The Vital Principle (19 page)

A packet of black powder labeled Ethiops mineral rested next to the vials. Knighton shook his head over it, wishing he dared to throw it away. The mineral consisted of nearly pure mercury sulphide. The medication was often prescribed for worms because it induced vomiting. He had strong doubts about its efficacy. Several other packets promised cures for everything from headaches to sore joints, but none contained Prussic acid.

Her nightstand held several crystal bottles. Unfortunately, when he opened them, he only discovered laudanum to help her sleep and clove oil for aching teeth. No cyanide.

Undeterred, he gave a last glance around before he moved to the next room, which according to the placard on the door belonged to Miss Spencer. Despite his best efforts, he found nothing more exciting than a few already sealed letters resting on her writing table. A half-written missive addressed to her mother related the tragic events that had taken place at Rosecrest. Miss Spencer expressed all the appropriate sentiments in a very unemotional way. The words suggested relief, rather than grief, to Knighton. The latest issue of
La Belle Assemblée
and a small bible rested under the stack of completed letters.

Lady Howard and her daughter, Fanny, shared the next room down the corridor. He hesitated at the door. Miss Howard had been betrayed and deeply hurt by both her host and Lord Thompson. Knighton was reluctant to violate her privacy further, almost disinclined to know what lay in her room. Her situation sickened and angered him. That two men, peers of the Realm, could deliberately take away one of the few valuable things Miss Howard had, filled him with disgust.

Regardless of his dismay, however, Lord Crowley was dead. The truth lay somewhere, perhaps in this room. When he opened the door, the book he had handed her in the library caught his attention. The volume had hidden the note from Lord Crowley.

The book lay on the writing table amidst a scatter of paper. Apparently, Miss Howard and her mother were industrious letter writers. A large stack of sealed letters rested next the book, while a quill with a split, broken tip lay propped against the inkwell.

He picked up an unsealed letter signed with a small, tight signature by Fanny Howard. He read through it, his shoulders tightening with tension. Miss Howard’s note declined an invitation from an apparently close friend who begged her to visit her before the beginning of the Season in March. The tone of Miss Howard’s reply sounded as if she didn’t expect to see her friend, again.

… I shan’t be traveling to London, then, though I shall always miss your dear face and compassion. We have other plans for the Season this year, so regretfully, I must decline your kind invitation. I think of you daily and the delightful adventures we shared last year. Your friendship has been so precious to me, has meant more, much more, than you can imagine.

Think of me, and if you might remember me in your prayers, I shall be eternally grateful.

With my sincerest regard,

Your Loving Fanny

Knighton gently placed the letter on the desk. There were no smudges or salty dimples, just the split tip of the quill to indicate the writer’s raw emotions.

With a growing sense of urgency, he went through the drawers. Again, his pulse pounded when he found a leather traveling case, but all the bottles were present, as well as several packets of patent medicines. Most of the mixtures would cause nothing more than intense bouts of vomiting or diarrhea, but there was one that could do more, laudanum.

This time, he couldn’t ignore it. He uncorked the nearly full vial and strode to the window where he dumped out over half of the opiate. A decanter of water stood by the bed, and he refilled the vial to the brim with the water. There was enough laudanum remaining to help anyone who took it to sleep, but not enough to make that repose permanent, even if they drank the entire contents of the bottle.

There was nothing hidden among the gowns or under the bed. Whatever secrets Miss Howard and her mother wished to keep, they retained upon their persons.

Miss Barnard’s room was next. It proved the most difficult to search thoroughly. He groaned when he opened the iron-bound trunk at the base of her bed. Instead of a collection of gowns, it was full of papers. He shuffled through a few, realizing it would take days to go through them properly. Some were in a thick, bold script, but the majority was written in a delicate, precise hand that he instinctively knew belonged to Miss Barnard.

The others must have been her father’s notes. The papers mostly consisted of fragments of old tales of mysterious events, and a few scientific volumes ranging from architectural tomes to works on the odd lives of British insects.

He closed the trunk and glanced around, noticing a brown edge protruding from under the pillows. The corner of a leather-bound journal. He picked it up and opened it, finding the owner’s signature,
Prudence
Barnard, 1817
, on the fly-leaf. It had been started the previous year.

Sitting in the chair by the writing table, he flipped through the pages. After the first few, he glanced at his watch and then at the door, listening. He had hoped to find a personal diary but instead, the notebook only seemed to contain notes Miss Barnard kept on everything she observed. The lives of birds, insects, horticulture, geography, biology, history, and strange tales, all carefully documented. Anything and everything she saw or heard. Her interests were diverse and the observations astute.

He nearly strangled trying not to laugh over a few of her notes. She didn’t use names for her acquaintances—just initials—but he recognized some of the people she described from their carefully documented habits, traits and peculiar beliefs. Then he flipped through quickly to the last few pages.

His initials leapt out at him.
KG
. The description she wrote was ambiguous and unsettling.

KG—the head Spanish Inquisitor, himself: arrogant and cynical. Perhaps intelligent, but given to leaping, without reason, to the most unflattering conclusions, particularly regarding
females. Perhaps he has yet to conquer his own demons. Nineteen is a terribly young and idealist age to lose one’s father to murder, and at the hands of a woman, too. The tragedy is undoubtedly why he doesn't trust women and has never married, despite being attractive in a sardonic way.

Odd he has chosen such a profession when his brother is a baron. However, he seems to care very little for what anyone thinks. Nonetheless, an inquiry agent is as unsuitable as the butcher’s boy to a lady.

Unfair!!!

He flushed at the last scrawled word and then reread it. Did she think he was unfair to
her
, or did the comment express sympathy for him? She was mistaken if she thought he cared about his loss of respectability, despite his brother’s chagrin. Rubbing the back of his neck, he reread the passage. She was obviously aware of the social implications of his choice to form the Second Sons Inquiry Agency. He found the thought unsettling. Memories of past arguments with his brother, Lord Graystone, increased his irritation.

Lord Graystone had been livid when Knighton finally told him of his decision.

“You'll be nothing but a commoner,” Lord Graystone said.

“I
am
a commoner,” he’d replied. “
You
’re the one with the title. Not me.”

“Don’t be an ass. Surely you can’t resent me so much that you would do this out of
spite
? Is that the root of this ridiculous decision? Sheer spite?”

Knighton remembered staring down at his boots. They were brown and still damp from the snow he had trudged through to respond to his brother’s summons. His feet were cold, nearly frozen, and he wiggled his toes before answering, feeling liquefied snow seep between the digits. “No. That’s just it, I don’t resent you. I don’t care about any of that. I just want to
know
. I have this damned need to know the truth. Curiosity, or whatever you'd like to call it.” And freedom to pursue what he wanted to pursue. He hadn’t mentioned that.

“Then indulge it, but don’t do this, Knight. If it’s just a living, I can grant you an allowance. You can travel. Explore, or do whatever the hell it is you want to do, but don’t bring more shame to your family. Not after that bloody scandal with our stepmother.”

“Do you want me to change my name?”

“Good God, no. I want you to be reasonable.”

“I
am
being reasonable. This is what I’m going to do. I’m sorry if it distresses you. Disown me if you must, but I won’t give it up.”

“No. I won’t do that, but I wish….”

Knighton had been unable to grant his brother his wish.

Their contact after that had been kept to a minimum. Lord Graystone was busy, first finding a suitable bride, and then establishing his household and his position in Parliament. He had grand, political ambitions. Knighton didn’t blame him. He tried to stay out of his way as much as possible. They had their separate interests. And out of respect, Knighton did what he could to keep the complaints about his behavior at a minimum.

Still, he refused to step away from a murder. Even if the
bon ton
were involved and might chose to voice their complaints to Lord Graystone. Knighton’s life was often uncomfortable, and one more argument wouldn’t matter.

He eyed the book, wishing he could slip it into his pocket. Unfortunately, she would certainly miss it. He flipped through the pages, again, drawn into the clever observations despite himself. Miss Barnard had small entries for each of the guests, most of them sympathetic. The description of the dowager tugged at his heart. He flipped past it quickly, looking for anything about the maid. Finally, he was rewarded by a brief paragraph, speculating about May Allen.

After reading a few lines, he realized Prudence—Miss Barnard—didn’t like the girl. She thought she had blackmailed her way into the Crowley family. No proof was listed, just an ambiguous comment about “letters.”

He remembered Miss Barnard's kindness to the maid and the dowager. At least she didn’t let her dislike color her attitude. She had helped them both, and as far as he knew, she’d kept her speculations to herself.

Closing the book, he placed it under the pillow and smoothed the bed with his hand.

What was he going to do about Prudence? He hurriedly corrected himself, Miss Barnard, not
Prudence
. Maybe it was the effect of reading her notes, but whatever it was, he felt close to her, too close and far too sympathetic.

If he was to be successful, he had to remain detached.

Briskly returning to his search, he was soon disappointed. There were no powders, tinctures, or potions in her room. No small, leather cases containing medicine, or missing just one bottle. The chest of drawers contained the usual linens and a neat silk roll with needles and thread for mending, mostly in drab dark colors or white. Her gowns in the wardrobe were subdued hues, nothing bright, nothing to attract attention.

He remembered her at the dining table, politely smiling at the other guests, nodding and listening. She always spoke in a quiet voice, never flirting, never begging for anyone’s attention, but always unfailingly polite. If a fourth hand were needed in a game of whist, she was available. She played the pianoforte when asked, but never outstandingly, just well enough to entertain.

She excelled in her performance as the perfect houseguest. The women liked her, and she never tried to take any man’s attention away from the other females in the room. The men scarcely noticed her. When they did, they generally thought her amusing, or found comfort in staring down their noses at her for being a poor, but interesting, fraud.

He glanced at the edge of the book again, barely visible under the pillow. What would he have written about her, if he kept a journal?

There was no answer he cared to consider. He left her room and bypassed the other women’s quarters in favor of the men’s corridor.

George Denham had the room closest to the stairs. Knighton entered and closed the door behind him, surveying his surroundings. The clutter surprised him. Stacks of books rested by the bed, several opened and left as if he had been reading, or referring to them, when interrupted.

Picking one up, Knighton found it to be a study of Italian painters, focusing primarily on Leonardo Di Vinci. Several other volumes discussed art, including painting and sculpture. There were also two books on magic and the exploration of the “incorporeal world” as Denham liked to call it.

The desk overflowed with sketch books and scraps of drawings. He pushed several small charcoal drawings around, studying them with a grin. Like Miss Barnard, Mr. Denham had been busy creating likenesses of all the guests, except his were drawings rather than descriptions. Most of the sketches showed the guests with vivid expressions of deep grief or sadness. For a man who looked more like a farmer than an artist, he was quite skilled.

Knighton paused when he found a drawing of Prudence showing her in profile, her mouth turned down in quiet sorrow, her beauty clear in every line. Without thinking, he rolled it up and slipped it into his pocket before sifting through the other sketches. The charcoal of Henry Crowley was extremely interesting. Denham had drawn him smiling, but something about Crowley's round face and thick lips hinted at a lecherous and sensual nature, marred by a weak character.