A Rose Before Dying (31 page)

“Then why didn’t you suspect me?” she
asked.

“You didn’t seem insane enough. Unless you
were, I couldn’t see a reason for you to shoot Lady Banks.”

“As I’ve never met her, that would indeed
have been a strange thing for me to do,” Ariadne agreed.

“How did Mr. Tunnes come to your attention?”
Mr. Ludsthorp asked, looking from Ariadne to Charles.

“An error in judgment,” he admitted. “Miss
Baxter indicated a woman abducted her. My uncle recalled Mr.
Tunnes, who often played female roles, and Sir Edward had written a
scathing review disparaging the actor’s abilities.”

Mr. Ludsthorp chuckled. “He does well enough
in the role of clown. Never cared to see him in any serious work,
though.”

“An assessment shared by my uncle. And
although Tunnes grew roses purchased from Rosewell, the more I
considered it, the less likely it seemed. Despite his poor reviews,
he was simply too busy. But there had to be a link to Rosewell.
Then I remembered that some of the roses at the nursery had been
trimmed.”

“We always cut off the old blooms,” Ariadne
said. “It’s quite normal. And I use some of the stems to start new
roses.”

“Yes. But it also made it easier for the
murderer to cover his actions. Rosewell grew all the roses he sent.
Again, at the center was Rosewell. When Rose went missing, I
realized how false the first few clues really were. Whoever was
responsible didn’t know Sir Edward had undergone surgery and was
incapacitated.”

“Hadn’t he already turned your attention to
Mr. Tunnes by then?” the constable asked.

“Unintentionally.” Charles laughed. “I’m not
sure Mr. Phillips ever knew we suspected Tunnes. He certainly
didn’t know Sir Edward’s health removed him from the list of
suspects.”

“You mentioned a woman named Rose—”

“Not a woman, a child,” Ariadne said. “Rose
Barlowe. She’s an orphan. I adopted her.”

“Did you indeed?” Mr. Ludsthorp studied her.
She flushed uncomfortably until he returned his attention back to
his notes. He wrote assiduously for over a minute.

“Her disappearance was the final key,”
Charles continued. “My uncle never knew about the child until after
he was incapacitated. But Phillips, well, that was a different
story.” Charles glanced at Ariadne.

She froze at the look of inquiry in his eyes.
An angry blush heated her face as she prayed he wouldn’t mention
the bruise on her cheek as proof of Mr. Phillips’s bad temper. What
purpose could it serve other than to humiliate her?

“He wanted Rosewell,” she said, hoping to
distract the constable.

“He
needed
Rosewell,” Charles amended.
“He invested most of his inheritance in your house and nursery at
your father’s urging. Apparently, he hoped to make a fortune on
some new rose—”

“It takes years to hybridize a new variety
and then grow enough stock to sell.” Ariadne interrupted. “My
father hadn’t bred a healthy, viable rose in five years. It takes
time. Patience.”

“But he was trying, wasn’t he?” Charles
asked.

“Yes. He never stopped trying.”

“And he convinced Phillips he’d have
something. Soon. So Phillips invested. When he got restless, your
father agreed to let Phillips marry his only daughter, reassuring
Phillips that he would eventually receive control over the house
and business. I’m sure Mr. Wellfleet still believed he could
protect Rosewell. If you were married, the house and nursery would
stay in the family, and Phillips couldn’t back out and put Rosewell
at risk by demanding repayment if no new rose was in the offing. He
did the best he could for you, Miss Wellfleet, to ensure you didn’t
lose everything when he died.”

A wave of deep sadness enveloped her. It
appeared that very thing might happen, anyway.

Mr. Ludsthorp watched her, his expressive
eyes curious before he looked back at Charles. She clasped her
shaking hands in her lap and smiled at him.

“Unfortunately, after Mr. Wellfleet died, it
placed Phillips in an awkward position. He could no longer afford
the flat he rented, and Ariadne was uncooperative and grieving for
her father. He went to Second Sons to find employment. Apparently,
he felt the work would be suitable for one of his, um,
intellect
.” Charles grinned. “Mr. Gaunt indicated Phillips
liked to have the upper hand. It occurred to me that as an inquiry
agent, he could turn the information he gained to his
advantage.”

“Blackmail?” Mr. Ludsthorp asked.

“Most likely. Gaunt’s admonishments and
eventual dismissal seems to have set him off. All of this, all
these games with roses, were designed to prove his
superiority.”

Ludsthorp shook his head. “Why Lady Banks and
Lord Nivelle?”

“That was the most difficult to understand.
Why start with them? This is sheer speculation, but I believe it
comes down to one simple fact: Sir Edward was friends with Mr.
Gaunt. He wanted to get back at Gaunt but still ensure he wouldn’t
be suspected. What better way than to make it look as if Gaunt’s
friend, Sir Edward, were to blame?” His expression softened when he
looked at Ariadne. “And when it worked so well, he realized he
could use the murders to further his own ends at Rosewell. Miss
Wellfleet was not cooperating with him. He wanted to remove all
those who supported her. Without them, she’d have had no one to
turn to except him.” He leaned back and studied Mr. Ludsthorp. “I’m
sorry we can’t prove any of this, but I believe it may be fairly
accurate.”

“Thank you, my lord. That certainly gives me
a great deal to consider.” He made another note and then frowned.
“But, why did he try to kill Miss Wellfleet? If he wished to gain
her consent…”

“I doubt he intended to murder her. He saw me
arrive. Her presence here must have enraged him. He may have hoped
to force her back to London and carry out the marriage. The truth
is, it wouldn’t matter, either way. He could have obtained the
house and nursery even if she perished. But it would be better if
they were wed. There would have been no risk, then, of losing his
investment. Rosewell was all he had left.”

“Desperation and greed are unhealthy
companions, that much is certain.” Ludsthorp flipped the page in
his book and wrote a few final words while they watched him in
silence. After a few more questions going over the horrific final
events again, he rose. “Enough, for now. The coroner will ask the
same questions and more, though the earl, of course, needs only to
send his statement. You’ll be comfortable here for the next week or
so?” The twinkle in his eye suggested he knew only too well how
small the cottage was and how inconveniently cozy it might
become.

“Certainly,” the earl agreed.

There were worse things, Ariadne realized.
Mr. Phillips could have succeeded. She might have married him.

Relieved to see the constable trotting off
toward the village, Charles didn’t protest when he was relegated to
a pallet set between his uncle’s bed and the window. Despite the
melon-sized lumps in his bed, he fell asleep immediately.

If his uncle had a poor night, as evidenced
by the empty water jug and bottle of laudanum on the table between
their beds, Charles slept through it. Unfortunately, over the next
two weeks, the pallet lost much of its charm.

A desire to escape from the close confines of
the cottage encouraged him to attend the inquest, and he found hard
benches much better for sleeping than his bed. His speculation was
accepted as fact, or as close to fact as they could get, and he was
not even called upon to explain.

When the trial was finally over, he was
surprised to realize Ariadne appeared as pale and tense as she had
before they identified the murderer.

“Are you feeling well?” he asked as they
walked back from Rye to Marsh Rose Cottage. “Surely, you’re not
worried about your cousin?”

“No.” She shook her head. “She’s doing well.
Even Dr. Humphrey is pleased.”

“Then it must be true.”

She should be relieved. Instead, she walked
beside him with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. If she wasn’t
concerned about her cousin, then was she simply tired of his
presence? She’d been forced to endure him at close quarters for
fourteen days. Perhaps the bloom was off the rose, as it were. Too
much familiarity was never encouraged before a couple married for
fear the lady might realize what she was getting into.

Whatever she thought, she refused to explain
before they arrived at the cramped cottage.

He opened the door, only to take a step back.
The place was in an uproar.

“Get back to your room, you old lackwit!”
Mrs. Bewforest bellowed. She circled Sir Edward, who stood at the
base of the stairs.

He clutched a crutch under one arm and the
banister in a white-knuckled grip with the other. “Then tell her to
come down!”

“She doesn’t want to see you! Are you deaf? I
told you half a dozen times!”

“Well, I want to see her! She’s living in my
house, isn’t she? She can grant me five minutes of her precious
time!”

“She hardly needs to see you! She can hear
you from the roof! Everyone within ten miles of this cottage surely
hears you!”

“What is that to me?”

“Obviously nothing since it hasn’t lowered
your voice a wit.”

He glared at Mrs. Bewforest who pushed past
him to stand midway up the stairs. She clung to the railing and
refused to move despite his efforts to shift her by prodding her
with the tip of his crutch.

“Sir Edward!” Ariadne ran forward and laid
her hand on his shoulder. “What are you doing? You should be in
bed! You can’t climb the stairs, Sir Edward!”

“Don’t tell me what I can’t do in my own
house! You women have been worrying over me like dogs fighting over
a bone. I’m sick of the lot of you!”

She paled and asked in a stiff voice, “Do you
wish us to leave?”

“Yes!” With that, he laboriously turned.
“Yes—leave! Leave me in peace!” He struggled down the hall toward
his bedroom.

Torn between following Ariadne or his uncle,
Charles hesitated. His uncle staggered into a wall and swore, his
voice breaking with pain. After a glance at Ariadne’s stiff back,
Charles moved to his uncle.

He pulled Sir Edward’s arm over his shoulder
and took his weight, easing him back to his room. It wasn’t until
he got the older man seated with his leg propped up that he faced
him.

“That was needlessly cruel,” Charles
remarked.

“Cruel? What do you know of cruelty, my lord?
If you want true cruelty, look to a woman.”

“These women are guests in your home. They’ve
been through a terrible ordeal—”

“They’ve done nothing but lie abed and eat my
food.” He pounded his thigh with his fist. “If you want an ordeal
then have your foot removed by a butcher of a surgeon!”

“And that’s enough reason to act the
bad-tempered, old fool?”

“I’ve reason enough—that bloody foot still
hurts! Phantom pain, he calls it. Ha! I’d like to give that quack a
phantom beating!”

“We all understand, but your behavior is
abominable.”

A sharp laugh broke from Sir Edward’s throat.
“Maybe it is, but how else could I get her to come down those
blasted stairs? She’s got to come down if she wants to leave.”

“You did that just to get her to come down?”
Charles stared at him before laughing. “You could have yelled
‘fire’.”

“I didn’t want her to panic. Precisely. Just
come down.”

“You preferred her to think you’re a
distempered old boar, instead?”

“She already thinks that.” He shrugged. “And
since you’ve seen fit to drag me back here, it’s up to you to
encourage her to come down. Bring her here. For a lovely little
chat. Very polite.” He grinned.

Charles shook his head and left. When he got
to the stairs, the women were already descending, dressed for
travel.

He stood in front of the door. “Isn’t it
rather late for a walk.”

“We’re returning to London,” Miss Baxter
replied through stiff, white lips.

“I’m afraid not. Or rather, not at the
moment.”

“We can’t stay here, my lord. Our host, such
as he is, demanded we leave!”

“Take it up with him.”

“I will not argue about it, or beg to stay,”
Miss Baxter said.

“I’m merely the messenger. I advise you to
tell him.” He stepped between the women and gently maneuvered Miss
Baxter toward Sir Edward’s chamber. “A trifle improper, perhaps,
but I believe I can ensure your safety.”

When they reached the door, he gave her a
gentle push when she refused to enter.

“Well! Miss Baxter, finally!” Sir Edward
gestured toward the sole chair in the room. “Pray be seated.”

“I will do nothing of the sort!”

“Then stand.” He shifted uncomfortably on the
bed.

Miss Baxter took a step forward and then
stopped when he looked at her. “We were prepared to depart. Your
nephew stopped us. Our continued presence is entirely his fault.”
Her chin rose.

“Well, at least it got you down those blasted
stairs.”

“I beg your pardon!” Her back straightened as
her mouth tightened. “I have been down those stairs many times over
the last few days.”

“Only when you were sure I was not
awake.”

“Is it any wonder? You’re the most
foul-tempered man I’ve ever had the privilege to meet.”

“Then you must have been spending your days
in a nunnery. You’re a most obstinate woman, Miss Baxter.” An evil
smile spread over his face. “So it seems we’re a better match than
one might suppose.”

“Better match!” Her sharp gasp brought on a
small bout of coughing. A look of concern wrinkled Sir Edward’s
eyebrows. He swore, struggling to stand, but Miss Baxter waved him
back. “For once, stop behaving like a fool! Stay where you are. I’m
quite well.”

When she got her coughing under control, she
strode to the bed, plumped his pillows and forced him to lie
back.