Death Comes to Kurland Hall (15 page)

“Not in the village itself, Miss Harrington.” Mr. Reading rose and offered his arm to assist Miss Stanford. “We really must be going. I have to walk Miss Stanford back to the gates of Kurland Hall and then return to the inn to write some letters.”

Lucy turned to Miss Stanford, who was looking miserable. “If you wish to stay and keep me and Miss Chingford company, you would be most welcome.”

Miss Stanford glanced quickly up at her smiling companion and then back at Lucy. “I'd better be going. I, too, have letters to write.”

“Then I will not detain you.” Lucy curtsied and summoned Betty to show the couple out. She remembered that Mr. Reading had read through most of Mrs. Chingford's correspondence. Had he, too, found references to Mrs. Fairfax? The first letter
she
had found had been about Miss Stanford
and
Mrs. Fairfax.

“What is it, Lucy?”

She turned to see Penelope observing her closely. “I'm just wondering why Miss Stanford chose to become engaged to such an unpleasant man.”

“He isn't usually so disagreeable. In truth, he can be both charming and charismatic when it suits him. At the moment he doesn't need anything from us, and he has Miss Stanford completely under his thumb, so he doesn't have to be charming. I find him far more intriguing this way.”

“I don't.” Lucy repressed a shiver. “I wonder why he was interested in Mrs. Fairfax?”

“Because he's rather like my mother. He collects useful information and sells it or blackmails people for personal gain. I believe that's how they met. They both tried to blackmail the same person. A marriage between them would've been a disaster.”

“Or a roaring success, where they stole and cajoled money out of thousands of people and then retired gracefully to their mansion in Italy.” Lucy looked over at Penelope. “I think your mother had a lucky escape.”

“I'm not so sure. If she'd managed to marry Mr. Reading, she probably wouldn't have died.” Penelope sighed. “I also suspect he would be quite capable of killing her if she tried to double-cross him.”

“Was she?”

“Threatening him? I should imagine so. No woman likes to be publicly replaced by a younger, wealthier woman.” Penelope grimaced. “She liked to hurt those who didn't treat her with the proper respect.”

“By releasing unfavorable information about them to the scandal sheets or to the
ton
?”

“Exactly. Some of the people deserved what she said about them. The majority did not.” Penelope paused. “If my mother's death wasn't an accident, Mr. Reading is the first person I would suspect of murder.”

“He wasn't at the wedding.”

“But his little puppet, Miss Stanford, was.”

Lucy held her finger to her lips, jumped up to close the parlor door, and returned to her spot. “What are you suggesting?”

“Just before she died, my mother told me that she had found a way to discredit Mr. Reading.”

“How?”

“She said it had something to do with Major Kurland.”

Lucy stared at her companion as her thoughts rushed around her head. “Major
Kurland
? This is all terribly confusing. Mrs. Fairfax arrives to speak to her husband's illegitimate son during the Stanford wedding, and Mr. Reading, who wasn't invited but who is acquaintance with Miss Stanford, Mrs. Chingford, Mrs. Fairfax,
and
Kurland St. Mary, turns up soon afterward. Do you think he came here to protect his betrothed or his own interests?”

“Well, Miss Stanford's interests
are
his. If he marries her, he will gain complete control of her fortune, which, I am told, is considerable.”

“Then perhaps he hoped Miss Stanford would speak to your mother on his behalf and soften her heart.”

“Or perhaps he told Miss Stanford to push her down the stairs.”

Lucy met Penelope's gaze. Neither of them spoke. “You . . . don't think your mother's death was an accident?”

“There is no need to sound so surprised. I'm sure you've wondered exactly the same thing. It is all so convenient for him, isn't it? My family is ruined. My sisters and I lose our chance to make a good marriage and are thrown on the mercy of our richer relatives, and Miss Stanford has to offer herself irrevocably to Mr. Reading in return for him covering up her crime.”

“You believe Miss Stanford pushed your mother down the stairs?”

“It's possible.” Penelope's expression was grave. “Don't you agree?”

“But why haven't you said anything before now?”

“What's the point? She is still dead.” Penelope sat up straight. “You might hate me for saying this, but I am somewhat relieved that she is gone.”

For a long moment, Lucy could not think of a reply. She had promised not to disclose anything about Mrs. Fairfax's confession, and she would keep her word. “What about Dorothea? Why do you think she reacted so badly to your mother's death?”

“I don't know.” Penelope stiffened. “Why? Do you agree with Mr. Reading and think Dorothea killed her?”

Lucy raised her chin. “It is a perfectly reasonable assumption. If Dorothea got into an argument with your mother, she might have pushed her down the stairs and not intended to kill her. And, as you said, it doesn't change things. Your poor mother is still dead.”

Penelope glared at her. “But Dorothea is my sister. She might be something of an annoyance at times, but I still care for her.”

“I know you do. I have siblings of my own.” Lucy held Penelope's gaze. “I don't discount your theory that Miss Stanford and Mr. Reading might be involved in this matter, but I do wish Dorothea would get better and tell us what she knows.”

“Don't worry, Miss Harrington. I will speak to her when she wakes up and will
demand
answers. Perhaps in the meantime you could do your utmost to discover what on earth Mr. Reading has to do with Major Kurland.” Penelope nodded at Lucy, rose, and swept out of the room, banging the door behind her.

Lucy shook her head. She had no intention of asking Major Kurland anything. Since his abrupt refusal to work alongside her to discover the truth, he hadn't sought her out, which suited her perfectly. With sudden resolve, she went out into the hallway, found her stout boots and umbrella, and walked out into the rain, toward the village.

For once, her walk was undisturbed by others, which gave her the opportunity to think. She didn't trust Mr. Reading. Penelope's opinion about him having Miss Stanford under his thumb rang true to her, as well. But how on earth was Mr. Reading connected to Major Kurland? Lucy stopped walking and stared straight across the village square at the market clock.

Perhaps they'd been looking at this all wrong. Was Major Kurland the real reason that Mr. Reading had come back to Kurland St. Mary? And if so, what exactly were his intentions?

Chapter 14

R
obert made his way up the stairs by himself. It took him a while, but it was less humiliating than having to call James to help him. All was quiet within the house. He believed Miss Stanford had gone down to the rectory, Mrs. Green was in the library, and Dorothea was presumably asleep in her bed, watched over by one of the maids.

Even as he made his way along the corridor toward the guests' bedchambers, Robert wasn't quite sure what he was doing. Despite his words to Miss Harrington about the matter being closed, it continued to trouble his conscience. He glanced over his shoulder to make certain that he wasn't being observed, unlocked the door to Mrs. Fairfax's old room, and let himself inside.

Everything had been left in place for Thomas to go through. He'd been so busy with the Kurland estate that he'd hardly had time to make any arrangements for his father's deceased wife. Robert assumed he would pack Mrs. Fairfax's things away once he'd assessed them and decided what to bring back to Fairfax Park. If he was careful, Thomas would never know that Robert had felt this peculiar urge to search through the widow's belongings before it was too late.

He crossed to the window and opened the curtains. The bed had been stripped of its covers, and piles of Mrs. Fairfax's neatly folded black clothes sat on a chair beside the walnut-fronted tallboy. Using as much finesse as he could, Robert went through all the garments, checking pockets and shawls and the insides of reticules, and found nothing but a silver sixpence, which he hastily put back. He opened all the drawers of the tallboy and of the clothes chest set under the window, but both had been emptied. There was a cupboard built into the wall under a spiral staircase, but it contained only one bonnet and a black cloak.

Turning to the dressing table, Robert sat on the stool to rest his leg and eyed the contents of Mrs. Fairfax's cosmetics box. He had no idea what most of the lotions and potions did, but he doubted anything could be concealed within the glass pots and jars. A faint trace of lavender perfume drifted over him, reminding him of Miss Harrington's much-prized lavender soap.

He picked his way through the assortment of beauty aids, checked the handkerchiefs and the drawers of the dressing table, and found nothing unexpected. He stared at the bed in frowning silence before moving toward it. Where would he hide something if this were his room? Bending down, he ran his hand between the feather mattress and the bed frame, disturbing two spiders and stirring up more dust than he had anticipated.

The bed was large, and it took him a few minutes to work his way around to the top again. He climbed onto the mattress and slid his hand down behind the headboard, where his fingers connected with what felt like paper. He tightened his grip and withdrew his hand. As he straightened, his glance alighted on the worn copy of the Bible, and he picked it up.

A slight noise in the corridor outside had him climbing awkwardly off the bed and retreating toward the long sweep of the drawn curtains. He almost dropped the Bible and finally stashed it and the scrap of paper in his coat pocket. To his dismay, he heard the voices of both his housekeeper Mrs. Bloomfield and Miss Stanford outside the door and the rattle of a key.

“This is so kind of you, ma'am. I cannot imagine where I lost my necklace, but I have searched everywhere. . . .”

Robert reached the cupboard and dove inside, pulling the door almost shut behind him. He arranged himself behind the hanging cloak and went still as the door was unlocked and Miss Stanford came inside.

Through the crack in the door he watched as she searched carefully through Mrs. Fairfax's belongings and then stood in the middle of the room, her hands clenched into fists. She looked as if she was about to burst into tears. Robert held his breath as she advanced on his hiding place and then turned suddenly toward the bed, which she examined thoroughly.

When she approached the cupboard, he shut the door and held on grimly to the latch as she attempted to open it. To his relief, she soon abandoned her attempt to force the door open, and moments later he heard her leave the room. He made himself count to a thousand before he opened the door and stepped out into the bedchamber. Nothing appeared to have been taken.

Rather than risk being seen leaving the room, Robert retreated to the servants' stairs and went down to the ground floor, emerging into the great hall by the front door. Foley bowed to him and offered to make him some tea, which Robert declined as he headed for the privacy of his study.

Locking that door behind him, he sat down at his desk and took out the scrap of paper and Mrs. Fairfax's Bible. He smoothed out the crumpled piece of paper and attempted to read the copied Bible verses. The handwriting was badly formed and very childish. Robert wondered if he'd stumbled across a keepsake of Mrs. Fairfax's son's schoolwork. He had no idea how old the boy was, but this was the sort of thing a fond mother might keep with her. Had it fallen out of her Bible and ended up behind the bed? It seemed all too likely.

The writing was so atrocious that he couldn't identify the verses. He imagined that if Miss Harrington were at his side, she would have recognized them in an instant. Not that they helped to clear anything up. Robert leafed his way through the old Bible, noticing the underlined passages, which all seemed to concern death and destruction, and the pages that had been marked with slips of paper and ends of ribbon.

He'd have to put the book back in its place, or it would be missed. He turned to the once blank front pages and noticed that several different sets of handwriting had added extra prayers and a list of names, presumably of those who had owned the Bible. The last name was Emily Fairfax. Robert peered intently at the word preceding
Fairfax,
which had been scored across. Had the Bible belonged to Emily before she married Mr. Fairfax? It was highly likely that it had.

It was a shame that she had obliterated her previous surname.... Still, he retrieved his magnifying glass from his drawer and considered the words again. If he was not mistaken, there were two words.... Robert frowned. He supposed it was possible she had deleted her second name, as well as her previous surname, on the occasion of her marriage. But for what purpose? Had she been ashamed of her family or her more humble origins? Mrs. Chingford had hinted that Mrs. Fairfax was not quite what she seemed. Had she married out of her class and been desperate not to let anyone know of it?

Robert put away his magnifying glass. He'd never understand the intricacies of a woman's mind. That was why Miss Harrington had proved so useful in interpreting what had occurred in their past investigations. The feminine nature of her thought processes had often reached conclusions that astounded him but that had proven to be correct.

But he could not involve her in this. If he wanted to investigate any further, he'd have to find another way. He considered anew what Miss Stanford had been up to in the deceased woman's bedchamber. She was the sister of his oldest friend. Perhaps she might be able to help him discover exactly what was going on.

 

Lucy walked under the archway into the stable yard of the local inn, the Queen's Head, and immediately stepped out of the way of a cart and four horses that were attempting to exit. The inn wasn't situated on a main highway, so there wasn't much through traffic for the ostlers and stable hands to deal with. It was still busy with local farmers coming into Kurland St. Mary from the surrounding hamlets and farms to sell their wares or send goods onward to London, which was a mere twenty-five miles away to the south.

The ancient Roman road up to Newmarket, which was just two miles away, had been improved by horse mad King Charles II, and although Lucy had never had much sympathy for the man's profligate ways, she did appreciate the quality of the road, which made traveling in both directions so much easier.

Picking up her skirts to avoid the mud and horse dung, she crossed over the cobblestones to the main stable and caught the eye of one of the boys lingering at the door.

“Is Alf Smith here today, Jamie?”

The boy removed the straw from his mouth and jumped to attention. “Yes, Miss Harrington. Shall I fetch him for you?”

Lucy nodded, and the boy sped away, leaving her to admire a tub full of flowering pinks next to the back door of the inn. She wondered whether the innkeeper's wife had placed it there to dissipate the smell of the stables. When she turned back, Alf was coming through the door, grinning at her. At some point in his life his two front teeth had been knocked out by a horse, leaving him speaking with something of a whistle.

“Afternoon, Miss Harrington.”

“Alf.” Lucy smiled at his weather-beaten face. “Are you well?”

“Very well, miss. My daughter just gave me a new grandson.”

“So I heard. How lovely for you all. I sent Betty home with a basket for her.”

“That you did, and we thank you for it.” Alf tugged his forelock. “Now, how can I help you today? Do you need some rats caught?”

“Not this time.” Lucy repressed a shudder as she remembered the three huge rats Alf and his dog had caught at the rectory the previous year. “There is a Mr. Reading staying at the inn. Did he bring a horse with him, or did he come by coach?”

“Tall gent with black hair and blue eyes? Dresses like a toff?”

“That's him.”

“He brought his horse with him, but the poor beast is fit only for the knackers yard. Mrs. Jarvis is worried he's going to try to leave without paying his shot.”

Alf's complete lack of curiosity as to why Lucy was asking him such pointed questions was a refreshing change.

“You don't recall seeing him here before, Alf?”

He scratched his head. “Like last week, you mean?”

“I meant when he was younger. He suggested to me that he had once lived somewhere near the village.”

“I don't remember him, miss. I was away fighting with the good major in the army for years. I can't say he wasn't here then.” He lowered his voice. “Does Major Kurland want me to keep an eye on the blighter and make sure he doesn't disappear without handing over his blunt?”

“That's
exactly
what I was going to ask you to do, Alf.” Lucy smiled. “But the major also said that as I am closer to the inn than he is, you must feel free to come and tell me about Mr. Reading's movements.”

“Then that's what I'll do, Miss Harrington.”

“Especially if you think he is acting suspiciously or plans to leave.”

“Consider it done.”

Pleased with the notion that Alf was already suspicious of Mr. Reading, and not at all ashamed of using Major Kurland's authority for her own purposes, Lucy walked out into the village street. The rain increased and drummed steadily on her umbrella as she started the trek back toward the church and the rectory beside it.

Why wouldn't Mr. Reading introduce himself to Major Kurland? When she'd mentioned his name, had the major failed to admit that he knew the man? Had that been why he'd insisted they not investigate the matter further? She'd assumed he was angry with her, but perhaps that wasn't it at all. But why would Major Kurland not acknowledge the connection?

She avoided a large puddle and walked purposefully onward. If she accepted that Major Kurland truly had no knowledge of Mr. Reading, was it possible that Mr. Reading knew the major? If he'd grown up around Kurland St. Mary, he must have connected with the premier family in the district....

But perhaps it was even simpler than that. Mrs. Chingford might have informed Mr. Reading that Penelope had once been engaged to Major Kurland. If they had been as close as Penelope claimed, surely Mr. Reading would have been told the news. And had Mr. Reading decided to use his old connection with Kurland St. Mary to reacquaint himself with the major?

Lucy increased her pace. Perhaps she should abandon her plans and go straight up to the manor house and tell Major Kurland to be careful. The wind speed increased, and she angled her umbrella forward, but it was too weak to withstand the sudden gusts and blew inside out. As she struggled to right it, she heard a horse coming toward her and then was unceremoniously shoved off the road and partially into the ditch.

She fought to right herself, only to be confronted by a smiling Mr. Reading, who did nothing to help her regain her footing in the slippery mud.

“Miss Harrington? I didn't see you there. I do beg your pardon.”

Lucy's gloved fingers curled around the handle of her broken umbrella as she took an unsteady step away from the ditch. Mr. Reading moved his horse again, almost knocking her off balance, and she was suddenly afraid. Pushing her wet hair away from her face, she glared at him.

“What do you want?”

He shrugged the rain dripping off his hat. “Just to apologize for not seeing you on the side of the road.” He glanced beyond her to the unsavory ditch beyond, which was rapidly filling up with water. “Wouldn't want you falling in there. You might never resurface.”

“I suspect I'll be fine if you would just leave.” Lucy fought to control her chattering teeth as the cold and wet seeped through her pelisse. She took another wary step, and he moved his horse to block her way again.

“What do you
want
?” she shouted up at him.

“Stop meddling in matters that do not concern you.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Lucy countered. “If you do not back away immediately, I will be speaking to Major Kurland.”

“Oh, I don't think so. I'm told you and he are at odds. He won't help you.”

“Then I'll speak to my father.” She looked past him as she heard the sound of an approaching carriage. “Get out of my way, or I'll scream.”