A Rose Before Dying (30 page)

The muscles in Phillips’s thick torso bulged.
He contorted and shook to loosen Charles’s hold. Heat poured off
him, thickening the mist.

Then, suddenly, Phillips stiffened.

Ariadne tore free.

“Run!” Charles tightened his grip.

Phillips’s weight increased. Charles shifted,
determined to hold him until Ariadne could get to safety. Within
his grip, Phillips went limp.

The shift in weight made Charles’s arms slip,
and Phillips slid to the ground.

Suspecting a trick, Charles bent over him. He
yanked at his shoulder. Phillips rolled over. A knife protruded
from his throat.

“Oh, no!” Ariadne’s voice shook. She hovered
a yard away, rubbing her arms. “I—I couldn’t help it. I grabbed his
hand to push him away. I couldn’t hold him—my hands were wet—they
slipped! He was too strong! All I could do was twist away.”

The force of the blow she’d deflected sent
the knife into Phillips’s throat.

Charles ripped his coat off and placed it
around her trembling shoulders. Her face was pale with shock. But
to his surprise, she bent and pulled the right side of Phillips’s
coat back. Tucked into an inner pocket was a dueling pistol.

“I felt it against my back when he caught me.
He was so sure you’d come. He’d seen your coach.” She stood and
grabbed his hand with cold, wet fingers, her desperate eyes
searching his face. “I was so afraid he’d shoot you!”

“You acted brilliantly.” He drew her against
him, resting his cheek against her damp hair for a moment. A whip
of rain sent a cold rivulet of water coursing down the collar of
his shirt. “Come on—the storm’s worsening.”

On their way through the flooded garden, she
paused to pick up the basket and lamp, now flickering wildly in its
struggle to stay alight amidst the downpour. When she caught his
glance, her lips twisted in a self-conscious half-smile.

“It seems heartless, but it’s why I came out
here—I can’t just leave the herbs. We need them.”

“I understand. Are you all right? I’ve got to
fetch the constable.”

“Yes. I’ll be fine. Now.”

As she spoke, he could see realization settle
over her face like the last few leaves drifting down from an autumn
oak. Her hand flew to her mouth to suppress a gasping sob of
comingled horror and relief.

He drew her close and held her, delayed
relief taking his breath away. When her crying subsided, he
released her and picked up the basket and lantern. “Are you
ready?”

“Yes.” She gave a watery, gasping laugh.
“You’re drenched—I’m so sorry—I took your coat.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m not.” Nodding toward the
warm lights shining through the kitchen window, he waited until she
stepped forward.

He followed her into the kitchen, thankful to
reach the light and sanity within.

Shaken, Ariadne washed her hands once, twice,
scrubbing them with the sand the cook kept to wash pots. Blood
stained her fingers, a horrible, sticky warmth that had sprayed her
when she lost her grip on Mr. Phillips’s wrist.

After drying her hands, she refilled the
kettle with chamomile and water for Miss Baxter. Miss Baxter’s
coughing had eased that afternoon. Dr. Humphrey agreed that it was
a good sign.

With luck, she might recover. Ariadne focused
on that, trying not to remember what happened outside.

A random thought about Miss Baxter arose on a
bubble of near-hysteria. What would her reaction be when Sir Edward
offered for her? Hopefully, the shock wouldn’t lead to a
relapse.

The house seemed unnaturally quiet, almost
breathless, waiting for the final scene. Part of her couldn’t
accept that it had been Mr. Phillips, and not Mr. Tunnes, who had
done so many terrible things.

She’d never liked Mr. Phillips, but that was
because she knew he was a bully. She hadn’t guessed he was a bully
who liked to murder people. Somehow, she felt responsible for not
recognizing that sooner. Her mistake had placed Rose and Miss
Baxter in danger.

She had failed so many ways.

If Lord Castlemoor hadn’t arrived in time,
she’d have failed again, and now she had to admit her final failure
to them. They were going to lose Rosewell and their livelihood.
With Mr. Phillips’s death under such circumstances, his portion
would go to the Crown. Unless she could scrape together enough
money to buy it back, she’d lose everything. They’d be out on the
street.

Well, Rose could teach them how to
survive.

Thoroughly miserable, Ariadne placed the
kettle over the coals of the small fire smoldering in Miss Baxter’s
bedroom hearth. Miss Baxter was mercifully asleep, her face smooth
and unlined in slumber. At least they had a few days before they
had to face their grim future.

Ariadne was just settling into the bedside
chair when she heard the sound of men entering the house. Her heart
thumped with dread. She’d have to explain what happened all over
again.

The cowardly part of her wished Mr. Phillips
had succeeded. She wouldn’t have to face the loss of everything, or
the next few hours reliving his death.

“Ariadne?” Charles knocked gently at the
door. When she opened it, he glanced over her shoulder at the still
form in the bed. “Is Miss Baxter well?”

“Yes. Dr. Humphrey was here this afternoon.
He thought she was improving.” She tried to smile, but her lips
trembled until she bit the insides of her mouth.

“I meant to tell you, Rose is safe. She’s
here with Mrs. Bewforest.”

“Thank goodness!” She stepped out into the
hall and shut the door behind her to avoid disturbing her cousin.
“I should have remembered her sooner. How is she? Where was
she?”

“At the Bell.” He hesitated and then gently
clasped her elbow and turned her toward the stair. “She’s seems
right as rain and sound asleep in Agnes’s bed.”

“I’m so relieved—I’m hardly myself.” She
rubbed her temple. Her entire body pulsed erratically, one minute
calm and the next pounding with sudden, inexplicable alarm. She
couldn’t seem to organize her thoughts; random notions skittered
through like frightened mice.

“I’m sorry to subject you to this, but do you
feel up to providing the constable with a statement?” Charles
asked.

“I—” Could she escape? Put it off for a few
hours?

She gazed into his sympathetic eyes and was
suddenly ashamed. His face was etched with exhaustion, dark circles
entrenched under his eyes. Two day’s worth of stubble shadowed the
strong lines of his chin, deepening the hollows under his
cheekbones. He had traveled without rest for days, and yet here he
was offering to shield her.

“You need a restorative. Brandy,” he said in
a bracing tone as he guided her into the kitchen.

She sat down at the table seconds before her
shaking limbs gave out. After one searching look, Charles busied
himself, proving remarkably adept at finding all manner of supplies
including tea, sugar, and the cook’s carefully hidden bottle of
brandy.

When he finally placed a steaming cup of tea
in front of her, she sniffed suspiciously at the alcohol-laced
fragrance.

His eyes twinkled as he added another
spoonful of honey. “Perhaps it isn’t strong enough?” Before she
could reply, he added enough brandy to bring the dark liquid to
within a hair’s breadth of the rim.

“Oh, stop!” she begged as her shaking hand
lifted the cup, sloshing a good portion of it onto the table.

“Drink all of it. I’ll be back as soon as I
can.” He slipped out the kitchen door before she could reply.

Ariadne hardly had time to finish the strange
brew before Charles returned in the company of several
rumpled-looking men, including Dr. Humphrey. The scowl on the
doctor’s face and his compressed mouth spoke volumes about his
opinion on the necessity to return again so soon to Marsh Rose
Cottage.

The men remained out in the garden for nearly
an hour. When they returned, they were even more bedraggled and
smelled of wet linen and mud.

“Stop right there!” Mrs. Bewforest blocked
the kitchen doorway. “I won’t have you tracking that muck through
the rest of the house! You’ll go no further than this room.” She
crossed her muscular forearms over her chest.

The men eyed one another. Charles nodded.
“Mr. Ludsthorp, would you care to conduct your inquiry here?”

“Certainly.” Mr. Ludsthorp, the constable,
sat and methodically removed a pencil, a leather-bound notebook,
and a handkerchief from his pocket. He laid out the first two
objects in front of him before exuberantly blowing his nose. After
refolding the square of linen, he placed it on his thigh. He picked
up the pencil.

Although he didn’t appear overly curious
about his surroundings, Ariadne got the distinct impression that
his sharp hazel eyes had already taken in the salient features. He
seemed determined to execute his duties as expeditiously as
possible and return to his bed in Rye. In a vague way, he reminded
her of the fussily competent personal secretary of one of her late
father’s wealthier patrons.

For some reason, the thought reassured
her.

“Now. Lord Castlemoor,” the constable said.
“You identified the man who assaulted Miss Wellfleet as Mr. Henry
Phillips. Is that correct, my lord?”

“Yes.”

He glanced up from his notebook and examined
the earl. “How is it you knew him?”

“I met him once. At Rosewell.”

“Was that the extent of your
acquaintance?”

“Yes—no. I saw him once before. Naturally, we
were not introduced.”

The constable nodded, looking uncomfortable.
Commoners were not introduced to earls on a regular basis, and here
he was, questioning one.

“He was leaving Second Sons—that is—the
inquiry agency.”

“Oh? May I ask if your visit to the agency
had aught to do with this matter?”

“Yes. My uncle was there. He wished to hire
an inquiry agent. To investigate the death of a friend, Lady
Banks.”

“I see. Well, thank you, my lord, for your
assistance. I’m grateful.” Mr. Ludsthorp remained seated, however.
“Just one more matter, if you don’t mind? In the garden, you said
you called to him? Using his name?”

“I realized it had to be him when I saw them.
I should have realized it sooner.” Charles flashed a brief,
apologetic look at her. “However, I’d suspected another man, an
actor named Gregory Tunnes. But he has spent the last few days with
a troop—”

“They performed in Folkestone.” Mr. Ludsthorp
offered a brief smile. “I saw him at the Pier Theatre
yesterday.”

“And that was the difficulty with Mr. Tunnes.
He was too busy with rehearsals to be traveling back and forth from
Rye to London with such regular monotony.” Charles rubbed the back
of his neck and shook his head.

“I see. Second Sons must have helped then, to
turn your sights to a more likely prospect.”

“To a degree.”

“Yet it seems somewhat of, er, a leap of
faith, as it were, to conclude Mr. Phillips was behind these
terrible events.”

“Not such a great leap.” Charles’s warm eyes
lingered on Ariadne. “But a matter of interlocking links.”

“Links?” One of Mr. Ludsthorp’s brows rose.
“I beg your indulgence, my lord, but could you explain?”

“It took me too long to see it, but the
evidence was there. The initial link connected my uncle, Sir
Edward, with Lady Banks. She cast him aside for Mr. Nivelle after
my uncle injured his foot and was no longer able to partner her at
dances. Everyone remarked on her dual love of roses and dancing, so
it seemed possible that he killed her when she tossed him
aside.”

“A reasonable assumption, surely?
Particularly after Mr. Nivelle met his end,” Mr. Ludsthorp said,
revealing that he wasn’t completely ignorant of events in
London.

“Yes. However, he had too many physical
difficulties to overcome. And there was the one obvious fact
everyone missed: he remained friends with Lady Banks. They were
walking through her garden when she was shot.” He held up his hand
when it appeared the constable might interrupt. “That in itself was
insufficient, but it was relevant. Lady Banks and Mr. Nivelle
linked back to Sir Edward and more importantly, a rosarian. While
Sir Edward enjoys roses, he’s hardly an expert.”

“But,” Ariadne interrupted, unable to help
herself. “Whoever left the clues didn’t need to be an expert. He
only had to know the one, significant name of the rose he sent. And
while Mr. Phillips helped fund Rosewell Nursery when my father
needed the assistance, he was never a
rosarian
.”

“True.” Charles smiled.

“I’m sorry but I don’t quite see…” Mr.
Ludsthorp said.

“Those were just the first few links. The
next was actually Phillips’s first mistake. I believe he kidnapped
Miss Baxter to try to reinforce the evidence that Sir Edward was
responsible. From his association with the Wellfleets, he knew Sir
Edward once had an interest in her, so the action should have
worked, if we accepted that Sir Edward was taking out his
frustration and anger on any woman who had rejected him.

“Unfortunately, it made me realize the killer
misunderstood Sir Edward’s relationship with these women. Sir
Edward and Miss Baxter mutually agreed they would not suit. There
was no enmity. So I had to ask myself, why would he suddenly think
of her after all these years? He wouldn’t. So there had to be a
different purpose behind the murders.”

“Roses?” Ariadne asked, beginning to guess
where Charles was leading them.

“Perhaps. Or was it that the killer was
trying to distract us with false clues? What did all of these
events have in common? Rosewell and its nursery.”

“Rosewell?” Ariadne felt the blood drain from
her face. “Why Rosewell?”

“The glass house where you were experimenting
with forcing roses. You grew all the varieties used.”