The Vital Principle (12 page)

Reading the document put Lord Crowley’s marriage in a slightly different light. The dead man requested his lawyer to initiate divorce proceedings. She was unsuitable and would never be accepted into his family. He’d married her while intoxicated and fearful she’d complain of him to his mother, or Miss Spencer, the much more suitable woman his family wished him to marry.

But he did not want to proceed with the divorce until after the child had been delivered.

His desire for delay, almost indecision, was evident in all of his actions, including writing but not posting this letter to the lawyer. Lord Crowley had delayed everything, including revealing his situation to his family, acknowledging his wife, and beginning divorce proceedings. It struck Knighton as odd that his host was so torn when he’d shown such firm decisiveness in his desire to oust Miss Barnard from Rosecrest. Only the dowager's opposition kept her here.

All of which made Knighton wonder if Lord Crowley had actually loved May and delayed because he couldn’t discover a way to make her acceptable. He may have written the letter in anticipation of what his mother would demand once she knew of the liaison. Perhaps he hoped it would all, mysteriously, come to a satisfactory conclusion. If May delivered a fine son, his mother might welcome her and the child into the bosom of their family. Then Crowley could avoid the scandal of divorce and have a fine heir to present to the world.

Or maybe he hoped nature would take a hand in the matter and dispose of his wife as it eliminated so many other inconvenient women—death by birthing. Ironic that nature, with a little assistance, had disposed of Lord Crowley instead.

“What have you found?” Miss Barnard asked.

He glanced up to find her standing on the opposite side of the desk. She gestured toward the paper held in his hand.

“Legal documents.”

“Are there any concerning Lord Crowley’s marriage?”

“Yes.” He smiled. “You see how easy it is to answer a question without any evasion?”

A reciprocal smile pressed a dimple into her cheek, but she ignored his facetious question. “You appeared so thoughtful, I knew you found something interesting. What is it? Is the marriage legal after all?”

“Yes,” he agreed, embarrassed and yet oddly flattered that Miss Barnard had been studying him instead of reading her novel.

“Do you think his marriage had something to do with Lord Crowley’s misfortune?”

“It’s possible.”

She took a step closer. “Then it can’t have anything to do with me. I knew nothing about his marriage until this morning. It proves I didn’t kill him, doesn’t it?”

Knighton grunted. “Not precisely. It simply makes this more complex by providing motives for others.”

“Who?”

“Who, indeed?” he replied lightly. He folded the letter and added it to the collection in his pocket.

“Won’t you share your thoughts?” She leaned forward. “Perhaps I can help. I don’t know the other guests very well so I can be unprejudiced.”

“I trust I’m also unprejudiced.” When she withdrew a step, he added, “However, I’ll consider your offer. It never hurts to have another set of eyes.”

She clasped her book against her bosom as her gray eyes dwelled on his face. Again, he felt as if he were being weighed, but her expression gave no indication if he was found wanting or not. He leaned back and returned her stare. Slowly, her face seemed to drain of emotion, leaving her skin pale in the early afternoon sunlight. The circles beneath her eyes grew more evident in contrast to her translucent skin, and Knighton was suddenly aware of a strong desire to offer her a word of comfort. She seemed in desperate need of it.

However, he couldn’t forget how innocent and terrified his stepmother had appeared during the weeks surrounding the death of his father. She’d been even more beautiful than the tall, reserved Miss Barnard, and she fluttered about with pretty helplessness. But his stepmother had manipulated the butler into killing her husband, and then the pair planted the knife in Knighton’s room to implicate him in the death of his own father.

He learned then how dangerous a woman with excellent self-control could be.

“As you wish,” she replied finally. “I’m at your disposal.”

“Get some rest, Miss Barnard. I won’t annoy you with more questions.”

“You have my deepest gratitude, I’m sure.”

He gave her a sharp glance, but her face was bland as she turned and walked away.

Misfortune shows those who are not really friends
. —Aristotle, 384-322 B.C.

Knighton was still rummaging through the desk when he was interrupted.

“I say, what are you doing?” George Denham asked from the doorway.

“Assisting Lady Crowley to bring order to this distressing situation.” Pushing the last drawer shut, he stood and flicked a quick glance around the room.

Hundreds of books lined the walls. Any one of them could contain evidence, a torn, angry letter tucked inside, or a threatening missive. But the thought of taking each volume down and shaking it depressed him.

The fact was, he didn’t relish finding any more evidence if it didn’t pertain to one of the three ladies he now considered to have motivation to poison Lord Crowley. Or Mr. Hereford, the heir to the estate and therefore another prime suspect.

As for the ladies, Miss Barnard might have killed her host to protect her reputation and prevent her exposure as a fraud.

May could have desired revenge because he refused to acknowledge her as his wife. He’d forced her to continue working as a maid in what should have been her own home. Perhaps to punish her for seducing him into marriage, although that was simply supposition.

Miss Spencer may have killed him
if
she knew about May. Her betrothed had chosen to marry well beneath himself while engaged to her, a fairly insulting action.

Then, another possibility occurred to him.

What if the dowager was not as distraught as she appeared? Although she seemed upset by her son’s death and nearly overcome when she learned of her new relationship with an upstairs maid, a cynical man might consider her reaction a singularly violent case of guilt. Her grief over her son’s death might really be dismay at the thought of how Society, and her friends, would react when they heard about her son’s ridiculous misalliance. Lord Crowley might have married May because he feared she would go to his mother with her tale of woe and the news of her pregnancy, which said a great deal about his relationship with the dowager.

If she exerted that much control over her grown son and realized her grip had slipped enough for him to marry a maid, she might have reached over and poured a few drops of Prussic acid into his brandy in order to teach him a lesson and prevent an ugly scandal. She might hope to settle a small amount on May and never see the girl again. Or the dowager might have additional plans to poison May, as well.

Which made him relieved to know the new Lady Crowley,
née
May Allen, was moving to Dower House and out of easy reach. The old dowager might be happy at the thought of a grandchild, but then again, she might be preparing another brown bottle of cyanide.

“Have they arrested Miss Barnard?” Mr. Denham asked, his tone accusatory.

“No. Did you expect them to?”

“I should have thought you’d made that rather obvious last night. Your insulting treatment of her was ungentlemanly. And unwarranted.”

“I wasn’t aware I insulted her.”

“It was disgraceful—bringing her down after the rest of the ladies retired! She had nothing to do with what happened. Nothing!”

“Indeed. Such vehemence. One would almost think you cherished warm feelings for Miss Barnard.”

George Denham’s already ruddy face flushed deeper scarlet, his rather bulbous nose glowing like an ember from a waning fire. “I’m an Englishman! A true Englishman's sense of fair play should ensure proper treatment for Miss Barnard. Or any woman for that matter.”

“Well, despite appearances, I am an Englishman—a true Englishman. I treat all women with the respect they deserve.”

“Well, damn it, you know nothing of Miss Barnard. Or her work—”

“And from this extraordinary speech, am I to assume you
do
know something of her work?”

“I should say I do! Haven’t you even bothered to read
Spectres of Surrey and Sussex
? I mentioned it last night.” His aggrieved tone indicated his disappointment in Knighton. A true Englishman would have spent the night reading this critical volume.

“I’ve been rather occupied with other matters—”

“Wait here.” Denham turned on his heel and rushed out.

During the temporary respite that ensued, Knighton eyed the bookcase and pulled out a few volumes at random. He couldn't quite forget Lord Crowley’s penchant for sordid reading material and his inclination to hide that material on the higher shelves in the library. If anything was hidden in a book, it would most likely be in one of the salacious volumes kept out of easy reach.

Before he could test his theory, he was interrupted by the return of George Denham. He carried a thick volume bound in dark green leather with gold lettering which he handed to Knighton. Crossing his arms over his stout chest, he waited while Knighton opened the book and read the title page:
Spectres of Surrey and Sussex: Proven or Fraudulent?
by Horace Barnard, PhD, and P. Barnard, 1815.

Flipping to the contents, he found several famous houses listed, each with its own chapter. As he read, Denham leaned over and pointed with a thick finger at the third entry, entitled “Houpton House.”

“That house belonged to my father,” Denham said. “We had Miss Barnard and her father visit to research the ghost of Houpton.”

“The ghost of Houpton?”

“Well, you must have heard of it. It was quite famous. The tale involved an eighteen-year-old girl who was said to haunt the house. She threw herself off the cliffs when her parents refused to allow her to marry their groom, you see. For years after, you could hear her wailing in the east wing on cold, blustery nights. In any event, it’s all there. Miss Barnard proved it was the wind coming through a series of underground crevices—”

“Miss Barnard proved this excessively romantic tale to be false?”

Denham stabbed impatiently at the book with his forefinger. “Yes, yes. I
know
it says her father, but the best I could determine, the old man preferred to sit by comfortably with a bottle of port while his daughter performed the actual investigation. You should have seen her, up every night, measuring walls, prying behind woodworking, recording temperatures and studying floor plans.

“In any event, she found the series of crevices. One night, she stuffed them with straw and proved it was the wind and not an incorporeal manifestation of Miss Suzanne’s spirit, wailing with grief over the loss of her true love. And, I don’t know how she did it, but she found a record of Miss Suzanne marrying Mr. Edward Hardy in a nearby parish, shortly after she was reputed to have thrown herself off the cliff. Miss Barnard concluded the family had spread the rumor that Miss Suzanne had committed suicide rather than admit she had simply run off with the groom.

“Of course, the tale was embellished by the wailing which started after new wine cellars were dug. They unfortunately disturbed an underground stream. Over the years, the water ate through the softer rock, creating cracks that led to the wind howling through the crevices on certain stormy nights. And it created a cold draft in one particular spot near the room purportedly occupied by Miss Suzanne.”

Knighton laughed. “Fascinating. In your case, she may have proved there was no unseen spirit responsible for the cold spots or the wailing within your walls, but I fail to see how that’s germane to our case. She appears to have given up proving there are no unseen forces in favor of demonstrating our houses are positively infested with spirits.”

“You’ve deliberately misunderstood me,” Denham replied stiffly through thinned lips. “She’s of a scientific bent. I‘ve watched her work. If she believes there are spirits here, then they
are
here. That’s the sum of what I’m saying. She’s not a fraud. She’s one of the plainest, most honest women I know. Therefore, she needn’t have worried that you would—or could—expose her. She didn’t kill Lord Crowley because she had nothing to fear from him, or your attempts to prove her false!”

“I see.” He flipped through a few pages in the tome. “In any of these inquiries, did the Barnards ever find any evidence of unseen forces?”

“Well,” Denham said. He shifted from one foot to another. “There was one inconclusive case. They were unable to determine a natural cause for the phenomena they witnessed. Therefore, they had to conclude that the source of the cold mist at the spot in question remained a mystery. It's all there. Chapter fourteen.”

“However, since her father’s death, Miss Barnard has ceased her investigations, hasn't she? Now, she not only finds spirits everywhere, but can actually communicate with them. Don’t you find that suspicious?”

“No, I don’t. In all of their inquiries, the Barnards must have found methods to allow them to verify the presence of the incorporeal world. It’s natural that a sensitive woman would eventually be able to communicate with such a world since she studied it so intently for so many years.”

Knighton found it more natural to assume Mr. Barnard kept his daughter on a short rein while he was alive. They had explored mysteries using
his
rational, scientific methods. After his death, she’d been free to pursue her own less rational interests.

“May I borrow this? I’d like to read it.” He tried not to sound as irritable as he felt. There was something about Denham’s insistence on Miss Barnard’s innocence that bothered him. He was almost inclined to believe she might be guilty just because of Denham’s arguments against that very conclusion. Certainly, she’d become a consummate charlatan since her father’s death. That alone made her untrustworthy.

“Indeed, you may keep it. I’ll order another,” Denham said with an annoying air of magnanimity.

“Helping Miss Barnard’s profits?”

Vermillion flooded Denham’s face again. “Don’t be insulting. I’ve no concern for Miss Barnard except as a friend. I’d do as much for anyone involved in this damned affair.”

For once, Knighton was surprised to find he believed him. “Then we should all be grateful to you for bringing this information to me.”

“I’d do it for anyone,” Denham repeated gruffly. “And thank you for not allowing that ignorant constable to arrest her last night. It would have been a dreadful miscarriage of justice.”

“Are you still of the opinion that a vengeful spirit killed Henry Crowley?”

“Yes, I am. I see no reason to revise my ideas.”

“Did you see anyone near the table when Crowley poured the brandy?”

“We were all near the table.”

“Then in your opinion, anyone could have poisoned him?”

“Yes. But why would they? We’ve all known each other for years. Why would anyone suddenly choose last night to murder him?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? And why would a spirit want revenge?”

Denham shifted feet and glanced around the library uneasily. “The Crowleys can be ruthless. I’ve heard stories about his great-grandfather and grandfather.”

“What sort of stories?”

“Ones better not repeated. They have nothing to do with the current generation.”

“Unless they led to Lord Crowley’s death.”

“Who’s to say?” Denham bid Knighton good day in a sudden flurry as if remembering an engagement elsewhere.

Knighton wavered and then sat down to read a few pages of Miss Barnard’s book. The style was amusing and witty, subtly crafted to titillate the reader with the possibility of a vast, unseen world of often-malevolent spirits, while still presenting what were essentially dry facts disproving that such a world existed. He particularly liked the tale of the dead Spanish dancer who could be heard clicking her castanets on hot summer nights in an ancient manor outside of Guildford. The sounds turned out to be insects chirping their way through their complex mating ritual behind the wainscoting.

After several chapters, he found himself warmly appreciative of the author’s skills. Intuitively, he agreed with Denham. There was a feminine quality to the writing that convinced him Miss Barnard had been the author. And he couldn’t help but be attracted to the wry humor and intelligence. Several times, he found himself chuckling and shaking his head in amused sympathy.

Which led him back to the question, why had she turned away from such an interesting and legitimate vocation? She was skilled at her investigations. Unless Denham had been deceived, and it really was her father who had done the majority of the work and merely left it to his daughter to document their conclusions. At this point, there was no way to find out for sure.

Getting up, he decided it was time to speak to the deceased man’s official fiancée, Miss Spencer. How much did she know about her betrothed? Had she discovered his marriage to another woman?

He found Miss Spencer, decorously accompanied by her maid, in a small sitting room at the rear of the house. The room had a light, cheerful air, done in cream, white, and pale yellow with a great deal of gold leaf highlighting the elaborate plaster scrollwork around the doors, windows and along the ceiling moldings. The furniture was comprised of delicate Sheridan pieces with lovely curved legs carved from cherry that glowed from frequent polishing. Miss Spencer sat in a chair near the window, occupied with fancy needlework.

“May I speak with you?” Knighton asked.