The Vital Principle (6 page)

Beside her, Mr. Gaunt’s face remained unreadable. An air of relentless purpose hung around him as he watched her.

Lord
,
help me
! She prayed, knowing her prayers would never be answered.

Everyone believes very easily whatever they fear or desire
. —Jean de La Fontaine, 1621-1695

Drawn by the desperation in Miss Barnard’s eyes, Knighton stepped forward. Chivalry had nothing to do with it. Unpleasant memories of how it felt to be falsely accused pinched him like ill-fitting shoes. He was unsure enough about her guilt to believe delay would not be ill-advised. They required time to collect the evidence and assemble a proper case. Tiredness was not an excuse for sloppy detective work.

However, he hadn’t exaggerated when he stated he believed in the truth, the
one
truth.
With an exhausted sigh, he rubbed the back of his neck and decided this once to act as the white knight and rescue the fair maiden. At least temporarily.

“It’s late, and an arrest may be precipitous,” Knighton said. “We didn’t precisely observe what occurred, despite a room full of witnesses. Surely, one night won’t make any difference. I’d like to consider this further, Mr. Gretton, and complete the investigation.”

“The village won’t be happy with no murderer apprehended afore the inquest.” He rubbed his hands together briskly. “A quick arrest and a quicker trial, that’s what’s needed, as the saying is!”

“Not all of us are sure we can identify who the
responsible
party is,” Knighton replied. “None of us saw the administration of the poison.”

“That’s right.” Denham moved to block the door. “I tell you, Miss Barnard is innocent. You must discover whoever, or
whatever,
crept into the room in the dark. We all felt some other presence here tonight. Miss Spencer felt it brush past her.”

Knighton stared at Denham’s earnest, florid face, trying not to snarl sarcastically that the only thing that had tiptoed into the darkened room that evening was Miss Spencer’s hysteria. While he admired Denham's determination to find the true culprit, Knighton found it increasingly difficult to listen to his fanciful notions.

“You were the one who asked her to join us,” Lord Thompson protested. “We assumed you knew she killed Crowley—that you saw her do it. Why have you changed your mind?”

“I asked her to rejoin us because I believed she might have valuable information for Mr. Gretton,” Knighton replied smoothly. “She stood near the dowager. She was in an excellent position to see what happened.”

“Or poison Lord Crowley,” Lord Thompson said.

“What valuable information?” Mr. Gretton asked, fixing on Knighton's comment. Obviously, the constable disliked having to leave without a prisoner in tow, and he was trying to discover a way to leave with someone, anyone who could possibly be responsible. He rubbed the side of his nose with his stubby pencil in a tired gesture. “The only valuable information we needs here be a witness. Or confession.”

“She might have seen something—she was less hysterical than the other ladies,” Knighton said. “Unfortunately, it appears she was as confused as the rest of us. Now, gentlemen, it’s after two in the morning. Mr. Gretton, perhaps we can resume our inquiry tomorrow? None of us will leave Rosecrest before you’re satisfied, and we may remember more in the morning.”

Everyone nodded, although a few agreed reluctantly.

“Then I’ll return on the morrow, Mr. Gaunt,” Mr. Gretton replied glumly. “But we must find the responsible party, or our reputations'll suffer.”

Knighton agreed and escorted Mr. Gretton to the door, giving them the opportunity to speak privately. “Perhaps you should wait until I send word. I’d hate to accuse an innocent person and waste the court’s time on a trial that may end unfavorably.”

“Unfavorably?”

Knighton’s lips twisted. “Unfavorably for the law, of course.”

“You don't be thinking along the lines of that prosy Denham fellow, be you?” Gretton eyed Knighton askance. “Spirits is all right and well in their place, but they haven't any business in a murder investigation. We’ll need answers for the coroner’s jury.”

“I agree. I don’t subscribe to the vengeful spirit theory, either.” Knighton laughed. “Let’s just say I’m reserving judgment. I’m hoping to find some evidence we may use in a successful prosecution.”

“Well, I hope you’re right. It won't do to find some poor soul dead on the floor because we failed to act timely-like.”

“No, that wouldn't do, at all,” Knighton agreed, praying he wasn't making a mistake simply because of a desperate look in a woman's beautiful eyes.

To be crushed in the winepress of passion
… —Gabriel Biel, d. 1495

Saturday, October 10

The night was long and dark as nights tend to be when one spends most of the hours pacing the floor. Exhausted but unable to rest, Pru turned away from the gray windows, eager to escape her room. She was so distracted, she nearly sent a maid into hysterics when she opened the door just as the girl was bringing a fresh ewer of water.

The white porcelain clock on the mantle in her bedroom chimed seven as Pru stepped back and held the door open.

“Good Lord, Miss, you gave me such a fright!” the maid exclaimed as water splashed over the sides of the pitcher onto her hands. She held the jug against her chest and mopped at the dripping sides with her apron while eyeing the bed behind Pru. “Why you never laid your head on your pillow, neither.”

“No. I rested a few hours in my chair, but I felt restless.”

“It’s them spirits, ain’t it, Miss?” The avid gleam in her pale blue eyes scraped Pru’s already-raw nerves. “I daresay it’s hard to rest in a house all a-knowing the restless spirit of a poor, dead man were searching for his murderer.”

“Yes.” Pru nodded tiredly. “Would you send for my abigail, please?”

There was no point in arguing that it was not her conscience, or even the angry spirit of Lord Crowley, that prevented her from sleeping. It was the concern that today might be her last day of freedom. For some unknown reason, Mr. Gaunt had given her a brief reprieve, but she couldn’t count on him providing her with another.

She was not foolish enough to believe he thought she was innocent, not with his fascination with the one, grand truth. Toward dawn, she realized he must have thought he could trap her into admitting she had murdered Lord Crowley during their conversation. At least she had avoided that pitfall, but for how much longer? Men who subscribed to such black-and-white philosophies often interpreted events to fit their beliefs.

She sighed, ill-prepared to face the difficulties the day would surely bring. She poured icy water into the wash bowl and reluctantly picked up a ball of the harsh, inexpensive soap her abigail normally used for their laundry. It lathered poorly, but they had run out of funds early this month, and Pru hesitated to ask the dowager for soap, of all things. As she rinsed her face, the skin felt as taut and dry as her mind.

After carefully patting her face dry, Pru sat in front of a small oak dresser and fiddled with her hair pins, wishing she felt more confident about her abilities to defend herself. Finally, Millie, her abigail, arrived to brush and style Pru’s long black hair into a simple twist set high on her head with a few long curls framing her face. The elegant style did nothing to shore up her confidence.

“Which dress, Miss?” Millie moved toward the wardrobe.

“The silk.”

When she donned the heavy, black gown, her fair skin appeared even paler in contrast. Uncaring, she stared in numb exhaustion at her reflection. Her dark gray eyes looked completely black, ringed by dark shadows.

One would have thought she was a grief-stricken widow instead of a houseguest. Or did she look more like a guilt-stricken murderess? More importantly, how would Mr. Gaunt perceive her?

“Do you know if Lady Crowley has risen yet?” she asked her maid.

Millie shook her head. “I’ve heard naught about her from them maids. They’re all gossiping—”

“No doubt,” Pru replied dryly. “Unfortunately, Lord Crowley’s death was a dreadful shock, so it’s hardly surprising they’re discussing it.”

“Yes, but you should a-heard what they was saying below stairs—”

“Please, I can guess. I don’t particularly want to hear it repeated.”

Millie glared at her, a hurt look in her brown eyes. “I’m sure I don’t mean nothing by it.” She sniffed. “Just thought you ought to know.”

Feeling ashamed, Pru lightly touched one of Millie’s rough, red hands. “I appreciate your concern. But as long as we both know I’m innocent, that’s all that matters. You know how people will gossip whether their words are true or not.”

“I certainly do,” Millie replied darkly, rearranging the brushes and combs on Pru’s dresser.

“Don’t worry, Millie. Whatever happens, I’ll provide for you. I promise.”

“For all the good it’ll do me,” her abigail mumbled, a frown creasing her forehead. “I’ll be left with no place, just you wait and see.”

Not in the mood to argue, Pru opened the door. But she hesitated before venturing out into the hallway. It was nearly eight. Although most of the houseguests wouldn’t arise until nine, a few men might chose to ride early. She had no desire to meet any of them.

She glanced down the silent corridor and wondered if Lady Crowley were awake and wanted company. Her hostess was usually an early riser, and Pru had often met her outside just as the sun was rising.

Just yesterday, she had discovered Lady Crowley in the rose garden, walking with a straw basket swinging over her wrist and a pair of clippers in her gloved hand to collect fresh flowers before the sun dried the dew. Chrysanthemums and asters in vibrant shades of gold and purple lined the walks. The experience left her longing for her own garden full of flowers. Unfortunately, first she had to have a cottage where she was not just a guest.

But today, Pru doubted her hostess would be outside, and the lower floors were likely to be infested with men. So she chose instead to knock on Lady Crowley’s door.

A bedraggled, pallid maid in a wrinkled apron answered, opening the door and stepping aside to let Pru enter. The girl looked like she had spent the night worrying over the dowager and twisting her worn skirts worriedly in her thin hands. Her appearance evoked a rush of concern for Lady Crowley. Pru quickly brushed past her to check on her hostess.

Lady Crowley sat propped up in bed, leaning listlessly against a mound of lace-trimmed pillows, with a tray resting on her knees. The food appeared barely touched. The cup of chocolate was full and a soft roll had been broken in half, buttered, and slathered with orange marmalade, but then abandoned in the middle of a fragile, bone china plate.

Her gray skin sagged in deep folds, and her eyes were sunken into dark, bruised hollows beneath heavy lids. She barely glanced at Pru when she hovered near the bed.

“I’m so sorry, Lady Crowley. Is there is anything I can do for you—even the slightest thing?”

“No.” Her voice barely rose above a whisper. “There's nothing to be done. They're laying him out—his valet—in his bedroom....”

“Are you sure there's nothing I can do? Perhaps help select his clothes?” Pru asked, desperate to find something—anything—to ease the pain in Lady Crowley's face. To lose both her husband and her son in less than a year defied all thoughts of solace, especially when her son had died under such dreadful circumstances.

“His valet will know what to do. I can't—I can't bear to do it, myself.” She raised a trembling hand and focused her pale blue eyes on Pru. “Is that so dreadful? Have I failed him, too? I should be strong and take care of him one last time—my darling son—but I....”

“No, Lady Crowley. You must rest—that's all you must do. Matters are well in hand.”

The maid nudged Pru’s arm and murmured in her ear, “Get her to eat, can't you? Poor thing, she hasn’t had a morsel and that’s her favorite marmalade, too.”

Pru smoothed the pale blue coverlet and adjusted one of the pillows behind the dowager's head. “May I sit for a moment?”

Lady Crowley waved her heavily veined hand and stared blindly at the tray. A few tears coursed over her cheeks, running into the grooves between her nose and lips and dripping into the corners of her mouth.

“Forgive me, but you must eat, Lady Crowley. Wouldn’t you like just one bite of this lovely roll?”

“I can’t.” Her lips barely moved. “My son is gone. Everyone is gone.”

“I know, Lady Crowley, but you must be strong and eat. Just one bite?”

“Why? What’s to become of me? This house?” She lifted a shaking hand and then let it drop to the coverlet. “It’s all gone….
Why
? Why would someone do
such a thing
?”

“Come.” Pru picked up the cup of chocolate with one hand and Lady’s Crowley’s limp wrist with the other and pushed the cup into her hand. “Just take a few sips. Then eat a bite or two. After you finish, you can rest. Perhaps your friend, Lady Howard, could sit with you?”

Lady Crowley drank briefly and nibbled on a roll before turning to stare at her. “Why would anyone hurt my son?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps it was an accident. Or his heart.” Lies were easier than declaring Lord Crowley had been murdered. Deep hatred lay behind that foul act, and neither of them wanted to face that dreadful fact. Pru felt sick considering it.

“That man said he was poisoned,” the dowager whispered.

That man
. Mr. Gaunt. Odd how she knew precisely who Lady Crowley referred to, despite the presence of four other male guests at Rosecrest. Socially, he was beneath notice, and yet it was his words and his opinion that mattered most to everyone.

“I’m sure he didn’t mean to say that. It was just the shock.”

“Who would want to poison Henry?
Why
?”

“No one. I’m sure it was a mistake. An accident.” Pru couldn’t bear to answer the plaintive question with the cruel truth.

While Lord Crowley had been a mean-spirited, autocratic man, England had no shortage of males just like him. For the most part, they weren’t routinely murdered no matter what their families and acquaintances thought of them.

Pru refilled the delicate cup and pushed it forward to catch the dowager’s attention. “Here’s a bit more chocolate, and the other half of your roll is getting cold. Why don’t you finish it? If there’s anything you require, ring for me. Just rest for now. And I’ll ask Lady Howard to visit you this afternoon.”

“But who? Who could it be? I trust you, Miss Barnard. You wouldn’t hurt my Henry, would you?”

“No. No, I wouldn’t.”

“I saw you, last night. You stayed right by my side, so you couldn’t have—could you?”

“No. I couldn’t have done anything, Lady Crowley. And I wouldn’t.” Her stomach twisted. Did even her hostess have doubts? If she lost Lady Crowley’s support, then she had no one to count on to help prove her innocence.

Except Mr. Denham and his idiocy about vengeful spirits.
His blind, dogged assistance was hardly helpful under the circumstances.

Shivering, Pru stood. She glanced through the window at the pale, autumn sunlight, wishing it were still night. Exhaustion dragged at her, making her limbs feel encased in cold marble. She had been unable to sleep during the empty, quiet hours of darkness, and now she could barely resist the lure of her bed.

In the distance, she heard the floor creak as the guests and servants moved about. She couldn’t stop the minutes from spinning into mid-day. She could not stop the inevitable.

The constable would return today.

What was she going to tell him?