The Vital Principle (5 page)

After acknowledging the other guests with a nod, she took up a position a few yards away from the table where the coroner and Dr. Winters were busy with the body. She waited patiently to be introduced to the two new gentlemen, with her eyes fixed on spot just beyond Knighton's shoulder.

Repressing a smile at her attempt to put him in his place, he stepped to her side. “Miss Barnard, may I introduce you to Dr. Winters, the coroner, Mr. Slydel, and Mr. Gretton, the local constable?”

She nodded. “Mr. Gaunt felt you might wish to speak with me?”

Mr. Gretton glanced briefly at Knighton and pulled his occurrence book out of his pocket. After a brief nod, the coroner returned his attention to the body, paying little heed to any of them.

Dr. Winters lifted the piece of linen draped over Crowley’s face and clucked his tongue. “Poison?”

“Or his heart?” The coroner, Mr. Slydel, asked. His brows and voice rose with his obvious desire to attribute Lord Crowley's death to nothing more troublesome than a tragic act of God.

“Prussic acid.” Knighton watched the expression on Mr. Slydel's narrow face slide from hope to dismay. He pushed Lord Crowley’s brandy snifter forward on the table.

Dr. Winters lifted it and swirled the liquid in front of a candle before sniffing. “Unfortunately, I agree. The unnatural luster in his eyes and the murrey-purple hue of his face hint at that particular poison. Did anyone notice the scent of bitter almonds? Unfortunately, I can’t sense it, myself.”

“Yes. I did. And Mr. Denham,” Knighton replied.

“I see.” Winters’ deep blue eyes flickered to Miss Barnard.

“Did anyone witness the poisoning?” Mr. Gretton asked.

All the men, including Dr. Winters, Slydel, and Gretton, turned slightly in Miss Barnard’s direction.

A swift feeling of regret filled Knighton. Miss Barnard stood alone, staring back at them, face wan in the candlelight. Then, her chin rose slightly. Only her hands, clasped at her waist, betrayed her white-knuckled tension.

Bad excuses are worse than none
. —Thomas Fuller, 1608-1661

A flush seared Pru’s cheeks. Would they even wait for her to speak before they condemned her? She was a stranger here, a fraud. It was obviously why Mr. Gaunt wanted her to return. They hoped to extract a quick confession so they could all go comfortably to bed.

While she hesitated, the maid, May, entered the room. The woman slid along the wall and stopped in the corner furthest from the body, her gaze desperately focused on the carpet as if terrified of what lay beside the table. On impulse, Pru moved a step closer to her and away from the men who stared at her with increasingly hard eyes.

“It's obvious. No one noticed because the agent responsible for poisoning the brandy was beyond our ability to observe. A spectral agent,” Mr. Denham said, breaking the silence. “A vengeful spirit poisoned Lord Crowley. And Miss Spencer felt it when the candle was extinguished. She was seated next to him. Did you also sense a malignant presence, Miss Barnard?”

The only malignant spirits she felt at Rosecrest were those confronting her now.

Managing a small smile, Pru swallowed. She took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I didn’t notice anything.” Her voice wavered. She paused, struggling to maintain her composure. The air was thick and difficult to breathe in the stuffy room. She felt as if the hangman’s noose were already wrapped around her throat, strangling her. “There was a great deal of confusion. I was occupied wiping my skirts—I'm afraid I didn’t notice anything else.”

“Confusion?” Mr. Gretton asked.

“The maid tripped. She spilled a bottle of wine on Miss Barnard and Lady Crowley,” Mr. Denham said. “All of our attention was naturally focused on Miss Barnard. Anything could have occurred during that time.”

“A diversion?” the coroner asked.

“Perhaps.” Mr. Gaunt studied Pru’s face with an assessing gaze.

“No, no,” Mr. Denham interrupted. “An accident, nothing more. No one could have foreseen the maid tripping. No one.”

“And Miss Howard stepped on a shard of glass,” Mr. Jekyll reminded them. “So there was additional confusion at that point.”

“So, there was a great deal of milling about during the time when Lord Crowley unaccountable-like found himself poisoned? Be they the facts as you knows 'em?” Mr. Gretton cast a stern eye in Mr. Denham’s direction, but the young man remained silent. “Vengeful spirits not withstanding. As the saying is.”

“That’s tolerably accurate,” Pru replied coolly.

With a nod, Mr. Gaunt turned toward the maid. “What is your name?”

“May Allen, sir.”

“May, how is it you tripped?”

“Why, I’m sure I can't tell the fancy of it,” May stammered. “I stumbled over a bumbly patch of carpet. That's the truth of it, sir.”

“The carpet is smooth,” Mr. Gaunt said.

The maid paled. Her hands twisted the edges of her apron as her eyes sought those of the only other female in the room.

Pru gave her a reassuring smile. “Or smoothed as we mopped up the wine. There may have been a wrinkle or bump
at the time
.”

“Aye.” The maid glanced at Mr. Gaunt and repeated in a shaky voice, “I can't tell the fancy of it, sir. I'm right boffled as to how I chanced to step wrongly.”

“You didn’t feel anything when you tripped?”

“Anything?” Her voice rose. “Whatever does you mean—
anything
?”

“Was there something that made you stumble?”

“The carpet, sir.” She blinked with confusion.

Pru nodded. “People do trip. And you were carrying a heavy tray.”

Clearly unappeased by the excuse, Mr. Gaunt caught Pru’s glance with his black gaze. He frowned and stared as if his disapproving look could force an admission. Back stiff, she refused to look away. She kept her hands clasped at her waist and waited, although she felt the sting of an uncontrollable blush rise over her cheeks.

When no hysterical admission was forthcoming, he transferred his gaze back to the maid.

Her fluttering hands repeatedly smoothed her skirts. “I were never swimmy-headed, sir. Never. Nor so boffled, neither, as I am at this very minute. There's no knowing why I tripped. And I’m that sorry, Miss Barnard, but there's the truth of it.”

“That’s quite all right, May,” Pru said. “I believe you.”

However, she noticed Mr. Hereford stared at May with obvious distaste. Perhaps he was affronted that a maid would allow herself to be in a situation where she had to conduct a conversation with his guests and the village constable. Pru hoped Mr. Hereford wouldn’t decide to send the girl away without a reference to vent his aggravation. Sadly, Pru had seen such things happen and felt a sympathetic tug at her heart.

With a deep, inner chill, a horrific realization struck her. If she hadn't poisoned Lord Crowley, someone else had. And Mr. Hereford would inherit everything. Although he didn’t seem the sort to murder for a title or an estate, it was possible. Certainly, someone had killed Lord Crowley for some reason.

Was it a matter of money?

“You may go, May.” Mr. Hereford gave an impatient wave of his hand. Brows bunched tightly above his deep-set eyes, his gaze followed her until she escaped the room and shut the door.

“It be unaccountably convenient the maid tripped as she did,” Mr. Gretton continued in a low voice. “Leastways for the one as administered the poison.” He shot a glance under his beetling brows at Pru while he chewed the end of his pencil.

“Do you believe Lord Crowley was poisoned when May tripped?” Pru asked.

“When else?” Mr. Hereford replied. “What other opportunity was there?”

She shrugged and stared at the gleaming surface of the table, feeling trapped. “Why do you think it was placed in his brandy? Why not during the meal? Or at some other point in the evening? Surely it couldn’t have escaped your notice that we had aperitifs before supper. In fact, I handed Lord Crowley his glass. I even refilled it.” She sighed elaborately. “Two missed opportunities.”

“It were in the brandy. His glass smells of bitter almonds,” Mr. Gretton replied.

“Is that characteristic of this Prussic acid you mentioned?” she asked, aiming the question at Mr. Gaunt.

“Yes.”

“What form does this poison take? Couldn’t it have been in his glass when he poured the brandy?” she asked.

Mr. Gaunt shook his head and eyed Mr. Gretton. “Unlikely. How could she be sure which glass he would take?”

“She?” Pru repeated.

“Poison be a woman’s weapon. I doubt there's any could argue the fact.” Mr. Gretton stared hard at her.

“There are no male poisoners? How remarkable. One wonders if the one hundred and fifty poor souls in Rome would agree after Exili gave them his most
careful
attentions
in the seventeenth century.”

The coroner, Dr. Winters, grunted. “You see where educating women leads?”

Mouth twisting cynically, Mr. Gaunt murmured in a soft tone obviously not meant to be heard, “Clearly, a woman should not be able to defend herself. We must at all costs preserve our right to do it for her.”

Surprised, Pru caught his gaze. He flicked a half-smile at her, shrugged, and grew very interested in the carpeting at his feet.

Oblivious to Mr. Gaunt’s remark, the doctor continued, “There may have been a few men who have used poison. However, it remains largely the province of females to do away with others through such cowardly means.” He rubbed his hands. “I believe I’m done here, Mr. Gretton. I’ll leave you to finish the questioning and make the apprehension. If possible.”

While Dr. Winters and the constable exchanged a few words, Pru watched Mr. Gaunt. His remark puzzled her with its overtones of sympathy. She hadn’t expected anyone, other than Mr. Denham perhaps, to defend her.

As if aware of her scrutiny, Mr. Gaunt edged closer. He spoke in low tones no one else could hear. “You’re very composed, Miss Barnard.”

“For a murderess? Would tears avail me? Or convince anyone of my innocence?”

“They might. A woman’s tears are often most efficacious.”

“Except when the decision has already been made. A trial seems almost superfluous, doesn’t it?” Her voice was low and biting with anger. A deep feeling of ill-use made it difficult for her to remain calm.

“No one has accused you,” Mr. Gaunt replied. “And if you had a hand in this, you’ll get a fair hearing.”

“Then you
do
think I murdered Lord Crowley? What possible motive could I have had?”

“For one thing, you didn’t seem pleased when he requested my attendance tonight.”

“I didn’t arrange this entertainment, the dowager did. And it appears to me, the mystery should be
why
I murdered Lord Crowley instead of simply doing away with
you.
If you believe I was so upset by your presence.” Frustration and fear compressed her stomach into a cold lump.

“You knew why he asked me here,” he stated flatly.

“Really? Why? Pray enlighten me. I’m all agog to hear.”

“To prove you’re a fraud taking advantage of an elderly widow.”

“Taking advantage? By reassuring the poor dear that whatever silly misdemeanor she believes she committed before her husband died is unimportant? How is that taking advantage of her?”

“You’re better qualified to answer that particular question than I. But I’m sure it’s profitable.”

“Profitable?” She laughed bitterly. When the other men glanced at her, she put her hand over her mouth and turned her inappropriate laughter into a cough. “If you call a frusty little room and a few meals
profitable
. I’m a guest here, nothing more.” Then she added with a coldly sweet smile, “Guests aren’t paid. Or weren’t you aware of that?”

“So kindness was your only motivation?” His black eyes bored into hers. “How can we trust what you say when you conduct these ridiculous entertainments and pretend to speak to the dead?”

She arched a mocking eyebrow. “What makes you think I can’t?”

“Come now. You can’t expect me to believe you’re capable of communicating with the spirit world. Or that you even believe such a thing is possible.”

“I believe there are many things we don’t understand. I refuse to close my mind to the possibility simply because it’s difficult to prove,” she temporized, knowing only too well the dangers of trying to argue about spirit communications.

If there wasn’t a spirit world, then she’d be forced to acknowledge that she was a complete fraud. And even though she hadn't, yet, reached that unseen world and had used a number of tricks to suggest that she had, she always
hoped
that one day some apparition might answer her call. There was always the possibility.

Mr. Gaunt smiled and his expression grew even more sardonic. “Then let’s be more specific and examine what we can prove. Did you speak to the dowager’s previous husband?”

“Perhaps not this evening. However, I’m sure the words I wrote were what he would have relayed, if he could have done so.”

“So you lied—”

“No, I merely—”

“It was not the truth!” His lips thinned and anger ignited a slow burning fire in his eyes. “Her husband did not speak through you. Admit it.”

She tilted her head to one side, examining him. “Do you believe her husband did not love her?”

“I have no idea. That’s not the point.”

“Then you don’t
know
if it was the truth or not.” She offered, instinctively knowing the men would tear her apart like a pack of hungry dogs if she reacted emotionally. Her mind raced ahead, abnormally clear, encased in the fragile ice of logic that could shatter at any moment and leave her raging at their accusations. “And it eased the dowager’s mind. So I fail to see I did anything wrong.”

Mr. Gaunt said, “You mislead—”

“No. I told a desperately lonely woman what she needed to hear. That’s the sum of it. There are many truths. You have yours. I have mine.”

“There is only
one
truth.”

“Nonsense.” She folded her hands at her waist and turned partially away, unable to bear the intense scrutiny of his hard eyes. Her fingers felt stiff and icy with fear. “I refuse to discuss this any further. It’s futile. You’ll believe what you wish. If you chose not to trust me, then so be it. But regardless of what you think, I did not kill Lord Crowley.”

“Miss Barnard,” Mr. Gretton interrupted. “You'll be a-wanting the maid to fetch your cloak. And your abigail to follow with your belongings.”

“My belongings?” A fraction of her composure slipped, cracking under the pressure of rising panic. She rubbed her arms, feeling cold and isolated. “Am I to go with you
now
? Tonight?”

“Well, Miss Barnard, you've motive and opportunity,” Mr. Gretton replied.

“But surely—” She stared at Mr. Gaunt.

I’m innocent!

A thousand protests whirled through her mind like straw in a storm. They were going to arrest her and hang her for the murder of Lord Crowley. And like a ninny, she’d argued with the Mr. Gaunt instead of speaking to Mr. Gretton to exonerate herself.