The Vital Principle (9 page)

“Yes. Surely, you can ask Lady Crowley? She’ll confirm my whereabouts. Not now, of course, she’s distraught, but—”

“So there was a great deal of confusion, Miss Barnard. Who came around to your side of the table?”

“Miss Howard—she stepped on that bit of glass. Lord Thompson rushed to help her, and of course the maid, May. You ought to remember. They were right next to you.”

“They circled around the table from your left, didn’t they?”

“Yes. Past where
you
were sitting on my left, too. I don’t see how any of them could have poisoned him. They were nowhere near his glass.”

“May came from the right, however. Past the dowager and Lord Crowley.”

“Question her, then.”

“Rest assured, I will. And the others came around the table from that direction, as well.” He glanced at her again, remembering the details. “You assisted the dowager, didn’t you?”

“I don’t remember precisely, but I supposed I might have.”

“She was standing a yard or so away from the table. And you stood in front of her with your back to the table?”

Her expression tightened. “Then you
do
remember. Although I'm sure you believe I was close enough to Lord Crowley to pour a few drops of Prussic acid into his brandy. That is what you’re insinuating, isn't it?”

While her accusation was true, he couldn't actually picture her doing that. He had closely observed her the previous evening, waiting for her to try some trick. If she had approached Crowley’s snifter that closely, he ought to remember it.

“If you wish to admit—”

“I do not.”

He nodded. It would have been extremely difficult for her to carry around a bottle of Prussic acid without either pockets or a reticule.

Of course, he intended to verify the lack of pockets or reticule with Miss Barnard’s maid and the other lady guests. One of them may have noticed.

“If you’d just ask the dowager—” She stopped and then added hastily, “But don’t bother her now. She’s not well. It’s been very difficult with first her husband dying and now her son….” She ended awkwardly and glanced away, turning to focus on the sewing basket and magazine. Then her gaze flashed to his. He could see a sudden memory leap into her mind as her expression changed.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I was wrong.” Her dark brows scrunched briefly. “I—”

“What?”

She shook her head.

“What did you remember? There’s no point in holding back. Ultimately, I’ll discover the truth.”

This earned a small, tight smile. “You’re frightfully conceited.”

“Yes.” A smile twisted his mouth. “Now what did you remember?”

“I—it’s probably nothing.”

“Will you stop equivocating? If it’s something odd, I can assure you there were enough people in the room to help confirm it. There’s no point in being coy.”

“Is
that
what I’m being?
Coy
? How unusual.” She certainly had a talent for sweetly stated sarcasm.

“I’ll hold whatever you tell me in confidence. I’m reputed to be a reasonably fair man.”

“As long as women aren’t involved. And it conforms to your idea of the truth.”

“Undoubtedly.” He held her gaze.

She flushed and pushed at the magazine on the table with her fingertips. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me. You do rather have a reputation, however, for distrusting women. Although I’m sure you must have an excellent reason.”

“I assure you, I don’t dislike women.”

“As long as they stay comfortably in their place? And aren’t charlatans? We mustn’t forget how important
absolute
honesty
is.”

“As long as you answer my questions truthfully, I’m completely impartial.”

She studied him and then shrugged, focusing again on the magazine and running her fingers along the sharp edges. “I thought, well, you must remember. Lord Thompson came around our side of the table to bid goodnight to Lord Crowley and to drink a snifter of brandy.” A grim smile curled her lip. “He must have needed it—he certainly appeared to.”

Knighton remembered the short exchange between the two men. Neither was particularly happy with the other. There was an inexplicable air of tension between them. He nodded.

She glanced toward the door, uncertainty wrinkling her smooth forehead. “I should return to the dowager with these. She must wonder where I am.”

“You’re awfully solicitous of your hostess, Miss Barnard.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? She’s been very kind to me and a good friend.”

“I wonder just how good a friend she’ll remain.”

“I—” She hesitated. “I would hope our friendship remains true.”

“Even if she’s informed you’re a fraud?”

She stiffened. “I can’t predict what she will, or won’t, do under those circumstances.” She picked up the sewing basket and then laid it down again on top of the magazine as if undecided whether to stay or go upstairs. “You might consider, however, the fact that the murderer, or murderess, needn’t have waited for May to spill the wine before he poisoned Lord Crowley.”

He grimaced. “So you’re returning to that tired notion?”

“I’m pointing out that everyone knew what glass he would select. It wouldn’t have been difficult to place the poison in it, well in advance.”

“How would they know?”

She walked over to the sideboard and selected one snifter from among the rest. A small silver chain clasped the stem. From that, a silver seal dangled with the letters “H” and “C” intertwined. She picked it up and tilted it to show him the seal hanging from the chain.

“You see? This was his glass. He always used it after dinner. It has his initials.”

“The others have silver chains, as well, with the Crowley seal. I noticed last night.”

“Yes, but this one has the ‘H’ intertwined with the ‘C’. It’s his, in particular,” she said, each word emphasized as if she feared his intellect couldn’t quite grasp her point.

He rubbed his scalp at the nape, dislodging a few irritating curls that had worked their way under his starched collar. The hair tickled and annoyed him almost as much as Miss Barnard. “Who knew this?”

“Anyone with eyes, I should imagine. Certainly most of the guests. I understand they were all frequent visitors.”

He flushed. He should have noted the differences in the seals last night, or at least studied them more closely when Miss Barnard mentioned it previously.

“So anyone could have placed the poison in advance, including you?”

“Yes. I suppose that’s true. Any of us could have poisoned him. And you’re undoubtedly correct, the list includes me. Is
that
unequivocal enough for you?” With a grim smile, she returned the snifter to its place on the sideboard.

Often an entire city has suffered because of an evil man
. —Hesiod, c. 700 B.C.

Knighton didn’t mention the cork he’d found to Miss Barnard. The damp end indicated the poisoning had
not
been done too far in advance, or it would have dried before he located it. Or the cork wouldn’t have been found at all.

While he considered this, Miss Barnard wandered to the window. He studied her, irritated by her composure. She hadn’t broken down into hysterical sobs and admitted she had killed Henry Crowley as he hoped.

She remained remote and resolute.

And the more he dealt with her, the more confused the investigation became. She was kind to her hostess, but her extreme self-possession could hide anything. Miss Barnard was undoubtedly a fraud and a liar. And her little entertainments required nerve if she was to succeed at convincing her audience of her abilities to contact the dead.

The murderer required those same qualities. So it seemed reasonable to assume she was the murderer, except she seemed to lack a convincing motive. Mr. Hereford, the uncle of Lord Crowley, however, had ample motive. But he hadn’t been among those who leapt to their feet when the maid dropped the wine.

Proof required both opportunity and motive.

When Miss Barnard leaned her forehead against one of the cool panes of glass, he joined her at the window. He stared over her dark, bowed head at the misty lawn and the gravel avenue leading to Rosecrest. Warmth radiated from the long curve of her back. Once more he realized how attracted he was to her. And how close they were standing. He stepped back and glanced outside.

Rosecrest was filled with distractions. Indeed, the entire case seemed to rest on slight of hand and distraction.

Outside, a chill breeze blew through the trees. The gnarled, barren branches swayed restlessly. He was about to move away when a flash of light caught his eye. He peered past Miss Barnard’s shoulder, careful to avoid touching her.

“What’s that gleam?” he asked.

She jumped and turned her head to eye him aslant. “You startled me!”

He caught her shoulders and turned her to face the window again. He pointed over her left shoulder. “See that flash of light? Down there, in the grass.”

“I don’t see—oh, yes. Yes. A bit of glass, I suppose.”

“Wait here. Keep your eye on it. I’m going outside. I want you to point it out to me when I get in the general area.” He dashed from the room, going down the stairs two at a time while his heart pounded, thumping with excitement at the possibility of locating another bit of evidence.

He brushed past the butler and wrenched open the front door, ignoring the servant’s sputtering protests.

Outside, the air felt damp and cold. The lawn was spongy beneath his shoes and saturated with rain none of them had noticed the previous night. He turned to the right and followed the foundation of the house, his gaze flickering between the windows and the ground as he tried to judge where he had seen the gleam of light.

The sound of a window opening rattled above him. He glanced up. Miss Barnard’s dark head emerged. His heart nearly stopped when she leaned out precariously. He gestured at her to pull back before she fell, but she ignored him. Her fingers clamped tightly over the window frame.

“Where is it?” he called. From the ground, he could find nothing in the short grass except the glittering dew.

“There!” She eased herself out even further until she seemed balanced on the sill by her hips. Her long arm pointed to the ground. “Just there.”

He followed her gesture. There were only uneven lumps of brownish clay, as if some gardener had thought about installing a bush but had decided against it, leaving a partially dug hole.

“Where?” He was reluctant to believe what they had seen was simply the sheen of moisture covering a clod of dirt.

“There!” She waved her hand more vigorously.

“Go back inside,” he yelled. “You’ll fall!”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she called. “Can’t you see it? You’re practically
standing
on it! It’s a bit of glass—it must be to shine so.”

Studying the toes of his black boots, he realized she was correct. A small, brown glass bottle lay against one of the clumps of dirt. It was so near the color of damp soil that it was nearly invisible, and in his haste, he’d almost stepped on it.

Triumphant, he picked it up and waved it at Miss Barnard. She nodded, disappeared back inside, and slammed the window shut. With a shrug, he studied the bottle, feeling a sense of familiarity that he could not place. A trace of liquid remained trapped in the bottom when he held it up to the light and tilted it. The faint scent of bitter almonds emanated from the narrow neck.

As he held it between his fingers, he realized where he’d seen similar ones. An apothecary near his office in London had an elegant leather case in the window of his shop, fitted out with series of tiny bottles. The small brown bottle he held belonged in a similar traveling case with eleven more vials just like it. The leather medical bags were expensive conceits beloved by ailing, or well-prepared, travelers. If he could find the bag, he’d find the killer.

Unfortunately, the murderer hadn’t walked into dinner with the entire case under her arm, just this one bottle. He sighed, thinking about Miss Barnard’s lack of pockets or reticule. If she was to be believed, that is. To his aggravation, he found he was inclined to do so. Of course, it wouldn’t hurt to pose a few questions to her abigail, just to be sure. Or to check for a traveling medical case with one missing bottle.

Above him, the sun shone faint and cool. He shut his eyes for a moment, turning like a sunflower toward the light. The heat felt good against his face, slightly burning a few scrapes received during his morning shave. As his cheeks warmed, the faint astringent scent of bay lotion rose, released from his skin by the sun.

A sudden, swift longing for the house where he grew up hit him. Fruit trees and herbs lined the rear wall of the kitchen garden, scenting the warm air. The crisp apples and quince would be ripe now, and the staff would be busy putting up spiced apple preserves. He could almost taste the sharp, spicy tang of the quince their old cook intermingled with sweet apple and cinnamon in her flaky-crusted pies. Few of the desserts she made lasted until supper unless she had the forethought to make two.

As a child, Knighton had visited the kitchens often. He wasn’t the heir and no one particularly cared where he was so he wandered at will. As a result, he spent most of his time below stairs, listening to the servants’ gossip and persuading Cook to let him take just one more taste from the pots on the stove. Her protests, accompanied by ill-concealed half-smiles, did little to dissuade him from his depredations, and she'd never been able to resist his plea of starvation.

He often wondered if she were right when she declared his constant eating was to blame for his towering height of six foot, three inches. His brother, the conscientious and proper heir to the estate, remained a moderate five foot, ten inches tall. He’d never, to the best of Knighton’s knowledge, lowered himself to visit the kitchen. The differences between the two of them still saddened Knighton. He feared his independence revealed a lack of proper respect for his social position, and that lack eventually led to his loss of his comfortable social status. Then he’d completed his descent into the ranks of the middle classes by becoming an inquiry agent.

Despite the warm glow of the sun on his face and shoulders, he couldn’t stand outside forever. With a great deal of reluctance, he strode back into the house and up the stairs to the drawing room.

He didn’t expect Miss Barnard to still be there, but she was. When she saw him enter, she picked up the items she’d gathered for the dowager and brushed past him.

“Don’t you want to see what I found?” he asked.

“I saw enough of it to guess,” she replied. “Without even being the guilty party who threw it out the window.”

“What makes you think it was thrown out the window? Was the window open last night?”

“If you think my guess proves my guilt, you’re wrong. It's just rather obvious, isn't it? It was directly under the window. But I don’t really know if the window was open, or not. The drapes were pulled tight when we entered the drawing room.” She stopped. Knighton had the feeling her mind galloped forward, surging past him while he stood there sneezing in the dust of her passing. “It would make sense, however, wouldn’t it? It must have been open. That’s why the candle went out, wasn’t it? A breeze from the open window.”

The point was so obvious he wanted to choke her for thinking of it before he had. “And—”

“And that’s what Miss Spencer felt, too, isn’t it? A draft from the open window, a swirl of chill air brushing past her. That must be what touched her in the dark.”

“You disappoint me. Surely, you must believe it was a spirit and not merely a draft?”

“Like you, Mr. Gaunt, I have a strong regard for the truth,” she replied sweetly. “And I really think I must bring these things to the dowager before she sends the maid after me. I don't want to give her the impression I’m so lacking in courage that I’d run away.”

“No one would ever call you cowardly, Miss Barnard,” Knighton said. “Far from it. Believe me.”