Murder by Magic (31 page)

“What is it, Olivia?” he asked. “What troubles you?”

“Oh, dear,” she said. “I cannot . . . It is most distressing . . . Lord Featherstonehaugh is dead.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Swiftly, before she could change her mind, she told Miles what she and Kit had discovered. He became more and more grave as she spoke, until he looked as though the very weight of the world rested on his narrow shoulders.

“I am so sorry, my dear child,” he said. “How terrible for you. I will not ask why you have called me here. You have decided to investigate the crime yourself before calling the authorities, and I am, naturally, one of the suspects.”

His frankness was both an embarrassment and a relief. “It is merely a formality,” she assured him. “You were my father’s dear friend. I know what you experienced during the war, and that you would never, never use your powers—”

“As I did so recklessly then. Yet, as much as I despise them and my own weakness, those powers are not gone. They remain within me.” His expression grew strange and distant. “I could use them to reach inside a man’s body. I could force him to play Punch at my command, dance in St. James’s Square, turn a knife against his own flesh.”

Or freeze a man’s lungs in his chest.
“But you did not. Could not. You have no reason.”

“But I did have motive, my dear.” He met her eyes with his clear, tormented gaze. “Fen served in the war, for a very short time, before his elder brothers died and he inherited both title and Talent. I was with him when he committed an act of unforgivable cowardice that led directly to the deaths of four of his men. I stood by when he charmed the Board of Inquiry into believing his lies.” He made a sick sound in his throat. “Guilt is the devil’s mount, and it runs where it wills.”

“But not to cold-blooded murder!”

He opened his mouth to reply but was forestalled when Kit walked into the room, not troubling to knock.

“I wish I could have come earlier, to spare you both this unpleasantness,” he said. “But what I have to tell you will clear Mr. Chatham of any complicity.

“It was not a man who committed this murder, Olivia. It was a woman.”

Olivia sank into her chair. “But I thought you said you could not determine the gender of the magic.”

“Yes, and that troubled me. My nose is usually somewhat keener than that.” He glanced at Miles without the usual wariness, for the vicar had known of his “gift” since his childhood. “But perhaps my shortcomings may be forgiven. You see, Fen must not have arranged to bestow his Talent upon an heir before his death. When I examined the body more thoroughly to see what I might have missed, his magic was in the process of dissipation—freeing itself into the ether. Because it did not pass to a chosen recipient of his line, I was able to detect all of its nuances as it dispersed—including the taint of his killer.”

“A woman?” Olivia demanded. “Who?”

Kit sighed and scratched his chin. “The signature was so muddled that I defy even the Lord High Magician to decipher it. That it is female I am sure. Beyond that . . .”

Female. Olivia felt the beginnings of a headache. She now knew enough of Lord Featherstonehaugh’s vices to suspect that even a woman might have some motive to kill him. But here, under her own roof? Timid Mrs. Thursfield, frightened of all men? Lady Isolde, witty and bright . . . and one of the few who had avoided Fen with obvious dislike?

“Miles,” she said quietly, “would you be so kind as to ask Mrs. Thursfield to join me?”

“Of course. And if I may be of any comfort, you know I am near.” He let himself out of the room, and Kit took up a position behind Olivia’s chair. His fingers settled on her temples, attacking with precision the very portions of her skull that ached so abominably.

“Mrs. Thursfield,” Kit mused. “She hardly seems a murderess. Rather more like a partridge hen stuffed with giblets, and about as formidable.”

“Men always make the mistake of discounting women in any activity of moment,” Olivia said, too relaxed to raise her voice above a murmur. “But even I have been guilty of that.”

“‘Guilty’ being the operative word,” Kit remarked, and cocked his head toward the door. Mrs. Thursfield crept into the room with tiny steps, her head bobbing ever so slightly. Unlike Lord Ware, who had worn guilt on his sleeve, she hid it among her skirts like a clandestine affair.

“Mr. Chatham said that you wished to see me,” she said in a low voice, making herself very small—no mean task when nature had so inclined her to abundance. “Have I . . . have I done something to displease you, Lady Olivia?”

Olivia had felt sorry for Mrs. Thursfield ever since she had observed the nasty way Mr. Thursfield treated his wife at the Duke of Devonshire’s ball. She had resolved then and there to invite the young matron into her circle, but Fanny Thursfield had a remarkable gift for fading into the background and remaining unnoticed no matter how often she was lured into games or conversation.

Her great asset—besides the figure her husband evidently did not appreciate—was her Talent of Preservation. On her first visit to Waveney Hall, she had presented Olivia with a single, perfect red rose, still lifelike yet frozen in a single moment for all time. Olivia did not understand the mechanism, but Kit had once referred to it as a “field” of some sort, perfectly molded to the shape of the rose and sealing it from air and decay.

Just as a person of Mrs. Thursfield’s abilities might seal a man from air and life without so much as touching him.

“Not at all,” Olivia said. “You have been a perfect guest. It is just that I have a small question or two regarding Lord Featherstonehaugh, and you may be able to shed some light on—”

Mrs. Thursfield’s rather pretty eyes widened, and her legs began to buckle. Kit rushed to catch her. He delicately sniffed the air over Fanny’s lolling head and cast Olivia an unreadable glance. “Jonathan Highet,” he said with unusual brusqueness. “Have you been with him, Mrs. Thursfield?”

Fanny’s cheeks suffused with violent color. She gazed from him to Olivia in terror. “Do not tell my husband,” she whispered. “I beg of you.”

She had taken a lover? It was far more daring on Fanny’s part than Olivia would have believed possible. “I will say nothing, but you must tell me all you know. Why did you swoon when I mentioned Fen?”

Her skin went from red to white. “He was . . . he was my—” She burst into tears. “He said he loved me. He held me in his arms and whispered such promises, and then he . . . he cast me aside like . . . like—”

“There is no need to further examine her,” a masculine voice said from the open doorway. Jonathan Highet strode into the room and claimed Fanny’s trembling hand. “I have heard that Fen is dead. Fanny knows nothing of it. Yes, Fen took advantage of her loneliness. He seduced her and amused himself at her expense, and she has good reason to hate the bastard, but she was with me—last night, and today, until we came down for dinner.”

Fanny lifted her head. “It is true, and I am not ashamed!”

She had certainly proven to be something of a surprise, and if such a mouse was capable of taking two lovers in defiance of her tyrannical husband, she might also be capable of murder. Highet’s obvious love for Fanny and his anger on her behalf was a motive as well. But they provided alibis for each other—a sticky situation indeed, though Olivia was certain that Fanny’s terror was of her husband and not the result of an accusation of murder.

“If you doubt my word,” Highet said stiffly, “you may ask Lord Ware’s manservant. When Mrs. Thursfield and I returned from the garden to my room because of the rain, we found him skulking about inside, tying his cravat. What the devil he was doing there I don’t know, but I could find nothing missing or disturbed. He had no business in my chamber. Ware should discharge him.”

Lord Ware’s manservant, George, was the young valet she had seen in the hallway with Lady Isolde’s maid. “I shall inquire immediately. Kit, will you send for Mrs. Thursfield’s maid and ask Lord Ware to summon his valet?”

Kit did as she asked, and Mr. Highet assisted Fanny into the hall, murmuring endearments to soothe her tears. When Kit returned, Lady Isolde Swansborough accompanied him.

Lady Isolde floated into the room as if borne on a mist. No man could hope to ignore such a golden-haired goddess, and Kit practically fell over himself showing her to a chair. Olivia raised a brow at his foolishness and turned to Isolde, all amusement fled at the grim prospect before her.

It could not be Isolde. Not her dearest friend.

“Isolde,” she began, “I hardly know how to explain . . .”

“I have heard,” Isolde said in her mellifluous voice. “Fen is dead. We are all suspects in his murder.” She glanced at Kit. “You wonder who had both means and motive. He was killed by some form of strangulation, but without the use of outwardly physical means. A Mentalist, such as myself, could induce a man to forget how to breathe.”

“And you can see what’s truly within a man’s soul,” Kit said.

“You are more right than you know.” Isolde laughed. “Yes, I saw what was in Fen’s soul. I have always known of his corruption, his hypocrisy, his dishonor—just as I knew his unique Talent was to present a glamour of perfection, warmth, and generosity that deceived all but a very few of those who met him. His true nature was quite the opposite, and I disliked him heartily.” She met Olivia’s gaze. “I have no alibi, Olivia. I was alone in the conservatory all afternoon. But I did not kill him.”

Olivia desperately wanted to believe her. There was a shining nobility in Isolde, the very essence of noblesse oblige that compelled her to take up causes of those less fortunate. If she had known of Bertram’s suicide or Fen’s treatment of Fanny, might she not be moved—

No.
Any alternative was preferable. Olivia glanced at Kit. “I believe Lady Isolde. If we have eliminated the guests, then the murderer can only be a housebreaker or one of the servants. We dismissed those possibilities too quickly before.”

Kit must have heard the note of urgency in her voice. “Commoners might inherit Residual gifts from noble or landed relations, but no heir to family Talent would be a servant.”

Indeed—and certainly not one of her own! Yet even the rules of magic could be broken. One heard tales of hidden heirs, forbidden ceremonies, even male Talent passing to female heirs and vice versa in spite of the vast and often fatal risks involved.

While Kit waited for Lord Ware’s valet to appear—Olivia had more than one question for him—she commenced inquiries about the recent whereabouts of each of the servants, which consumed a good hour. None of them had any obvious motive for murder, since few had dealt directly with Fen. But her heart beat a little faster when she learned that two servants were not accounted for during the time of Fen’s death: George and Mrs. Thursfield’s maid, Mary.

They were the very two she had seen together in the hall. Quite possibly, they would provide each other’s alibi, just as Fanny and Jonathan Highet had done. But why had George been in Highet’s room, when Lord Ware’s chamber was two doors down?

She asked Mrs. Thursfield to send Mary to the library as soon as the girl had completed her immediate tasks. Lord Ware’s valet still had not appeared, and she was about to send for him again when Kit escorted George into the room—or more accurately herded him, much as a shepherd’s dog drove an unwilling sheep.

George was a very personable young man and quickly disguised any reluctance he might feel about being called before her. She could have sworn she caught a smirk about his lips in spite of his outwardly deferential manner.

“Where were you three hours ago?” she asked without preamble.

His eyes laughed at her. “I was with Mary, my lady, before Lord Ware called me to attend him.”

Naturally. “What did you know of Lord Featherstonehaugh?”

“Only that he won a great deal of money from Lord Ware.”

“Why were you in Mr. Highet’s chamber this afternoon?”

His confident air vanished. “I . . . my lady . . .” He squared his shoulders. “I meant to find something to steal, to help Lord Ware. Mr. Highet and Mrs. Thursfield came in while I was there.”

The explanation was so improbable yet simple that Olivia was taken aback. She glanced at Kit, who frowned. Kit was usually very good at detecting outright lies, but he was clearly stumped.

“Are you admitting to a crime for which you will, at the very least, be discharged?” she demanded.

“Yes, my lady.” He hung his head. “I am sorry.”

“And you claim you were with Mary before that, and Lord Ware afterward?”

“Yes. Lord Ware will say so, my lady.”

The door opened, and Mary stepped in. Her gaze flew with alarm from Olivia to Kit and to George.

“Don’t be afraid, Mary,” Olivia said. “I have only a few questions for you. Did you know Lord Featherstonehaugh?”

“No, milady,” she whispered. “Only as a guest.”

“Were you with George three hours ago?”

She stared at George with a kind of horrified fascination. “Yes, milady.”

“You must answer honestly, Mary. You will not be punished for dalliance, but the consequences of lying are considerable.”

Mary began to shake. “I . . . was . . . with George.”

Kit’s expression affirmed what Olivia knew: the maid was lying, and badly. “Has George threatened you if you did not lie for him, Mary?”

She appeared very close to a swoon. Olivia was just about to ask Kit to watch George while she spoke privately with Mary when the door opened yet again, and Jonathan Highet entered.

“Forgive me for disturbing you,” he said, “but I forgot to mention that I found—” He stared at George. “You!”

George’s face was a blank. Highet strode past him and held out his hand. Between his fingers was a gold signet ring etched with a family crest—a slender woman’s band.

Olivia took it gingerly. Even she could feel the magic in it. “I know this crest. Does it not belong to the Essex Belchams?”

Kit joined her and nodded. “The family of Fen’s wife, Jane.”

“But she died last October! Did you see Fen wearing this ring?”

“No.” He glanced at Highet. “Where did you find it?”