Murder Most Malicious (15 page)

His voice took on a faraway quality and Eva sensed he was no longer talking to her, no longer even aware of her presence. A wild gleam entered his eyes as he stared past her, not at anything in the shop but somewhere beyond, somewhere invisible and inaccessible to her. Was he remembering the incident—bullet or bomb—that had incapacitated him? Or the day the Germans took him prisoner?

A breath shuddered in and out of him . . . and then he blinked. Brought her into focus. Smiled. “I'm sorry, Miss Huntford. You didn't come here to listen to me run on about the war. What may I show you?”

He picked up his cane again. The squeak she had heard resumed as he came around the counter, drawing her gaze to his right leg. He stopped, and she felt the weight of his stare upon her. Her face flamed, and she quickly looked up at him.

“I . . . Forgive me. . . .”

“No, Miss Huntford, it's quite all right. These prosthetics can be noisy and unwieldy, and walking with a cane is awkward, but without either I'd be confined to a wheelchair.” With that, he tugged his trouser leg up several inches to reveal his shoe and black stocking and the wooden limb that extended toward his knee. He tapped his cane against his shin to produce a
clunk-clunk
sound. “It happened the day the Germans captured me. It was
how
they captured me, as I had not the capacity to run from them. But I was luckier than a lot of poor devils. They allowed me medical attention, or I'd have died of the gangrene. Mine came off below the knee. It's a much fouler business when the entire leg is lost.”

“Oh!”

The gasp drew their attention to the street door, where a rosy-cheeked Phoebe stood gaping at Mr. Henderson and his prosthetic leg. He let his trouser fall back into place. “Good morning. Why, you must be Lady Phoebe. Do you remember me?” His greeting and his smile seemed to come naturally, as if nothing unusual had happened.

“Of course I do. G-good morning, Mr. Henderson. I didn't mean to . . . that is . . .”

“Your Miss Huntford was just about to make her selections. Have you come to give her your opinions?”

His straightforward, patient manner put both Eva and Phoebe at ease, and after another quarter hour they left with armfuls of parcels they dropped into the boot of the Vauxhall. As soon as they climbed in themselves, Phoebe turned to Eva.

“You were right. The marquess owed a goodly sum to the tailor. Mr. Garth said Lord Allerton came in several times last summer, as well as twice in the past month, each time running up rather extensive charges. Once Mr. Garth even asked Lord Allerton why he was ‘honoring' his shop with so much business when surely there were more fashionably skilled tailors in London who were only too happy for the business now the war is over. Lord Allerton claimed he preferred doing business in the quiet of the countryside, that he didn't care for the bustle of London. Do you know what I think?”

“What is that, my lady?”

“I think Lord Allerton had been cut off by his London creditors, and was
forced
to do his shopping in the country. As I said, Eva, you were right about Lord Allerton owing people money.”

But Eva shook her head. “I was only partly right. He didn't owe a cent to Mr. Henderson.”

“Are you certain?”

“He told me as much.”

Phoebe wrinkled her brow. “Could he have been concealing the truth?”

Eva had to smile at Phoebe's polite wording. “You mean
lying,
my lady? I didn't get a sense of that at all. Besides, Mr. Henderson could not have been responsible for what happened to Lord Allerton.”

“How can you be so sure? Anyone might have broken into the house that night. Especially if a door or window had been missed when Giles locked up.”

“His leg. He is reliant on his cane, and all balance and speed have been compromised. How could such a man overpower another who was both fit and young?”

Phoebe sat back and pressed her gloved hands against the steering wheel. “I do see your point. Then he would have no reason to lie about the marquess being in his debt.”

“No,” Eva agreed. “Which means there has to be some other factor linking all of us who received . . .”

“A bit of Lord Allerton on Boxing Day,” Phoebe finished for her.

 

At the front door, Phoebe handed off the Vauxhall to Douglas, who drove with Eva round to the servants' entrance and then on to the carriage house. Though Phoebe would have liked to spend the next hour or so discussing what they had learned so far, Eva had other work to do. Not only must she tend to the wardrobes and needs of Phoebe and her sisters, but with the staff shorthanded she pitched in wherever Mrs. Sanders directed her. Keeping her otherwise occupied didn't excuse her from those duties. Rather, it meant Eva having to work later into the night to complete her chores, and Phoebe had no desire to add to those burdens.

Mr. Giles stood at the open front door to welcome her home. “Did you have an enjoyable excursion into town, my lady?”

“I did indeed, thank you, Mr. Giles. Mrs. Garth has agreed to help me start up a donation drive for the widows, orphans, and wounded veterans left destitute by the war. We'll begin first thing in the New Year.”

“Splendid, my lady. A worthwhile cause. You must let me know how I may be of assistance.”

As Phoebe stepped from the foyer into the Great Hall she couldn't help but notice the butler's harried appearance—his hair slightly out of place, his tie a fraction to the left of center. And, good heavens, what was that a smudge on his coat sleeve? Dust? Flour? This immediately elicited her concern. Mr. Giles was never anything but calm, organized, and perfectly groomed.

“Is anything wrong?” she asked him as he relieved her of her coat and held it cradled across his forearms. She piled her gloves, muffler, and hat on top of it, creating a little heap. “Are there new developments concerning Lord Allerton?”

She had dropped her voice to a whisper, wary that others could be within hearing distance. Lady Allerton had planned to keep to her room today, but one never knew whether she might change her mind and wander downstairs.

“Lord Allerton . . .” Mr. Giles assumed a blank expression, though only for an instant. “No, nothing new to report there, my lady. But all these guests . . . I have given orders for several more guest rooms to be prepared, but then I turn around and a new guest has arrived.”

“New guests?” Surely Grampapa would have mentioned at breakfast if they were expecting more company. “Who are they? And when did they arrive?”

“They began arriving yesterday, my lady. And more today. They seem to be everywhere. If you don't mind my saying so, before the war, guests did not assume they had the run of the place. A certain decorum was observed. But perhaps I have neglected to change with the times.” He sighed.

Phoebe grew more and more confused—and alarmed—with each word he spoke. As far as she knew, there were no guests other than the Leightons, nor would there likely be any in the foreseeable future, considering present circumstances. She laid a hand on his sleeve, a familiarity she did not feel untoward for extending to this vigilantly loyal man she had known all her life.

“Mr. Giles, it sounds as if the constable's search party has upset your routine and made life exceedingly taxing for you, not to mention your being shorthanded now that Vernon isn't here. But please, do take some time to rest. A cup of tea, perhaps. You mustn't overexert yourself.”

“Yes, thank you, my lady. I'll . . .” Trailing off, he wandered across the hall toward the cloakroom, only to stop again and turn back to her. “I do believe I'll have tea, my lady. Thank you.”

Phoebe's throat tightened, and for a moment it seemed the world would never be right again. But surely Mr. Giles would be fine once all the commotion died down and life at Foxwood Hall returned to its usual tranquil, if tedious, pace. And she knew of only one way for that to occur.

Solve the mystery of what happened to Henry Leighton, Lord Allerton.

“Mr. Giles, one moment, please.” She hurried across the hall to him. He reappeared in the cloakroom doorway, still holding her things. “I've decided to step outside again.”

He helped her on with her coat. She took her hat, gloves, and muffler and set off through the house. Outside on the terrace, the biting wind that had followed her and Eva home from the village nipped at her ankles and plucked at her cheeks. Snowflakes churned through the air. She tucked her chin and descended to the garden path.

Back in town, she and Eva had ruled out one potential suspect—Myron Henderson of the haberdashery. But the tailor had been owed money by Henry . . . as had Eva's father. Phoebe didn't like to think about that. Eva adored her father, and to Phoebe he had always seemed an honest man, steady and hardworking, and devoted to his family. Could such a man commit murder?

Her thoughts returned to the residents of Foxwood Hall. It did seem more likely that someone from inside, rather than outside, had attacked Henry. She ticked off the possibilities on her gloved fingers: Vernon, Connie, Theo . . . Julia.

She liked those prospects no more than suspecting Eva's father.

But could Henry have been attacked by someone from neither the house nor the village?

The thought sped her down the garden path, around the fountain and over the footbridge, following alongside Henry's original tracks, which were becoming slightly blurred by the falling snow. The night he disappeared, he had not only engaged in an argument with Julia, he had attempted to press his advantage with Connie. Vernon had interceded, and Henry had apparently retreated back upstairs. Then at some time in the predawn hours, he had returned below stairs, exited the house through the servants' courtyard, walked through the gardens to the treeline, paced about, and simply turned around and went back again.

It all seemed too absurd. Why would Henry come out here? To look at the stars? To stand about in the bitter cold? That didn't sound like the Henry Leighton she knew. She was certain they were missing something, a key element.

She halted at the edge of the woods, where the shadows between the birch trees deepened to a fathomless sea within the oaks and pines. Boughs, nudged by the wind, creaked like old bones.

If Henry
had
come out here, would he have continued through the trees? Or perhaps . . . her mind rushed ahead with a new notion. Perhaps he had come out to meet someone, a prearranged rendezvous.

She pushed her way through an icy tangle of underbrush where Constable Brannock had stepped through yesterday. As then, patches of snow—smooth but for scattered animal tracks—alternated with bare earth where the canopy grew too thick for the precipitation to penetrate. She tapped her toe on the ground, then gave a kick with her heel. The frozen earth sent reverberations up her leg.

Which meant if anyone had made their way through the woods to the garden, they would not have left footprints if they avoided the patches of snow. Had the inspector pursued that possibility?

She stood, thinking, staring into the frigid shadows. The stables lay to the south, and beyond it, the gamekeeper's cottage. She peered back through the treeline to the lawn and gardens. A sudden notion—a possibility—made her gasp, and she strode back into the clearing. Everyone had assumed Henry had exited the house, traversed the garden, and returned.

But what if Henry never left Foxwood Hall . . . and these footprints marked someone's trek
to
the house and then back to the woods? That would mean someone managed to gain entrance to the house when all the doors and windows should have been secured for the night.

Mr. Giles certainly hadn't been himself lately. True, he had locked the doors and windows every night for some thirty years. But perhaps his present disorientation wasn't merely the result of recent events. Perhaps he had been growing forgetful all along, but they had failed to notice.

He might have left a door unlocked, and someone
could
have entered without using force. Money matters weren't the only area in which Henry might have made enemies. He had threatened and manhandled Julia, only to then corner Connie on the very same night. Perhaps some enraged father, brother, or husband had followed him here to Foxwood, awaiting his chance to teach Henry a lesson.

A permanent one.

Phoebe hoisted her thick skirt and flannel petticoat and hurried back to the house, uncaring whether Grams saw her in the undignified act or not. When she arrived she didn't bother removing her outerwear, but went straight to the library, where Grampapa typically spent the hour or so before luncheon. She found him alone, sitting in his favorite wing chair beside a cheery hearth fire.

He lowered his newspaper to his lap when he saw her. “Phoebe, you're flushed. And wearing your coat and boots through the house? What have you been up to?”

She answered his question with another. “Do you know where I might find Constable Brannock? He's still here, isn't he?”

Grampapa made a derisive face. “Here today and every day, or so it seems. I believe he was extending the search to the third floor and the old back stairs. Why do you—Phoebe?”

She had already about-faced and hurried away. By the time she reached the third floor she panted for breath and felt dampness spreading across her nape and between her shoulder blades. Only then did she remember to remove her outer layers, leaving all but her muffler draped over the railing on the landing.

A whitewashed corridor with wide-board flooring stretched to her right, and to the left, several yards down past what she knew to be a storage cupboard, stood a door that separated the manservants' bedrooms from the maids'. A completely separate staircase rose from the basement to the men's section, and the door between the two areas was always kept locked. Only Mrs. Sanders had the key. Not even Mr. Giles was permitted to unlock that door for any reason.