Murder Most Malicious (19 page)

“Oh!”

“Gracious!”

“Shhhh!” Phoebe snatched her sister's hand and pulled her along as she darted across the gallery. Julia tugged, tried to dig in her heels, but Phoebe kept on, determined to drag Julia if she must. They reached Julia's room and with a firm grip still on her hand, Phoebe dodged inside and shut the door behind them.

Once released, Julia stood with her arms folded and her eyes a dark glitter against her translucent skin. “What in heaven's name was that about?”

“I could ask you the same. You were headed to Henry's room, weren't you?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. What were
you
doing in that part of the house?”

“Oh, Julia, what else could you have been intending?” Phoebe blew out a breath and stepped up onto the platform that held Julia's four-poster. She perched on the edge. A sigh drained a portion of the tension from her limbs. “
I
was about to slip into Henry's room. He has yet to be found, and we have yet to discover any reason why someone would wish to harm him. And no, I refuse to believe Vernon is guilty, or if he is,” she quickly added when Julia's lips parted, “I don't believe the authorities have sufficient evidence to prove it. A man's life must not hinge on such flimsy reasoning. But as far as that goes, Inspector Perkins has treated the entire matter with kid gloves. It's far easier to accuse a servant than find fault in a nobleman.”

“That nobleman being Henry?”

“Among others. You yourself enlightened me to Henry's double-dealings.” Phoebe raised an eyebrow in challenge. “It follows that whoever is responsible for his disappearance is somehow connected to those double-dealings.”

Julia's chin rose to a haughty angle, as if she found the entire matter amusing. “And so did you discover anything useful?”

Phoebe opened her hand. She hadn't had time to identify the item plucked from Henry's floor. A dark glimmer winked from the center of her palm.

Julia gasped. “Is that blood?”

Phoebe shook her head. “No, it appears to be one of Henry's shirt studs.” She met her sister's gaze. “The ones he was wearing Christmas night. Do you suppose he lost it in a struggle?”

Julia dismissed the notion with a wave. “Henry wasn't the tidiest of men. He probably merely dropped it while removing his shirt. What else did you find?”

“Nothing. I never actually went inside.”

“Why ever not? Lose your nerve, did you? I never thought you had it in you to be cunning.”

“As you are cunning, Julia?” Phoebe closed her fist around the garnet stud. Julia was probably correct, but even if Henry had lost it in a struggle, the stud brought her no closer to identifying the assailant. “Never mind, you needn't answer that. You're probably right, except in this case I didn't lose my nerve. I lost my opportunity. Someone beat me to it.”

Julia's golden eyebrows pulled inward, and she stepped up to sit beside Phoebe on the bed. “Who?”

She hesitated. How much did she wish to confide in her sister? The memory of how quickly Lord Owen had left Phoebe's side in the morning room to join Julia—to kiss her hand—sparked an ember of envy, but of caution as well. Just how chummy were they? Would Julia run to Lord Owen the moment Phoebe left her?

“Come now, Phoebe, you know what's at stake for me.”

“Do I?” She studied Julia's even features, the perfect bow of her lips, the smooth slant of her nose. In the pale nightgown and matching robe, and with her hair hanging in a gleaming flaxen braid over one shoulder, she seemed much younger, even fragile, a mere wraith beneath the steely mask she showed the world. Only her eyes belied that image, with their depths of knowledge and guile and pride. “You've told me precious little,” Phoebe said. “Perhaps if you were more forthcoming I'd know if I could trust you. You obviously don't trust me.”

Julia sprang up from the bed. “I've had quite enough games for one night. You should go.”

“Julia, sit down.” Phoebe made a snap decision based on very little besides the realization that revealing the identity of the man who presently occupied Henry's room might produce an enlightening reaction.

Julia returned to sit beside her, though with obvious reluctance. “Well?”

“I discovered Lord Owen in Henry's room just now, going through his desk.”

“Lord Owen?” Julia blinked, shook her head, and wrinkled her nose. Though an accomplished actress when she wished to be, she seemed nonetheless genuinely taken aback. “How odd. Very odd, indeed.”

“Has he said anything about Henry to you?”

“No, nothing other than to express sympathy for Henry's likely fate.” She stared into the dim outlines of the room's furnishings, hand-painted and painstakingly carved in Italy. “Lord Owen . . . hmm. This is puzzling. He's always been such a gentleman. Not like Henry at all. And with his war service, he certainly doesn't seem like a man who would . . .”

“Destroy a woman's reputation?” Julia looked alarmed, but Phoebe went on. “How much do we really know about him? He might be trying to help, looking for something to link Henry to whoever attacked him.”

“What if he's looking for evidence that ties himself to Henry?”

“Such as Henry's scheme with the war bonds?” Yes, that had certainly occurred to Phoebe. What
had
he slid into his waistcoat?

Julia nodded slowly. “What if Lord Owen is responsible for what happened to Henry?”

C
HAPTER
12

E
va rose earlier than usual Sunday morning and hurried below stairs to see how she could help with the morning chores. The family had decided against going to church in the village, and that left her with more time to offer her assistance to the other staff. Upon reaching the servants' corridor, however, she stepped into a maelstrom of anger.

“Where is that girl?” Mrs. Sanders gripped Connie's bucket of cleaning tools in one hand, while with the other she batted a feather duster at the air. Tiny particles flitted about her head like gnats on a humid summer's day.

Eva hurried down the remaining stairs. “Mrs. Sanders, is Connie missing?”

“Missing? Sleeping is more like it, the lazy hussy.”

“Mrs. Sanders—”

“The table isn't set in the servants' hall, the linens are still stacked where the laundress left them, and the hot-water heaters haven't been turned on anywhere in the house. I just sent Dora up to drag the girl out of bed by her ankles. As if we can spare anyone down here for even a minute.” Mrs. Sanders stalked to the stairs and plunked the pail on the bottom step. She thrust the duster in and gave the pail a kick with the toe of her lace-up boot for good measure.

“I'll lay the table.” Eva made short work of the task, throwing on a cloth and not worrying overly much about how neatly she placed the napkins and silverware.

“Let me help you with that.” Nick entered with a spring in his step and began straightening Eva's haphazard place settings. He whistled a few notes of “Keep the Home Fires Burning.”

“You seem cheerful this morning.”

“I am, Evie.” He straightened and beamed at her. “Lord Owen called for me last night. He's offered me temporary employment as his valet. His own died in France, you know, of the influenza.”

“No, I didn't know.”

“Yes, well, if things work out, the position could become permanent. My troubles could be over.”

“I'm so glad. But . . . there's a bit of a problem below stairs this morning. Would you mind finishing up in here—I hate to ask it of you—”

“Say no more, Evie.” He circled the table and crouched to stoke the fire in the hearth.

Eva hurried down the corridor to the service entrance, to the row of pegs holding the servants' winter cloaks. One peg poked nakedly out from the wall, creating a gap in the draping wool garments. Someone had gone outside. A hunch had her reaching for the next convenient cloak, which she swung around her shoulders on her way out the door.

“Connie?” She spoke in a stage whisper, hoping her voice wouldn't carry into the house. She went to the delivery gates, but the lane to the main road appeared deserted as well. There was no telling for certain which way the girl might have gone, for too many comings and goings earlier had churned the snow to an icy, nondescript slush.

At the snippet of a giggle she whirled about and crossed the courtyard to the garden gate. She peered down the dormant rows of the kitchen garden and caught a flash of movement over near the greenhouses. She set off at a brisk stride around the garden. More giggles, louder now, drew her along.

She reached the rear of the first glass-encased structure, fogged by the heaters blazing inside. She leaned as far as she dared around the corner, to see without being seen. There was Connie, near the greenhouse entrance, cradling a basket in her arms, and a bevy of children surrounding her, each holding out hands garbed in ragged mittens. Into each Connie placed a bundle, whereupon the child would either curtsy or bow and with a delighted giggle secret the bundle inside a coat Eva deemed far too thin. Connie repeated the little ritual with more than a half-dozen children that she could count, and she wondered how many had already wandered off back home.

Soon the basket was empty and the last of the children gone, having trotted off through the woods, presumably down to the main road. Connie stood watching a moment longer. Then, with a wistful smile, she swung the basket in one hand and started in Eva's direction.

Eva stepped out from her hiding place, and Connie jerked to stillness, her features frozen in alarm.

“I saw,” Eva said simply.

Connie slowly closed the distance between them. She wore the missing cloak. A scarf covered her head and was tied beneath her chin. “And . . . you'll tell?”

“I don't see that we have much choice. Have you any idea of the time? Mrs. Sanders is on a rampage searching for you.”

“I hadn't realized . . . I thought I had time to get back inside before anyone came down.”

“Connie, have you forgotten everyone is rising earlier because we're shorthanded?”

“I . . . I guess I didn't think of that. Can't we say . . .” She trailed off, staring down into her empty basket. “I'll be sacked. Again.”

“You were sacked from your last position?”

Connie nodded, loose hairs falling in her face.

“For the same infraction?”

Another nod.

“What was in those bundles? I'm assuming food, but from where?”

Her head came up, her eyes glazed with self-righteousness. “I didn't steal it! It was leftover and would have been tossed in the bins.”

“Leftovers from above stairs?”

The maid retreated beneath those loose tendrils and tucked her chin into her scarf. She nodded again.

“Connie, why didn't you simply ask? I'm sure Mrs. Ellison and Mrs. Sanders would have been agreeable. You're feeding children, after all.”

“But what if they weren't agreeable? They weren't at the last house I served in. They said it wasn't their business to feed every ragtag child who came begging. So I did it anyway. I took a chance.” A sob entered her voice. “I had to, Miss Huntford. I know what it's like to be hungry.”

Eva's eyes misted and she blinked to clear them. It was no use becoming emotional; she had to find a way to avoid Connie being sacked. Would Mrs. Sanders understand? If only they could get inside the greenhouse, they might fill Connie's basket with the herbs Mrs. Ellison needed and claim Connie had only been trying to help. Dora usually came out for that, but only when Mrs. Ellison sent her with the key. The doors would be locked now.

“Come on, Connie. We'll face Mrs. Sanders and Mrs. Ellison together.”

Connie dropped her head again and started walking, a slow, dragging stride as if she were a condemned criminal being led to the gallows. “It's not my first brush with trouble, Miss Huntford. I'll be sacked for sure this time.”

Eva's first thought was to ask Connie why, all things considered, she would take such a risk. But as Connie said, she knew what it was to be hungry, and Eva's heart went out to her. And then a thought came to her. It was due to Lady Phoebe that Connie had been spared dismissal when her romance with Vernon came to light. Could Phoebe work her magic again?

 

The three women occupying Mrs. Sanders's office jumped up from their seats as Phoebe entered. She wished to tell them to sit, but she knew Mrs. Sanders would have none of it until she herself was seated. Mrs. Sanders stood before her desk chair. Two chairs from the servants' hall appeared to have been brought in for Eva and Connie, while Mrs. Sanders's overstuffed chair seemed to have been reserved to Phoebe. She wasted no time in crossing the room to it.

Still, the others remained standing, Mrs. Sanders with her hands clasped at her waist and a pained expression drawing her aging features tight. Connie's shoulders shook with her visible effort to stem the tide of tears and muffle her sniffles. Eva alone faced Phoebe with a modicum of confidence that Phoebe hoped not to disappoint.

“My lady,” Mrs. Sanders began in the gravest of tones, “I do hope you can forgive this interruption of your morning. As you know I abhor bothering the family with staff trivialities, but Miss Huntford insisted.” Nostrils flared, she tossed a recriminating glance at Eva.

“She was quite right, Mrs. Sanders,” Phoebe was quick to say. “I do appreciate being included. Now, then, from what I already understand, Connie has been taking leftovers and doling them out to some of our more unfortunate children here in Little Barlow.”

“Indeed, she has, Lady Phoebe, quite without permission. I apologize for not having caught her in her pilfering sooner.”

“Pilfering, Mrs. Sanders?” Phoebe crossed one leg over the other beneath her skirts, a habit Grams termed unladylike but which Phoebe seemed unable to break. Leaning forward in her chair, she said, “Please, all of you, sit down and let us discuss this.”

Mrs. Sanders's frown deepened, especially as she regarded Connie lowering herself into the hard-backed dining chair. No doubt in the housekeeper's view, the accused should remain standing while the evidence was reviewed.

“Now, then, my question to you, Mrs. Sanders, is what is usually done with the leftovers from the family meals?”

The woman seemed taken aback by the question, as if Phoebe was accusing her in turn. “As my lady very well knows, the edible leftovers are sent each week to St. Margaret's Workhouse for Indigent Women.”

“And the inedible leftovers?” Phoebe caught Eva's twitch of a smile.

“Why, they are thrown out, of course. What else would we do with them, my lady?”

“And in your opinion, Mrs. Sanders, what constitutes edible and inedible leftovers?” This Phoebe asked gently. Mrs. Sanders had served her family almost as long as Mr. Giles. She took great pride in her work and put all her energy into it. Phoebe had no desire to belittle her efforts.

“Anything left on the serving trays is edible, my lady.” Mrs. Sanders sent a puzzled glance at each of them in turn, even Connie.

Phoebe turned to Connie. “What do
you
consider edible leftovers?”

“Oh, I . . .” She pulled herself up taller and fidgeted with a fold in her skirt. Her bottom lip disappeared for a moment between her teeth, and Phoebe saw the hint of new tears forming.

Thankfully, Eva leaned across the space between them and patted her hand. “Go ahead, dear. It's all right.”

“Edible is anything not eaten, my lady,” she said in a whisper so low that Phoebe, too, found herself leaning closer to hear her.

“But that's ridiculous!” Mrs. Sanders came to her feet. “I don't believe you were handing out half-eaten food. Who would deign to eat it?”

“It's better than starving, ma'am.” Connie's voice picked up volume and, along with it, a note of defiance Phoebe couldn't help but applaud.

“You've been stealing from the larder, haven't you?”

“Mrs. Sanders,” Phoebe said calmly, “please sit down. Now, Connie, are we to understand you've been scraping plates to feed these children?”

“M-mostly, my lady.”

“Mostly,” Mrs. Sanders repeated with emphasis. “Then what about the rest?”

“I save some of my own share of the meals for them.”

Mrs. Sanders's scowl proclaimed her less than convinced, but Phoebe stood, prompting the others to surge to their feet again as well. “There, then. No harm done. What Connie has been doing doesn't hurt anyone, and in fact helps some of our local families. Mrs. Sanders, I shall clear it with my grandparents, but I'd like you to plan on setting food aside for the children, especially during these winter months when the fields lay dormant. Meanwhile, Connie stays on, but”—she broke off and moved to stand directly before the maid—“no more secrets. No more actions on the sly, no matter how well intended. Is that very clear?”

“Very, my lady. Th-thank you, my lady. I cannot say it enough.”

“Once is sufficient.” Phoebe smiled. “Now that that's settled, I'll let you all get back to work.” But as the others filed to the door, she remembered something Eva had told her, something Connie had let slip out by the greenhouse. “Connie, one more moment, please. Mrs. Sanders, do you mind if Connie and I stay behind here?”

The woman's curiosity was glaringly apparent, but she merely said, “Of course not, my lady.”

Phoebe closed the door behind them and turned to face the girl, her face red and swollen from crying. “Do sit down again, Connie.”

Connie visibly tensed. She sat rod straight, hands clasped tightly.

Phoebe took the seat Eva had vacated, rather than return to Mrs. Sanders's overstuffed chair. “Connie, this isn't the first time you've faced this sort of thing, is it? Your last position. . . Were you sacked?”

“Did Miss Huntford . . . ?”

“Yes, Miss Huntford did. But you mustn't blame her. She's devoted to this house and wants the best for everyone in it. Including you, Connie. Now tell me, what happened at your last place of employment? You came to us with a letter of recommendation. Was that letter true?”

The girl dropped her chin and shook her head. “Not exactly, my lady. I was sacked for sneaking food out to hungry children, but then someone intervened on my behalf.”

“Who? It's all right, you won't get yourself into trouble again.”

“Lord Allerton, my lady.”

Phoebe's hand flew to her mouth, but she recovered and just as quickly lowered it. “Lord Allerton? How was he involved?”

“He was a guest there, my lady.”

“At Stonebridge Park, where you worked in Yorkshire?”

Connie shook her head. “No, my lady, I never worked there. I worked for Sir Michael and Lady Helen Smythe, in London. It was them who sent me packing. Lord Allerton was their guest for several days last summer. And he persuaded his friend, Lord Bellington of Stonebridge Park, to have the reference written for me.”

Phoebe shook her head as she tried to make sense of the convoluted story. “Why on earth would Lord Allerton, a marquess and a colonel in His Majesty's service, go to so much trouble to see you gainfully employed after being dismissed?”