Chapter 9 #2
“Apparently, young Birnam is straining at the bit, eager to escape his father’s orbit. He was nattering on about mining interests in South America and the West Indies.”
“Emeralds and copper,” I confirmed.
“Yes. He’s been lobbying his father to purchase an interest in one of the endeavors, but thus far his father seems disinclined. He wants to keep his son close at hand and under his thumb.”
Gage frowned. “He told you all that?”
“Indeed,” Alfie replied. “But then, he was deep in his cups. Had to excuse himself shortly after.”
This led me neatly to my next question. “Did any of the other men leave the table early?”
“Thorndike departed almost immediately after the women,” Gage answered.
“But that may have been at my father’s behest.” The implication being that, while Lord Gage would tolerate having his secretary dine with us from time to time, he was not keen on allowing him to socialize more intimately with his guests of higher rank.
“Milngavie stole away early, too,” Alfie supplied. His hands were clasped behind his back, allowing him to crowd in close behind us, almost looming over me. It was all done quite purposely, I was sure, but I refused to be riled.
“Did he give any indication why?” I asked.
“No,” he chirped with perfect insouciance.
Nevertheless, that was three men we needed to speak to at the very least, even if I couldn’t puzzle out a motive in harming Miss Whitlock, or Birnam for that matter, for two of them.
“Why are you asking?”
I turned to meet Gage’s seeking gaze. It was a perfectly reasonable question, though I hesitated before answering, unsure myself whether Miss Whitlock’s fear we’d been eavesdropped upon had been justified.
However, contrary to my concerns, my husband seemed quite satisfied with my explanation.
I supposed my instincts had proven themselves often enough in the past to temper skepticism.
“It’s certainly worth questioning them,” he agreed. “I don’t anticipate any of them will admit to listening to your conversation, but their reactions might prove informative.” He peered over his shoulder at Alfie. “Keep this…”
“…to myself,” he finished for him, a sarcastic sneer creasing his face. “Yes, I know. I’m not quite the dolt you believe me to be.”
Gage scowled. “I’ve never believed you a dolt. Just careless and selfish.”
I cringed at his words, despite the truth of them.
Gage and Alfie had a complicated history; one they had mostly moved past. But that didn’t erase the memory of the years Alfie had bullied him, nor did it eradicate the demons in Alfie’s past that we could only guess at.
I suspected Lorna was the sole person privy to the private pain that had made Alfie into the man he was when she’d first met him.
Notwithstanding, I didn’t want the cousins’ relationship going backward because of this small snipe. So I pressed a staying hand to Gage’s arm when we reached the opening to the staircase and pivoted to face Alfie.
“Thank you for telling us what you observed,” I told him sincerely. Then the spark of an idea came to me. “And if you should learn anything more from Jemmy Birnam…”
The cynicism which had constricted his expression eased and a sheen of amusement returned to his eyes as he comprehended my meaning. “I’ll let you know.” He turned to Gage, dipping his head once in a silent truce, which his cousin returned, and then departed.
My husband’s jaw was tight, telling me he wasn’t entirely happy with my decision to play peacemaker.
I waited for him to speak, expecting an irritated retort, but he seemed to master his vexation.
“I suppose Jemmy is more liable to speak openly to Alfie than you or me,” he conceded with just a hint of resentment.
I considered it a minor victory that he’d omitted the scornful words “someone like” before his cousin’s name.
“Yes,” I answered simply, arching up on my toes to press a kiss to his cheek before I also hurried away. A glance at the watch pinned to my bodice told me I had only ten minutes to change, and I would need every single second to make it downstairs in time to help herd everyone into the carriages.
—
The River Arrow flowed just yards from the gatehouse for Bevington Park, but the carriages drove us a short distance to the southeast, toward Wixford, to a place where it would be easier to hike to our picnic destination.
The staff had gone before us, setting up blankets and chairs, and preparing the tackle for the gentlemen who wished to fish.
The weather was lovely, if a bit warm. Though it had been warmer than average since early May, so I had grown almost accustomed to it.
Fortunately, the riverbank was dotted with willows, alder, oak, and hawthorn trees, providing plenty of shade as well as perches for the local birds.
As we made our way through the meadow toward the trickling sound of the river, I could hear the songs of goldfinches who in winter feasted on the seeds of the prickly small teasel that lined the banks.
It being early July, the teasel hadn’t yet flowered, but the small white buds would bloom soon, joining the blossoms of purple loosestrife and great willowherb.
A kingfisher took flight, flashing its bright blue–colored feathers as it glided down toward the riverbank.
Though I hadn’t been certain Mr. Birnam would feel well enough to take part in the day’s excursion, he’d been waiting in the entrance hall with all the other guests when I’d finally joined them.
His hands were, of course, still wrapped in the bandages Dr. Clarke had applied the evening before, eliciting much sympathy from those not yet acquainted with his injuries.
If Lord Gage had meant to subtly imply earlier that Birnam was our chief suspect in Miss Whitlock’s murder, his appearance and the pain he seemed to be enduring did not aid in this insinuation.
Rather than approach him directly, I elected to observe Birnam’s interactions with the others as unobtrusively as possible, trying to gain a sense of whether he was exaggerating his injuries.
From what I could tell, the discomfort his hands caused him appeared to be genuine, as did the grief that bowed his shoulders.
However, this didn’t stop him from exhibiting anger at what had been done to his secretary.
And much of that fury seemed to be directed at my father-in-law.
Though I hadn’t been present the previous evening in Birnam’s chamber, it was clear the argument between him and Lord Gage had been every bit as contentious as Gage had suggested.
Word must have also gotten back to Birnam of his host’s speech that morning, and he was determined to shift the blame.
I’d been curious who he might point to as the culprit, but rather than choose someone from among his fellow guests or the staff, he seemed to favor the idea that it had been an intruder.
Watching Birnam, I couldn’t decide whether he actually believed this dubious theory or if he was simply savvy enough to understand it was the notion most likely to obscure culpability from his family and gain him the support of the other guests.
After all, if he named another guest, that might anger some of the peers, but an unknown intruder was an outsider, and so did not threaten the fiction so many of our social class chose to believe that only the lower orders were capable of murder.
I knew from vast experience that a person’s class and wealth had no bearing on their ability to do terrible things.
Blaming an intruder also had the added benefit of casting aspersions on Lord Gage.
The implication being that he had failed to protect his guests by allowing an intruder to violate his home and harm one of them.
This was not stated outright by Birnam, but rather subtly insinuated, countering his host’s own inferences about him.
I discerned in the derisive, almost mocking twist to my father-in-law’s lips and the hard, calculating glint in his eyes the moment he grasped Birnam’s ploy.
I couldn’t tell if this gave Lord Gage—who despised weakness—greater respect for the upstart tradesman or if it had made him his mortal enemy.
In any case, I hadn’t long to contemplate it, being pulled away to deal with numerous other complications.
Complications that didn’t allow me much time to pursue my own agenda.
Frustration bubbled up inside me at the realization that if I was to learn anything during that excursion, it would be haphazard and mostly by observation.
I would have liked to speak with Mrs. Birnam and Matilda, to ask them questions about Miss Whitlock’s past and upbringing, but they and Trevor seemed determined to avoid me.
I did notice that Mrs. Birnam was quieter than usual and more withdrawn.
Whether this was because she’d genuinely been affected by Miss Whitlock’s death or she was merely unsettled by the situation, I didn’t get the chance to discover.
But her behavior didn’t stop the other guests from speculating.
“Looks like regret to me,” Lady Lyndhurst remarked, waving a fan before her face while holding her glass out to be refilled by one of the footmen.
“At the very least, shock,” Lady Brougham concurred in the hushed but titillated voice of a born gossip taking delight in the trials of others. I knew the tone well, though, having heard it used in relation to me more times than I cared to count.
“My modiste told me the cousin of one of her clients threw vitriol in the face of her rival for a suitor’s affections.
Apparently, he’d seduced her and seemed inclined to discard her for the other woman.
” Lady Lyndhurst’s eyes were bright as she tipped her head closer to her companion.
“Of course, the entire matter was hushed up, given the families involved. But the rival was badly burned. They say she’ll never take part in society again. ”