The Vital Principle (30 page)

“How should I know? I wasn’t even aware Lord Thompson had seen that—that disgusting moment!” The more she thought about it, the more she seethed with shame and anger. If Lord Thompson had seen it, why hadn’t he come to her assistance? And the same could be said for Mr. Denham. He should have helped her if he considered himself her friend. Why hadn’t one of them stepped forward?

“So it’s possible Mr. Denham took matters into his own hands?”

“It's possible, I suppose, but unlikely. Why wouldn’t he have tried to help me if he was present?” Unless he thought she’d enjoyed it….

“I gather from Thompson that you did a credible job of defending yourself.”

That was true. She had thrust her knee into Lord Crowley’s privates. Effective, but not something she wished to discuss with another man.

Although, if he should happen to stand up any time soon, she wouldn’t mind demonstrating.

She shook her head. “I don’t believe Mr. Denham would have killed Lord Crowley to protect me. I could simply leave if I felt it necessary.”

“So you believe he’s innocent?”

“Don’t you?”

“Did you know he had Prussic acid, cyanide, with him?”

“He had cyanide?”

“In his art supplies. Lady Crowley gave me permission to search. I haven’t found poison in anyone else’s possession. Just Denham’s.”

“In his art supplies? Why would he have poison in his paint kit?”

“To make the color blue.”

“I see.” She paused. “Surely someone else could have found it, too?”

“Possible, but unlikely. Why would anyone search Denham’s room in hopes of finding poison?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. However, I’d like to know if you searched my quarters, too.”

He nodded.

That certainly explained how her journal had been moved. And it proved he was still determined to prove her guilt. Their kiss had meant nothing, after all, a momentary dalliance.

“You didn’t find any poisons, did you?”

“No.”

“Has it occurred to you that the murderer may have used all the Prussic acid he had? Perhaps you haven’t found any in the house because there isn’t any left. You found the empty bottle, didn’t you?”

He ignored her question. “Is that why I didn’t find any in your room?”

“Is that what you think?” she countered.

“I haven’t come to any conclusions, yet. But the bottle may have been simply a temporary holder for a small amount of poison. Finding it doesn’t imply all the poison is gone.”

“Have you found
any
record, or indication, that I’ve ever purchased Prussic acid?”

“No, but I’m still making inquiries.” He sounded almost cheerful at the thought he might still find evidence of her guilt. “You appear to travel quite widely.”

“Well, I’ve never purchased such a thing.” She never imagined it would be so difficult to prove her innocence. She smoothed her skirt over her lap before a sudden doubt struck her. “What if the monster who did this decides to place a vial of Prussic acid in my room, now? He could do it at any time, and you’d believe I was guilty.”

“No. I’ve been through your room. If we found any now, I'd have to consider the possibility that someone was trying to shift the burden of guilt to you.” He paused before adding, “Unless I also discovered you’ve made another visit to the apothecary’s shop.”

She sighed. Given recent events, it was unlikely she’d ever set foot in a chemist's shop, again.

Despite their conversation about the Prussic acid, her mind kept circling back to May. She couldn’t forget Lord Crowley’s behavior toward her and the other women in his domain.

“Could May have poisoned him? I didn’t find anything except those letters….” Her voice drifted off as she thought about her brief search. A packet of powder, or a small vial, would be easily overlooked. Or May could have taken it to Dower House.

“Do you have a reason to believe she might have?” He leaned forward, one lean hand gripping her wrist. “Did you find something else in her room?”

“No, but I only just realized, May might have been angry with Lord Crowley for refusing to acknowledge her as he should have. You weren’t here earlier. He flaunted his engagement to Miss Spencer. It seemed, well, odd. I understand now. He only seemed to do it when May was in the room.”

“You believe May might have lost patience with his ridiculous games?”

“Perhaps—oh, I don’t know.” She shook his hand off her wrist and rubbed her forehead. Tension stretched the skin painfully over her temples. “This is dreadful. I
hate
suspecting others. I almost wish you’d simply arrest me and let this be over.”

He gripped her wrist and lowered her hand to her lap where he covered her fingers with his warm hands. The strength of his grip simultaneously reassured her and made her stomach flutter. “Trust me. I won’t accuse anyone without sufficient proof.” A twisted smile curved over his mouth. “I’ve been in that position, myself.”

“I heard something….”

He nodded and squeezed her hands. “I was accused when my father died under suspicious circumstances. My stepmother was having an affair with the butler and convinced him to do away with my father. They left the bloody knife in my room. Rest assured, I’m unlikely to assign blame, now, without sufficient proof.”

“I’m so sorry.” She remembered reading about the incident in the newspapers years before. It was dreadful enough to be accused of killing a man you didn’t particularly care for, but to suffer the loss of your father and then be blamed would be unbearable.

He sat back as if thrusting her away, as if he didn’t trust her with his emotions. She shifted her chair, increasing the distance between them, aware of how intimate they had become.

Too close, too unwisely.

She returned to her initial impulse, to trade information in hopes of finding the real culprit.

“What of you?” she asked, fixing a smile firmly on her lips. “Have you discovered anything, other than Mr. Denham’s art supplies?”

He shrugged and pulled out his pocket watch.

“I thought—I thought we were going to share what we knew? To make sense of our clues.”

“And I hope you’ll continue to tell me if you discover anything else.”

She stared at him in dismay. “But you’re not going to share what you’ve found?”

“I told you about Denham’s art supplies, didn’t I?”

“Is that all? You haven’t learned anything else?”

“Nothing that will help you.”

“How can you be sure?”

He stood up, but when he glanced at her, his gaze seemed to soften. “It’s getting late, Miss Barnard, and the inquest continues tomorrow. I have work to do.”

“Then I suggest you do it,” she replied stiffly, feeling rejected.

One more day. If he didn’t find proof of someone else’s guilt, what would he do? Her only ally seemed to be Mr. Denham, but what assistance could he offer? One could argue she knew he was an artist and could have stolen the Prussic acid out of his kit.

But she had not known that artists used such deadly poisons to create some sort of blue dye, or paint. How could she prove her ignorance, now? How could one prove what one didn’t know?

Which left her with one more question. Would Knighton Gaunt place his regard for his reputation above her life? Would he blame her just to close the case with success?

The descent to Hades is the same from every place
. —Anaxagoras, c. 500-428 B.C.

Supper was served at eight and the only person who seemed pleased to be present was the new Lady Crowley. Since she had been introduced during the reading of the will, the dowager apparently decided to extend an invitation to supper, as well. She sent a footman to Dower House to escort Lady Crowley and Miss Brumbly back to Rosecrest, and young Lady Crowley proceeded to flutter her social wings with all her might.

Unfortunately, Knighton found himself sitting between Lady Crowley and Miss Brumbly during the meal. Lady Crowley displayed an amazing ability to chatter without pause while ingesting stunningly large quantities of roast goose, salmon aspic, and potato soufflé. On the other hand, Miss Brumbly spent her time reaching under the table and across Knighton’s lap in frequent attempts to smack the young lady on any portion of her anatomy Miss Brumbly could reach with her fan when Lady Crowley grew too excited to speak properly.

Sadly, this seemed to be every time Lady Crowley opened her mouth.

The first time Miss Brumbly tried this maneuver, her aim fell dreadfully short. She hit him, instead. Knighton almost choked on a forkful of goose. His knee hit the underside of the table in an instinctive gesture to protect himself from the unexpected assault on his lap.

Glasses jumped. Silverware tinkled as it fell off the edges of plates all around the table. Knighton managed to swallow his mouthful and pick up his glass to drink some wine to clear his throat before apologizing for bumping his leg against the table.

Miss Brumbly apparently didn’t realize her aim was bad. She hit him several more times while trying to signal to Lady Crowley to cease her endless chatter, or at least remember a modicum of grammar.

After several more painful blows, he grew desperate enough to devise a way to protect himself. Watching for the moment when Miss Brumbly’s right arm dove under the table, he dropped his left hand into his lap just in time to provide adequate protection. His knuckles were skinned and bruised, but it didn’t hurt half as much.

“And so I said to my darling Henry, I said, I'd as leve take our wedding trip to France as anywhere, for I’ve always had a fancy to visit Paris.” May dimpled and smiled first at Knighton and then at her mother-in-law.

He tried to smile back, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Miss Brumbly drop her fork. Her right hand flew under the table. He dropped his knife and clapped his hand over his lap just in time for her fan to sharply rap his knuckles.

Another layer of skin scraped off his fingers.

Calamity avoided, he turned to May and smiled. “Yes, I’m fond of Paris, too.”

“Oh!” She fluttered. “Have you been there?” For once, her grammar passed the Brumbly test.

“No. I’m just relieved when others go there.” He slowly raised his hand and cut another piece of goose before the footmen cleared away the main course.

She stared at him, obviously unsure how to reply. Seated across the table from him, Pru caught his gaze. She gave a brief shake of her head. The corners of her mouth crinkled in an apparent attempt not to laugh.

Denham, seated on her left, leaned toward her. He spoke in her ear, forcing her to turn her attention back to her dinner partners. They exchange a few words before she tilted her head and laughed. As Knighton watched her, the noise around him receded. Pru was a study in shadows and light. Her dark hair was swept up in a severe style that accentuated the fine bones in her face. The deep gray of her silk dress glimmered with a soft, silvery sheen when it caught the light and reflected the sparkle in her lustrous eyes. As she glanced over to Thompson on her right, the candlelight gleamed on the curve of her long, white neck, sparkling off the jet necklace in the hollow on her throat.

Again, he was aware of her attractiveness. She drew him like no other woman he’d met in a long time.

“Mr. Gaunt?” May asked, demanding his attention. “Have you discovered the foul fiend who murdered my darling husband?”

He stiffened and thrust his hands into his lap before he realized May had again avoided all mistakes. Miss Brumbly leaned forward and smiled at May while a footman offered them apple tartlets drenched in sticky, over-sweet cinnamon syrup.

“I’ve discovered a few interesting facts,” he replied, noting a sudden hush. Everyone turned toward them, forks poised in mid-air.

“I expect you'll be at the inquest tomorrow, then?” May asked.

“Yes.”

“Then you
must
have some idea who poisoned him, don't you?” She flicked a glance toward Miss Spencer, who blushed.

May’s brows arched, and she smiled at her husband’s ex-betrothed in a revoltingly superior manner. Miss Spencer’s lids flickered over her pale eyes. She transferred her gaze back to her plate. He studied her, wondering if it was guilt that made her refuse to meet anyone’s gaze, or just the embarrassment of being jilted.

“Well?” May prompted him. “Who is guilty?”

“The inquest will discover the truth,” he replied.

Her lower lip thrust out in a
moué
of disappointment before she turned her greedy attention to the apple tartlet.

The dowager, looking distracted and tired, did not allow them to linger over the meal. As soon as she finished her dessert, she threw her linen napkin on the table. She rose majestically. The black ostrich feathers gracing her somber turban swayed as she eyed her dinner companions.

“Ladies, let us leave the gentlemen to their port,” she ordered before taking Lady Howard’s arm and sweeping out.

Pru and the rest of the women followed meekly while the butler brought forth the port and an oak box of cigars. Only Lord Thompson seemed inclined to smoke. He fussily selected a thick cigar, rolling it between his fingers before cutting the end off.

“Haven’t you any idea at all?” Mr. Jekyll sipped his port with the cautious air of a connoisseur unsure of the quality of his drink.

Knighton leaned back. He held his glass between the tips of his fingers and studied the amber liquid. “I have my suspicions.”

“But no hard facts. Is that it, my boy?” Mr. Jekyll laughed while he thrust a finger into the knot of his cravat as if to loosen it. His gesture seemed curiously out of place with his smile and genial tone.

“I wouldn’t say
none
.” Studying Jekyll for a moment, Knighton finally let his gaze drift around to the others.

Although the men all sat carelessly sprawled in their chairs, a variety of indicators betrayed their inner tension. Lord Thompson’s shoulders were stiff despite his graceful movements as he puffed on his cigar. The muscle at the corner of Denham’s left eye twitched every few seconds. Stephen Hereford’s restless hands kept drifting down to rub his thighs before returning to clutch his glass of port.

They were all waiting for an answer. They wanted, and yet dreaded, an accusation that would cut the twin ropes of suspicion and tension. Well, he couldn’t cut through the tangle for them. Not just yet.

“Have you at least been able to discover a motive?” Denham leaned forward. He rubbed his temple with his fingertips, trying to quell the tic next to his eye.

Knighton smiled grimly. “A superfluity of motives. The only surprising thing is how he managed to survive this long without someone shooting him in the back.”

“Sir!” Stephen Hereford stood abruptly. He slammed his tumbler down on the table. “You are offensive!”

“I’m honest.” Knighton pushed his dessert plate away with his fingertips. One of the footmen clearing the table swept it up with a flourish and flicked a cloth over the tablecloth to remove a few miniscule crumbs.

“Now, Hereford,” Jekyll said. “Sit down. He’s merely trying to tell us where matters stand. We all knew Crowley. He had his little habits, just like any of us. Mr. Gaunt wasn’t being disrespectful.”

Keeping an eye on Mr. Hereford, Knighton remained seated in a relaxed pose with one arm over the back of his chair and the other resting on the table. His fingers curled loosely around his glass. His muscles bunched with tension, however. His presence at the dining table was odd enough. He was a mere inquiry agent. However, his brother was a baron and the dowager had allowed it, just like she had provided him with a room at Rosecrest. And Knighton took full advantage of the opportunity presented, regardless of what the other guests thought.

Mr. Hereford remained standing a moment longer. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, and he exhaled in sharp puffs like the aggressive snorts a bull makes when it’s pawing the earth, about to charge.

“Come, Hereford, one more drink. Then we’ll join the ladies.” Jekyll gestured for the butler to refill their glasses.

Hereford downed the dregs in his tumbler and held his glass out to be refilled while watching Knighton’s face.

“Mr. Jekyll is right,” Knighton said. “And although it’s difficult, you must admit Lord Crowley had an unpleasant side. That side was made manifest this afternoon at the reading of his will.”

Hereford grunted an ambiguous reply before waving to the butler. “Leave the bottle here,” he commanded.

When he finally sat down, his shoulders slumped as if he had carried too much weight for too long. He hunched over the table, his arms curved possessively around the bottle of port and his glass.

“That was an interesting will, wasn’t it?” Knighton asked, directing his gaze toward Jekyll. “What was that behest about land?”

Jekyll laughed, although he accompanied it with a quick jerk at his collar. “That nonsense? Nothing, really. Just a little joke, I suppose. Crowley was always the one for practical jokes.”

“It seemed a little insulting.”

“No doubt. And no doubt, it was. I’m not saying there wasn’t a sharp edge to his little amusements. He could be quite cutting when he wished.” Jekyll flicked a glance toward Hereford. “All the Crowleys are known for their acerbic wit.”

“So that was all? A jest?”

Holding out his glass toward Hereford, Jekyll tried to coax him into pouring him a few drops. “No need to hoard the stuff. There’s plenty more in the cellars.”

When Hereford lifted his pale, haggard face, he stared uncomprehendingly at Jekyll for a moment. Jekyll rapped the bottom of his glass on the table a few times before it caught Hereford’s attention. He finally nudged the bottle toward Jekyll before letting his head fall onto his crossed arms.

“A bit under the weather, I’d say,” Jekyll commented, nodding toward Hereford. “Still, it’s not to wonder at. It must be the very devil to be in his position. Your nephew murdered. Not knowing if you’re to be the next baron or not thanks to that little strumpet in the next room.”

“You mean
Lady
Crowley?”

“Well, yes.” He shook his head. “I have no idea how the dowager is going to cope with her. And if she has a girl, then it’s all for naught. If the mother and child even survive to term, that is.”

“Why shouldn’t they? She seems healthy enough.”

“Of course. Yes, of course, she seems healthy. I’m sure there will be no difficulties. I just remember the difficulties the dowager had. The Crowleys are indifferent breeders, at best.” His eyes moved sharply toward Hereford. But he remained with his head resting on his arms. “She lost several children before Crowley managed to survive.”

“You’ve known the family for a number of years, I take it?”

“Oh, yes. We’ve been neighbors all our lives.”

“I see. What was that business about property in the will?”

He grimaced and shrugged. “Nothing, really. Our lands adjoin. I've been interested in purchasing some of the farmland that abuts mine. I made him an offer a few years ago. He declined. He must have remembered it—or maybe it’s simply that he added that ridiculous clause about the time I made him the offer. It was quite a shock that he even remembered it.”

At this, Hereford raised his head. “If it was up to me, you could have the land and be damned. I don't give a damn about Rosecrest—never have.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Jekyll replied. “But it isn’t up to you, is it?” He winked at Knighton and raised his glass in Hereford’s direction, indicating his friend was drunk.

Knighton finished his port, disappointed to have the contents of the will so easily explained. Somehow, he’d hoped there would be some new motive revealed, one last speech from the dead man, pointing a bony finger at the guilty party.

Instead, Lord Crowley had been just as trifling and petty in death as he’d been in life.

“Let’s join the ladies, shall we?” Jekyll stood and examined Hereford. “Would you like me to escort you to your room?”

“No,” Hereford replied, tugging his waistcoat down with his fists. “No. I don’t need your assistance.” He walked stiffly toward the door, stopping and swaying at the threshold while he waited for the butler to open it.

Jekyll followed, frowning. “He’s in no condition to join the ladies.”

“Are any of us?” Knighton quipped.

When they joined the women in the yellow sitting room, the ladies were seated around two small tables set up for whist. A third table was prepared but ignored and unneeded. Glancing up, Mrs. Jekyll motioned to her husband to join her at her table, already occupied by Pru, Miss Spencer and Miss Howard.