The Vital Principle (29 page)

One is never satisfied with a portrait of a person that one knows.
—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, 1749-1832

After Thompson left the large sitting room, Knighton sat and rested his hands on the table, wondering who had come off the worst during his questioning. He took a long, calming breath and leaned forward with his eyes shut, resting his forehead against one palm. His chin rested on the irritatingly starched folds of his neckcloth. He shifted and wryly hoped Lord Thompson was equally tired.

And he wished fervently for enlightenment. He’d known of Denham’s friendship with Pru. Denham had been the first to protest her innocence the night Crowley died. And somehow, he’d never considered the ramifications.

The two could be lovers, or even co-conspirators in murder.

The notion didn’t feel right, however. He couldn’t shake his belief in her innocence, which was strange. He was not given toward sentimentality. She attracted him and he’d been a fool to kiss her. Was that attraction the sole reason for his confidence in her?

He couldn’t believe that. He couldn’t forget his fluttery stepmother and her masterful manipulation of the butler who, at her instigation, killed Knighton’s father. Pru could easily have done likewise and convinced Denham to do away with Crowley in revenge for his attempt at seduction.

But Knighton didn’t believe she had.

Leaning back, he rotated his head. His neck cracked with stiffness. Was he just being obtuse? He tried to weigh the facts and ignore his attraction to her, but it was difficult.

Prudence Barnard was like a cool, clean breeze blowing through the hothouse stench seeping through Rosecrest. When she wasn’t in the room, he longed for her rational, amusing presence. When she was there, he was constantly aware of her. In some strange way, she felt
right
to him.

So he couldn’t truly believe she had it within her to poison a man. Even a man like Lord Crowley.

But everyone was capable of murder, given the proper circumstances.

He lifted his head and rubbed his face. The rasp of his facial stubble was another reminder that time was running out. The day was edging toward evening, and the inquest continued tomorrow. One way or the other, he had to find proof of guilt.

The clatter of footsteps on the staircase caught his attention. He rose and strode to the door, throwing it open.

George Denham and Pru stood on the landing, talking quietly. When they heard Knighton, they broke off, both staring in his direction.

“Mr. Denham, may I speak with you?” he asked.

Pru took a step forward. “Please—may I have a word with you?”

“Can’t it wait? I have certain matters I wish to discuss with Mr. Denham, first.”

“Certainly,” Denham said, moving around Pru. He touched her arm in passing. A quick, flickering smile crossed her face in response.

Knighton clasped his hands behind his back and waited in the doorway, lips compressed to avoid a sharp remark. Irritation flashed through him at Denham’s gesture and her reaction.

“I’ll wait in the yellow sitting room.” She took a hesitant step in that direction, her eyes on Knighton’s face.

“Very well.” He waved her onward though he longed for her to stay. “I’ll come there when we’re through. We won’t be long.”

At the harsh tone of his voice, she blinked rapidly. Then she opened her mouth as if to speak, but instead, she pressed her lips together and walked away in silence.

Knighton caught Denham’s surprised gaze. “Well?” he asked, refusing to apologize. He re-entered the large sitting room, striding over to the same spot near the table where Crowley had met his end.

“I beg your pardon,” Denham replied quietly, following him. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” Knighton studied him. “I merely had a few questions.” Off-balance and annoyed at himself for revealing it in such a surly manner, he changed course. “Were you expecting a behest from Lord Crowley?”

“No, I was not,” Denham replied emphatically. “Those books are—”

“I’m aware of what they are. I take it you don’t approve of his reading material?”

“No.” Denham flushed.

When he refused to clarify, Knighton continued. “What do you intend to do with them?”

“Burn them, of course.”

“Before you show them to the third beneficiary, Miss Howard?”

Denham took a step forward. His hands balled and opened repeatedly. “That is a crude, despicable thing to say!”

“I just find it odd he mentioned Miss Howard specifically. Do you have any idea why?”

“Because Henry Crowley enjoyed seducing and defaming innocent young women.”

“And you don’t approve?”

“No. What decent man would?”

“Then why remain friends with him?”

Denham’s hands unclenched. He grabbed the back of a chair as if to steady himself, looking mildly confused by the question. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you thought he was such a dishonorable man, why did you continue to visit him? Why continue your friendship?”

“Why? Why?” He pulled his lower lip. “Why, I—he—that is, we’ve known each other since we were children. We were at Harrow together. The three of us. Well, if you must know, he wasn’t always such a, well, he wasn’t always such a bastard. He could be very entertaining and jolly. In fact, we were to meet here before traveling to Scotland. To hunt. He was an excellent shot, you know. Excellent—”

“I’m sure the ladies he seduced thought he was entertaining, too. Did you participate in
those
activities?”

“How dare you—” Denham surged forward, but he stopped a yard away when Knighton turned to face him. “I would never treat a lady that way!
Never
! I did not participate in their liaisons.”

“Thompson and Crowley’s little debaucheries, you mean?”

“Yes. They were disgusting.”

“I find it incredible you’d maintain your friendship with those two men, given their proclivities.”

“Thompson wasn’t like that, normally. He regretted it, you know. Afterwards. He confided in me—” He stopped abruptly and glanced away, his eyes skimming the room before focusing miserably on the carpet.

“What did he tell you?”

“Nothing of importance.”

“That Crowley influenced Thompson?”

“Yes, to his shame. Is that all, then? You merely wanted to know about that insane behest?”

“No. That wasn’t why I wanted to speak to you. Are you aware that Lady Crowley asked me to inquire into the events surrounding her son’s death?”

“Of course I am,” Denham replied impatiently. “What of it?”

“As part of that investigation, I searched through the rooms here at Rosecrest.”

“And?”

“What use have you for cyanide, Denham?”

“Cyanide?” Denham laughed. “You mean Prussic acid? You found the packet in my kit?”

“Yes.”

He shrugged. “I’m an artist. Of course I have Prussic acid.”

“Do you create etchings?” Knighton remembered what Miss Barnard learned from the apothecary. “Or blueprints?”

Denham laughed even harder. The sound grated on Knighton’s nerves, but he waited patiently for the chuckling to subside.

“No.” Mr. Denham pulled out a large, white handkerchief and wiped his eyes, still grinning. After blowing his nose, he continued, “Surely, you’ve heard of Prussian blue? I use Prussic acid to make Prussian blue. It creates a deep, rich color that’s quite impossible to obtain any other way. And it’s inexpensive. Cheap.” His voice rose and his florid face glowed with enthusiasm as he launched into a discussion of his hobby. “Simply dried blood heated successively with potash and green vitriol. Gives you a lovely deep blue pigment. Berlin blue. Prussian blue. It’s the same thing.”

“I understand,” he replied, trying to end Denham’s recital of obscure facts. “How much did you bring with you?”

“Just a small amount. Perhaps an ounce.”

“Did you notice any missing after Crowley’s death?”

“No.” Again he shrugged, his plain face as unconcerned as a baby’s. “I doubt anyone knew I even had such a thing. Why would they? You didn’t know, did you?”

“Nonetheless, you were in possession of Prussic acid.
Cyanide.
And as far as I can determine, you're the only one in this manor with that poison in hand.”

“Nonsense. Why would I want to kill my friend?”

“Love? It’s always love. Or money.”

“Love!” Denham paled. Then he squared his shoulders like a swordsman preparing to face an opponent.

“I’ve observed a certain affection on your part for a lady—”

Denham stopped him. “That is none of your affair!”

“Isn’t it? You’ve admitted Crowley didn’t behave in an honorable fashion toward women. I imagine it would rankle to see him mistreat the woman you love—”

“I will
not
discuss her with you!” Denham smashed a fist down onto the table. The vibrations ran through the floor and shivered into the soles of Knighton's feet. “She is innocent. I will not have her name sullied!”

“Understandable. So you do love her, don’t you?”

“Yes, to my shame.” Denham’s lips shook with a surge of his complex emotions. His brows twisted over his eyes.

“To your shame?”

“I never intended it. We never intended to fall in love.”

“I don’t suppose anyone does,” Knighton replied softly with a vague, unsettling sense of loss. A brief flash of Pru’s lovely face only increased the pain. But there was no point in dwelling on the topic of Denham’s affection for her. Unless that emotion led him to kill Crowley. “It certainly might be a good motive for murder. Don’t you agree?”

Denham leaned forward, placing both hands on top of the table. “Check with my apothecary, if you wish. I’ve not used any of the last lot I acquired before I came here. I haven't done any painting—haven't had the chance.”

“Didn’t you just say you didn’t know how much remained?”

“I know
I
haven’t used any. If there is less than an ounce, then someone stole it out of my kit.”

“Odd that they would do that when just a few minutes ago, you claimed no one knew you had any.”

“If you’re trying to trap me into a confession, you’re going about it the wrong way. I have nothing to hide.
Nothing!
While I didn’t approve of everything he did, Henry Crowley was my friend and had been for the better part of twenty years.”

“But would you have killed him to protect the woman you love?”

“There are other solutions, sir. There are always alternatives. I suggest you consider that!” Denham turned on his heel and walked out, closing the door behind him.

Knighton watched him go with a sardonic smile on his face. Then he sighed.

He’d forgotten to ask Denham the name and address of his apothecary, or if he’d visited the one in the village.

One word frees us of all the weight and pain of life:
That word is love.
—Sophocles, c. 495-405 B.C.

Sitting near the window, Pru rested her chin on her hand and stared outside at the unfriendly black line of trees. They looked as if they hunched together, whispering plans to attack the house,
en masse
. The fancy made her shiver.

There was no one else in the yellow sitting room, and she felt alone, almost shunned. After the reading of the will, everyone had fled to their quarters to recover from the shock.

She wished she had been there. Increasingly isolated by suspicion, she lacked the information to save herself from being wrongly accused. And she couldn't seem to find anything to assist her.

Now, instead of pursuing her own investigations, she languished in the sitting room, wondering if Knighton had forgotten her, too. Her breath caught in her throat at the thought of his unyielding dedication to the truth. Why didn’t he see her for what she was, an ordinary woman just trying to get by?

He’d kissed her, but did he do so out of attraction or just a soon regretted impulse of the moment? She longed to see admiration and respect in his eyes instead of speculation.

Restless, she got up and paced, ending up in front of the window, again. She felt trapped behind the gray glass, desperate to escape outside. She longed to feel the fresh wind against her heated skin.

In fact, she wanted to leave Rosecrest. She hated the quiet, stuffy rooms filled with tension and mistrust.

However, there was no place to go. No one needed a female houseguest to round out the numbers at their dining table or complete their party.

At least not her.

She had achieved notoriety simply by being at Rosecrest and being suspected of murder. She picked at a loose screw holding the brass lock in place on the window and rested her forehead against the thick, cool glass. She forced herself to swallow back her frustration and stay calm. She had to
think
.

After her father passed away, she’d survived a similar period when no one invited her to stay. She’d survive this.

At least she had to pretend she’d survive. It seemed unlikely she’d get another invitation to stay at someone else’s country house in the near future. Therefore, she needed to find a way to rent rooms. An occupation? Dare she risk losing her remaining friends and social position?

Swallowing rapidly, she repressed another wave of panic. No matter what happened in the next day or two, her genteel life trembled on the edge of ruin.

The screw came away in her hand just as the door behind her opened.

“Miss Barnard?” Knighton strolled into the room.

Flustered, she pushed the screw into its socket and whirled around. “I’m here.”

“So I see. May I?” He gestured at one of the chairs.

“Certainly.”

He sat and leaned back, giving her a smile that made her stomach quiver. Without realizing it, her nervous fingers fluttered to the window and picked again at the loose screw. It came out again, bounced off the sill, and tumbled onto the floor.

Face scorched with embarrassment, she bent and picked up the small screw before awkwardly sticking it back into the gaping hole. Then she sat and clasped her hands in her lap, staring down at them. Her fingers looked very pale against her dark skirts. She flexed them slightly to warm them.

She couldn’t meet his sharp glance. She felt like a nervous schoolgirl and a fool.

“What did you wish to speak to me about?” he asked.

She dragged her gaze away from the hangnail she’d just discovered on her index finger. After catching his impenetrable gaze, she blushed and focused on the gold silk curtains framing the window beyond his shoulder. She refused to look at him. His sharp eyes would recognize the pitiful desperation in her glance. It was probably all he needed to confirm his suspicion that she was a soon-to-be notorious poisoner.

“I, em,” she floundered.

He
was
laughing at her. His black eyes danced with rich gleams, flickering like ghost-lights over the moors at night. His lips quivered before he pressed them together to stop a chuckle.

She crushed her hands together more tightly and drew a deep breath. “We must talk about this situation.”

“What situation is that?”

“
This
situation,” she repeated, drawing her brows together and trying to stare him down. “Why did you assist me today if you're so sure of my guilt? I can't understand your purpose.”

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped in front of him. “All I seek is the truth. That's why I requested your release. Thus far, I have no proof of your guilt. Or innocence.”

“Well, I don’t
have
any such proof. How can I? How can I prove I don’t habitually carry Prussic acid around with me in case I should need to poison my host?”

“Then I’m puzzled,” he admitted, sitting back in his chair, a grin still curving his lips. “If you don’t have proof of your innocence, why did you wish to meet with me privately?”

“I asked you to meet me in private because there are matters I’ve discovered,” she paused, unsure how to tell him.

Nothing pointed directly at the identity of the murderer. And a great deal of her information reflected badly upon May, the new Lady Crowley. She would do her a great disservice if she spread gossip when the girl already faced a battle to be accepted.

Still, it might have some bearing on matters. Knighton needed to have all the facts at his disposal if he was going to solve the murder.

Particularly if he was going to prove her innocence.

Struggling to compose her thoughts, she wrenched her gaze away from his eyes and stared once more at the shimmering folds of the gold curtain beyond his shoulder.

“What have you discovered?” he asked.

“I—” She couldn’t prevent her gaze from sliding once more to his face. She leaned forward, trusting her feelings. She felt so inexplicably drawn to him. Surely he felt something for her, some kindness she could appeal to. “Promise me you’ll keep everything I tell you in confidence. You must
not
tell anyone else.”

“Even if it points to your innocence?”

“I—that is, I can’t see how that is possible, so yes. Of course.”

“If your information does not assist you, why are you telling me?”

“Because—oh, I don’t know. I’m not sure I
should
tell you!” Her hands twisted together in her lap once more. The hangnail snagged her skirt, causing a burning flash of irritation. She raised her hand to her mouth and bit the hangnail off, unable to stop the uncouth gesture.

He leaned closer, his sardonic expression melting into simple concern. “I won’t gossip. You have my word on it.”

“This is very difficult.” She watched as a small flicker of a smile crossed his lips. “I thought we ought to share information. We may both have facts that have meaning to the other and may help solve this dreadful murder.”

He nodded.

“Please,
please
don’t take what I’m about to say amiss. It seems so, well, almost spiteful to tell you….”

“I already gave you my word I wouldn’t reveal anything you tell me. You may place your trust with me.”

She couldn’t help a small laugh. “I’m sorry. It just seems so petty to repeat tales.”

“But you believe they may have a bearing on the case?”

“That’s just it,” she admitted miserably. “I don’t know. It might, or it might just make matters more awkward for…certain people here.”

His eyes burned, reminding her once again of a Spanish Inquisitor. His intense gaze could wrench the secrets out of any wretched infidel. She certainly felt tortured, stretched out on the rack with muscles pulled intolerably thin.

“Let me decide, then,” he said.

She nodded before closing her eyes to concentrate. “It’s May. That is, the new Lady Crowley.”

“What about her?”

“I, em, that is, don’t you find it odd that Lord Crowley would marry a maid?” She opened her eyes and risked a quick glance at him. He studied her with a neutral expression.

“Yes. But I gather she threatened to go to his mother when she realized she was pregnant.”

“True, however, it didn’t seem enough, to me at least. That is, certainly Lord Crowley respected his mother, but I thought there might have been more to it. May wouldn’t have been the first girl to be turned off after getting in trouble.”

“So, what did you learn?”

“I searched her room after she moved to Dower House.” She stared at him, her eyes wide and beseeching. “I just wanted to know if there was something that may have led to this unfortunate situation.”

“What did you find?” He ran an impatient hand through his hair.

“She had dreadful letters from Lord Crowley’s. He even
signed
them. I asked May, and she admitted she threatened to expose him as the sort of man who would write such things.”

He laughed. Pru stared at him, let down and rather annoyed. When he glanced at her, he laughed even harder.

After he finally recovered, he shook his head. “Is that all?”

“Well, it
is
rather, well, rather important. Don’t you agree?”

“It’s interesting, but I'm not sure it was the impetus Lord Crowley needed to marry his maid. Frankly, I think you, and everyone else, has completely misunderstood the situation. Lord Crowley was a weak man, under the thumb of his mother. He exerted what control he could, when he could, over others to make him feel more powerful.” He sat back, studying her. “Have you considered that he may have loved May and simply let her believe she’d blackmailed him, because it revealed both her nature and her desperation? She was beneath him and therefore not as
good
as a Crowley. And he rubbed her nose in it by keeping her as the maid for as long as possible.

“In that situation, he always had the whip hand. When you want something as much as May did, you’re vulnerable. Perhaps he loved her because of that weakness. And her pregnancy would have made him feel that much more powerful. So he married her because he wanted to do so. Because she made him feel like a man, something which the rich Miss Spencer had not done.”

“But he wanted to divorce her—”

He shook his head. “No. We misunderstood that letter. He never mailed it. Most likely, he never would have. He drafted it as another way to exert control over May, if she should get too sure of herself. Can you imagine her reaction if he showed it to her?”

“Oh, no,” Pru said. “Oh, dear. Then….” She felt confused and tried to organize her thoughts. “Well, I suppose that’s possible.” Another thought struck her. “Why did you want to speak to Mr. Denham? Surely you don’t suspect him?”

“Everyone is a suspect.”

“Mr. Denham is a decent man,” she replied stiffly. George Denham was one of her few friends and despite his prosy manner, she liked him. He was also, surprisingly, an accomplished artist which further increased her respect for him. His portraits always managed to capture the truth of a person, their inner soul shone through the thick strokes of paint. The sensitivity and understanding expressed in his art left her in awe of his skill. “He didn't have any reason to kill Lord Crowley.”

“Perhaps.”

“He’s been a good friend to me.”

His searching glance made her uncomfortable. She dropped her gaze once more to her lap.

“I realize that,” he said. “Do you believe he might have murdered Crowley because of his affection for you?”

“His affection for
me
?”

“He admitted it to me not five minutes ago.”

“He told you he murdered Lord Crowley? And you sat there and listened to me babble on about things which I should never have mentioned to
anyone
? How could you be so insensitive?”

He held up a hand. “No—you misunderstand me. He claims he didn’t kill Crowley. But I believe he might have, if he’d seen your struggle with Lord Crowley in the hallway. He might have felt you needed his protection, given what he knew of Crowley’s nature.”

“What struggle?” she asked, her voice tight. Surely, no one had seen that incident? She’d tried to forget the feel of Crowley’s soft, damp hands on her shoulders, the moistness seeping through the thin fabric of her dress.

“Lord Thompson mentioned he’d seen you upstairs with Lord Crowley. I gather he was attempting to force his attentions on you.”

“Lord Thompson told you that?”

“Yes. Is it true?”

“Is what true?” she countered. If Thompson had told him about the incident, then there was no need for her to elaborate. It was an embarrassing and demeaning scene she wished to forget.

“Did Lord Crowley force his attentions on you?”

“If that’s what Lord Thompson said, then I suppose it must be true.”

“Do you believe Denham might have witnessed this and decided to kill Crowley because of it?”