The Vital Principle (11 page)

Knighton rested his hand briefly on the dowager’s nervous fingers. “Perhaps. And now, if you’ll excuse my presumption, you should rest. The physician will be here soon.”

She nodded and closed her eyes in dismissal.

He strode out, making his way down the corridor to the master bedroom Lord Crowley had occupied. With luck, the dowager would be mistaken, and there would be a journal or some written explanation for her son’s strange actions.

He didn’t believe Lord Crowley married his maid after suffering a premonition concerning his early demise. It was more likely he’d fallen unexpectedly in love with her, social disparity not withstanding. Or he feared she’d disrupt his engagement and relationship with his mother if he didn’t keep her quiet by marrying her. What he planned to do with his inappropriate spouse was another question altogether.

The master suite felt abandoned when he entered, although the master himself was still in residence. The valet had done as requested and prepared Lord Crowley for burial. The body lay in the center of his vast bed, wearing a formal black coat and satin knee breeches as if ready to rise and attend a ball. When the casket arrived later that afternoon, his remains would be transferred to that receptacle to await the coroner's jury. His burial could not occur until the twelve men viewed him for the first stage of the inquest.

That would occur Monday at the earliest.

In the meantime, Lord Crowley would continue to occupy the master bedroom.

As Knighton glanced around the room, he felt a mild shock. It had been less than twenty-four hours since Lord Crowley had died, but the large, corner room already felt cold and unfriendly. A faintly musty odor permeated the air.

Wide windows graced two walls, the apertures framed by heavy silk drapery in deep burgundy and gold that had been drawn shut. The rich colors of the fabric overpowered the maple furniture making the room seem oppressive and airless. Unable to breathe, he pulled one of the drapes aside and wrestled open a window. He leaned his hands against the sill and drew in a grateful breath of cold air before he resumed his examination of the room. A heavily ornamented coverlet spread over the bed, piled high with mounds of pillows upholstered in velvet and silk with golden tassels, framing the gray-skinned body with incongruent opulence. The overwhelming impression was of a Far Eastern pleasure palace rather than a room belonging to an unmarried English gentleman.

Somehow, the furnishings made the earlier revelation about Lord Crowley seem less surprising. The man who occupied these rich, self-indulgent quarters wouldn’t hesitate to seduce, or even marry, his maid if it struck his fancy. He picked up an ivory brush traced with silver from the dresser standing beneath a huge, gilt-encrusted mirror. A small casket of silver rested near the brush. It contained several fobs and a heavy gold signet ring inscribed with the phrase “We will overcome” in Greek. A smaller compartment in the box held a brass ring of keys. Several were the heavy keys used for the outer doors, while one was a small, slender key typically associated with cabinetry locks. He slipped the keys in his pocket, hoping they would prove useful.

A writing desk stood against the northern-facing windows. There was only one narrow drawer. A thick stack of fresh paper, wax, sand and other writing supplies were arranged inside. A quick search revealed a half-written letter to Lord Ashby. Knighton paused to skim the few lines.

Apparently, Lord Ashby had been one of the men Mr. Barnard and his daughter, Miss Prudence Barnard, had visited while engaging in investigations of strange occurrences in Surrey. Lord Crowley had wanted information about those investigations and requested Lord Ashby’s opinion of Miss Barnard.

Knighton folded the letter and placed it in his pocket, next to the marriage papers. It might be worthwhile to pursue Lord Crowley’s line of inquiry if it could shed light on Miss Barnard's character and possible motives. He had to admit he was curious about her background.

She certainly seemed solicitous to the dowager this morning and willing to help the maid-turned-lady. The fact that she had not simply snubbed May said much for her character. Miss Barnard seemed to truly care for the others, or at least the dowager and May.

The desk also contained a small leather book. After leafing through it, he left the book in the drawer. No journal, just as Lady Crowley predicted. However, he was nothing if not methodical, and he was further cursed with a suspicious mind. He opened the wardrobe and slipped his hands through the pockets of coats, waistcoats and breeches folded neatly on the shelves. He even felt the linings, noting again Lord Crowley’s love of rich materials and bold colors. At least a dozen embroidered silk waistcoats lay inside, blazing with silver, gold and red silk.

Nothing of interest remained overlooked or forgotten in any of the coats.

Undaunted, he searched under the mattress and in the dresser, tapping and prying for discreet hiding places. Again, he found nothing other than a few salacious drawings under the edge of the mattress, which was all the further he was tempted to search in the unappetizing area of the bed and its quiet occupant.

That left the library.

He made his way downstairs to the smallish room at the back of the house. The view of the garden through a set of French doors brought light into the otherwise dark room with its floor-to-ceiling bookcases full of brown, green and blue leather volumes. The shelves nearest the windows contained a few slim books clothed in vermillion on a shelf near the ceiling.

Miss Barnard stood in front of a bookcase, running her fingers along the books.

“Miss Barnard?”

“Mr. Gaunt.” She acknowledged him and then waited, a green volume in her hands.

“Is our widow settled so soon?”

“Yes. There was a cart with furniture from the attic already prepared to leave since the dowager had intended to move to Dower House at the end of the month. May, that is, Lady Crowley, decided she wished to make this first foray to the house on her own.” She paused and shifted uneasily. “I’d have gone, but she didn’t wish for my company. Perhaps I’ll visit her later this afternoon and see if she has everything she needs. Thank goodness the rest of the guests went for a walk to the village. I doubt anyone will miss May.”

He smiled. “Fortunate, indeed. I wouldn't feel too aggrieved about May's desire for solitude. I suspect she wanted to settle in by herself and have time to think. It can’t be easy to be a grieving widow before you’re even acknowledged as a wife.”

She sighed and turned the book over in her hands. Her eyes studied the cover though he felt sure she was unaware of what she examined so intently. “It’s a dreadful situation. I can’t imagine what Lord Crowley was thinking to do such a thing. And to let Miss Spencer believe she was still his betrothed…. Well, it’s regrettable,” she ended lamely.

“And unfortunately, we can't ask him.” He gestured to the volume she held, allowing his curiosity to get the better of him. “What are you reading?”

“I beg your pardon?” She glanced at him.

“The book in your hands, what is it?”

She laughed. “I'm sorry, I’d forgotten I’d even picked it up. It is Ovid’s
Metamorphosis
.” She grimaced. “In Latin. I was searching for some light reading, but I’m not sure this qualifies.” When she caught his glance, a mischievous gleam lit her dark eyes. “My Latin is rusty, so it may be a little heavy going, although getting changed into a cow by Zeus is certainly amusing.”

He’d been about to suggest a novel, but he hesitated. She seemed to be an educated woman despite her choices in life, and he found himself unsure if he would offend her by the suggestion. “There must be something else to read.”

“To be honest, I was hoping the dowager indulged in a taste for novels, but I can’t find any evidence of such a weakness. All I can find are religious tracts and a few rather arduous tomes about travel and history.”

“Not even Shakespeare?”

“On one of the higher shelves, perhaps. Not within my reach.” She glanced at the ladder and flushed. “I’ve no head for heights.”

Instead of exploring the large desk as he intended, Knighton climbed the ladder to investigate the upper shelves. He had to slide along several feet and go up nearly to the top before he found one lonely shelf stuffed with what looked like less intellectual volumes. He pulled out one and flipped it open only to push it back quickly. The book contained lurid pictures and text of the sort no lady should view.

He pushed past the shelf, trying not to flush. The more he discovered about the late Lord Crowley, the less Knighton respected the man.

However, no matter what he personally thought of him, no one deserved to be poisoned.
No one
.

“Have you found anything?” Miss Barnard craned her neck to stare at him.

The next shelf held books on gardening, botany, and horse breeding. “Not yet. Unless you’re interested in horses.” His fingers hesitated over a blue leather volume. “Do you like poetry?”

She sighed. “Not particularly. Never mind. Perhaps I’ll simply take a walk.”

Climbing down the ladder, he finally found a shelf containing some works from the last century. “Swift?” he asked. “'Gulliver's Travels'?”

“Oh, yes! That would be lovely, thank you.”

He handed her the volume. When she turned to leave, he stopped her. “You can read here, if you wish.”

“Here?” She glanced at the door. “I should check on the dowager. I believe the physician arrived. Perhaps she’d like some company when he leaves.”

“They’ll be occupied for some time yet.”

She watched him as he moved over to the desk. “I don’t believe I wish to stay if you’re going to question me. I’ve told you everything I know. I’ve no inclination to go over it again.”

He laughed at the expression of aggravation flickering over her face. “No. I promise I won’t question you.” When her brows rose in disbelief, he continued, “At least not this morning. Or even this afternoon. Unless you’ve remembered something you wish to tell me since making that amazing discovery about May—er—the new widow.”

A shy smile dimpled her cheeks. “What you heard earlier is all I know of that situation. I refuse to speculate.” Her smile gave way to a hard glance. “And until May, the new Lady Crowley, has her child, we shouldn’t discuss her. Or the situation. It can only harm both of them.”

“I agree,” he said lightly. “It’ll be difficult enough. I should warn you, though, I'm not sure we'll be able to avoid exposing it during the inquest.”

“It's bad enough as it is—isn't there any way to tell the coroner and the magistrate and request they keep it secret?”

“I doubt it. They’ll want to question everyone, and the jurors must hear all the facts.”

“All the information pertinent to Lord Crowley's death—not this.”

“We have no way of knowing what might be pertinent,” he replied gently.

She stared at him with a beseeching look. “Then don't tell them. If they come upon it during their questioning, then so be it. But don't offer the information—
please
! Think of the dowager and the child, if nothing else.”

“I'll consider it,” he said, knowing he couldn’t keep information from the magistrate. He had no way of knowing what would eventually be relevant and what would not.

Her dark eyes weighed him and his words, before she moved to sit in one of the chairs closest to the French doors.

Turning toward the desk, Knighton examined it briefly and sat down in the chair. The surface was free of papers, although there was a leather mat for writing as well as a crystal inkwell. A box containing a sharpening knife and spare quills sat near the edge. The desk had several drawers but the narrow one in front contained only a stack of blank paper.

On the right were three deeper drawers. He tried to pull out the top one and found it locked. In life, Lord Crowley managed to keep all his secrets locked away and safe, but already, his control was slipping away with the inevitability of the tide. His keys were in the hands of a stranger and on Monday the probing into his life would begin in earnest to explain his death. Aware of the sad irony, Knighton slipped the brass key ring from his pocket and tried the smallest key.

It fit and turned, smoothly shifting the brass bar that allowed the drawer to open. Several slim volumes rested inside. He felt his breathing grow shallower. Would one of these journals offer even a ghost of an explanation?

The first one, bound in ox-blood-colored leather, contained nothing more than the late Lord Crowley’s expenses for the last several years. Knighton studied the book briefly before returning it to the drawer. It might be interesting to study later to determine if there were any odd sums of money either coming in or going out. Blackmail could be a motive for murder.

Several other legal papers lay beneath the top notebook, and he found a second leather-bound book. Unfortunately, it held only blank pages.

He closed that drawer and opened the one beneath it. More legal correspondence and a letter from Mr. Mark Jekyll mentioning his interest in purchasing a parcel of land along the border of their two estates.

Disgusted, Knighton was about to close the drawer when he noticed the corner of a creamy-white sheet at the very bottom. He extracted it and was rewarded with a letter addressed to a lawyer.