Murder Most Malicious (9 page)

“Quickly,” Phoebe added, “before Constable Brannock comes looking for Connie again.”

Mr. Hensley's reluctance was clear to see. He blinked in the frozen light coming through the window and sighed. “It wasn't said outright as the footman will admit nothing, but it appears Connie and Vernon have been carrying on a”—he glanced at Phoebe again—“a courtship.”

“I thought as much,” Eva said. “They'll both be in trouble now. It's against the rules.”

“Is it?” Phoebe hadn't known that. “Why? How are the servants supposed to get on with their lives?”

“It's Mrs. Sanders's rule, my lady, though a common one on estates,” Eva explained. “In her view, the younger servants should stay focused on their duties and not much else. If they wish to court or be courted, they are to seek companionship elsewhere, on their own time.”

“That hardly presents much opportunity.”

“As Mrs. Sanders would say, that is not her concern.” Eva turned back to Mr. Hensley. “Now, then, about Vernon and Connie? How did this information come out?”

The valet sighed again. “I'm afraid the truth came out as a result of something I said. And—if you'll forgive me, my lady—I'm damnably sorry about it, too.”

C
HAPTER
5

“I
f Miss Robson wishes you to stay, you may do so, Miss Huntford, but do be quiet. And by quiet, I mean silent.”

Isaac Perkins didn't appear at all pleased that Eva had followed Connie into the morning room, but Connie had latched on to the downstairs banister with both hands and refused to let go until Eva promised to stay with her during the questioning. The poor thing was beyond terrified. Anyone in her position would be. Connie hailed from faraway Manchester, from a family of seven siblings. Her mother lost her employment in a munitions factory when the war ended and now labored as a laundress, and her father had returned from the front with a severe case of shell shock and was unable to hold steady employment. On any particular day, they were mere shillings away from the workhouse. If Connie was sacked, she would have nowhere to go.

Inspector Perkins reviewed a sheet of notes in front of him and cleared his throat. “Now, then, Miss Robson . . .”

At the sight of Connie's freely falling tears he trailed off and rolled his eyes at Miles Brannock, who was once more installed at the table with pencil and tablet. Despite the inspector's edict that she remain silent, Eva leaned closer to Connie, and murmured, “It's all right, dear. No one is accusing you of anything. If you'll simply answer Inspector Perkins's questions, this will all soon be over.”

“Yes, perhaps,” the man said, most unhelpfully.

Despite her reassurance, Eva's own optimism faded as quickly as a winter's twilight, especially after Nick's earlier admission. When asked by the inspector—with no small amount of sarcasm, apparently—if he could attest to Vernon's whereabouts all night long, Nick had felt honor bound to tell the truth, which was that he had awakened some time before dawn to discover Vernon's bed empty. Nick's agony over the disclosure had been palpable, even after Eva assured him the truth would always come out, and lies only ever turned a bad situation worse.

“Here.” Eva handed Connie her own handkerchief—an older one, not one of the gifts from Phoebe and Amelia. “It's clean.”

Inspector Perkins waited patiently while Connie dabbed at her tears and made a visible effort to collect herself. Finally, only the occasional sniffle slipped out.

“Miss Robson,” he began again, “how long have you been a member of the staff here?”

“About two months, sir.”

“And where did you work previously?”

A tide of crimson engulfed her face. Odd, but before Eva could consider the reason, the inspector shot another question at the maid. “Does that question distress you, Miss Robson?”

So he had noticed, too.

“N-no, sir. It's just that I suppose I'm a wee bit homesick still. My old situation was closer to home, you see.”

“Was it? Then why did you leave?”

“I . . . well . . . the cook's daughter . . . she needed employment, sir. The cook's worked there a long time, and her son died in the war, so you see . . .”

“Yes, yes, fine.” He leaned toward Constable Brannock. “Make a note of that.”

Brannock's scratching pencil filled the silence while Inspector Perkins sat contemplating Connie over the table. A tear escaped Connie's eye and rolled down her cheek. She let it, apparently having forgotten Eva's handkerchief, twisted cruller-like between her hands. Eva realized Connie hadn't answered the inspector's question of where she had worked previously, nor did Inspector Perkins remember to inquire again.

“What is the nature of your association with George Vernon?” he asked instead.

“What?”

“I believe you heard the question, Miss Robson.”

“I . . . he . . . that is . . .” She shrugged one shoulder, but far from nonchalant, the shaky gesture only emphasized her state of agitation. Her foot tapped nervously against the floor. “We work together, sir.”

“That much is glaringly apparent, young lady. I am speaking of your personal association. Mr. Vernon claims you can vouch for his whereabouts early this morning, before sunup, and before the other servants had risen from their beds. Is that true?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“And why would that be?”

Connie turned to Eva. “Must I answer that?”

“Yes, dear, I'm afraid you must.”

Eva feared for her handkerchief as Connie tugged with both hands, raising a staccato of tiny, ripping threads. “I'm up early each day, sir, earlier than the rest of the household, except for the hall boy. It's my job to clean the hearths and lay the morning fires, turn the hot-water heaters on, collect the previous night's laundry, and set out fresh linens for the servants, family, and guests.”

The inspector drummed his fingertips on the table. “What has this got to do with George Vernon?”

“Sometimes, sir, he rises early to . . . er . . . help me.”

Brannock stopped writing, his gaze meeting Eva's and becoming quizzical. She didn't give him the satisfaction of a response. Instead, she tensed, well aware of what would soon be revealed. Pity for Connie made her heart thump.

The inspector frowned deeply. “Why the blazes would the head footman deign to help the housemaid with her duties?”

Miles Brannock's mouth turned up at the corners. He had guessed the answer, no doubt.

Connie continued tearing threads from Eva's handkerchief. “W-what did
he
tell you, sir?”

With an exasperated exhalation Inspector Perkins reached into his inner coat pocket and produced a hip flask cloaked in leather. He unscrewed the top and took a generous sip, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “
He
told me precious little, young lady, which is why you are here now. All he was willing to say is that you saw him in the predawn hours and can attest to his whereabouts. Now”—his free hand struck the tabletop, making Connie flinch—“do explain, Miss Robson, or would you prefer to continue this questioning at my office in the village? The one conveniently adjoining a jail cell.”

“Inspector Perkins, please . . .”

Eva's caution was drowned out by Connie's protest. “Oh, no, sir! I . . . I'll answer. George often helps me with my morning chores because . . . well, you see, sir . . .”

“No, I do not see, Miss Robson, and I have reached the limits of my patience.”

“We're sweethearts, sir.” She whispered so low the man leaned across the table with his hand cupped to his ear.

“What was that?”

Constable Brannock's keen blue eyes twinkled. Obviously the younger man suffered from no such hearing impairments as Inspector Perkins. Once more, Eva held her features impassive, refusing to join in his apparent mirth over what was, for Connie, a dreadful ordeal.

“We're sweethearts,” the maid repeated, this time in nearly a shout. “There!” She collapsed against her chair. “There,” she said more quietly, “now Mrs. Sanders can sack me. And probably George, too.”

Eva reached over to stroke the maid's forearm. Hers was obviously a reserved and nervous constitution, and Eva doubted the poor girl could take much more of this line of questioning. “May Connie go now, Inspector Perkins?”

His flask stashed away in his coat pocket, the inspector tented his fingers beneath his chin. “Indeed not. Events begin to make more sense to me. Tell me, young lady, are you acquainted with the Marquess of Allerton?”

She seemed rather taken aback by the question. “Well . . . yes, sir. He was—is—a guest in this house. I deliver his linens each morning, lay his fire, tidy his rooms. . . .”

“And beyond that, did you have occasion to speak with the marquess?”

Her spine went rigid. “I . . . I'm not sure what you mean, sir.”

Eva did. She understood quite well where the inspector was leading with these questions. She herself had already begun to guess the truth. Now it only needed confirmation.

“I mean, if I may be so blunt, Miss Robson, did the Marquess of Allerton ever engage your services for courtesies
other
than linens, hearth fires, and tidiness?”

Connie gasped. Eva pushed back in her chair and jumped to her feet. “Inspector Perkins, your methods of questioning are unwarranted and most unkind. If Connie was a victim—”

“Victim, ha! I'll thank you to sit back down and hold your tongue, Miss Huntford, or leave this room.”

“Well!” Eva remained on her feet another several moments, glaring back at the man as he attempted to stare her down into compliance. Even Miles Brannock no longer looked amused, but had dropped his pencil to the table, slid to the edge of his chair, and appeared about to intervene. Connie made a noise—part strangled sob, part sigh that rang with unmistakable capitulation. Eva resumed her seat. Mr. Brannock retrieved his pencil, his attention riveted on Connie as they all waited.

“Well?”

“It's true, sir. Lord Allerton did make . . .” Her voice plummeted yet again. “Advances.”

Eva's breath froze. Even having been certain Connie
hadn't
got those bruises cleaning a hearth, she still felt a shock at hearing the truth spoken aloud. Eva's mind reeled when she considered what the girl had been forced to endure—the fear, the sense of violation, the humiliation. Her gaze dropped to Connie's lap, where the girl twisted her fingers together with Eva's handkerchief, the backs of her wrists facing upward and those telltale smudges peeking out from her cuffs.

“Aha. I thought as much.” The inspector made no attempt to hide his obvious sense of triumph. Or his disdain. He turned to Constable Brannock. “Did I not tell you? It's always over a girl—always!”

“W-what do you mean, sir?”

The elder man's eyes narrowed within their florid, bloated pockets of flesh. His pocked nose flared. “I mean, girl, that George Vernon murdered Lord Allerton because of you.”

“No, sir! No!” Connie flattened her palms on the tabletop, her whole body tensing as if she were about to spring over the table and attack Inspector Perkins.

Eva reached for her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders while with her other hand she seized Connie's arm. But it was the inspector she addressed. “Inspector Perkins, isn't that a rather far-fetched assumption? What evidence do you have?” But the evidence lay only inches from her own fingertips—those bruises. Connie had admitted to Lord Allerton's advances....

Inspector Perkins ignored her and continued his rant. “Oh, yes, my girl. It's all too clear that George Vernon discovered what Lord Allerton had done. Either you told him, or he caught Lord Allerton in the act. Which was it?”

“He saw,” Connie rasped without inflection.

The admission rendered Eva immobile.

“And he went for the cleaver.” Inspector Perkins's hand slapped the table.

“No! The cleaver had nothing to do with Lord Allerton. I swear! It was—” She broke off, shoving a fist against her mouth.

“It was what, Miss Robson? Why did George Vernon hide that cleaver in his room?”

Her tears streamed and she spoke around choking sobs. “Because it broke. He was putting away some trays and knocked it off the counter—”

Eva gasped. Good heavens, had Vernon taken the cleaver after all? “Connie, what are you saying?”

Connie shoved both hands into her hair, knocking her maid's cap askew. “Didn't you see the handle was cracked? George accidentally dropped it and it hit the floor just so, and the handle cracked.” She raised her clasped hands, with Eva's handkerchief sandwiched between them, in supplication. “He was going to take it into the village to have a new handle put on this very afternoon, and Mrs. Ellison would be none the wiser. He's already telephoned the cutler to make sure he'd be open for business today.”

Inspector Perkins sat back in his chair, a satisfied look swelling his cheeks and making him appear more bloated than before. “A confession, of sorts. That cleaver didn't make its own way beneath the floorboard in George Vernon's room. He put it there himself.”

“Only so he could take it to be fixed. . . .”

“So you say, Miss Robson. And even if that's all true, and the cutler expected him today, if you ask me, the handle broke during the heinous crime perpetrated against Lord Allerton.”

“No, I swear, it fell off the worktable. I saw it happen.”

“Yes, and what girl wouldn't lie to save her sweetheart?”

Eva felt ill. She sat unmoving, not daring to breathe and willing Connie to offer up a more tolerable explanation. None came. The fight had flowed out of the girl, leaving her limp, shaking. She slumped forward onto the table, head on her arms.

Her muffled voice, strangled by tears, broke the silence. “George didn't hurt Lord Allerton. He would never do such a beastly thing.”

“Can you prove that, Miss Robson? And mind you speak the truth or you'll be charged with obstructing justice and aiding a murderer.”

Her head came up a scant few inches and she peered through swollen eyes across the table. Even from beside her Eva felt, if not saw, the full force of the loathing contained in her gaze. Then Connie dropped her head to her arms again. “Oh, George, forgive me.”

 

“I believe it is your move, sir.”

At Lord Owen's patient prodding that Fox make a decision regarding his remaining chess pieces, Phoebe felt as if she might crawl right out of her skin. Just a little while ago Eva had quickly filled her in about Connie's interview with Inspector Perkins. Phoebe had immediately drawn Grampapa out of the others' hearing and implored him not to allow Mrs. Sanders to sack Connie, at least not until all the facts were known. He had hesitated over his answer, mumbling, “I don't typically involve myself in the daily running of domestic matters.”