The Viscount Always Knocks Twice (Heart of Enquiry Book 4) (22 page)

“Trust me, my associates can take care of themselves. As for the others,”—Billings waved a brusque hand—“I’ll hire on extra footmen for security. Moreover, Magistrate Jones has insisted upon posting his men at the gates. He’ll be monitoring everyone going in and out. Now I’ll leave the rest to you, Kent—but do it tactfully, understand? Discretion is everything.” Billings straightened his waistcoat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have guests to attend to.”

After the door closed behind him, Kent said with a scowl, “Did he just tell me to solve a murder
tactfully
?”

“I’m afraid so.” Mrs. Kent touched his arm. “Never mind him, darling. We need to focus on our strategy.”

“Quite right,” Strathaven said. “Now that we know how the victim died, we’ll have to refine the list of suspects.”

“Beginning with Miss Ashe,” the duchess said. “Strathaven and I did speak with the maid she mentioned, Mary, who attested to the fact that she helped Miss Ashe to bed. We don’t know that Miss Ashe stayed there, of course, but she can be vouched for from one to two in the morning.”

“If, as I estimated, Monique’s death occurred an hour or two before she was found—thus between one and three in the morning—that gives Miss Ashe at least a partial alibi,” Kent muttered. “Given Dr. Abernathy’s conclusions, I propose that we draw up a new list of all those who had a connection with the victim. Who might have a motive to kill her.”

“Lord Wormleigh ought to be on that list,” Violet blurted.

Kent’s gaze swung to her. “Why do you say that?”

Her eyes met Richard’s briefly; he sent a prayer up that she knew what she was doing.

“Because I, um, heard some ladies gossiping about it last night. At the ball. I don’t know who they were since there was a screen between us. But they, um, claimed a servant saw Lord Wormleigh and Monique having words the night she died,
and
Wormleigh was seen outside the library later on that evening.”

“Excellent observation skills, dear.” Her Grace sounded impressed.

Violet flushed, squirming a little. Richard could tell it made her uncomfortable telling her family a lie. On the other hand, she couldn’t very well announce the truth: that she’d overheard Mrs. Sumner and Price whilst she and Richard had been hiding together beneath the wardrobe.

“Yes, well done, Vi. We’ll put Wormleigh at the top of the list.” Kent jotted in his notebook.

“Cedric Burns should be on there as well,” Richard said, “seeing as he was Monique’s colleague.”

Kent scribbled. “Any progress on the victim’s maid?”

The duchess shook her head. “The sleeping draught that the housekeeper, Mrs. Hopkins, gave Jeanne put the woman out like a light. Jeanne was still asleep this morning. But after this meeting, I’ll try to speak to her again.”

“I’ll go with you. If anyone knows a lady’s secrets, it’s her maid,” Mrs. Kent said.

Fear came as a sudden rush. In the commotion, Richard had forgotten about the maid and what she might know. Wick had said no one knew about his affair with Monique, but he probably hadn’t considered the woman’s servant. Was Jeanne aware of her mistress’ lovers? Would she identify Wick as one of them?

“May I come too?” Violet said quickly. “I met Jeanne before, so perhaps she’d be willing to talk to me.”

“Good thinking,” her sister said.

Violet looked at him, and the message in her eyes was amazingly clear.

Leave it to me. I’ll take care of it.

With no better options, he exhaled, nodding slightly. The truth was that it felt good to have someone at his back. To have someone he could… trust.

“Three interviews gives us a place to start,” Kent said. “I’ve also heard back from my partners, Mr. Lugo and Mr. McLeod. They will be handling the investigation on the London end, questioning Monique’s known associates and searching her residence for clues. They expect to report here in three days’ time.”

Three days.
The news further wound the coil in Richard’s gut. In London, the investigators might discover evidence of Wick’s affair with Monique. They might place him on the list of suspects. An invisible net was closing around Wick.

Looking at Violet, Richard saw his own emotions reflected in her eyes. Concern—and steady determination. The hourglass had been tipped. They had three days’ time to find the true killer and prove Wick’s innocence.

Chapter Twenty-One

The group agreed to split up the tasks. The men were to take on Wormleigh and Burns whilst the ladies spoke to Monique’s maid. Thea and Tremont had been assigned the duty of chaperoning Primrose and Polly.

Ambrose muttered to Thea and her husband, “Sorry to give the pair of you the most perilous mission of all. Polly won’t be a problem, of course—but keep a close eye on my daughter, will you? Of late, Rosie has been attracting trouble the way honey does flies.”

“Don’t worry about a thing.” With a teasing smile in Vi’s direction, Thea said, “How much worse could she be than Violet?”

Seeing the twitching lips around her, Vi resisted the impulse to stick her tongue out at her sister. She felt quite proud of her growing maturity.

“Very amusing, Thea,” she said loftily and left it at that.

They went off on their assignments. As Violet followed Emma and Marianne to the servant’s wing, her anticipation was threaded with worry. What would Jeanne reveal about Monique’s past? Did the maid know about her mistress’ lovers, including Wick? If she did, how should Violet handle the situation?

Em led the way down the servants’ stairs into the kitchen. The large room buzzed with activity, maids and footmen racing to and fro in an orchestrated frenzy. They stopped short at the sight of three upstairs guests in their domain, bowing hastily as Vi and the others walked past.

Vi, for her part, was momentarily distracted from her worries by the scent of baked goods and roasting meat. Her belly rumbled; it had been hours since lunch. She paused and eyed a platter of sandwiches resting on a counter.

“Go ahead and take one, miss.” The cook, a jolly bespectacled woman in a pristine apron, nodded at the sandwiches. “I’ve got plenty.”

Violet didn’t need to be asked twice. Thanking the good woman, she took one of the triangles and bit into it with relish. Buttery bread, spiced ham, and chutney—heaven. She took another and caught up to the others, munching.

“Goodness, couldn’t you wait for supper?” Emma said.

“I’m hungry,” Vi protested.

“Tartarus,” Marianne said with a faint shake of her head.

A woman dressed in dark bombazine approached them and curtsied. Her tidy appearance and air of command conveyed her status as the top female servant of the household.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace. Ladies. How may I assist you?”

“Hello, Mrs. Hopkins,” Emma said. “We’re back to check in on Jeanne.”

The housekeeper shook her head. “Such a terrible business. One can’t blame the poor woman for succumbing to shock. I hope you’ll find her in a better state.”

Em continued to lead the way into the servant’s hall, a long and narrow space dominated by a large trestle table. On one wall hung rows of small metal bells, and Vi spotted the names of the guests written beneath each. Whenever a chime went off, some member of the staff had to abandon their tea or whatever tasks they were doing at the table and dash off.

Violet followed Emma through a warren of hallways and up three flights of stairs until they reached their destination: the garret floor. The cramped corridor had doors on both sides.

Em went to the first door on the right and knocked briskly. “Jeanne? It’s the Duchess of Strathaven. I’ve come to see how you’re doing.”

No reply.

“Do you think she’s asleep?” Marianne said.

“The sleeping draught ought to have worn off by now.” Frowning, Em knocked again.

“Try the knob,” Vi suggested.

Em did. “It’s locked.”

“I’ll go find Mrs. Hopkins.” Marianne was already heading down the hallway.

“Hurry,” Emma called after her. To Vi, she said in worried tones, “I have a bad feeling about this.”

Vi, too, felt a sinking sensation in her stomach.

Marianne returned with the housekeeper, who produced a key and unlocked the door. When she attempted to push it open, it wouldn’t budge.

Vi tried as well, to no avail. “She’s barricaded it from the inside.”

“We’re going to need your strongest footmen, Mrs. Hopkins,” Emma said.

Off the housekeeper went again whilst Em and Marianne implored Jeanne to let them in.

Vi had another idea. Going over to the next room, she knocked. When there was no answer, she turned the knob, and, luckily, the door swung open.

Entering the cramped room, she saw at a glance two small cots, one rickety washstand, and—yes!—a dormer window protruding from the sloped ceiling. She went over and pushed up the pane of glass. Peering outside, she saw that the window to Jeanne’s room was also open… and it was only about six feet away. She gauged the slope of the roof with an expert eye: it was nearly horizontal at the edge and easy to traverse.

True, the ground did look rather far away from three stories up, but Vi had completed far more challenging tasks. This would be a piece of cake compared to balancing on a tree limb, for example, or standing on the back of a moving horse. Decision made, she swung her leg over the sill and climbed out. Keeping her body close to the tiles, she began to inch her way over to Jeanne’s room.

One foot… two feet… three…

“Good Lord!”

Emma’s voice startled her, and she jerked, kicking loose a tile. It tumbled, shattering on the gravel below. Vi kept her balance and her eyes on the goal.

“Gadzooks, don’t interrupt me,” she said. “I’m trying to concentrate here.”

Behind her, she heard Emma’s muffled prayer.

…four feet… five…

Her fingers grasped the jamb of Jeanne’s window. Holding on, she hoisted herself through the open frame, landing lightly on her feet in the room.

“
Sacré dieu!
” A wild-eyed Jeanne stood backed against a wall. The bed had been pushed up against the door, blocking entry.

Holding out her hands, Vi spoke in the voice that she would use with a spooked horse. “It’s all right, Jeanne. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

The elderly maid was paler than a ghost, her grey hair loose and tangled over the shoulders of her black dress. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“We’ve met before—I’m Violet Kent, remember? One of Monique’s great admirers. I had the privilege of visiting with her the night before…”

Vi trailed off when she saw moisture well up in the other’s reddened eyes. It occurred to her that this was the first true sign of grief she’d seen from anyone over Monique’s death.

Jeanne truly cared about her mistress
, she thought with a pang.

“I am so sorry for your loss, Jeanne,” she said softly.

Silence quivered between them.

“I… I remember you. My mistress, she was quite taken with you.”

“She was?” Vi said, surprised.

“
Oui
.
Jeanne
, she said to me,
Mademoiselle Kent est charmante et un peu farfelue.
”

Charmante
was easy enough to translate. “What does far-fell-loo mean?”

“A little… how do the English say? Madcap.”

Vi had been called worse. “Since I just climbed in through your window, I can’t argue with that,” she said ruefully.

Jeanne’s throat rippled above her dark collar. “My mistress would have done the same. She, too, approached the world with boldness and ingenuity. A disregard for useless conventions.”

“Boldness and ingenuity,” Vi mused, “I like that. It has a nicer ring than impulsive and reckless, at any rate. The truth is I poked my head out the window, and the rest of me just followed.”

“My mistress believed that one’s impulses are the only true guide—”

“Violet, are you all right?” Em’s voice came from the other side of the blockaded door. “Let us in!”

“I’m fine. Give me a minute,” Violet called back. Seeing Jeanne tremble again, she said, “That is my sister, Emma. She wants to talk to you about Monique—”

“I won’t talk to her—or anyone!” The maid’s vehemence made Vi take a step back, as one would from a feral and unpredictable creature. “I’ll not allow my mistress’ name to be soiled by gossip. She was the last of the noble family of de Brouet, God rest their souls, and I’ll not let the memory of their finest daughter be tarnished.”

“But we have no wish to harm Madame Monique’s reputation,” Vi protested. “We only want to see justice done—”

“
Justice.
” Jeanne spat out the word as if it were an epithet. “Do you know how many atrocities have been carried out in the guise of justice? The de Brouets, the family I have served faithfully since the age of twelve, they were delivered so-called justice—dragged from the house of their ancestors, carted like chattel in front of a drunken mob. The last thing they heard was the cheering of those stinking barbarians before the guillotine fell.”

Vi’s stomach churned at Jeanne’s words. Anguish blazed like torches in the maid’s eyes.

“Madame Monique escaped from The Terror?” Vi whispered.

“Of course she didn’t,” Jeanne snapped. “My mistress was only seven-and-twenty, far too young to have lived during the reign of that devil Robespierre. Don’t you know anything?”

Violet flushed. Dates had never been her forte. “Er, of course. Sorry.”

Jeanne harrumphed. “It was Monique’s
maman
and I who escaped, with naught but the clothes on our back. The
comtesse
was forced to sell the last of her family heirlooms for a pittance to pay for our journey across the channel.” The maid’s rheumy eyes swam with tears again. “We sought refuge and instead found ourselves in a different hell.”

Spotting a handkerchief on the dresser, Vi snagged it and handed it over. “What do you mean?”

“Friendless, penniless, what else could she do? What else?” Jeanne murmured, twisting the linen around her fingers.

“What’s going on in there?” Even filtered through wood, Emma’s voice was insistent.

Seeing the crazed darting of the maid’s eyes, Vi guessed the poor thing was a bit let in the upper attics. She needed to calm Jeanne down before the others entered the mix.