To Wed an Heiress (13 page)

T
he family waited for the Bow Street Runner to make an appearance all the next morning, like children with their noses pressed against the window in hopes of seeing a hobgoblin.

“I don’t see why we need a Runner to tell us what happened,” said Torin, trying to disguise his impatience with an air of false knowledge. “It’s plain to see that it was Monsieur Bayeux. Did you never think how queer it was, him showing up all of a sudden? And then the Hastings being so secretive about their acquaintance with him? Mark my words! There is some dark past there that needs to be brought to light.”

“He certainly did have a tendre for Arabella,” said Eda, “but why should that make him want to kill her? Haro, as you recall, was quite enamored with her as well.”

“Thank you for reminding me of that,” said Haro, who was standing not a shoulder’s width away. It seemed strange now—the thought that Arabella’s touch only two days ago had the ability to thrill him. His fair face flushed a light shade of pink. That was certainly not the case any longer. He had already fallen out of her spell before she had fallen off of the bridge. There was only one lady now who the Earl of Anglesford had a tendre for, and here she was shooting her barbs at him in a demure black dress from just a few feet away.

“I’m sure the Runner will consider that too,” said Torin morosely. “But if the evidence must lead in one direction, I’d rather it led to Bayeux than to Haro. Wouldn’t you?”

Haro snorted in exasperation. “Don’t talk about me as if I’m not standing right here!” Eda and Torin did not even dignify his objection with a response.

“But maybe Haro and Bayeux
aren’t
the only ones the Runner will consider.” Eda traced her finger along the glass of the drawing room window. “They certainly weren’t the only ones who Arabella got her claws into.”

“Well, he won’t think it was me. I was with mother all morning. I have an incontrovertible alibi. And”—Torin cleared his throat—“I didn’t go around slapping her in the face like certain other people did.”

“Stop!” Haro’s voice filled the room. It was bad enough to hear them dissecting the probability of
him
committing murder—he did not even want to venture into the possibility of Eda being accused. The purple finger marks on Arabella’s neck…a woman, even a strong one, could never have done that, could she?

The cravat around his own neck felt far too tight, and he lifted a hand to loosen it.

“I’m certain it was some itinerant blackguard,” said Haro, “perhaps a prisoner escaped from Newgate. The investigator will find out as much and be on his way.”

Haro’s brother and his cousin stared at him dubiously.

A knock came on the drawing room door, and the entering footman announced a visitor.

He was as slender as a stick with red hair on his head, even brighter red hair in his sideburns, and a colony of freckles on his face. His dark clothing, though not expensively cut, was impeccably neat with barely a trace of mud from the road.

“Jacob Pevensey, at your service. Attached to the London magistrates’ office, and here at Mr. William Hastings’ request.”

The two brothers and their cousin gaped. “But…we’ve been watching out this window all morning,” exclaimed Torin, “and we never saw you ride up!”

Jacob Pevensey smiled in a manner that could only be described as mysterious. “I availed myself of the servants’ entrance on the side of the house.”

“Ah,” said Haro, not sure what else to say. The Runner must have skirted the main drive and ridden through the trees. But why? Simply to surprise them? “Have you been apprised of all the facts of the case?”

“Only what was in the letter I received. However, I did stop at the home of the local magistrate on my way here and learned a little more.”

“Sir Robert Blount?”

“Yes—just to clarify jurisdiction, you understand.”

William Hastings had been right—this man was skilled at his profession. It had not even occurred to Haro to send a servant round to Sir Robert to apprise him of the situation, but Pevensey—a stranger from London—had taken the correct step before even arriving at the house.

“Sir Robert is content to have me act as his deputy in this matter. He is…incapacitated at the moment and unable to pursue an inquiry in person.”

“Ah,” said Haro again.

“What is that supposed to mean?” asked Torin.

“His gout, you gudgeon,” said Eda. “It’s taken a turn for the worse.”

“Yes,” said Pevensey, flashing a debonair smile at Eda.

Haro could see that he was examining her intently, not in a lecherous way, but with the practiced eye of a student of human nature. He could also see that Eda did not like it—she was going to be recalcitrant during this investigation, he could already tell.

“I was fortunate enough to encounter Dr. Stigand there tending to Sir Robert’s leg and he familiarized me with the medical details of the case.”

“Well, then, it seems you are already filled to the brim with facts,” said Torin. “I doubt you’ll even need to interview us at all!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” replied Pevensey. His quick eyes darted from person to person—probing, considering, evaluating. “But perhaps I shall save your interviews for later, once I’ve established a timetable from the domestic staff.”

“If you need any assistance, please let me know,” said Haro, forcing himself to play the polite host. He planted his feet firmly on the floor and clasped his hands behind his back, trying to ward off the anxiety assailing him. He had nothing to do with the events at the pond! Why then did the appearance of the investigator affect him so? Was he afraid for himself, or for someone else?

“Thank you, my lord. I will let you know if anything is needed.” Pevensey’s close-cropped red head inclined briefly, but his eyes did not leave Haro’s. “And now where is Mr. Hastings? He’ll be wanting to see me first thing, and I know better than to keep
that
man waiting.”

***

“So that’s a Bow Street Runner!” said Torin, a little let down by the man’s appearance. Although he had never taken the time to thoroughly imagine what a Runner would look like, he had some vague notion of a beefy, imposing man with a loud, barking voice and a brace of pistols prominently displayed.

“He looks…clever,” said Eda. She also seemed a little let down by this assessment.

“Well, let’s hope he’s clever enough to find out what really happened,” replied Haro, taking determined strides over to the fireplace as he tried to quell his own subconscious insistence on pacing the room.

“I’ll warn Mama he’s here,” said Torin, exiting the room posthaste and leaving Haro and Eda alone together.

Haro leaned up against the mantelpiece. “Eda?”

“Yes?” She sat down carelessly in a nearby armchair, her satin slippers—and well-turned ankles—peeking out from beneath her black scalloped skirt. She had resumed wearing black since Arabella’s death; he would have thought less of her if she had not.

Haro realized he had been holding his breath and took in a much needed gulp of air. “Yesterday morning after you breakfasted…where were you? Who were you with?”

Eda’s eyelids dropped slightly, building a roof of inscrutability over her dark blue eyes. “Here and there about the house.”

“I remember Mama saying you went to look for Uncle Harold. Were you with him?”

She pursed her lips. “No.”

“In the kitchen then, speaking to Cook?” He was grasping at straws now.

“No, alone. In no specific place. With no one to vouch for me.”

Her perversity in answering his questions would have filled Haro with annoyance if the answers had not already filled him with concern. “Eda, you must have some sort of alibi—”

“Why? Because I slapped her face and—as Torin says—I’m sure to be suspected?”

“Exactly.” Haro was too disquieted to be subtle.

She blinked her eyes at him. “I didn’t think you’d mind that much since it will take some of the suspicion off of
you
.”

Haro ground his teeth in frustration. How could he explain that he would rather swing by the neck until dead than have anyone accuse Eda Swanycke of murder? Why must she be so difficult?

Probably because he had jilted her.

Well, then, he would have to earn back her trust—something easier said than done. He took the fireplace poker and began thrusting it into the center of the half-burned logs in the fire. “I certainly
would
mind if the law apprehended the wrong person, whether that be me
or
you, since both of us are innocent.”

“Kind of you to say so,” said Eda, turning her beautiful white neck toward the window so that Haro could only see her profile.

Haro put down the fireplace poker.
Kind?
He wanted to be more than
kind
.

“Eda, I—”

She rose to her feet quickly. Something in his tone must have frightened her—either that, or repulsed her. “I need to look for Uncle Harold. Someone ought to warn him there’s a man here who’ll be asking him questions. It might upset him otherwise.”

“Yes, well, very well,” said Haro, no longer sure what he had been about to say. The moment had disappeared and his cousin along with it, and the young earl was left alone in the drawing room, wondering how long before this Jacob Pevensey would return to interrogate him.

***

Eda hurried on the staircase, her small feet running up the steps like fingers over a pianoforte. Once she was certain that Haro had remained in the drawing room, her pace slowed a little, allowing her shaken thoughts time to settle.

That moment at the fireplace—what had he been meaning to say? An apology? An explanation? A declaration?

Whatever it was, she did not want to hear it. Not now. Not with
this
hanging over them.

Not that she had any doubts about Haro. She was certain he was innocent.

Or perhaps
certain
was too strong a word, since her certainty was somewhere in between a hope and an inalterable belief.

He had seemed concerned for her—but why? Did he really think that she had had anything to do with Arabella’s demise? A worrying tendril of suspicion wound itself around her long white neck—suspicion about what the earl might suspect. Did he really doubt her integrity thus? Did he think her jealous, vengeful, and violent enough to strangle her rival and topple her into the ice?

She could see the accusation forming on his very lips as he stood there leaning against the fireplace mantel. Eda’s heart began to flame with a burst of anger, but by a triumph of the will, she managed to let her cooler head take command.

No, he had seemed concerned for her, and that concern was doubtless rooted in a certainty of her innocence—or if not certainty, then the same thing she felt about him, something in between a hope and an inalterable belief. She would probe the matter no further…at least, for right now.

While her thoughts were running riot, she had climbed the three flights of steps to the uppermost story of the house. She had not lied. She
was
going up to see Uncle Harold—but she had more to say to their great-uncle than a simple warning that the Bow Street Runner was on the premises.

“Come in, come in, child,” said the old man, answering the door quite promptly when he heard her knock.

The garret room was lit by half a shilling’s worth of candles, their soft lights glinting off the gilt frames, bright pictures, pinned medals, and mounted weaponry that covered every inch of the walls. Coming into this room, Eda always felt a little bit like Ali Baba entering the cave of the forty thieves—there was treasure everywhere, each piece with a story behind it.

Without being invited, Eda took a seat on the great green-cushioned chair that sat beside the fireplace. Uncle Harold, who had been preparing to toast some bread and cheese over the fireplace, resumed his task with the utmost concentration. He usually took his meals in his room, at whatever hour he wished and of whatever food he wanted.

Eda watched while he brought the toast to the perfect state of brownness and happily accepted her share of the collation, using her handkerchief to hold the crisp bread and keep from burning her fingers.

“A tastier cheese than yesterday!” said Uncle Harold, taking great delight in the melted morsel atop his bread. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Much nicer,” said Eda, wiping a few crumbs from her lips. “And, about yesterday, Uncle Harold….” Thankfully, someone had already thought to inform Uncle Harold of the sad event at the bridge, and the only new piece of information Eda brought was the appearance of Mr. Hastings’ bloodhound.

Uncle Harold tutted a little at the news. “Well, if he wants to know my whereabouts—though I shouldn’t think it would matter—it’s easy enough to tell him that I was—”

“Yes,” interrupted Eda, “I know what you ought to tell him. But, I was thinking, perhaps it might be better to keep that between ourselves. Perhaps, if you were to say that you were feeding your birds?”

Uncle Harold looked at Eda in surprise. “You’re a deep one, my girl, and I’m certain you must have some reason?”

Eda shrugged and wiped off a pile of crumbs that had fallen onto her black skirt. “Well…Haro was all alone in the woods. And since that’s the case, the less alibis, the better, don’t you think?”

Their eyes met, and Uncle Harold’s wrinkled face broke into a smile. “Aha!” He touched his finger to his nose in a knowing way. “You’re thinking that we should all hold our hand of cards a little closer to the chest, so to speak, while he tries to find which one of us was dealt the knave?”

“Well, yes, in fact. Although I hope that the knave is none of us here at Woldwick—or, at least, none of us that we care about.”

“A fine hope, my girl! And on that note, another piece of toast, I think.” Uncle Harold buttered a piece of bread and placed it on the toasting fork.

J
acob Pevensey began to draw, with large, swooping lines, in the small notebook he always carried. He was rather enjoying this afternoon’s interviews. It was amusing to hear the staff whispering behind his back about the “Bow Street Runner” and then hushing to a scared silence as soon as he turned around, afraid that he had heard them use that offensive term.

Upon his arrival, he had gone through the side door into the kitchen like any traveling tradesman and introduced himself to Mrs. Alfred, the housekeeper. In most houses, the butler would be the person to apply to, but it had not taken more than a moment to ascertain that in this household the housekeeper ruled the roost. Before he had even met the earl, he had learned the names and relationships of all the inmates of the house and of most of the servants too.

A footman had taken him up to the drawing room where he had made the acquaintance of the family, or at least of most of them. The earl had been younger than he had expected—and more polite too. In Pevensey’s experience, the only thing more distressing to the nobility than a murder in the house was an investigation to look into who had committed it. But Lord Anglesford seemed willing to have him on the premises. Such cooperation could only mean one of two things—he was innocent…or he was guilty.

The younger brother had been less welcoming. He had neither the physique of a sportsman nor the style of a dandy. He seemed a bookish fellow, still a boy but on the verge of becoming a man. He looked quite capable of strangling a gnat in conversation, but not quite so capable of strangling an attractive female.

And then there was the girl—nay, the woman—with the dark blue eyes. A cousin and longstanding member of the family, according to the servants, a beauty through and through, with Irish blood in her if he was not mistaken. Though she’d been standing quite close to the younger brother, Pevensey sensed an even greater closeness between her and the older brother, the earl. Perhaps it was the way they’d exchanged a look when he’d entered…or the way they’d subsequently avoided each other’s eyes while he was in the room. He wondered if there was a past—or current—interest between the two.

Whatever the case, that woman was too beautiful by far to be in the same house party as a man’s fiancée. Especially if that fiancée were Arabella Hastings. Pevensey snorted down a laugh. He had had occasion to meet Miss Hastings during the course of his business dealings with her father. If anyone had painted him a picture of Woldwick’s inmates a week ago, he would have
predicted
murder…although, somehow, he would have supposed Miss Hastings to be on the other side of the equation.

Upon leaving the earl’s presence, Pevensey’s visit with William Hastings had gone much as expected. “Pevensey!” the mill owner had bellowed, pulling him into the private sitting room attached to his chamber. “Thank God you’ve come!”

“It’s all very sad, sir.” Pevensey had fingered his hat brim, fully familiar with the necessary posture when talking to the bereaved. “I can only offer my sincere condolences.”

“Yes, yes, thank you—but the important thing is to see him hang!”

Pevensey raised an eyebrow. “Who?” Apparently, Mr. Hastings had already solved the case without him.

“Anglesford, of course. He’s the one who did it. Went out to jilt my daughter and ended up throttling her instead.”

“Ah!” Pevensey pulled out his notebook and a pencil. “And you know this because?”

“Because he came and told me first.”

“That he meant to strangle her?”

“No, you dolt, that he meant to jilt her.”

“I see.” Pevensey put away his notebook. “Why was your daughter outside by the pond? Was she meeting someone out there?”

“Meeting someone? What a ridiculous suggestion! Who would she know to meet with around here? No, she must have been taking a walk, and Anglesford came upon her and attacked her.” The mill owner buried his face in his hands, but there was more rage than sorrow in the tight set of his knuckles.

“Never worry, sir,” said Pevensey, patting the portly man’s shoulder with trained sympathy. “If he’s the one, he’ll be brought to justice. You have my word on it.”

***

After his interview with Mr. Hastings, Jacob Pevensey had gone back to the servants’ hall and asked Mrs. Alfred to assemble the servants. Now here he was, notebook and pencil in hand, poised to begin his interrogation.

As everyone from the butler down to the scullery maid assembled, a large woman with strings of hair escaping in every direction from her cap bustled toward him. It did not take more than a cursory glance at her sauce-stained apron for Pevensey to surmise that she worked in the kitchen. And, if her lack of timidity was any clue, she was most probably the empress of that domain.

“Oh, lud, sir!” the cook said, latching onto his sleeve. Her face was as red as the fire she slaved over, and Pevensey caught a strong whiff of garlic and scallions on her breath. “I’m so glad you’ve come. How can anyone do their work, says I, with a murderer on the loose? Dinner at five, they want. And a full breakfast in the morning. And Miss Swanycke, she says she’ll come down here and strangle me herself if I don’t send up the tea!”

“You poor soul,” said Pevensey, trying to disengage himself as best he could. He refrained from asking whether Miss Swanycke was particularly prone to threatening strangulation—although, under the circumstances it seemed a pertinent question. “Tell me, what did you send up for breakfast yesterday, the day of the murder?”

The cook rattled off a list of bread, rolls, jam, marmalade, eggs, ham, bacon, sausages, tea, coffee, ale, and chocolate.

“Hmm, yes.” Pevensey’s pencil swooped across the paper. This cook really did deserve a portrait of her own. He penciled in the greasy tendrils of her hair coming out from her cap before beginning to sketch her ample figure. “And did they eat it up, the same as usual?”

“No, come to think of it, they did not! The platters came back almost full again. Although Master Torin did his bit to clear the sausages, I could tell—them’s being his favorite.”

“Aha!” The scritch-scratching continued, and Pevensey only paused it long enough to give the cook a sly wink. “Thank you, ma’am—you’ve been most helpful.”

“Oh, lud, sir!” said the cook with a giggle that was becoming to neither her size nor her age.

Pevensey scratched his right sideburn with the blunt end of the pencil and squinted—an observer might suspect that he was trying to make out what he himself had just written. In reality, he was noting that he had not quite captured the cook’s ears properly. He pursed his lips and snapped the book shut as Mrs. Alfred approached. “They’re all here now,” said the housekeeper.

“Very good,” replied Pevensey. He cleared his throat to address the multitude. “Good morning. I daresay you all know I’m here on unpleasant business.” He began to pace in front of the line of curious faces, looking intently into each set of eyes as he passed by.

“So, then, is this everyone in the house here save the family and their guests?”

“Yes—well, that is, no,” said Mrs. Alfred. She looked around the room thoughtfully. “There’s Garth, his lordship’s valet, and Otto, Mr. Hastings’ valet, and Miss Hastings’ lady’s maid…what was her name?”

“Mademoiselle Mathilde,” said the first footman, his cheeks coloring slightly as he supplied the requisite information.

“Hmm, yes, Mademoiselle Mathilde,” repeated Mrs. Alfred, with a dour expression that said she was not one to judge, but that in this case, she might have to make an exception.

She continued listing off the absentees for Pevensey’s benefit. “Her ladyship has a maid as well—and I do not know if you would count Mrs. Rollo as a guest or…otherwise. She is—or was—a paid companion to Miss Hastings.”

Jacob Pevensey cocked his head. Apparently,
Mrs. Alfred
did not consider Mrs. Rollo on the same level as a guest, and one might easily speculate that this was informed by the companion’s treatment at the hands of the family who employed her.

“Whom would you like to see first, sir?”

“Mademoiselle Mathilde, if you please.” It was a selfish choice since all the others had been summoned here from their duties solely for the purpose of being questioned. But it was also the sensible choice. If anyone could give Pevensey more insight into the character of the murdered woman, it would be her lady’s maid. And if he were to ask the right questions of everyone else, he would need that insight first.

“I’ll interview the rest of you all in good time,” Pevensey said with a smile that caused the housemaids to blush and rethink any previous aversions to red-haired men. “If you would be so good, Mrs. Alfred….”

“Of course,” said the housekeeper, a little put out that her assembly of the servants had all been for naught. But it did not take much more than a quick compliment of her efficiency for Pevensey to win her over. “Well then,” she said, smoothing down the dark fabric of her skirt, “Henry can direct you to the upstairs parlor, and I will send Mademoiselle Mathilde word to meet you there.”

Pevensey fell in behind the dark-haired first footman and ascended the back stairs with a wrinkle in his forehead. It was obvious that the lady’s maid was French. And Frenchwomen, he had often found, were not as easily charmed as English housemaids.

***

Henry delivered Pevensey to the upstairs parlor without mishap, but he seemed reluctant to leave even though his mission had been accomplished. Pevensey knew better than to ascribe this lingering to his own presence. He had seen the blush the first footman gave when Miss Hastings’ maid was mentioned.

Mademoiselle Mathilde was not there yet. Pevensey had not expected her to be. Even if Mrs. Alfred’s message had already reached her, she would doubtless keep him waiting, as was the wont of lady’s maids and Frenchwomen.

“Mademoiselle Mathilde’s a tempting armful, eh?” Pevensey asked the footman bluntly.

The footman gaped. “Oh’s, I couldn’t say, sir.”

“But I daresay she hasn’t looked in
your
direction?”

There was that blush again. Pevensey mused to himself that if he ended up needing to know Mademoiselle Mathilde’s whereabouts on the day of the murder, Henry might prove immensely helpful.

The door opened and in flounced a good-looking woman, with dark brown curls and a sprigged muslin dress far too fine for someone of her station. “Ah, Mademoiselle Mathilde,” said Pevensey. “A pleasure.”

“The pleasure, I think, is all yours.” She settled herself upon the sofa. The footman took the opportunity to glide out the open door.

“I have some questions to put to you about the morning of your mistress’ murder.”

“
Mon dieu!
Then ask them. I do not have all the time in the world to sit here and listen to you.”

Pevensey smiled inwardly. A lady’s maid without a lady to attend was clearly not as busy as this one claimed to be. After all, Miss Hastings’ corpse hardly needed to be dressed for dinner.

Pevensey looked at the gown the maid was wearing. It did not quite fit about the shoulders and had clearly been made for someone else. Perhaps that was why she had so little time to talk to him—she needed to finish going through her late mistress’ wardrobe and helping herself to articles of dress before Mr. Hastings overcame his grief enough to dismiss her from service.

“What time did Miss Hastings wake yesterday?”

The lady’s maid threw up her hands. “
Je ne sais pas.
I am not one of these English butlers with a pocket watch always in hand.”

“Surely, you must have some idea.”

The edges of Mademoiselle Mathilde’s nose curled in derision as she deliberately looked the other way. Pevensey pulled out his notebook, and his pencil began a rough sketch of Mademoiselle Mathilde’s upturned nose. The brown-haired abigail was not so attractive with that ugly sneer on her face, but in Pevensey’s opinion, she was far more interesting.

There. He had perfectly captured the lines of that little Gallic chin. He had succeeded in rendering his subject curious as well, wondering what he could possibly be writing about when she had offered him no information. It was impossible to continue her sneer forever, and when Mademoiselle Mathilde finally turned her head back to look at him, Pevensey gave her another opportunity.

“So, in consideration for the fact that you do not often consult a timepiece, would you say that Miss Hastings woke before sunrise or after sunrise?”

“After.”

Pevensey wrinkled his nose and finished drawing the curls on the left side of her forehead. Sunrise at this time of year would be around eight o’clock.

“And after she awoke, did Miss Hastings go downstairs for breakfast?”

Mademoiselle Mathilde shrugged.

“Did you dress her in garments suitable to go downstairs for breakfast?”

“I suppose so.”

That answer was far too vague. It was essential to know whether she had been wearing an indoor dress or an outdoor one. In other words, had she intended to walk out to the pond from the moment she awakened or did the idea come to her later?

“Let us be clear with each other, mademoiselle. What exactly did you dress her in? Was it the red pelisse that she was wearing when she was found dead in the pond?”

The maid hesitated. Could it be because she was about to tell him a lie? Or was it because, after all her prevarications, she was finally going to tell him the truth?

“Yes. In the red pelisse.”