Sheri Cobb South (6 page)

Almost as if she had read his thoughts, Lady Fieldhurst raised another possibility. “If you are considering how my husband’s killer might have made his escape, you should be aware of the servants’ entrance to your left.”

Pickett turned to the adjacent wall, but saw only a wainscoted surface picked out in cream and rose. Lady Fieldhurst stepped forward and pushed against the panel. It yielded under her hand, revealing a narrow, uncarpeted staircase descending into the shadows.

“It leads to the kitchen,” she explained. “Camille, my abigail, uses these stairs when she brings my morning chocolate, or hot water for bathing. There is a similar entrance in my husband’s room, employed by his valet.”

“Forgive me, my lady,” interrupted a voice from the corridor. Thomas the footman hovered in the doorway, warily eyeing the bloodstain on the carpet. “Sir Archibald Stanton is below, asking for his lordship. What should I tell him?”

“Tell him—no, I had best see him myself. If you will excuse me, Mr. Pickett?”

She closed the concealed door and joined Thomas in the corridor, raising her skirt slightly as she stepped past the grisly stain, and thus unwittingly affording Pickett a glimpse of shapely ankle. With an effort, he tore his gaze from this intriguing sight and forced his mind back to the matter at hand.

He crossed the room to stand before the fireplace, from which vantage point he could see all three entrances to the room. The position of the bloodstain on the carpet, along with the combined testimony of both Lady Fieldhurst and Lord Rupert Latham that the viscount’s body had blocked the entrance, meant that the door to Lady Fieldhurst’s bedchamber must have been closed at the time of the murder; thus, the murderer must have made his escape another way. Lord Fieldhurst’s bedchamber was the obvious alternative but, as the service staircase proved, by no means the only one. Any household servant with a grudge against his master might have crept up the concealed stairs, seized her ladyship’s scissors, buried them in his lordship’s neck, and returned to the kitchen without provoking comment. Even the housebreaker theory was not beyond the realm of possibility, though he could not but think it unlikely: when closed, the concealed door was rendered so nearly invisible that no one without certain knowledge of the house would be likely to know of its existence.

As he drummed his fingers on the mantelpiece, he gradually became aware of the sound of voices from below.

“My dear Lady Fieldhurst, may I say how very sorry I am for your loss,” said a masculine voice, undoubtedly that of Sir Archibald Stanton. “I came to see your husband on a matter of business. I never dreamed that he—shocking business, absolutely shocking!”

“Thank you, Sir Archibald,” responded Lady Fieldhurst. “The manner of Frederick’s death must be a dreadful shock to all who knew him.”

“All but one, anyway,” Pickett muttered under his breath to no one in particular.

Though not loud, the viscountess’s words were surprisingly clear. Pickett realized that the study was situated directly below, and that the two rooms shared the same chimney. Sounds from below were carried up the flue to the room above. He glanced at the plastered ceiling overhead, and wondered if anyone had been in the room above this one—anyone who might have heard a murder being committed. Upon closer inspection of the fireplace, however, he was forced to abandon this promising line of investigation. The remains of a fire had been smoldering in the grate when he arrived on the scene, the ashes of which were even now cold on the hearth, thanks to the chambermaid’s unwillingness to enter the room. Surely the crackling of the fire would have prevented the passage of any sound up the flue.

“I would not wish to impose upon you at such a trying time,” Sir Archibald was saying in the study below, “so I shall take my leave without further ado. I wonder, however, if there is any small service I might render. I see, for instance, that your husband had written letters. I should be happy to post them for you on my way to the Foreign Office, if you wish.”

Pickett, listening, could find nothing improper in Sir Archibald’s offer, but the memory of one letter bearing a French direction made his hackles rise all the same. He bolted out of the room and clattered down the stairs, reaching the study just in time to hear Lady Fieldhurst’s reply.

“—several letters of my own to write, in fact—relations who must be notified, instructions for the staff at Fieldhurst Hall. When I am finished, I shall have Thomas post them all at once.”

Any relief Pickett might have felt upon hearing these words was tempered by the sight of Sir Archibald Stanton turning away from Lord Fieldhurst’s desk, withdrawing his hand from the inside pocket of his coat.

“Mr. Pickett?” Lady Fieldhurst blinked as he burst into the room, but quickly recovered her poise. “I trust you were able to find everything you needed? Sir Archibald, Mr. Pickett is the Bow Street Runner who is investigating Frederick’s death.”

Sir Archibald nodded in Pickett’s direction, but made no attempt to offer his hand. Pickett, however, was less disturbed by the social slight than by the growing conviction that the late Lord Fieldhurst’s French correspondence now reposed within the bosom of Sir Archibald’s coat. For one brief moment, he thought of challenging the other man to turn out his pockets. A moment’s reflection, however, forced him to abandon this idea. Such a demand would very likely meet with a crushing rebuff. At this point, he could not afford to antagonize suspects—particularly important and highly influential suspects. For now, at least, he must maintain the respectful attitude toward his betters of one who knew the lowliness of his own place in the world.

“You were a friend of his lordship?” Pickett asked, returning Sir Archibald’s nod.

“Our acquaintance was primarily a political one—Lord Fieldhurst was attached to the Foreign Office, as am I—but yes, I believe I can claim friendship with him. Certainly, I mourn his loss personally as well as professionally.”

“I may have a few questions to ask you in the future.”

“Of course, of course. I shall be glad to help Bow Street any way I can. Lady Fieldhurst, I am, as always, your very obedient servant.”

“You are too kind, Sir Archibald,” she said, following him to the door. “I shall show you to the door myself, as Thomas is busy polishing the silver. Did I tell you our Rogers has disappeared? It is most peculiar . . .”

Their voices grew fainter as they moved across the hall, their progress marked by the clicking of Sir Archibald’s boot heels against the marble tiles. As soon as he was assured of their continued absence, Pickett seized the stack of correspondence from the viscount’s desk and quickly ruffled through the letters.

Just as he had feared, they were all written in English. The one addressed in French was gone.

Chapter 5

Interrogations Below Stairs

Staring at the stack of letters in his hand as if he might make one reappear through sheer force of will, Pickett castigated himself for a fool. He’d been so thoroughly rattled at the prospect of being alone with the beautiful Lady Fieldhurst— and in her bedchamber, no less—that he’d allowed a valuable clue to go astray. Not, to be sure, that he had any proof that the letter was connected with Lord Fieldhurst’s murder, but its sudden disappearance told its own tale. Sir Archibald Stanton obviously had something to hide, and he, John Pickett, had very obligingly given him the opportunity. He did not look forward to the prospect of explaining his lapse to the magistrate.

“I apologize for the interruption,” said Lady Fieldhurst, returning to the room with a gentle smile curving her lips. “Was there anything else you needed?”

It struck Pickett that she did not appear to be heartbroken by her husband’s demise. Last night she had certainly been distraught, but today, in spite of her somber attire, she had the appearance of a prisoner who has just been granted an unhoped-for pardon. He wished for some sign of grief on her part. Or did he flatter himself that, were she to cry, he would somehow be the one to dry her tears? Clearly, it behooved him to solve this case and get away from this woman before he lost all pretense of objectivity.

“I’d like to have a word with the servants, if I may,” he said quickly. Perhaps some time spent below stairs amongst the household staff would serve to remind him of his proper sphere.

She reached for the bell pull and gave it a tug. “It appears poor Thomas’s silver polishing is doomed to be interrupted, in any case,” she said with a mischievous smile, as if the tormenting of Thomas were a private joke between the two of them.

Thomas answered the summons a moment later, the smudged apron covering the front of his livery bearing silent witness to his aborted occupation.

“Mr. Pickett has some questions to ask the staff,” Lady Fieldhurst told him. “You are all to render him any assistance he may require.”

“Yes, my lady,” said Thomas, acknowledging this command with a bow.

He led Pickett through the green baize door at the back of the hall and down the narrow stairs leading to the kitchen. Thomas had taken temporary possession of the butler’s pantry, where a stout table bore an assortment of gleaming candlesticks, an ornate tea service, and a miscellaneous collection of plate.

“You’ll have a bit more privacy in here, sir, as some of the maids do like to talk. If you’ll give me half a minute to put away the silver—Mr. Rogers not being here to take care of it himself—”

“There’s no hurry,” Pickett assured him. “Perhaps while you finish, you can tell me what happened last night.”

“Well, now, that’s more than I can say,” declared Thomas, picking up a silver candlestick and wiping it vigorously with a cloth. “It started out just like any other night. Her ladyship had gone out for the evening, and his lordship was in the study with a visitor—

“Who was this visitor? Did you let him in?”

“No, sir. Mr. Rogers did that, and brought them refreshment, too.” Thomas’s polishing slowed, and his expression grew pensive. “I never saw neither one of them again. Leastways, not alive.”

“You’ve reason to believe the butler is dead?”

“No, sir!” Thomas amended hastily. “That is, I don’t know what’s happened to Mr. Rogers, but when I next saw his lordship, he was dead as a doornail.”

“When was that?”

“After her ladyship returned. Well after midnight I’d say, though I didn’t think to look at the clock—the sight of his lordship drove everything else from my mind.”

“Understandable enough, under the circumstances. I expect you were sleepy too, having been awakened in such a manner.”

“Aye, that I was, but I woke up quick enough when I saw his lordship,” said Thomas, shuddering at the recollection.

“And the rest of the household? Was anyone else awake?”

“Only her ladyship and that Lord Rupert what brought her home. And I reckon Mam’zelle de la Rochefort, her ladyship’s maid, might have been waiting up to undress her ladyship.”

The thought of Lady Fieldhurst undressing, with or without assistance, was one Pickett judged it best not to dwell on. “What of Lord Fieldhurst’s man?”

“His valet? Gilmore was given time off to visit his sister in Knightsbridge, she being taken ill. His lordship had been mostly doing for himself, though I’d been polishing his boots and such-like.”

Pickett made a note of the valet’s name and direction. If his investigation warranted, he would go to Knightsbridge himself to confirm the valet’s presence there. For the nonce, however, he had more than enough in London to keep him occupied.

“Were you still awake when Lord Fieldhurst’s visitor left?”

“Aye, waiting to take his lordship’s boots downstairs for cleaning. After the gentleman had left—

“You are certain the caller was a gentleman?”

Thomas frowned thoughtfully. “Not for certain, but— hold on! This morning when I laid the fire in the study, I noticed a tray on the desk with a brandy decanter and two glasses. That would be a strange beverage for a female to be drinking, wouldn’t it?”

“Unusual, perhaps, but not unheard of,” agreed Pickett. “But I was in the study earlier and saw no such tray.”

“No, for I brought it down to the kitchen—as Mr. Rogers would have done, if he’d still been here.”

Pickett experienced a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Potential clues seemed to be disappearing at an alarming rate. “Perhaps it would have been better if you’d left the tray where you found it,” he pointed out gently.

“Aye, sir, and I’m sorry if I’ve done anything I shouldn’t. But I don’t mind telling you, I’ve never been a party to no murder before, and don’t care to again!”

“Yes, well, never mind. What did you do after this guest had gone?”

“I allowed time for his lordship to prepare for bed, then I went up to fetch his boots. But his lordship wasn’t in his room and I heard—”

Here the footman broke off his narrative, and Pickett was obliged to prompt him. “You heard what?”

Thomas continued reluctantly, as if the words were being wrung from his unwilling throat. “I heard a woman’s voice coming from her ladyship’s room.”

“Had her ladyship returned early?” Pickett asked, dreading the answer.

“No, sir. Leastways, I don’t think so. It didn’t sound like her. But then, folks do sometimes sound different when they’re angry, don’t they?”

“And the voice you heard, did it sound angry?”

“Aye, that it did.”

“Could you understand the words?” Sensing the footman’s reluctance, Pickett assured him, “You don’t have to be eavesdropping to overhear a conversation, especially when the speaker is making no attempt to prevent being heard.”

“That’s true enough,” conceded Thomas. “But the words—they don’t make no sense.”

Pickett smiled. “Perhaps you’d best let me be the judge of that.”

“Very well.” Thomas took a deep breath. “They said, ‘The tomb of Deacon Toomer may shut the door on the poor sod.’ ”

And that, reflected Pickett, his smile fading, will be a lesson to me to be less smug in the future. “You’re right. They don’t seem to make any sense. Do you have any idea who this Deacon Toomer might be?”