Chapter Thirty-Seven
Maggie
They found James in the kitchen, carefully filling chafing dishes and scrambling eggs.
“I’ve worked at Mistletoe Manor for almost thirty years,” he said with a not insignificant amount of pride. “I run the home,
manage the staff, drive the Rolls, and polish the silver.”
Ethan pulled a scone off a tray. “So is there anything that goes on around here that you don’t know about?”
“I don’t know if the tea tray was tampered with or by whom,” James said shrewdly. “And I don’t know where Eleanor is.”
Maggie felt Ethan glancing at her, as if he’d noticed it, too, but neither asked when James had started calling Eleanor by
her first name and not Ms. Ashley .
“There’s a gun missing from the game room,” Ethan said with the kind of calm that you can only have when there’s never been
a doubt that you’re a badass.
“I saw that.” James studied Ethan from over the top of his glasses. “I also noticed that at some point yesterday afternoon,
someone removed the firing pins from the remaining rifles.”
Ethan’s grin was slow and slightly crooked. “Someone did.”
James nodded slowly. “Can I assume that someone could replace one of the pins should the need arise for a working rifle?”
Now Ethan was serious. “Someone could.”
“Good.” James went back to his eggs.
“We have to ask, where were you when the shooting started?” Maggie said, and James nodded as if he’d asked himself that question
at least a dozen times.
“I cannot say for certain, as I did not hear the shots, but I was clearing the morning room when I heard Miss Honeychurch
scream because she’d found Sir Jasper.”
Ethan glanced at Maggie, who nodded. That tracked. They’d both seen James rush up the stairs behind them.
“Can you think of anyone who might have had a reason to hurt Eleanor?” Maggie watched James turn off the stove, then move
the eggs off the heat, buying time as he considered the question. He didn’t look like a man who was trying to find a lie—it
was more like he was trying to carefully word the truth.
“Eleanor Ashley is a strong and powerful woman. Wealthy. Independent. And there will always be those who resent that.”
Maggie felt herself leaning closer.
“And...” Ethan prompted.
Even though they were the only people in the room, James lowered his voice. “A few months ago, she started making phone calls.
To her attorneys. I believe she was considering changing her will.”
Maggie had no idea what they might pay junior barristers at the firm of Proctor, Banes did you know that? But they don’t care.” Then something behind Maggie
caught his eye. “Say, are those scones still warm?”
She passed him the whole basket.
“Excellent!” He took a big bite. “All I know is my father came into my office two mornings ago and said I had two hours to
pack a bag and get on a train and go keep Eleanor happy, so I got on the train and now she’s not happy—she’s gone! Father
didn’t say don’t lose her , but I’ve lost her just the same, now haven’t I?”
Then he looked down at the plate as if remembering that he should have lost his appetite as well.
“And yesterday.” Ethan reached for the scones and slid one to Maggie before taking the last for himself. “Where were you when
the shooting started?”
Freddy shook his head, confused. “I don’t understand. I was looking for Ms. Ashley. Wait. Wasn’t I supposed to be looking
for Ms. Ashley?”
James came into the room with a fresh basket of scones and the lawyer looked up from his plate. “Say, what time is luncheon?”
Dr. Charles sat on the library sofa, looking to all the world like a man who just wanted to go home and take a very, very,
very long nap. Perhaps not in that order.
“How is Sir Jasper this morning?” Maggie asked and the man glanced toward the window. The sun was almost too bright as it
reflected off all that icy stillness, but there were dark clouds on the horizon—like the storm wasn’t really over yet.
“Fine. I think.” He gave a shrug.
“You think ?” Maggie asked.
“We’re in the middle of the bloody wilderness,” Dr. Charles snapped. “This isn’t a hospital. This isn’t what I do.”
Maggie and Ethan shared a glance. “What do you do?” Ethan asked.
“I’m a psychiatrist!”
“Oh,” Maggie muttered.
“Exactly.” The doctor gave a decisive nod. “True, I went to medical school and I practice at a hospital, but if you’re having
a heart attack on an airplane, I’m not the bloke you want to come running, now am I?” There was a decanter of whiskey on one
of the shelves, and he eyed it like a drowning man eyes land.
“Well, Sir Jasper is alive, so you must have done something right,” Maggie tried, but the doctor shook his head.
“I didn’t come here for this.”
“Why did you come here?” Ethan’s question sounded innocent enough, but Dr. Charles sat up straighter—alert.
“For Christmas,” he said simply, then he climbed to his feet and dragged himself from the room, and Maggie and Ethan shared
a look, not really sure what just happened.