Murder Most Malicious (16 page)

Today, however, it stood ajar. Voices, footsteps, and the thudding of wardrobes and cupboards being opened and closed echoed along the corridor. They wouldn't be going through dressers or lifting floorboards as they had previously. No, what they were looking for today, namely Henry himself, would not have fit in a drawer.

Or could he, if . . . No. She refused to follow that thought to its grisly conclusion. Still, it had been more than a day since Henry went missing. If he were here in the house, wouldn't his flesh soon begin to . . .

Rot? Is that how they would eventually find him, by smell? She shuddered and kept going.

Like a thief, she muffled her own footsteps as she passed through the forbidden door. Here she found herself in a corridor that exactly matched the one she had just left, down to the whitewashed walls and bare, oaken floors. Nothing distinguished one from the other but for Phoebe's sense of trespassing. She might have good reason to be here, but she was still breaking a host of strict rules.

A village man, one of Foxwood's farmers, stepped out from a bedroom and gave a little start upon seeing her. “Lady Phoebe.”

“Good morning, Mr. Poole. Sorry to intrude. I'm looking for Constable Brannock. I have something important to discuss with him.”

“He's down that way, my lady. All the way, then turn the corner and keep going past the men's washroom. You'll find another door that leads into the old portion of the house.”

She almost chuckled at the irony of this man knowing a part of her own home better than she did. But she assumed he referred to what Grampapa had termed the old back stairs. These had been part of the original structure, half manor and half fortress, erected as the Middle Ages gave way to the Renaissance.

She passed several other men along the way, and more than one tipped his hat and conveyed his wife's greetings. During the war years, rather than being used as a hospital for returning veterans, Foxwood Hall had become a Red Cross station headed by Grams and manned by Phoebe, her sisters, and many of the women from the village. They had collected clothing and blankets, and rolled bandages, made swabs, and fashioned splints and other first-aid necessities to be shipped to the Continent. At times the front hall had been stacked high with crates, and Phoebe had driven one of the delivery lorries to Gloucester and Bristol to drop off supplies at the train depots. Warmth filled her at the memory of them all coming together—wealthy and poor, noble and commoner—to help in the war effort.

It hadn't been long ago, yet the social barriers had fallen swiftly into place the moment peace had been declared last month. If Phoebe had her way, they would come together again, only this time to help the orphans, widows, and wounded soldiers the war had left behind. She hoped her plans would come to pass.

“Constable Brannock, a word if you please,” she called out as she rounded a corner and caught a glimpse of the policeman in the doorway that had been described to her. Through it she could make out a rough stone wall. This stairwell, she knew, formed part of the turret that graced the south corner of the house, marking the delineation between the family's and servants' domains. The Petite Salon occupied the first floor of the turret, and the Rosalind sitting room the second floor. But in earlier times a staircase had filled the entire length, giving the servants access to each floor of the house. The upper half of the older steps still existed but were no longer used.

When Phoebe stepped through onto the landing, the odors of dampness, dust, and disuse enveloped her—but thankfully nothing worse than that. She sneezed into her muffler, still hanging around her shoulders.

“Lady Phoebe, can I do something for you?”

The constable's tone communicated a fervent wish that she reply in the negative, that perhaps she would simply ask if his men needed refreshment. She would disappoint him, then.

“I need to speak with you in private.”

“I'm very busy right now. . . .”

Below them came more sounds of the ongoing search, echoing against the old stones like water rushing through a cave. Even if Phoebe whispered the sound would travel. There could be no privacy here.

“Please, come with me.” Without pausing to see if he would follow, she turned about and retraced her steps. Even if she had not heard his tread behind her, she knew he wouldn't hesitate to comply with her wishes. Being an earl's granddaughter did have its benefits.

She brought him back into the maids' section of the attic. Here all was quiet, though a peek through the nearest doorway revealed an open wardrobe with its contents all shoved to one side. Were they truly expecting to find a marquess behind Sunday clothes and spare aprons? As if the staff didn't have enough to do without cleaning up after the constable's search party.

For now Phoebe dismissed her annoyance. “First, have you found anything? Any sign of Lord Allerton?”

“Beg pardon, my lady, but I could have answered that question where we were. No, we've found nothing yet.”

“And did you check at the stables and the gamekeeper's cottage?”

“Nothing was found at either location, my lady.”

“How does a man simply disappear without a trace? No signs of a struggle and, considering what was found of him, no bloodstains anywhere?”

“My lady . . .” He glanced down at his wristwatch, an aviator's watch, judging by the size of the face and numbers. She experienced a moment's curiosity about the piece, but realized she could claim his attention for only a limited time.

“Yes, sorry. I came because I have a new theory.” He barely twitched an eyebrow, but Phoebe caught his skepticism nonetheless. “No, listen to me one moment. We've all assumed Henry—that is, Lord Allerton—left the house and walked out by the woods. We need to consider the possibility that someone else walked
in
from the woods.”

“We inspected the doors and windows for signs of forced entry.”

“But what if Mr. Giles neglected to lock the service entrance that night?”

“Is that possible? An experienced butler like Mr. Giles?”

Phoebe wished she could uphold the integrity of the man who had served her family so faithfully for decades. But given his recent behavior.... “As unlikely as it seems, I believe it is. He's been rather . . . disoriented lately, I'm afraid.”

His eyes narrowed for a moment; then he angled his chin at her. “All right, then, let's say he did forget. But I'll also remind you, my lady, that the shoe prints matched Lord Allerton's, and the leather was still damp when we examined them.”

“Many men wear similar-sized shoes, in similar styles. And perhaps Lord Allerton's shoes were damp because he stood outside on the terrace to enjoy a cigar before retiring that evening. He liked his cigars.”

“Seems unlikely given the weather lately. He could have used your grandfather's smoking room.”

“Yes, but perhaps he thought the cold would do him good.”

His eyes narrowed again. “Now why would that be, my lady? Why would a man seek out a cold wind before bed? Did something happen to upset him Christmas night?”

Phoebe's mouth snapped shut. Here it was again, that insidious morsel of information no one but she, Julia, and now Eva knew. And perhaps Theo, but she had yet to ascertain that for certain.

Should she tell the inspector what she had heard? Just come out with it—and possibly implicate her own sister? In all likelihood, Henry's and Julia's argument had nothing to do with what followed.

No, it was not her secret to tell, at least not yet. Not until she could find out more.

“Then perhaps Lord Allerton waited for whoever arrived outside in the service courtyard. There is such a jumble of prints close to the door that his might be among them. The point is, Constable Brannock, I came to you with a new possibility, based on the fact that someone easily could have walked through the woods without leaving clear footprints. But there could be other telltale signs, such as broken thickets, crushed undergrowth, or even pine needles swept aside by a man's stride. Has anyone examined the area beyond treeline?”

“You saw me walk into the woods, my lady.”

“True, but you were looking for footprints. I suggest you refine your search to include smaller details.”

His face turned stony and Phoebe realized she might have gone too far, telling the man how to do his job. This wouldn't help Vernon. She needed to find a way to convince Constable Brannock her theory warranted his attention. . . and she needed to exonerate Julia of all suspicion, at least in her own mind.

If she couldn't do that, should she tell the constable what she had overheard? Could she save a man's life by possibly sacrificing her sister?

C
HAPTER
9

E
va set the pair of boots Phoebe had worn to town on a shelf in the boot room to be cleaned along with the rest of the shoes later tonight, after she helped the girls dress for dinner. Through the high-set window, she spied a pair of legs clad in dark trousers and button-up demi boots pacing back and forth in the service courtyard. Nick, she quickly deduced. She traversed the corridor, snatched a cloak from the row of pegs near the door, and tossed it around her shoulders. A biting wind circling the courtyard enveloped her as soon as she stepped out the door.

She spied Nick immediately. He wore only his suit, with no overcoat or even a scarf to ward off the cold. By the looks of things, he must have been out there a good long time; he had worn a path in the snow nearly down to the cobbles.

“Nick, whatever are you doing out here?”

He came to an abrupt halt and laughed. Not a happy laugh, but edged in bitterness. “What am I doing?” He laughed again. “Wondering where to go and what to do next.”

The acrimony in his voice made her hold her ground, shivering, rather than move closer to him. “I don't understand.”

“My employer is gone, Eva. In essence, I am sacked without a reference.”

“Nick, that's not true! Lord Theodore will need—”

“Lord Theodore has just informed me my services will no longer be required. As soon as Lord Allerton's remains are found and the constable ties up his case against Vernon, the Leightons will return home minus one valet.”

“But . . . why? Why would Lord Theodore let you go? He'll be the Marquess of Allerton now. He'll need his own valet.”

“He's planning to promote the footman who has been serving him in that capacity at home. He told me he has no desire to assume his brother's castoffs.”

“What a dreadful thing to say.”

He smirked and toed the ground. “It is, isn't it? But even more dreadful, Eva, is not knowing where I'll go now.”

“Surely Lord Theodore—or Lady Allerton-will give you a reference of good character.”

“Perhaps. But his lordship isn't exactly a man of many words, nor of good cheer.” He said this last with cutting sarcasm. “And honestly, a woman's recommendation won't do much good for a valet.”

“Perhaps there will be an opening here,” she suggested, but he only shrugged.

“Lord Wroxly has Phelps.”

“Well, Fox will be needing a valet soon.”

“Lord Foxwood is an obnoxious fourteen-year-old who will soon be returning to Eton. And I doubt any of his sisters will be needing a valet anytime soon.”

“You mustn't despair. If nothing else, I'm sure Lord Wroxly will supply you with impeccable credentials. All Lady Phoebe need do is ask him, and you can be assured she'll do so eagerly. But do come back inside. It's freezing out here and becoming ill will do nothing to help your situation.”

He flashed his first genuine smile. “You're right, Eva. I cannot argue with that.”

He offered the crook of his elbow and she slipped her hand through, walking at his side to the door. “Oh, that Lord Theodore. If I weren't a lady's maid I'd give him a piece of my mind.”

Nick stopped suddenly and gave Eva a gentle tug to bring her round to face him. “Eva, I haven't said this to anyone else, but it's been eating away at me ever since this all began.”

Through the small window in the door, Eva could see Dora carrying a stack of dishes along the corridor. Nick saw her, too, and drew Eva off to the side, out of view of anyone else who might pass by inside.

“Mind you, I could be entirely wrong, but I've got a feeling in my bones, Evie.”

A fierce light entered his gaze and Eva stepped back. “Nick, you're frightening me a little. What are you trying to say?”

“Just this. If anyone had reason to want Lord Allerton out of the way, it was his brother. They hated each other. I've seen it firsthand.”

Yes, literally everyone had, at one time or another. Even Phoebe had mentioned their mutual disregard, and the fact that Lord Theodore hadn't seemed in the least bit concerned about his brother's welfare when he first turned up missing.

But for someone in Nick's position to accuse a toff, as her father liked to call them, was dangerous—exceedingly so. Before she realized what she was doing, she seized Nick by the front of his coat and tugged him farther away from the door.

“Do you realize what you're saying? Fratricide is one of the worst of crimes. It would take a monster. Lord Theodore isn't the kindest of souls, but—”

“I know, I know.” He dragged both hands through his hair. “Lord Theodore resented the control his brother kept over the money, and he made no secret of the fact that he believed the wrong brother had inherited the title and fortune.”

“But Henry Leighton was the elder brother. Surely Theodore didn't contest that.”

“No, but he made accusations, said Lord Allerton was squandering the fortune away and leaving nothing for anyone else. I'd even heard Lord Theodore threatening to have his brother's competency put to the test.”

At those words, Eva went very still. “Are the Leightons facing bankruptcy?”

“I don't know . . . Lord Allerton always paid me monthly, which is generous. As you know, many employers pay but once or twice a year.”

“Yes, but today in town, Lady Phoebe stopped in at the tailor—to inquire on some items for her brother—and in the course of conversing with Mr. Garth, she learned Lord Allerton did indeed owe him money for unpaid bills.”

Nick's eyebrows went up, but then he shook his head. “All gentlemen run up bills. It's simply their way. They never carry much in the way of cash. Cash is vulgar, not to mention filthy, and as a result they purchase everything on credit. And with the war and all, and Lord Allerton only recently being home permanently . . . you understand, don't you?”

“I suppose. . . .” It wasn't as if she hadn't already known this to be true. And in questioning both Mr. Garth and Mr. Henderson today, she and Phoebe had all but ruled out unpaid bills as being the connecting factor among the recipients of the Christmas boxes.

“If you ask me, money isn't what killed Lord Allerton. Jealousy did. Jealousy and resentment.” Nick didn't finish the accusation, didn't name Lord Theodore again, but condemnation sparked in his eyes.

“If your suspicions are true, then it comes down to money all over again. If Lord Theodore resented his brother, it was because Lord Allerton controlled the fortune, thereby controlling the lives of the entire Leighton family. But, Nick”—she laid a hand on his coat sleeve—“You must be very careful what you say. If Lord Theodore were to be accused by your word and then proved innocent . . .”

“Yes.” He blew out a cloud of frosty steam. “I'd never work in service again. Probably never find decent employment anywhere. So then you think I should let this go, forget all about it?”

She released his arm. “No, Vernon claimed Lord Theodore slept in his clothes Christmas night. Perhaps he didn't sleep much at all that night because he was busy elsewhere. What I think is that we should try to find out what the man was up to, and if we discover anything significant, we go straight to Inspector Perkins. Are you game?”

His calculating grin supplied the answer.

 

That evening, Lady Allerton descended from her room. Her appearance in the drawing room surprised everyone, there having been no prior warning that she intended to join them.

“Lucille, darling.” Grams moved to her friend's side with a vigor that belied her sixty-seven years. “It's wonderful to see you.”

“Is it, Maude? Then perhaps I should return to my room. It was not my wish to bring anything approaching relief or merriment to the household while my son is still missing. I merely wished to take a meal without forcing your servants to carry another tray up two flights of stairs.”

Grams colored to the roots of her silvery hair. “Forgive me, Lucille. I didn't mean to give offense. It's just that we've all been so worried about you.”

“Sherry?” Grampapa pressed a crystal cordial glass into Lady Leighton's hand, and Phoebe immediately perceived his ulterior motive of providing a quick distraction and a change of subject. “It will do you good.”

“Finding Henry
alive
is the only thing that will do me good.” But she accepted the glass nonetheless and took a dainty sip.

“Henry and Julia are going to be married, in the spring, I should think.” Lady Cecily leaned over the Louis Quinze side table, arranging and rearranging a Rose Medallion vase filled with bright blue delphinium, pink clematis, and wide, blush peonies, all products of the hothouse. Though she had been present when matters were explained to Lady Allerton, the elderly woman appeared to have retained no notion of Henry's fate. “Spring weddings are always loveliest. Maude, dear, do you suppose that will leave enough time to plan?”

Grams sighed and didn't reply.

Fox and Lord Owen had resumed their ongoing chess game, while Amelia stared into the pages of a book. Theo sat ruminating in a wing chair, looking at nothing and no one in particular. The gathering before dinner had always been meant to start conversations that would carry on into the dining room, but with only one topic on everyone's minds, Phoebe saw the wisdom of the younger set in avoiding conversation altogether.

Unfortunately, she was never one to follow the wisdom of a crowd. She headed for Julia, once again at the piano. This time she sat on the cushioned bench, softly playing a rolling melody in the style from America called ragtime.

Phoebe slid next to her on the seat. Julia missed a note, then went right on playing as if Phoebe didn't exist.

But exist she most certainly did. “You've got to come clean about Henry.”

Julia stumbled over the next note, recovered, and scowled down at the keys. “Again? When will you let it go?”

“When Henry is found. I know you and he had secrets, ones you both could use against the other. What did you know about Henry?”

“It's none of your affair. And if you know what's good for you—”

Phoebe whisked her hand over both of Julia's, silencing the song. Theo, as if prodded from sleep, jerked his head upright and stared from across the room. Lord Owen glanced over his shoulder, frowned slightly, and returned his attention to the game pieces.

“Don't you understand,” Phoebe whispered between gritted teeth. “Whatever you know about him might have been known by others. By someone who followed him to Foxwood and . . . Julia, this is something the authorities need to know. It could be a vital clue as to what happened to Henry.”

“Really, Phoebe, you're so terribly dramatic.”

“Do you still deny that he's most likely dead? And does that not concern you in the slightest?”

“They arrested the culprit.”

“Oh, Julia.” Her sister's indifference pushed tears into Phoebe's eyes. If only Julia could care again—about anything. If only Phoebe could make her care. Simply reach inside and coax Julia's heart to beat again. Surely, deep down, her sister wasn't as empty as the lifeless mask she showed the world.

Phoebe had tried reaching her—tried and tried. She had come to the conclusion no one could help Julia until she herself wanted to live again. But Vernon, on the other hand, could possibly be helped, and Phoebe didn't intend resting until she had done her best for him. “You can't believe Vernon is guilty. You cannot believe all avenues have been properly explored. He's one of ours, Julia. Like family. We cannot abandon family. We
do
not.”

They locked gazes, and Phoebe saw a battle waging in Julia's dark blue eyes—eyes that nearly matched the sapphire on her finger, the one that had belonged to their mother. Had Phoebe gone too far in speaking of abandonment? Did Julia believe not one but both of their parents had abandoned them? Neither had had a choice, but sometimes even Phoebe felt angry and betrayed by their deaths.

Perhaps Julia read her mind, for she gazed down at her ring, closed her eyes, and drew a deep breath. “Henry owed a very large debt.”

Phoebe held her breath and waited for more, but nothing further came. “How large? I already know he owed our own Mr. Garth in the village for unpaid tailoring bills.”

“No, Phoebe. I'm not talking about the kinds of debt every gentleman runs up. I'm talking about a moral debt. Last summer while Henry was home, he fell in with a band of speculators, men of the worst sort, who were manipulating war bond values with false information about how the fighting was going.”

Phoebe's hand flew to her mouth as she gasped. “How beastly and dishonorable. And downright treasonous. How did you find out?”

Julia gave a soft laugh. “It wasn't hard, really. I immediately took a distaste to Henry's new so-called friends. From there I began asking questions—direct ones to the right people.” When Phoebe started to question that, Julia shushed her. “That's all you need to know.”

Phoebe shot a glance across the room. “Does Theo know?”

“I couldn't say, really.”

Phoebe didn't believe her on that count, but she let it go as an observation pushed to the forefront. “This is why you turned him down.”

“I'd have turned him down anyway, but this certainly helped. I could never marry a man I didn't respect.”

Phoebe stole another peek at Theo, once more ignoring them and everyone else as he appeared to be contemplating his hand, turning it this way and that and studying the scars on both sides. Had he known about his brother's devious business dealings?