Murder by Magic (30 page)

I
f anyone in Albion was likely to be murdered, it was surely not Lord Roderick Featherstonehaugh.   Everyone loved Fen, as his intimates called him. Women adored him. His peers fought for the privilege of inviting him to their country house shooting parties to bag the best grouse and pheasant. Even servants, from grooms to housekeepers, hastened to do his bidding with uncharacteristic alacrity.

And yet here he lies,
Lady Olivia Dowling thought, gazing down at the body sprawled on the Axminster carpet in the guest chamber of Waveney Hall. Fen was still quite imposing in death, though his expression of terror somewhat mitigated the impact of his girth.
Why is it that I cannot feel the proper grief? And how can I solve this terrible mystery before the constable must be summoned?

For it would not do to involve the authorities, not until she was quite certain that none of her guests were guilty of the crime—or that one of them definitely was.

What made the situation even more vexing was the fact that no one was quite sure what family Talent Fen had inherited from his father, the former Viscount Featherstonehaugh. Society had long made a game of guessing its nature, but Fen had never told.

A windblown splatter of rain struck the window. Olivia pushed a loose tendril of hair out of her face and wrinkled her nose at the unmistakable smell of wet canine.

Lightning flashed, the window sprang open, and Kit Meredith climbed in. Though the guest rooms were in the east wing on the first floor of the mansion, scaling the brick walls of the Hall was no problem for Kit. His black hair was plastered to his face, but his black wool suit was conveniently unaffected by the miserable day outside. How fortunate that he did not need to leave his clothes behind when he called upon his wild magic. A naked man appearing in her home at any time of day was most inconvenient. Almost as inconvenient as a murder.

Kit slipped on his smoke-lensed spectacles and straightened to his full, lanky height. “Well?” he began. “What is—?”

His gaze followed hers to the body. He gave a startled
woof
and sank down in the nearest chair.

“Featherstonehaugh,” he said. “Dead. By magic.”

“Ah, Kit,” she said fondly. “You always come just when I need you most—even if you prefer that no one knows
how
you come. I am very much afraid that you and I have a murder to investigate.”

Kit could be every bit as practical as she. He wasted no time with questions, but dropped into a crouch beside the body and sniffed up and down its length. Olivia had long since ceased to be amused at his antics. One did not laugh at Old Shuck, even if one was the Black Dog’s closest friend.

“As pitiful as my Residual gift may be,” she commented, “I can See that he was strangled.”

“Strangled?”

Sir Kenneth Ingleby stepped into the room, his face drained of color. “Fen! Is he dead?”

Olivia hastened to close the door behind him. “I fear so, Sir Kenneth. Is the news already abroad?” She sighed. “I did ask Amis to be discreet—”

“Your butler didn’t speak of it,” Sir Kenneth said with a grim twist to his mouth. “My room is just across the hall, and I heard voices.” He stared at the body. “Good riddance.”

“You do not seem very surprised, Ingleby,” Kit remarked.

Sir Kenneth gave him a frosty stare. “I am not. No man deserved it more.”

“Kenneth!” Olivia said. “How can you—?”

“I believe I know,” Kit said. “Livvy, you must have heard the tragic story of young Mr. B., who took his own life a few months ago.” He glanced with sympathy at Sir Kenneth. “I am sorry to be blunt, but the rumors said that the young man had so-called unnatural proclivities, and—”

“And he was my lover,” Sir Kenneth finished. “You are surprisingly well informed, Meredith, given your distaste for London society.” He looked at Olivia. “Bertram was my lover, but he was expected to wed a young heiress who would save his family fortune, so we agreed to end it. Unfortunately, Featherstonehaugh discovered our liaison and threatened to tell Bertie’s family if he did not pay a considerable sum. Bertie knew he could not see his family ruined. He chose the honorable way out.” Sir Kenneth smiled bitterly. “He did not come to me, damn him. But now Fen has been paid in full.”

Olivia sat down in the nearest chair. “But Fen—everyone liked him! He could not have committed such a heinous act.”

“But he did. He fooled all of us—and one can only conjecture what else he may have done to earn this death.” He shook his head. “No, I did not murder him, Lady Olivia. Motive I may have, but not the means. I am half his size.”

“It is true,” Kit said. “There are no marks upon the body save those made by Fen himself during his struggles—here, and here, where he clawed at his own throat and chest. The shirt is torn, but there is no outward sign of strangulation. The manner of his death might remain a mystery if you could not See inside him, Livvy.” He knelt again and ran his fingers along the victim’s neck. “Sir Kenneth is an Invisible. He could have come upon Fen unaware, but his hands or a garrote would have left marks or bruises. There are none. Fen’s skin is completely clear.”

“A pity,” Sir Kenneth said. “I hope you do not find the murderer—if, indeed, you still wish to. Good night, Lady Olivia. Meredith.”

“You will not leave the grounds?” Kit asked.

“I would not wish to display a guilty conscience, would I?” Sir Kenneth saluted Kit with a crooked smile and bowed to Olivia, closing the door quietly behind him.

“Well?” Kit said, rising. “Who could have done it, Livvy? If what Sir Kenneth says is true, and Fen was capable of blackmail, he might have had any number of enemies.”

“But one of my guests—it doesn’t bear thinking of.”

“Who else? A housebreaker? No common thief would be likely to possess skill beyond the Residual, and Residual magic could not kill. This was the work of entailed magic.”

Olivia frowned and perched her weight on the edge of the massive oak half-tester, an informality she would not have ventured in other company. “You do not detect any particular scent?”

“Of the murderer, no. There is a rank odor of cologne—Fen’s—which effectively obscures any other smell.” He wrinkled his nose. “That is not so strange as the fact that I cannot tell if the magic is male or female. When exactly did he die, Livvy?”

She concentrated, willing her body-sense to replace normal sight. The Residual gift was erratic at best. “This would be so much easier if my grandmother had bequeathed her Talent to me,” she said. “It is not as if she has any other heirs, or uses it herself.”

“She only wishes to protect you from the pain of others’ suffering. She has become a recluse to avoid sensing illness and disease she cannot heal.”

“I am not my grandmother,” Olivia said with a sniff. She glared at the body. “I can sense the damage inside his throat and chest. Definitely a lack of oxygen. He has not been dead more than two hours.”

“Then you must know which guests have a ready alibi. Who is here, Livvy?”

“You would know if you had come to the party yourself,” she chided. “There is Sir Kenneth, and Lord Angus Ware. Both have rooms in this wing, as does Jonathan Highet, who is next door, I believe. Also Miles Chatham, Lady Isolde Swansborough, and Fanny Thursfield. And their servants, of course.”

“But servants, like our theoretical housebreaker, would not have the necessary Talent.”

Olivia nodded. For the past thousand years in Albion, members of the peerage and gentry with ancient connections to the royal house had passed on their family magic, whatever form it might take, to their chosen heirs—one male and one female in each generation. A father might choose the firstborn heir of his lands, or a different son entirely. A mother could select any of her daughters upon whom to bestow her Talent.

In such a way entailed magic had spread across Albion, even touching commoners to some small degree in the form of Residual gifts that every son or daughter of a Bearer received at birth. Residual magic might make for amusing parlor tricks or convenient shortcuts, but it could not murder.

“I cannot account positively for the whereabouts of any of my guests at the time Fen was killed,” she said. “Most were in their rooms dressing for dinner. You said that you could not tell if the magic is male or female.”

“Quite. But I would hazard a guess that strangulation is a man’s work.”

“Even if it leaves no mark?” She tapped her chin. “But that would mean Highet, Miles, or Lord Ware. It cannot have been Highet—his Talent is fire. I see no sign of burning, do you?”

“None whatsoever. But if Highet is roomed next door, he may have heard something.” Kit joined her on the bed, swinging his legs in the air the way he had done when they were children. “Miles Chatham . . .”

“That is impossible! He loathes his own magic. Ever since the war . . . he carries an intolerable burden of guilt. And he is a man of the church.”

“But he is a Puppetmaster. He can control the movements of others. Might he not have simply paralyzed Fen’s lungs?”

Olivia shuddered. “He has no motive! None of them have an obvious reason to kill Fen.”

“Neither did Sir Kenneth,” Kit said dryly. He stared intently at the body and jumped down from the bed.

“What is it?”

“Water.” He crouched by Fen’s head and lifted a fingertip glistening with liquid. “Coming from Fen’s mouth. Yes, and now I smell it as well. What is Lord Ware’s Talent?”

“Water-summoning.” She sucked in a breath. “Do you think—can he have drowned Fen from inside?”

“Or Fen might simply have drunk a glass of water before he was killed. Still, Ware must be questioned. They all must, Livvy.” He straightened. “It might be less awkward coming from me.”

“No. They are my guests. My responsibility.” She slid down and straightened her skirts. “And I know how much you hate crowds.”

“Well, then. I will stay here to see that the body is not disturbed. Perhaps I will discover something else I’ve missed.”

She clasped his hand. “Thank you, Kit.”

Though she could not make out his eyes behind the smoked lenses, she knew that their usual scarlet blaze had dimmed to a soft glow. “Take care, Livvy.”

She slipped out of the room, assumed a dignified mien, and went downstairs to the drawing room.

All the guests were gathered there, dressed for dinner and looking uneasy. Lord Ware, Jonathan Highet, and Miles were engaged in desultory conversation by the mantelpiece. She was surprised that Ware had not cajoled the others into one of his perpetual games of cards. Sir Kenneth had just finished a tumbler of whiskey from the decanter at the sideboard. Lady Isolde and Fanny Thursfield glanced up at Olivia with obvious relief.

Announcing the murder was out of the question. She must speak to each man individually, without raising suspicion.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, “I am sorry to have neglected you. There has been a small disturbance which I am attempting to correct.” She smiled. “Lord Ware, if I might have a word?”

The middle-aged gentleman excused himself from the others and hastened to her side. Olivia saw at once that he moved like a man afflicted by some guilt or shame.

She drew him into the adjoining library and asked him to sit. He remained where he was, fidgeting from foot to foot.

“You have discovered it,” he moaned. “I knew you would. I am so terribly sorry.”

Olivia was grateful for the chair beneath her. “Lord Ware?”

“It is an odious habit, I know,” he confessed miserably. “But Featherstonehaugh trounced me at écarté on Thursday last—won everything I own. Who will believe he cheated? I have been desperate to find the money to pay him. He will ruin me if I do not.” He mopped at his brow with a stained handkerchief. “Just a small, friendly game in the servants’ hall—I saw no harm in it. I daresay that any footman is more plump in the pocket than I. But it was unforgivable, I realize that now.”

“You were gambling with the servants?”

“With your coachman,” he said, shamefaced. “And he beat me, too. It is no more than I deserve.” A small rain cloud formed over his balding head and began to weep on his shoulders. “Fen has been casting me evil looks ever since I arrived at the Hall. When he comes for the money, I do not know what I shall do.”

“Then you do not know . . .” She got up and paced the length of the room. Either he was an accomplished actor, or he did not know that Fen was dead. His guilt was of a much more mundane variety.

“Can you forgive me, Lady Olivia?” he said.

“Of course.” Motive Ware had, and means if the water proved a clue, but had he the stomach for it?

“Oh, thank you,” Lord Ware said. The rain cloud vanished, leaving streaks on his coat and droplets on the carpet. “I am sorry to have brought my personal misfortunes to your door. I will leave immediately if you wish—”

“No. No, I would prefer if you stay and behave as if nothing has happened. I will not speak of this, I promise.”

Ware bobbed and kowtowed his way out the door as if taking leave of the Queen herself. Olivia remained behind, dreading the next interrogation. She had known the Reverend Miles Chatham since childhood; he was one of the gentlest souls in Albion.

With a heavy heart she returned to the drawing room. At the door she caught a flash of movement down the hall and saw a man and woman locked in a hasty embrace—Mary, Lady Isolde’s maid, and Lord Ware’s valet.

“George,” Mary whispered. “I—” She glimpsed Olivia and flushed, breaking free of her lover’s hold. George took a step after her and looked back at Olivia. He hesitated, bowed his head, and hurried away.

Olivia preferred to be blind to the servants’ liaisons, as she was to those of her guests. She shook her head and entered the drawing room, glad she was not responsible for disciplining them.

The guests were arranged much as before, except that Lord Ware was the one drinking. She walked to Miles’s side and touched his arm.

“Vicar,” she said formally, “I have need of your counsel.”

He exchanged a final word with Highet and followed her from the room. This time she could not sit, and Miles searched her face with concern, his high brow creasing beneath graying sandy hair.