Accomplished In Murder (3 page)

“We’ve traveled all the way from London, and
as I’m sure you can imagine are thoroughly exhausted. Would you be
so kind as to inform Lady Celeste of our arrival?”

No intelligent servant would risk refusing
such a plainly spoken request, not when it came from a lady with
friendly connections to the mistress of the house.

Slowly, reluctantly, the door opened and
Drucilla and her party were ushered into a dark and drafty hall
with soaring ceiling beams.

“You may wait here,” the housekeeper said
imperiously, “while I inform the family of your arrival.”

Her footsteps echoed down the hall as she
departed.

“Well! I must say this is a chilly reception
Celeste has arranged for us,” Aunt Bridget announced when the woman
had gone. “Not even to inform the servants of our coming? What sort
of household is this, where rooms are not prepared before the
guests arrive? And such a housekeeper! Did you see the insolent way
she looked at us, as though she would like to turn us out?”

Drucilla rubbed her forehead, where she was
developing a massive headache. “Oh, do be quiet, Aunt Bridget.”

“I beg your pardon?” The old lady’s eyebrows
rose.

“Nothing,” Drucilla amended. “I’m sorry,
Aunt. I’m just weary from the journey and things are not going
quite as smoothly as I had hoped.”

She was thinking, not for the first time,
that certain people at Blackridge House might not find her arrival
such a pleasant surprise.

But none of that mattered. She stiffened her
spine. As long as Celeste wanted and needed her here, the rest of
the household could behave just as barbarously as they pleased.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the quick
tread of approaching feet. Not the housekeeper this time, but an
attractive young gentleman. Around eighteen or nineteen, he
appeared too young to be Celeste’s husband but perhaps he looked
younger than his years? Many men did.

“Ah-ha, I see we have visitors,” he said
cheerfully, as he approached. He wore a riding cloak and boots, as
though about to go out.

“And judging by the looks of you,” he
continued, “you’re down from the city. We don’t often get such
refined company around here, you see. Mostly just the old man’s
tenant farmers and the like.”

He had a quick, abrupt way of rapping out
words and leaping from one subject to the next.

“Old man?” Drucilla repeated.

“The Pater, of course,” he replied. “Lord
Litchfield himself.”

“His lordship is your father? Then you must
be Absalom Litchfield?”

He laughed sharply. “Absalom? I only wish.
No, alas I am not so blessed. That name would belong to my elder
brother, the future lord of the castle and heir to the throne.”

Drucilla would ordinarily have found his
sarcasm and irreverent manner of speaking distasteful. But there
was a mischievous sparkle in his dark eyes that somehow made his
outrageous speech forgivable.

She felt it was time for some sort of
explanation as to why she and her aunt were standing in his
hall.

“We’re London friends of Lady Celeste,” she
informed him.

“Ah, dear Celeste. Such a jewel, isn’t she?”
he mused. “The ideal mate for my perfect brother.”

“Yes, well, we haven’t seen her since before
the wedding and we’re dreadfully eager to speak with her
again.”

“Are you indeed?” He arched a brow and an odd
series of expressions passed over his face. Amusement. Curiosity.
Wariness.

Drucilla was confused. Why should he feel any
of those things?

But then the moment was gone, passing so
quickly she wondered if she had imagined his reaction.

“Well,” he said, “I wish you much luck. Now I
must take my leave.”

“Yes, of course. Please do not let us keep
you,” Drucilla said, although she found it exceedingly odd that a
gentleman of the house would abandon two visiting ladies to the
empty entrance hall.

But the young man wasn’t gone just yet. On
his way out, he paused to stick his head back around the door. “By
the way, you’ll pardon the directness of the question, but who
exactly
are
you people?”

Drucilla flushed at his rudeness and said a
trifle severely, “I am Miss Drucilla Winterbourne and this is my
aunt, Lady—”

“Miss Winterbourne, you say? Never heard of
you. Never mind, we shall show you an exciting time here at the old
house. I’m sure you’ll find us a fascinating study.”

Before she could decide how to respond to
such a peculiar statement he was gone.

“What an impertinent young man,” Aunt Bridget
complained but Drucilla scarcely heard her. She was distracted by
the new presence that had just entered the hall.

“Miss Winterbourne and her ah, companion, I
presume?” the gentleman said. He was as tall and dark as the young
man who had just exited but did not possess the same beauty. He
also appeared a few years older.

Being presumed a companion was too much for
Aunt Bridget, who drew herself up to her full height of nearly five
feet. “I am Lady Ashworth,” she corrected icily.

“Of course,” he replied soothingly while
keeping his eyes on Drucilla. “You are both very welcome here.
Celeste used to speak of you in particular so often, Miss
Winterbourne, that I almost feel I know you.”

He took her hand briefly.

“Lord Absalom,” she responded, taking in the
details of the man who stood before her. He was fine-boned and
excessively narrow in the shoulders and waist, not a particularly
attractive man, but there was something striking in the planes of
his face. Drucilla had been expecting someone rather rustic, as
country squires were often apt to be, but this man surprised her
with his polished appearance. He spoke with the charming ease of
one well-versed in the trivial conversation expected of polite
society. She could imagine Celeste being drawn to such a man.

He said now, “I am so glad we are able to
meet at last, although I regret it must be under such tragic
circumstances. You’ll find us all in disarray I’m afraid. The
servants are upset and the family, well, we’re still coming to
grips with it. Then there’s the usual scramble to make the burial
arrangements, procure mourning accoutrements, and notify everyone
who must be present for the funeral. You know how difficult these
things are.”

Drucilla was mortified. “Oh dear, I had no
notion we were imposing on your family at such a painful time. Had
we only known, we would never have intruded. But Celeste made no
mention of a death, or even an illness, in the house.”

He stared at her, as if perplexed. “But
surely you must know. Is that not why you have come?”

A horrible sense of foreboding settled over
her and Drucilla knew even before he spoke what his next words
would be.

“Miss Winterbourne, I am sorry to tell you
that my wife, Celeste, is dead.”

Chapter Six

A thousand emotional responses overwhelmed
Drucilla but the one that burst from her lips was, “But that’s not
possible! I had a letter from her shortly before I left London.
Surely there has been some mistake?”

His expression was pained. “Believe me, I
very much wish there was, Miss Winterbourne. Unfortunately, this is
not a matter of uncertainty. I believe I would know whether my wife
was deceased or not.”

Drucilla remained too stunned to be abashed.
She managed to murmur, “Yes, of course you would. I am sorry. This
news is just so…unexpected.”

“I understand,” he said, his voice laden with
grief. “It has been the same for all of us here.”

She said, “I hope you don’t mind my asking,
but how did it happen? I realize it must be difficult to speak of
it.”

“No, it’s all right,” he said. “It was a
tragic accident. She suffered a terrible fall. The local doctor was
called in, of course, but there was nothing to be done for her.
Death was instantaneous. At least we can comfort ourselves that she
suffered little.”

Such a morbid thought to take comfort in.
Still, her mind had recovered enough for her to recall there was a
proper protocol for occasions such as this.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she murmured.
“Has Celeste’s family been informed of the tragedy?”

She could not believe they had or the news
would have reached her ears back in London.

He shook his head sorrowfully. “The death
occurred only this morning, during the early hours. I have sat down
and written to Celeste’s parents, however, and the message will go
out on the morning train. Once they’ve received the news, I expect
they will come down as quickly as they are able. We are planning to
hold the funeral in a day’s time. I dislike conducting the event
without Celeste’s family present but this time of year these things
cannot be put off long before…” Wincing, he trailed off.

Aunt Bridget clearly felt it her duty to
rescue the conversation from the gruesome level to which it was
descending.

She said, “Perhaps, all things considered, it
is fortunate we are here. Drucilla and I will naturally help with
the funeral preparations in any way we are able. And in the event
poor Celeste’s family is unable to attend, we shall stand in the
place of her London friends.”

It was the first sensible suggestion Drucilla
could remember the old woman ever making.

Lord Absalom looked relieved. “We would be
most grateful for that, Lady Ashworth. It is a great comfort to
have cool heads present at such a difficult time.”

Aunt Brigit preened visibly.

“And now,” Lord Absalom said, “you must be
tired from your journey and ready to refresh yourselves. Forgive me
for keeping you standing so long. The staff has been making up your
rooms and Mrs. Portillo will see you up to them. The family has
already dined. We’re rather informal here and my father prefers
dinner served early, but Mrs. Portillo will see that something is
sent up to you on a tray. Won’t you, Mrs. Portillo?”

The cold-faced housekeeper appeared from
nowhere. “Of course, Lord Absalom. If the ladies will follow
me?”

“I look forward to seeing you both in the
morning,” his lordship said by way of farewell.

As they were led away, Drucilla thought the
man was handling the unexpected loss of his wife with admirable
composure. He must be under a great deal more strain than he
showed.

As the housekeeper led them through the
impressively sized greater hall and up one of the twin staircases
leading from it, Drucilla scarcely took in her surroundings.

Celeste was dead.

And Drucilla hadn’t even wept at the terrible
news. Perhaps it was her ingrained sense of propriety that
prevented public tears or possibly it was only because the reality
of her loss had yet to strike her in all its force. She suspected
it was both. A deeper grief would doubtless come later.

For now, she tried on the idea of life
without Celeste as experimentally as she might slip on a new glove.
How exactly would the loss of her friend affect her? True, they had
been apart for months anyway, since Celeste’s wedding. But there
had always been the comforting notion in the back of Drucilla’s
mind that she might leap aboard a train at any time and make the
daylong journey to Morcastle.

Aunt Bridget had upheld the spirit of
solemnity as long as possible but she was clearly unable to
maintain her silence any longer. “Well, isn’t this an unpleasant
turn of events?” she asked, apparently mindless of the housekeeper
walking ahead. “This is the first time I have visited someone only
to find on arrival they have had the insensitivity to die.”

“Aunt, please. I am sure Celeste’s death had
nothing to do with a wish to inconvenience you.”

“You are probably right.” The older woman
sounded mollified. “She was much too thoughtful a girl to do
anything so inconsiderate if it could be avoided. I always liked
her.”

“Everyone did.”

They paused before a sturdy door, which Mrs.
Portillo opened.

“This is your room, miss. A maid will be up
momentarily to see you have everything you require.”

Drucilla noted with relief she seemed to have
risen a little in the housekeeper’s eyes now her presence had been
welcomed by Lord Absalom. There was still a certain coldness there,
but at least the woman now appeared mindful of their contrasting
stations.

As Mrs. Portillo and Aunt Bridget moved on
down the hall, Drucilla could hear the old lady beginning a litany
of complaints about the intolerable traveling conditions between
the village and Blackridge house. Not even death could achieve the
monumental task of subduing Aunt Bridget for long.

It was a relief to close the door of the
guest chamber behind her and shut out the rest of the world, if
only for a brief time. This visit was proving so unlike anything
she had expected. She had imagined by this time tonight she and
Celeste would be sitting together giggling and gossiping the way
they used to in finishing school.

Drucilla’s moment of solitude wasn’t to last
long as a soft knock at the door announced the arrival of a pair of
servants, delivering her belongings. It seemed the second wagon
from the village had arrived, bringing with it Aunt Bridget’s maids
and the baggage.

Her luggage was followed by the coming of a
housemaid, a chatty girl named Rosie, who spoke in the peculiar way
of the locals from the village. Under less sobering circumstances
Drucilla would have been amused at the difference between her
dignified London staff and the servants here at Blackridge
House.

Drucilla sent back the promised tray of food
the girl brought. She was far too unsettled to think of eating,
though she’d had nothing since lunching on sandwiches while aboard
the train.

Rosie returned shortly with warm water for
washing, for even in a house that had lately been visited by
tragedy the proper rituals could not be neglected.