Beneath a Silent Moon (27 page)

Glenister and Kenneth exchanged glances and moved to stand before the white marble Adam fireplace with its Venus and Jupiter andirons. David joined them.

Kenneth spoke first. All signs
of
his shock
of
last night were gone, save for the drawn cast to his features. He had shaved and dressed with his usual impeccable understatement.

"My apologies for gathering you all together so early. I'm afraid I have sad—tragic news to impart." His voice was firm and resonant. He was, after all, a successful banister and a Member of Parliament. Charles might not share his father's politics, but his skill as a speaker was a legacy from Kenneth.

Kenneth's gaze swept the company. "In the early hours of the morning, I entered my bedchamber to find Honoria lying in my bed, strangled to death."

The room went silent, the sort of silence that might follow a cannon blast in the midst of a ball.

Lord Valentine pushed himself to his feet. His cup tumbled from his fingers and thudded to the floor, spattering coffee on his biscuit-colored pantaloons. "My God. Why didn't you tell us?"

"We did," Glenister said. "Just now."

"David knew last night. If he hadn't he'd look more surprised." Lord Valentine glared at David. "She was just as much our cousin as his."

"They told me because I'm acting as one of her guardians," David said.

"But—"

"For God's sake, Val," Lord Quentin said. "She's dead." He was staring at a patch of sunlight on the Turkey rug, as though he were looking into hell. Miss Mortimer, who was perched on the arm of his chair, put her arms round him and leaned her head against his shoulder. She was shaking.

Gisèle gave a high-pitched cry somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Charles moved toward his sister, then checked himself as Lady Frances went to her.

Lord Valentine transferred his gaze from his father to Kenneth. "I knew it was madness for Honoria to marry you." His eyes narrowed. "What the devil was she doing in your room?"

"Valentine." Glenister's voice had the snap of a whip.

"By God, sir, we have the right to know. Honoria was practically our sister."

"Certainly you have the right to know," Kenneth said in a voice as cool as carved ice. "I haven't the least idea what Honoria was doing in my bedchamber. I'd like to know myself."

Lord Valentine's chin jutted out. "She can't have gone there willingly."

Gisèle lifted her head from Lady Frances's shoulder. "We never can do anything like a normal family." She looked at her father. "Honoria didn't even survive to the wedding. At least Mama was married to you for twenty years."

"Don't be ridiculous, Gisèle," Kenneth said.

"Ridiculous?" Gisèle's voice cracked on the word. "You can't deny your women have a short life expectancy, Papa. Perhaps I should have warned Honoria—" She gave another laugh that teetered on the edge of hysteria.

Lady Frances slapped her across the cheek. Gisèle drew a sharp breath. "Is that how you dealt with Mama, Aunt Frances?"

Miss Mortimer looked at Glenister. "Uncle Frederick? What happens now?"

Glenister exchanged a look with Kenneth and David, and then explained their arrangement with Charles about investigating the murder.

Lord Valentine's face darkened as his father spoke. "You mean we have to answer any questions Charles chooses to ask us?"

"Better him than the bailie," Lord Quentin said. "Or Bow Street." He scraped a hand through his untidy hair. "Surely what we need to do is find this intruder who was in the library last night."

"It's not that simple," Charles said, and went on to explain about the laudanum and the implications of the intruder waiting for someone in the library an hour or more after the murder.

Miss Mortimer was frowning in silent concentration. "One of us killed her." She gripped her hands together in her lap. "That's what you're saving, isn't it?"

The ugly truth no one had yet dared voice hung in the air. Disbelief reverberated against the silk-hung walls and echoed off the gilded ceiling. "It's beastly," Miss Mortimer said, "but there's no sense pretending otherwise."

Lord Quentin shot a look at her. "I suppose we could try to pin it on the servants. That's customary in the circumstances. But it doesn't make a lot of sense."

David cleared his throat. "I'm sure Charles will want to talk to all of us individually. I need hardly say that it's in all our interests to cooperate with him. The sooner we learn the truth, the better for all of us."

"Except the killer," Lord Quentin said.

"Quite," said David.

Simon leaned against the wall beside Mélanie, watching David with a concern that for once he didn't take the trouble to mask. He must, Mélanie realized, be as worried about the strain on David as she was about the strain on Charles. Then, too, whenever David stepped into his official role, as now, Simon was forced to remain in the background. They had to maintain a fiction that they were just friends who shared lodgings, though they were closer than half the married couples Mélanie knew. Closer, by far, than she and Charles.

"The intruder was in the library waiting for someone," Charles said. "Presumably someone in the house. It may have had nothing to do with Honoria's death. If so, the simplest thing would be to explain now."

No one volunteered such an explanation.

"Did anyone hear anything last night?" Charles asked. "Or see anything?"

"Other than Mrs. Fraser knocking on our doors with a story about an outside disturbance?" Lord Valentine said. "No."

Miss Mortimer pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "Honoria came into my room to talk about dresses for tomorrow—today, that is." A spasm of realization crossed her face. "That was the last time I saw her."

"Do you remember what time that was?" Charles asked, his voice gentle.

Miss Mortimer frowned. "I suppose—it was a quarter past midnight when she left the room. I heard the clock in the corridor striking when she opened the door."

"Did anyone see her after that?" Charles asked.

Silence reverberated through the room once again.

"Do any of you know if Honoria was in the habit of taking laudanum?" Charles asked.

"Laudanum?" Lord Quentin stared at him. "I shouldn't think so. She was a confounded heavy sleeper."

A crossfire of surprised looks darted his way.

"As a child, I mean," Lord Quentin said. "I remember having the devil of a hard time waking her from naps on picnics."

"Val?" Charles said. "Evie?"

"Good God, I don't know." Lord Valentine took a restless turn about the room. "I expect Quen's right. He has a better memory than I do."

Miss Mortimer drew a breath. She looked as though she was using every ounce of willpower to concentrate rather than burst into tears. "It's true Honoria was a heavy sleeper, especially when she was younger." She hesitated, her dark brows drawn together.

"But?" Charles said.

Miss Mortimer looked up at him. "She'd been complaining of restlessness in the last few months. She never told me she was taking laudanum, but—I suppose it
is
possible,. Oh, dear. All I've done is muddle things more."

"The truth is frequently a muddle," Charles said. He turned to Honoria's former governess. "Miss Newland? Do you know if Honoria ever took laudanum?"

"Not to my knowledge." Her voice was level, though her numb eyes gave the lie to her composure. "But I left Lord Glenister's employ five years ago. I can't speak to Honoria's habits in recent years."

Lord Quentin pushed himself to his feet. "Can we see Honoria?"

"Of course," Charles said.

"Good God." Glenister stared at his son. "You can't have any idea—"

"She was strangled. I don't see how it could be anything but horrific. She's my cousin. I want to see her."

Miss Mortimer stood beside him. "So do I."

"For God's sake, Evelyn—" Glenister said.

Miss Mortimer lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders. "I'm not a baby, Uncle Frederick. I haven't been for a long time."

Charles exchanged a look with Mélanie. She nodded and felt in the pocket of her gown for her vinaigrette. She, Charles, the Talbot brothers, and Miss Mortimer went upstairs. Outside the door of Kenneth's bedchamber Charles turned to Miss Talbot's cousins. "She's been dead for several hours. I don't know if you've ever seen a dead body, but with time—the appearance changes."

Miss Mortimer looked up at him and forced a smile to her lips. "It's all right, Charles. If I don't see, I expect my nightmares would be worse."

But when they filed into the room, Miss Mortimer gave a sharp cry. Lord Quentin put his arm round her and she pressed her face into his shoulder. Lord Valentine cast one look at the bed, then spun away, crossed to the washstand, and vomited into the basin.

Mélanie took a step toward him. Lord Valentine waved her away. He stood gripping the dresser, gaze fixed on the wall.

Miss Mortimer lifted her head from Lord Quentin's shoulder and looked again at her dead cousin. "I don't think I really believed it until now." She looked at Charles. "You were right. I'm glad I saw." She drew a deep breath, walked over to Lord Valentine, and put her arm round him. Lord Valentine pulled her to him in an awkward, brotherly hug.

Lord Quentin looked down at Honoria for a long, silent interval. "Fraser," he said at last.

"Yes?" Charles said.

Lord Quentin turned his head and fixed Charles with a hard stare. "Can you find the bastard who did this?"

"I'll do my best," Charles said.

"Good." Lord Quentin stared back at his murdered cousin. "And then you can leave it to me to finish him off."

Silence echoed the length of the servants' hall when Kenneth Fraser finished his account of Honoria Talbot's death. The walls were whitewashed rather than hung with gold silk, the furniture covered in black horsecloth rather than figured damask, the rugs loomed in Yorkshire rather than France and Persia. But the horror and disbelief on the faces of the assembled crowd were the mirror image of that of the guests in the Gold Saloon.

Hopetoun, the butler, looked as though he took it as a personal failure that such a tragedy had occurred in a household of which he had charge. Mrs. Johnstone, the housekeeper, stared at Kenneth as though he had announced that fleas had got into the linens. They were sitting at the front of the room. The cook, the underbutler, the chief housemaid, and the valets and ladies' maids of the various guests were ranged about them. The more junior members of the staff stood at the back of the room.

Kenneth, Glenister, David, and Charles faced the assembly. Mélanie stood to one side. Her role was to observe reactions. The servants often knew what was going on in the house far better than the guests and family.

The silence was broken by the swish of starched skirts and an abrupt thud. One of the kitchen maids had fainted. Mélanie hurried to the girl's side, fumbling in the pocket of her gown for her vinaigrette.

"What is that?" Kenneth's voice came from the front of the room, sharp with impatience.

"It's all right, Mr. Fraser. One of the girls was overcome by the shock." Mélanie waved the vinaigrette beneath the girl's nose. She was a freckle-faced child of no more than fifteen. Mélanie's maid, Blanca, knelt beside her and chafed the girl's wrists.