Chapter 13
GIDEON PONDERS
Cecilia led the weeping Mrs. Wayne away from the dining room. “Craig,” she called softly to the footman stationed outside the dining room, “I’m taking Mrs. Wayne to the library. Please go ahead of us to light candles and get the fire going in the hearth.”
“Yes, my lady,” The young man ran down the steps.
“Have you ever seen the library here at Pomum Court?” Cecilia asked Mr. Wayne as she led her down the stairs. The woman shook her head, her tears slowing.
“It is an enchanting room. My favorite room of all I’ve seen here.
Not that I have seen many rooms. I understand many are disused, locked, and their furniture under Holland covers.
Which proved to be a good thing for us—the furniture in virtual storage, I mean, when it came time to improving the drawing room.
We repurposed many gold and yellow pieces from other rooms for the drawing room.
Would you believe that room was all red—and a faded rouge red at that—before we turned Mrs. Duggleston loose on improving the room.
” Cecilia chatted on, keeping her voice warm and steady.
“But we are going to the library and I was telling you about it. It needs nothing. You’ll see.
Bookcases with beautiful flowing curves rising two stories.
Large arched windows. Décor in blues and peaceful greens.
Reminded me of a fairy grotto. I know that is ridiculous of me; however, I do like a bit of whimsy now and then and this room is a room to draw it out. ”
Craig was leaving the room when they reached its doorway. “Will there be anything else, Lady Branstoke?”
“No, not now. Thank you… Mrs. Wayne, I discovered my first evening here that this settee is exceedingly comfortable,” Cecilia said, leading her to a blue velvet settee.
She encouraged Mrs. Wayne to sit and put her feet up and Cecilia draped a shawl that had been thrown over the back of the settee on her legs.
“There,” Cecilia said, handing her another handkerchief.
She patted her shoulder. “I’ll get us a small glass of sherry and we can have a comfortable conversation far away from the others.
” Cecilia pulled her chair closer to the settee.
“Sip your sherry. It is quite good. The old earl must have been the connoisseur of fortified alcohol.”
Mrs. Wayne gave a watery chuckle. “He was, and quite proud of his expertise. I never had a sharp, or acidic drink when we came here for dinner. It is strange, though, now that I think on it, we never had an apple brandy.”
Cecilia nodded. “We believe he kept the best of the best for himself and sold the rest.”
Mrs. Wayne compressed her lips a moment as she thought. “He was an odd man,” she said, nodding slightly.
Cecilia suddenly wanted to ask her about the earl’s relationship with his younger son, but stopped herself. This night she needed to hear about Gideon’s brother’s death.
“You became quite upset with the magistrate,” she observed.
“I can never talk to him without becoming upset. I don’t know what it is that man does to me.
He makes me tongue-tied and feel like a child no matter the subject!
And like this evening, his denying my words before I’ve even begun…
that twists me in knots. I can’t say anything around him and most days I do not even try. Not even on Sundays after services.”
“But you did try tonight. You are to be commended.”
Her hand holding the handkerchief flew up before her in exasperation. “And looked what happened. I just can’t do it.”
“Why don’t you tell me. As you saw this evening, Lord Monteith doesn’t know what went on. He’s been hiding for almost two years from the truth. He says he had no interest after the way his father and brother treated him; however, I believe it is more than that.”
Mrs. Wayne grabbed her fingers. “As do I,” she said ardently.
“You tell me what you saw. Together, we can get him to see through your eyes.”
She nodded. “All right. After the inquest, no one came forward with plans to prepare him for burial, and here he was, right in our narthex!”
“An unusual location for staging a body for the coroner,” Cecilia said.
“I thought it sacrilegious, and so I told Mr. Wayne. But he said it had been decided by others in the village.
“And after the inquest?” Cecilia asked.
“There was no other family about to ask what to do, so we kept him in the narthex. I took it upon myself to prepare him. I sent to Pomum Court for clothes, then I cut away the clothes he died in. I slowly bathed his entire body, making him ready to meet his maker. My housemaid, Julie, helped me to turn him over on his stomach. She gasped when she saw the rusty dark blood drain away from the hair on the back of his head. Lord Jasper had the thickest, darkest hair, like his father, Lord Monteith takes after his late mother. I admit I gasped as well. I took over and carefully washed the back of his head to see where the blood originated.”
Her eyes grew distant, no doubt remembering what she saw. “A wound, straight and five to six inches long. The indentation in his skull looked to be from half an inch to an inch at the top. It caught him here,” she said, pointing to the back of her own head on an angle, to the base of her skull.
“It was a wicked blow. I do not see how it could not have been noticed, but men can be so blind, you know, only seeing what they want to see and they wanted to see an accident,” she said.
Cecilia nodded in agreement. “Did you try to tell anyone otherwise?”
“Aside from my husband? No.” She hung her head.
“Mr. Wayne said he would take care of it. He knows how I detest having to speak to the magistrate, how it upsets me. I saw him approach the magistrate to tell him, but the magistrate just brushed him away. Mr. Wayne told me the magistrate said the inquest was done. The findings of the jury stood as a matter of record.”
“I wonder why he took such a stance? What was in it for him to have a ruling of an accident?”
“His reputation,” Mrs. Wayne said in a small voice.
“What do you mean?”
“He is recognized by his peers as having the most peaceful district, teased because he doesn’t have to work much. Squire Kassell, he takes pride in his reputation for keeping crime away.”
“But hadn’t this area been overrun with smuggling sometimes?”
“Oh yes! But I wouldn’t be surprised if once he turned his head away because the old earl wished him to, he couldn’t stop, and then when praised for his peaceful district, he played into that.”
“I wonder who he thought hit Lord Jasper?” Cecilia mused.
“But that is the thing, you see. To his mind, the only thing to hit Lord Jasper was the crates. Lady Branstoke, I don’t think fallen crates would have killed him. Maybe injure him badly, but not killed him.”
“I will make sure Lord Monteith knows about this. It might coincide well with other matters we are investigating.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Wayne queried, her eyes now bright and inquisitive for village gossip. It almost amazed Cecilia at how quickly the woman could go from devastated to alive with curiosity. Thinking of her own small village of Mertonhaugh, people there would react much the same way.
There was a soft knock on the library door. “Beatrice?” they heard the tentative voice of Vicar Wayne.
“I’m better now,” she said. “Lady Branstoke has been more than kind. Can we go home now?”
The vicar entered the library followed by James.
“Yes dear, I’ve already asked for the carriage to be brought around.”
“Bless you,” she said. “What would I do without you?”
Cecilia and James walked with them to the front door. James cast one curious glance toward Cecilia. She nodded and smiled, then returned her attention to the Waynes and seeing them safely to their carriage.
As Cecilia waved goodbye, she said softly to James. “That was an enlightening, and at the same time, a confusing half hour.” She turned to look at him. “We have much to discuss!” she said brightly as they turned back toward the house.
Mr. and Mrs. Bagnall-Bently had already left. Cecilia felt disappointed. She would have like more time to talk with the couple. She would have to pay them a visit in the next day or so.
“Have all the men stayed in the dining room to drink port, smoke cigars, and bash Mrs. Wayne?”
“You are too harsh, Cecilia,” James said.
Cecilia was still angered by the treatment Mrs. Wayne received from the magistrate.
“Am I? Mrs. Wayne told me that Squire Kassell always makes her feel like a tongue-tied child, no matter the subject of discussion. And what was that about with Mr. Falstaf? He didn’t even live in the area when Lord Jasper died.
Does he have reason to disdain Mrs. Wayne we are not aware of? ”
“His wife looked severely distressed when he said those things. I witnessed them in a whispered argument when everyone rose after dinner. He did look a bit like a chastised puppy when she broke off the conversation.”
“Good for her! I should get to know her.”
“Everyone is in the drawing room as Gideon wants those who have remained to be together as he brings out the oldest brandy he found.”
“I am rather surprised to see Gideon so taken with the apple brandy.”
James laughed. “We are seeing elements of his father coming to the fore, though he should hate me to say that.”
“Wait until he hears Mrs. Wayne’s story. I think you will find his interest exploding greater than those Chinese fireworks.”
James pushed open the door to the drawing room. Inside, the magistrate was holding forth on how peaceful the district was and how he was the envy of the magistrate profession.
Gideon scowled at the man. “How do you explain the fire at my cider mill?
“We all know a working mill is watched while an idle mill is forgotten. In its idle season, apple matter that has lain undisturbed for months may easily release flammable vapors.”
“Six months is a long time for heat to wait,” Cecilia said as James poured glasses of apple brandy for himself and her.
“Nature does not consult the calendar, Lady Branstoke. You’re assuming the season governs the process. It does not. Apple matter left confined will continue to turn, however slowly,” said Squire Kassell.
The condescension in his voice grated on Cecilia’s nerves. She opened her mouth to speak, but a glance from James stilled her.
“Six-month-old waste is unlikely to generate flame-level heat,” James countered mildly as he handed Cecilia her glass.
The squire snorted. “The building was old! Timber dries. Oils soak into beams. Such places are prone to take flame. The air within such a structure as a cider mill grows thick with spirituous vapors. Surely you know that a confined space, poorly vented, invites disaster.”
“As it happens, my wife and I walked the building yesterday afternoon. If the fire began in the apple waste—six-month-old apple pomace—as you would have it,” James said, “the burn would have traveled upward. It did not. The worst of the damage is along the outer door frame and the outer wall leading to the apple press in the next room. That is where the fire took hold, by the back door. There is no smell of rot anywhere in the building. No sourness. No decay. There is—even now—only the smell of smoke…and—oil.”
“You cannot deny the building contained flammable substances. In the absence of clear evidence of interference, I see no cause to trouble the county with darker speculation.”
“I agree with our magistrate,” Mr. Falstaf said. “You are chasing shadows.”
“When everyone was running toward the fire, I saw a man walking away,” Cecilia said.
“Why do you bring this up, Lady Branstoke?” Squire Kassell asked.
“He was the person who started the fire, I’m sure of it.”
“Did you see him start the fire?”
“No, I—”
“I cannot deal in suppositions, only facts. We can go round and round on this all night, which is something I do not wish to do. You have discovered a wonderful apple brandy, Monteith,” the magistrate said, bowing slightly in the earl’s direction.
“My wife and I thank you for the dinner invitation and the opportunity to taste your father’s apple brandy.
It is time we sought our bed. We have the longest journey to the back side of the ridge.
We bid you all goodnight. Antoinette!” the magistrate finished, walking toward the drawing room door, leaving his wife to scramble to her feet to follow him.
“That is certainly a way to get the last word in,” James said in amusement.
“You are being unfair to our esteemed magistrate,” Mr. Falstaf said. “My wife and I will take our leave as well!”
At that, the rest of the guests rose from their seats and acknowledged it was time to end the night.
They thanked Monteith for allowing them to be among the first to taste his brandy.
An air of discomfort clung to the room. No one mentioned the magistrate or his disagreement with James.
No one took sides. Just with murmured goodnights, they left—including Mrs. Norcroft and Miss Nieves.
Though the pair paused before they left to invite Cecilia to tea the next day.
Cecilia, Gideon, and James stood in the drawing room, staring at each other.
“This has certainly been an interesting evening,” Cecilia said, gracefully sitting down in one of the wing chairs, the remains of her apple brandy in hand. She took a sip.
“I don’t understand the magistrate,” said Gideon as he sat down abruptly on one of his stools.
“You said it yourself; he has a reputation to maintain for having the district with the least crime and proudly holds himself accountable,” James reminded him.
He walked over to the fireplace. He rested a shoulder against the mantelpiece and took his silver box out of his waistcoat pocket, rubbing his thumb across it.
“My brother… All this time… I know we didn’t get along; however, if I’d had the smallest suspicion…” Gideon shook his head. He rested his elbows on his knees and placed his head between his hands.
“In the last few days, how often have we been told what we saw—not what we know we saw,” Cecilia mused.
“What the Monteith earldom has experienced are not accidents I would accept,” James said.
“When you say it like that, I imagine a small cyclone,” Cecilia said, “shattering things in its erratic path.” She finished her brandy and set the glass on the table at her side. “How do we stop cyclones?”
“With a change in weather, I would imagine,” said James. “From accidents to truths.”