena’s list.
Adding insult to injury, the woman had a gregarious personality.
They couldn’t be more opposite. Helena’s propensity for quiet observation, coupled with an acerbic wit and complicated by her ability to read others’ thoughts, earned her the adjectives of disconcerting and taciturn.
Hardly flattering. She doubted those adjectives would ever be chosen to describe Lady Cynthia Burrows.
Helena sniffed. It mattered little how the world viewed her, just as it mattered little how attractive Lady Cynthia Burrows was.
Beautiful women were just as capable of horrendous deeds as anyone else.
A fact Helena knew well thanks to her mother.
Willow Blair had been the prettiest of her three sisters, and the most monstrous.
‘Right. I suppose we should go and speak with Lady Burrows.’ Helena viewed the prospect with as much enthusiasm as one might when facing the gallows. A fate the marchioness might experience post-haste, depending on what Helena discovered.
‘Must you be so formal? Her name is Cynthia. In case you’ve forgotten, she is my sister-in-law and a dear friend.’ Clio’s clipped words were like the angry flick of a cat’s tail.
Helena couldn’t contain her snort of derision as she paused at the door of the dead man’s study. ‘She isn’t my sister-in-law. Nor is she my friend. I won’t protect her if she is guilty, Clio.’
There it was. Out in the open. Best to confront the ugly truth head-on instead of flitting around it. No matter the consequences, Helena wouldn’t protect the guilty, even if it cost her most dearly.
Clio’s amber eyes flashed dangerously as sparks jumped between her fingers. ‘She didn’t do this. And I would never ask you to hide the truth, Hel. You know that.’
‘Hide the truth!’ Sir Robin nodded his head.
Helena raised a brow at the sarcastic raven, whose timing was generally less than ideal.
Hamlet rubbed against her leg, leaving copper hair in his wake and providing her with unspoken comfort.
Dew gathered in her own palms as she inadvertently pulled moisture from the air, readying for a fight in response to her cousin’s flash of temper.
‘You firewitches are always so… fiery. I’m merely reminding you that truth can be tricky when those you love are at risk. ’
‘And I am reminding you my love for her is no more likely to cloud my judgement than your dislike of her will cloud yours. She isn’t guilty.
’ The lights in the room flared, an unfortunate by-product of Clio’s magic.
When her emotions ran high, her control tended to waver, causing all manner of disruption in the gas lighting.
‘I don’t dislike her. I don’t even know her.’ She didn’t want to know Cynthia Burrows.
‘Perhaps if you’d made any effort to get to know her, we wouldn’t be having this discussion.
’ There was hurt in Clio’s eyes, but Helena couldn’t address that now.
She was loath to admit the new distance between them might be partly Helena’s fault.
Her refusal to join Clio and Ellie on outings with Cynthia during the busy summer season certainly hadn’t helped her feelings of isolation. But introspection didn’t solve murders.
Helena pursed her lips and exhaled slowly through her nose. ‘We wouldn’t be having this discussion if the entire staff hadn’t found her kneeling next to her dead husband’s body.’
Uncle Lachlan had briefed Clio and Helena the moment they arrived. The staff had been questioned, and pertinent facts emerged, prompting him to require their presence.
Fact one: Lord Burrows had entertained no guests the night before or the morning of his death.
Fact two: it was his habit to rise early and work in his office until mid-morning when he rang for coffee.
Fact three: instead of being summoned by Lord Burrows that morning, the butler arrived to the frantic screams of Lady Burrows.
Fact four: several maids heard Lady Burrows speaking with the housekeeper not half an hour before Lord Burrows was found dead. The phrase, ‘I’m going to kill that man!’ was distinctly heard.
‘Clio, I know you care about Cynthia, but we both know good people are capable of doing terrible things. I’m just trying to find the truth in this mess.’
Clio, Ellie, and Helena had all been raised together by their Aunt Rowan. While Clio and Ellie were true sisters, they treated Helena like another sibling. Which meant they sometimes fought like sisters, fierce and feral. But they were also a powerful and loyal braid of three.
How can a braid of three remain when new threads keep being added?
‘Cynthia is not like my mother, or yours.’
Cool power washed through Helena. ‘You don’t know that.’
Not every stranger is an enemy.
Helena dismissed her cousin’s thought before it could worm its way into her reasoning.
Sir Robin hopped from Clio’s shoulder onto the floor to conduct his own exploration of Lord Hubert’s study. Clio barely noticed, her focus remaining on Helena. ‘I know Cynthia is the last person who would commit murder.’
‘Time and a little magic will tell, cousin.’
Clio nodded. ‘Exactly. Let the facts guide us, not our prejudice.’
Sir Robin squawked at something behind the desk.
Clio looked away from Helena, rising on her toes to see her raven. ‘Sir Robin, come away from there!’
In a flapping of feathers, he flew up and landed on his familiar’s shoulder. Something glittered in his beak. Clio held out her hand.
‘Naughty bird! We don’t borrow. Remember? What have you found?’
Blinking an obsidian eye at his mistress, he dutifully dropped the object into Clio’s palm. A locket, rubies glinting in the centre with a golden snake wrapped around it, was marred by a crusted splattering of blood. The jewellery was far too expensive to belong to anyone but the lady of the house.
‘Blast,’ Clio muttered.
Helena raised a copper brow at her cousin. ‘It would seem the facts are leading us to Lady Burrows.’ She strode forward and plucked the jewellery from her cousin’s open hand.
‘Murderer!’ Sir Robin ruffled his feathers at Hamlet, who yipped his reply.
‘Indeed,’ Helena agreed.
‘We don’t know this is hers. Her husband was notoriously unfaithful. Perhaps this belongs to one of his paramours.’
‘There is only one way to find out.’ Turning, Helena led the way to Lady Burrows’ front parlour, her fox faithfully slinking along at her heel.