Beyond the Grave (19 page)

"Yes," I said, peering closer. "What of it?"

"And the vine? Also, she's holding a dove."

"I didn't know it was a dove. So?"

"So, this woman is Aphrodite, a Greek goddess."

"I see. Well, it's a pretty piece, if not a practical one. I suppose Fitzroy thought I might like it. But it's much too expensive for me to accept."

And yet parting with it suddenly seemed unnecessary. I wouldn't want to offend him by returning it. I held my hand out and Seth handed the box to me with a frown.

"What do you know about Aphrodite?" he asked.

"Nothing except what you just told me. That she is depicted in artwork with dolphins and doves. You're very clever to have worked that out. I thought she was just a fine figure."

"You really don't know anything about classical symbolism, do you?"

I snorted. "Stringer and the others weren't very well versed in Greek mythology. Most of them couldn't even read."

"Put it on," Seth said before I could ask him what Aphrodite and her animals meant in Greek myth.

"Not sure that be wise," Cook said. "It be too good for kitchen work."

I hesitated only a moment then removed the chatelaine from its velvet bed. I pinned it to the waist of my skirt and let it hang loose against the dark gray fabric, where it looked even shinier.

Seth took the box from me. "When you get a chance, you ought to learn about the Greek gods and goddesses. They're very interesting."

"Not now," Cook cut in. "That dough won't mix itself."

Seth smirked. "I'll return the box to your room, if you like."

I thanked him and decided to investigate Lincoln's library for books on classical myths later.

U
nfortunately
, I had no opportunity for reading that night, as the men insisted I play cards with them. Lincoln didn't join us.

Early the following morning, we had two surprise visitors—Marguerite and her brother, Mr. Edgecombe. They refused to get out of the carriage, and it wasn't until I noticed the blanket over Edgecombe's lap that I remembered why. A man like him would find it an indignity to be carried where others could see.

"May Miss Holloway and I join you?" Lincoln asked instead.

Marguerite's gloved hand tightened on the window frame. Her mouth turned down. She did not look at me.

"Very well," Mr. Edgecombe said. Unlike his sister, he didn't know me as a maid, only as Lincoln's assistant. "Come sit by me, Miss Holloway. Unless my crippled state disgusts you."

"No, sir, it does not." I climbed into the spacious cabin. "But your manner sometimes does."

Marguerite gasped. "I beg your pardon! How dare you speak to my brother that way?"

But Edgecombe only chuckled. "She has reason to, Sister." He patted the seat beside him and I sat, careful that not even my skirts impinged on his space.

Lincoln settled opposite, his knees touching mine. "I didn't think you left the house, these days, Edgecombe."

Edgecombe turned a sour gaze onto Lincoln. "You try getting in and out of carriages, up and down stairs, without the use of your bloody legs."

"John, really, do you
have
to embarrass me like this?" Marguerite muttered.

Edgecombe's brows shot up his forehead. "Embarrass you? My
dear
sister, I came all this way to London, exposing myself to ridicule if any of my old chums see me, and you accuse
me
of embarrassing
you
? You don't even know what embarrassing is until you can't perform in the bedroom like you used to."

Marguerite's face flushed scarlet.

Edgecombe reached under the seat, opened the storage compartment and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He took a swig then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Sorry, Fitzroy, but there's only enough for one."

"You came here for a reason," Lincoln said flatly. "It must be important."

"Ah, yes. I got to thinking about Buchanan after you left Emberly the other day. I'm quite sure he's dead."

Marguerite spluttered a short sob. Lincoln handed her a handkerchief and she held it to her nose.

"He's not," I said.

Lincoln gave his head a slight shake. "We don't think so."

"Buck up, Sis." Edgecombe took another swig from the bottle. "She's upset, you see, because she's still in love with her brother-in-law."

"John! That is not true. This is an indignity and I cannot bear it. I will not."

He rolled his eyes. "It's obvious to a blind man."

Marguerite blinked wet eyes and sank into the corner.

"Why do you think he's dead?" Lincoln asked.

"Because where could he be if he isn't pushing up daisies? I had my man Dawkins ask in the village, after you departed, and no one there had seen him. When I arrived at Harcourt House last night, my sister confirmed that Donald admitted to fighting with his brother at Emberly. So we know he was there, but never made it back to the village."

"He might have gone to a different village for the night."

"But we know he never made it home to London! God, man, you're supposed to be some sort of inquiry agent, yet you're not looking at the evidence. The last person to see Buchanan alive was the man he fought. Donald."

Marguerite placed her hands over her ears and screwed her eyes shut. She was close to falling apart.

"My sister doesn't like to think that her husband killed the man she loves."

Marguerite began to hum, as if she were trying to drown out her brother's words. I eyed Lincoln and lifted one shoulder in a "what-shall-we-do" gesture. He simply gave his head another half-shake.

"Harcourt doesn't strike me as the sort of fellow who would kill his own brother," Lincoln said.

"Why not?" Edgecombe sneered. "He put his own wife in Bedlam."

Marguerite's humming grew louder, and she gently rocked back and forth. I laid my hand on her knee but she jerked violently, and I recoiled.

Edgecombe laughed, a bitter, brittle sound that grated on my nerves. "He had her admitted to the asylum a few months after the baby's birth. She was still very affected by Hector's death, and she wasn't showing signs of recovery." He nodded at the humming, rocking figure of his sister, opposite. "She was much like this, as it happens."

"Her own husband," I said quietly. Poor Marguerite.

"She hasn't been the same since." Edgecombe shook his shoulders, as if shaking off the memories. "So you see why I suspect him, don't you? A man capable of such a callous action toward his wife is surely capable of killing his brother out of jealousy."

"Jealousy?" Lincoln asked.

"Of course. Jealous that his wife loved his brother more. Jealous that Andrew could father a child, while he cannot."

"My lady," I said loudly, to penetrate Marguerite's fog. "Do
you
think your husband killed Mr. Buchanan?"

Her rocking became more furious. She slammed back into the seat so hard the entire cabin vibrated. She must have heard me but she didn't answer.

"She came along to speak to you without informing him," Edgecombe drawled. "And she wouldn't be behaving like that if she thought him innocent." He leaned forward and handed her the bottle. "Take this, Margie. It'll calm your nerves."

She shook her head.

"Perhaps a cup of tea," I said.

She screwed her hands into her skirts and nodded.

"My man Dawkins will help you." Edgecombe thumped the ceiling, and his sister jumped. "Dawkins! Assist Miss Holloway." To us he added, "He's not as good as my previous fellow, but he should be able to manage a few teacups."

I was about to protest when I decided it might be a good opportunity to speak to him. Sometimes servants knew more about the goings-on in a house than their masters.

Dawkins was a stocky fellow with a thick chest and arms that would come in useful when carrying Edgecombe up and down stairs. Despite a heavy brow which shadowed small eyes, he had a rather mischievous mouth that curved up in a smile as he introduced himself to me while we walked.

"Couldn't get out of there fast enough, eh?" he asked as we climbed the front steps.

"The meeting is not quite going as expected."

"Let me guess." He held the door open for me. "Edgecombe's calling his sister names and she's shrinking into the corner so's she can get as far away from him as possible. That's how it generally goes at Emberly. I don't expect it to be much different in London."

"That sounds like an unpleasant household."

"It ain't a picnic. Between the mad toffs and the arse licking butler, it's a wonder any of the servants stay."

"Why do you?"

"I only just started and the wages are good. Very good. Prob'ly because no one else'll do what I do." He laughed an easy laugh that lifted his ponderous features. "It ain't much of a lark taking care of Edgecombe."

We headed into the kitchen where only Cook greeted us. Seth and Gus were elsewhere, running errands for Lincoln. I introduced them then we set about preparing the tea.

"What do you know about Lord Harcourt's missing brother?" I asked Dawkins.

He shrugged. "Never met him. He went missing before I started with Edgecombe."

"Have you heard any rumors?"

"Only that he's missing, maybe dead, after he visited Emberly. I hear he's got an eye for the lassies. The maids are all crying into their aprons and her ladyship's fretting."

"What about Lord Harcourt? Does he seem worried to you?"

"Don't know. I only just met him afore he left for London."

"What about Mr. Edgecombe? How does he seem to you?"

"Bloody-minded, angry and drunk. He's a task master, that one. Always yelling at me to carry him here, push him there, fetch this, do that, and calling me names too. If he weren't paying this good, I'd leave him outside in the rain."

Cook handed me the teapot. "I'd be bad tempered too, if I couldn't use me legs."

"Ain't no excuse to be a curmudgeon, in my book. Only time I get peace is when he's asleep. Thank God and Dr. Turcott for the sleeping draft. Knocks him right out, as good as dead."

We returned to the carriage and handed out cups of tea. Mr. Edgecombe refused, holding up his bottle, until I snatched it off him.

"Tea is better for the body and soul," I told him.

"Bloody hell," he muttered. "You're worse than Harcourt and Yardly combined." Nevertheless, he took the cup and eyed his sister over the rim as he sipped.

Marguerite seemed more composed, although the remnants of her hysteria were still visible in the tear stains on her cheeks. In my absence, they had been discussing the possibility of Harcourt having killed his brother and burying the body somewhere on the estate. Edgecombe was suggesting possible spots. While Marguerite didn't meet anyone's gaze, she seemed resigned to the fact that her husband was the main suspect in her past lover's disappearance. Put like that, I wasn't surprised that she felt somewhat fragile.

"So, what happens now?" Edgecombe asked Lincoln. "Will you confront Harcourt today?"

"No," Lincoln said.

"What? Why not?"

"While your own suspicion is new, you haven't presented me with new evidence. You've told me nothing I haven't already considered. I can't accuse Lord Harcourt of murder, when it's quite possible that no crime has been committed and Buchanan will turn up alive."

"You're thicker than you look." Edgecombe snatched back the bottle and pointed it at Lincoln. "Very well, go in search of more evidence, but you'll forgive me if I insist my sister remains at Harcourt House rather than return to Emberly with her husband."

Marguerite stared down into her teacup. Her shoulders drooped, her mouth was slack, and her body slumped. She looked as though she'd given up altogether. It was hard for her. She may not love her husband, but she seemed to depend upon him. Now a long, dark shadow had been cast over his honor. It must feel like the very ground trembled beneath her feet.

"I must insist that his lordship is not made aware of your suspicions," Lincoln said. "Not yet."

I touched Marguerite's knee again, rousing her. She blinked at me then handed me the teacup. "I would like to lie down now," she announced.

Lincoln and I alighted from the cabin and watched it roll away. Dawkins, standing on the footboard at the back, waved at me. I waved back.

"Did you learn anything from him?" Lincoln asked as we returned inside.

"He hasn't been there long enough to have heard much. Yardly is very loyal, though. If he helped Lord Harcourt remove Buchanan, he wouldn't tell us."

"Remove him to where? If he's not dead, he must be held prisoner somewhere. Not at Emberly, or the other servants would know; I doubt all of them are so loyal to Harcourt that they would cover up murder for him. The village is too public. He could be paying a farmer to use an isolated barn. But why? What's the point?"

"Revenge? Frustration?" I shrugged. "To lord it over his brother and prove that he has all the power and money? If he's jealous of Buchanan, it might simply be a case of one-upmanship. Perhaps being pressured to pay off Buchanan's debts was the last straw."

"True, but it brings us back to the question of where he's being held."

We returned the tea service to the kitchen, and I set to washing the dishes in the scullery, mulling over the problem of the missing Andrew Buchanan. The more I thought about it, the more I suspected Edgecombe was right, and Lord Harcourt must have a very big hand in his brother's disappearance. He'd fought with Buchanan and had the power to keep the servants quiet if they saw anything.

Buchanan wasn't dead. We'd proved that. So where was he? Where could Harcourt hide a person
and
keep him alive without raising an alarm? Somewhere that Buchanan's shouts for help couldn't be heard.

Or wouldn't be believed.

I dropped the teacup into the water and ran out of the scullery. I dried my hands in my apron as I sprinted through the kitchen.

"Charlie?" Cook called. "Where you off to in a hurry?"

I didn't stop to answer. I took the stairs two at a time and burst into Lincoln's sitting room without knocking. He was near the door, as if he'd been expecting me, which, I supposed, he probably was.