The Vital Principle (15 page)

Knighton grinned, although his facial muscles felt rigid with irritation. “Shall I send him your regards, my lord?”

“No. I’ll be seeing him soon enough, won’t I?”

“Perhaps. If you wish.” Knighton shrugged, the gesture relieving some of the stiffness in his shoulders. “At any rate, I guarantee you’ll be free to return to London and the House of Lords very soon. Unless, of course, you have an appointment with the hangman, first.”

Lord Thompson’s face hardened. His dangling foot jiggled restlessly although his upper body remained still, as if he could not completely control his feelings. Guilty shame or something else? “If you think I had anything to do with Henry Crowley’s death, you’re much mistaken.”

“Give me a reason to believe your innocence, then. Tell me about Miss Howard. And make it the truth. Please. My lord.”

Thompson sat up, placing both feet on the floor. Knighton watched the man's hands shake before he rested them on his knees, the knuckles whitening from his grip. “That subject is not open for discussion.”

“I disagree.” Knighton held up a small scrap of paper between two fingers. “I’m afraid Miss Howard may find something missing from her book.”

“Really?”

He studied him for a moment and then opened the slip of paper. “Come to my chambers at one,” he read. “It’s signed, ‘HC’. Do you know whom that might be?”

Jaw clenched and his features icy-white with fury, Thompson held Knighton’s gaze. “That is nothing,” he ground out. “Nothing.”

“Do you know who ‘HC’ might be?”

“No.” Thompson paused. “Where did you get that?”

“Miss Howard’s book. Don’t you think ‘HC’ might be Henry Crowley?”

“I have no idea.”

“Still, it seems likely, doesn’t it? Therefore, this is a note from Henry Crowley to Miss Howard. I’m sure his mother could confirm his handwriting.”

“You will not show it to her—or anyone. You have no notion what you're doing. That is simply a guess, and I find your attitude both hostile and repugnant.”

“I beg your pardon, Lord Thompson. I had not intended to upset you—”

“You are offensive, sir!”

“Indeed. I apologize again. I was merely hoping to get your opinion of this note.”

Thompson leaned back, smoothing his trousers over his thighs. “My opinion is that the note could have been intended for anyone. Myself, perhaps.”

“Then you
do
think ‘HC’ stands for Henry Crowley?”

“Yes. It appears to be his writing, as I’m sure you must know.” He gave a tense, brief laugh and crossed his right ankle over his knee. “In fact, the note was most likely intended for me.”

“Really? What makes you think that?”

“Why, now that you bring it to my attention, I remember reading it. I must have left it in that book.”

“What book is that, Lord Thompson?”

“The one you handed to Miss Howard.”

“What was the title?”

“You know what it was.”

“Humor me. What was the title? Or the author, if you prefer? Surely you must remember if you used that note to mark your place.”

“Dryden, or Pope. Poetry, or some such nonsense, from the last century. Old, dusty stuff—is it any surprise I lost interest in reading it?”

“None at all.” The book’s author had been Marlowe and it was a play. “So you believe Crowley wanted you to visit him in his rooms?”

“Presumably.”

“You didn’t go?”

“Obviously not. The man died, if you’ll recall.”

“However, he wanted to see you at one in the morning?”

“After that ridiculous entertainment with Miss Barnard, yes. He probably wanted to play a game of chance. Or chess. He loved games.”

There had been no chess board in the dead man’s room, nor cards. “I hadn’t realized Crowley was a chess player,” he commented, watching Thompson’s cold face.

He smiled and from the relaxed set of his jacket, the tension in his shoulders had abated as he regained control over the conversation. “I was trying to teach him. He didn’t have much patience.”

“I see.” He flicked the note open again between his fingers and studied the message. “That certainly puts matters in a different light, doesn’t it?”

“Look here, just what are you insinuating? I’ve quite enough of your tone.”

“Ah,” Knighton said, speaking with gentle sarcasm. “My tone of voice—again.” More loudly he replied, “I’m simply trying to determine who the recipient of this note might have been. In light of my earlier conversation with Miss Howard, of course.”

Thompson stood up, his body vibrating. “She was hysterical—barely coherent. You’re making a mistake if you believe she had anything to do with—” He broke off.

“With what, Lord Thompson? What is it I should not assume?”

“She had nothing to do with Crowley’s death,” he stated flatly.

“Are you sure? Poison is a woman’s preferred weapon. Few men use it.”

“Yes, I’m sure. You forget, Miss Howard cut her foot on a bit of glass after that damned maid dropped the tray. How could she have poisoned Crowley?”

“Apparently, it would have been possible to place the poison in his glass before he poured the brandy.”

Thompson laughed. “That’s absurd.”

“Is it? I understand his snifter is unique.”

“Unique?” A ripple of knowledge poured over his features.

“Surely, you’ve seen it, since you were such close friends.”

“Of course. The silver chain. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

Knighton nodded and stood since Thompson showed little inclination to resume his seat. “The chain has his monogram hanging from it. It would have been easy to place the poison in his snifter at any point prior to Crowley pouring the brandy, wouldn’t it?”

“Or after.”

“Of course.”

“What makes you think Miss Howard would know this? I’m his friend, as you say. And yet I didn’t remember until you reminded me. I fail to see how Miss Howard would know.”

“I should think the answer would be obvious. All she had to do was examine the glassware kept in the large sitting room.”

Time will explain it all. He is a talker, and needs no questioning before he speaks
. —Euripides c. 485-406 B.C.

“That is true of everyone at Rosecrest,” Lord Thompson replied. “Anyone could have looked at the glassware and located Henry’s snifter.”

Knighton leaned against the bookshelves and nodded. “If they had a motive.”

“Miss Howard had no motive. Her family has been friends with the Crowleys for years, particularly after Lord Howard passed away.”

“I see. So Miss Howard is without the protection of a father?”

Thompson’s long, thin face turned a rich burgundy. His brows pressed down over his gray eyes. “She is not without protection.”

“Has someone taken the place of her father? Did her mother remarry? I wasn’t aware of that.”

“No. Don't play the fool. You understand my meaning perfectly.”

“I’m afraid I don’t, given my earlier conversation with her.”

“What did she tell you? She was hysterical—”

“She told me she’d been seduced,” Knighton replied, studying Thompson. “By Lord Crowley and you.”

She hadn’t actually named Thompson, but given her reaction to him in the garden, Knighton had no doubt he was the second man. And Knighton hoped that was all and that Crowley had not degraded her further by introducing her to other men.

Thompson dropped his gaze to the floor briefly and then stared out the window. His expression was bleak with despair and self-loathing. “I didn’t…know.”

“You didn’t
know
?”

“You don’t understand.”

“You’re right. I don’t. I don’t understand how any man, any
Englishman,
can use a woman the way you and Crowley used Miss Howard. My lord.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Wasn’t it? Frankly, I believe that was exactly what it was like. A woman without a father, eager to please…yes. It was precisely like that.”

“No, it was not.” He emphasized each word like the slow beat of a military drum.

“Then why don’t you tell me what it was like? The truth.”

“Why? So you can find someone else to blame for Crowley’s death?”

“I’m only interested in the truth.”

Thompson laughed bitterly. “The truth? Or Miss Barnard? You’re trying to shift the blame away from her, aren’t you? So you can try a little seduction, yourself.”

“The truth.” Knighton stared into Thompson’s eyes until the latter dropped his gaze, hiding his expression behind heavy lids. “That is my only interest.”

“I would never… If I had known….” His gaze flew up and caught Knighton’s eyes again. “Henry told me she wanted me—us—that she was a light-skirt, despite her proper family and mother. I didn’t know she was…. She’d never—well—damn it! You know what I mean.”

“But you followed Crowley’s lead, nonetheless.”

“She was there—in his bed—in her shift! What was I to think? I didn’t know until…. Afterward, I found out he’d laced her drink with opium—laudanum.”

Thompson’s hesitant confession gained no sympathy from Knighton. He stared at him in disgust. “So you took turns while she was too drugged to protest?”

“No! We tossed a coin, I won and got first go. When I realized…. Her eyes were glittering wildly and the pupils as black as night—I…. It was too late when I realized. But he didn’t touch her. I may have behaved contemptibly, but not as badly as that. I took her to my own rooms.”

“And does she realize that?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there when she awakened. I returned to Crowley's room to talk. Argue. When I saw her again, she wouldn’t speak to me.”

“Can you blame her?”

“I never let him touch her! I swear it!”

“That bothers you, doesn’t it? That he set up this little
aperitif
for the two of you to savor. Surely it wasn’t the first time, if you were such close friends?”

“We’ve shared…women before. Light-skirts…no one who mattered.”

“No one who
mattered
?”

He nodded. “They knew what they were about. All of them. Until Miss Howard.”

Knighton shook his head at the incomprehensibility of his attitude. “How many others were drugged? Unable to make a choice?”

“None. This was different. Crowley said he’d grown bored. He wanted something…fresh.”

“And what did you think that meant?”

“Certainly not what I discovered! Not with a woman we knew—for God’s sake—we danced with her at Almack’s!”

“Oh, I see. Don’t tell me you felt sympathy for her? For a light-skirt like Miss Howard?”

“Miss Howard is not a light-skirt! It was—an accident!”

“Like the accident that later befell Crowley?”

“For God’s sake, it’s ugly enough without that, too!”

“But you were angry, weren’t you? With Crowley for involving you in his little adventures?”

“Yes, I was angry at the time! But I didn’t kill him. And neither did Miss Howard. Now I’ve had enough, Mr. Gaunt. I refuse to discuss this any further. You’ll have to excuse me.”

“Certainly. I’ll excuse you, for now, my lord” Knighton replied mildly despite the burning in his gut. Tomorrow, the inquest would begin. He had no idea who the murderer was, or how many of the unpleasant little secrets he'd discovered should be revealed to the magistrate. “But Lord Thompson, don’t leave Rosecrest just yet.”

Doubts are more cruel than the worst of truths
. —Moliere, 1622-1673

Midnight, Sunday, October 11

That night, the dowager insisted on making the attempt to communicate with her son, despite the reluctance of her guests. She had trays sent to everyone’s room with notes tucked under the stemware indicating they would meet in the large sitting room at eleven forty-five that night. No excuses permitted.

Mr. Gaunt arrived early. And to everyone's dismay, he escorted each guest to the seat they occupied during the original session. His plain black attire gave him an implacable, vengeful air that his politeness did not dispel. Several ladies, including Miss Howard and Miss Spencer, jerked back a step when he greeted them and reluctantly followed him to their chairs.

“Please, we’ll need complete silence,” Pru said, trying to gain control of the conversations around her. “Lord Thompson, if you don’t mind?”

He glared at her, but he stopped whispering to Lady Howard who sat next to him. Mr. and Mrs. Jekyll, hearing her gentle rebuke to Lord Thompson, halted their muted conversation, as well.

The clock in the hallway struck midnight.

The room was exactly as it had been the night Lord Crowley died. The drapes were pulled shut and pinned to prevent the slightest glimmer of starlight from entering. A single lit taper burned in the middle of the table. Its soft, flickering flame created a weak, golden light. The halos of decreasing illumination barely reached to the edges of the freshly waxed table.

Pru glanced around. Most of the guests wore dark colors in remembrance of Lord Crowley, but at least the men had glimmers of white linen shirts and stocks around their necks and wrists. Still, it was eerie to see hands and faces apparently floating bodiless in the darkness surrounding the table.

And she could not forget that the coroner's inquest would begin on the morrow. First, the jury would come to Rosecrest to view Lord Crowley's body, and then the questions would start. By late afternoon, Lord Crowley would leave the house for one last time to be buried in the elaborate mausoleum in the town's small churchyard.

Uneasy, she rearranged the slate next to her left hand and stared at the flame. The darkness behind her felt cool against her shoulders and neck, but her left side burned. She could feel Mr. Gaunt like a fire raging, throwing light and heat where there should be cool shadow.

Her shoulder tingled. She stared at the tiny light, trying to ignore him, but the sensation increased until it was difficult to hold her left arm still on the table. Her flesh itched as if spiders ran up and down the bare skin. She wanted to shake it and couldn’t prevent her fingers from twitching.

The dowager gasped at Pru’s movement. She ignored her and stared at the candle. The flame rose and expanded, mirrored in mellow reflections on the table’s waxy surface.

What could she write? What last message would Lord Crowley send to his mother? Certainly not the information that he’d considered divorcing his pregnant wife, although he appeared content to wait until after the birth of their child to do so. That revelation would help no one, particularly not the new Lady Crowley,
née
May Allen. It would only distress her and add to the confusion and dismay torturing Lord Crowley’s mother. Sad that there were two widows now, the old dowager and the new widow of the late Lord Crowley.

Poor May wasn’t even invited to attend this evening. The dowager had deemed her presence unnecessary.

Therefore, without Lord Crowley present in corporeal form, there were only twelve of them in the room. That was the number that should have
originally
attended Pru’s spirit session, not unlucky thirteen. The fact that the maid stayed to make fourteen didn’t alter that fact in Pru’s mind. Thirteen had sat at the table that night, thanks to Mr. Gaunt’s presence.

“Can you feel him?” Lady Crowley asked. “Does he have any message for me?
Anything
?”

The tingling in Pru’s left arm increased and radiated up her neck. She felt increasingly dizzy. Was she mesmerizing herself? Disturbing the magnetic balance of her body? Magicians claimed they could do this—influence the natural magnetism to induce an odd condition whereby a person could be given orders he’d obey without question or later memory.
Mesmerism
.

The thought frightened her. She tried to look away, but the flame grew brighter, drawing her into the flickering glow. Her vision wavered. The dowager’s soft, persistent questions faded.

Suddenly, she saw a patch of land—farmland—freshly plowed. The scent of rich, wet soil filled the air. A clot of heavy, black dirt crumbled between her fingers. Despite the promise of life in the fields, the earth in her hand felt cold and clammy. Like the grave.

Death
.

Darkness swept over her. A sharp sensation hit her cheek. She twisted and held her hand up, shielding her face.

“What are you doing?” The sound of her voice confused her. Her words sounded slurred and lisping. All she could see was Gaunt’s face hanging above her in the shadows, one lean hand raised as if to strike her.

His features blurred as he pulled back slightly into the gloom. “You fainted.”

“Fainted?” She stared at the flame and then beyond it, to the people surrounding the table. Eleven pale faces floated in the blackness, twenty-two hands pressed against the waxy surface of the table. Disembodied people.

Ghosts
.

“What did you see?” The dowager’s voice quavered. “Did he speak to you?”

Pru rubbed her forehead, her cold fingers sliding over the brow bone to her cheek. The skin felt hot and sore. She gazed up at Mr. Gaunt. He met her glance for a moment and then sat down again, his hard face giving nothing away.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. His sympathetic tone and suddenly concerned expression surprised her.

She rubbed her face again, not because it hurt, but because her cheek tingled. Her hand moved down to her left arm. The skin felt icy beneath the black silk Spencer she wore. Her muscles shook with weakness.

What had happened? Had she finally lost herself to madness as she had feared?

Soft conversations erupted around the table, hundreds of questions floating through the darkness. Fragments caught her attention.

“Is she quite well?” “What happened?” “Did she faint?” “Mother, I’m frightened!” “It must have been the manifestation of incorporeal spirits—it was more than she could bear….” The voices droned on, faces moving in and out of the halo of light.

“What do you remember?” the dowager asked. “Did my son speak to you?”

“I beg your pardon.” Pru tried to think. What had happened? What had gone wrong? She’d never fainted in her life. “Did you
hit
me?” She turned to Mr. Gaunt.

A faint, lopsided grin curved his mouth. “You looked ill. It was a light slap to get your attention. I was afraid you were going to faint.”

“You
did
strike me!” A giddy flash of laughter erupted from her throat. She put her hand over her mouth. “I wasn’t ill.” She rubbed her left arm again, massaging the uncooperative muscles in her forearm. Another fear slipped coldly down the back of her dress. Had she had a stroke? A heart attack, despite her age? She was nearing thirty now, hardly young, but surely too young for those deadly illnesses?

The dowager stood and leaned over to grip Pru’s right arm. “Did you see anything? My son?”

“No.” The dancing light in the center of the table distracted Pru. She dragged her gaze away. “Nothing but earth.”

“Earth!” The dowager gripped her throat and sat with a thud, her elbow hitting the table. “The grave—she saw the grave! The ground poor Henry will be buried in tomorrow.” Tears poured over her cheeks, running along the grooves cut through her papery skin from nose to mouth.

“No, no,” Pru leaned over, pausing to catch her breath when another sweep of dizziness blurred her vision. After the room steadied, she gripped the dowager’s hand. “No. It wasn’t a grave. Just plowed fields.” She smiled reassuringly. “I’m sorry, my mind must have wandered. I was unable to focus. I’m truly sorry.” Her voice dropped to soften her next words. “I'm afraid Lord Crowley is truly gone. He’s in another world now, the infinite world beyond our realm. He’s not unhappy or staying here to avenge his death, he’s beyond that, now.”

The dowager’s eyes glazed with incomprehension. “He was murdered.” She pointed toward Mr. Gaunt. “He said it was true—my son was poisoned. How can Henry rest?”

“We must have faith. He isn't lingering here. So please, Dowager, it’s late, and you're exhausted.” She glanced over her shoulder at Mr. Gaunt. He nodded, although his black eyes were just dark hollows lit by faint glimmers. “And I'm convinced Mr. Gaunt will find what happened. Your son knows this and has moved on. Believe me, there’s no sense of him here any longer.”

The dowager searched her face, clasping Pru’s arms in a tight grip. “Are you sure there’s no chance?”

“Nothing is certain, except your need to rest, Lady Crowley.”

While Pru convinced the dowager to retire for the night, she noticed Mr. Gaunt speaking to the others. Lady and Miss Howard were the first to leave, followed by Lord Thompson and Mr. Hereford.

Mr. Stephen Hereford.

Until seeing him at the edge of the table, waiting for the Howards to leave ahead of him, she had forgotten all about him. He had been so quiet and kind during her visit.

Now, she remembered uneasily that he was also the next in line to assume the title of Lord Crowley. Unless May had a boy.

“Miss Barnard, you’re very pale,” the dowager said. “Are you sure you didn’t sense something? My boy?”

She glanced back. “No. And I’m sorry.” She rubbed her forehead. Every muscle in her body ached. She wished desperately it was all over, and she could leave the stifling atmosphere of Rosecrest. “I’m very tired, Lady Crowley.”

“We’re all exhausted. Perhaps this was a dreadful mistake, but I was so hoping for one last word.”

“He loved you, Lady Crowley. I’m sure of it. I feel it’s true.”

“And you’re very kind to a helpless old fool of a woman.”

Pru smiled and patted her hand before glancing around again. The Jekylls were gone, as were Mr. Denham and Miss Spencer. Mr. Gaunt stood nearby, silently watching them. Pru rose and helped the older lady to her feet, anxious to leave the dreary room and escape Mr. Gaunt’s inquisitive stare. Finally, one of the footmen entered with a lamp. He placed it on the table before he turned to leave.

“Wait!” Mr. Gaunt commanded. “The dowager needs assistance to her room.”

“I’ll help her,” Pru replied.

“No, I'd like to ask you a question. Please remain.” He nodded sharply in the direction of the footman.

“Yes, sir.” The footman offered his arm to the dowager. He picked up the lamp again on their way out of the room.

Pru watched the pair leave, her eyes following the lamp as it started to rise like a ghostly lantern as they climbed the stairs.

“Dirt?” Mr. Gaunt asked.

Pru sighed. “Can't we at least request more light?”

He picked up the taper from the center of the table and proceeded to move around the room in a clockwise direction, methodically lighting the lamps. When he returned to Pru, she glanced at him and then leaned slightly against the back of her chair, aching with exhaustion.

His face was unreadable, even with all the light.

“Must we discuss whatever bothers you, now? Can’t it wait until tomorrow morning?”

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m quite well, thank you.” She started to raise her hand to rub her forehead again when she caught his eyes on her. She changed the gesture by clasping her hands at her waist, wary of him.

“Then what happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

His dark brows rose. “You fainted.”

“I didn’t faint.”

“Your head nodded, your eyes closed. You didn’t respond when I spoke to you.”

“I was—I simply drifted off for a moment. I was…tired. And I was staring at that flame.”

“You didn’t hear me call your name?”

“No. But I wasn’t paying attention,” she replied, irritated by the thought that he sounded almost sympathetic. She couldn’t forget he was trying to trap her. She’d be a fool to believe he felt anything other than contempt.

A fleeting, lop-sided grin tugged at his mouth. “So, you were staring at the candle. That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, and you saw
dirt
.”

“That’s not entirely true. I saw plowed fields.
Soil
.”

“You saw
plowed fields
?”

“Yes.” This time, she did rub her forehead. A slow ache slipped under her scalp. Even the roots of her hair tingled as the pain intensified, but all she could think about was her brief loss of sanity. “Surely you heard me tell the dowager I didn’t
see
anything. I was tired. My mind wandered as I stared at the candle. That’s all.”

“You’re mind wandered to
farming
? Don’t you find that odd?”