The Vital Principle (7 page)

There is no more trusting women
. —Homer, c. 700 B.C.

Knighton arose early enough to sit by the window and watch the sun break over the horizon in brilliant hues of rose-red while he sipped his coffee. The events of last night remained a tangled mess in his mind without any obvious solution.

Who had stood where during the critical few seconds required to slip Prussic acid into Lord Crowley’s brandy
? It was difficult to construct a precise picture. There had been too much screaming and hysteria over nothing except a few drafts. He had been distracted at the crucial time.

They all had.

Bloody women.

Except for Miss Barnard, who had kept her head remarkably well throughout the entire ordeal. Evidence of a singularly strong-minded woman. To his dismay, he had to admit he admired the trait. Few women exhibited it, but in this case, it only served to increase his suspicions of her. Whoever had murdered Lord Crowley shared that same cool-headed trait.

The killer had sufficient daring to poison a man while surrounded by a roomful of guests. Few men, and fewer women, had that level of boldness. And one could argue that a charlatan had to possess a great deal of composure to perform her tricks. So Miss Barnard remained a logical suspect.

However, instinct warned him the situation might not be that simple. There was the matter of motive. He was not comfortable that he knew
why
she poisoned her host. Murdering Lord Crowley just because he had hired an inquiry agent seemed somewhat excessive. Had she been afraid he would discover some other secret? Something worth killing for?

Something was amiss, and he didn’t think it was the spirits haunting Rosecrest.

Considering matters, he retrieved his handkerchief and unwrapped the cork he had found last night. As he turned it over between his fingers, he discovered a black thread caught in the edge of the cork. It was the end that remained outside the bottle. Apparently, the rough surface of the cork had rubbed against some fabric and picked up a thread, most likely from a reticule, or a jacket pocket.

Unfortunately, it proved nothing except the killer was too hurried to retrieve the stopper. Perhaps she—or he—had been unable to stoop and pick it up without being observed.

He pulled a slim pair of tweezers from his shaving kit and plucked out the thread. Although it was difficult to be sure, the strand had a sheen to it that made him think it might be silk. He took another sip of his cooling coffee and pondered it before placing the cork and fiber on a sheet of thick writing paper. He carefully folded the edges to form a pouch and sealed it with a blob of red wax. After a hasty glance around, he slipped it behind the painting of a seascape hanging over the narrow table next to his bed.

Several of the women had reticules hanging from their wrists by ribbons. All of the pouches had been fanciful affairs, lavishly embroidered and beaded. And all of them had traces of black silk thread to enhance the designs. Unfortunately, he had noted that neither Miss Barnard nor the dowager felt the need to carry reticules. Perhaps the two women had used pockets, fastened around their waists and hidden under their skirts, instead.

The tiny strand might also have come from a man’s clothing. Several of the men had worn black silk jackets and pantaloons to dinner. He, himself, had worn black. So in fact, the thread could have come from nearly anyone’s pocket or reticule and was therefore of dubious assistance.

Coffee gone except for a few bitter dregs, Knighton rang for Crowley’s valet. He had not expected to stay above a day or two and had left his own man in his London apartments to keep an eye on his offices. Second Sons,
Discreet Inquiries
, was prospering, particularly after the latest scandal involving a few less-than-honest Bow Street runners. The Bow Street runners were not always discriminating about those with whom they shared information, and they involved the newspapers far too frequently. So there seemed to be an endless supply of patrons who felt the need to hire someone guaranteed not to discuss private matters at the end of an inquiry.

As a result, Knighton disliked leaving the business unattended for long. Sooner, rather than later, he was going to have to hire additional agents. Or at least an assistant—although his valet, Boodle, seemed perfectly willing to fill that role. Knighton glanced in the mirror as Crowley’s man brushed the back of his coat. He wished he had brought Boodle. Boodle was not overly fussy and knew when to offer his services and when to slip quietly away.

“Will that be all, sir?” the valet asked, nervous and pale with distress. “I must be going along to tend to his lordship. The dowager, poor soul, is too fluey to lay him out. Distraught with grief, as you'd expect. And someone's got to do it properly, don't they?”

“Is she in her room?”

“Yes, sir, I expect so. Will be all day, too, if I guess a-right. 'Tis unaccountable, all this tragedy a-coming so hard on the heels of her husband’s passing. And then there's the inquest and no answers....” The valet let his final sentence hang in the air, his eyes fixed on Knighton, clearly hoping for more information.

Knighton refused to add to the rampant speculation. His tension increased, however. The valet’s statement about the inquest reminded him that someone needed to be held accountable for the tragedy. The coroner's jury had to view the body before it could be buried. Chances were good they would hold the inquest on Monday, therefore, they would come to Rosecrest today to view the body. Unless he could find more than a tiny thread of black silk, it was likely their findings would be murder by person or persons unknown.

“Yes, quite so,” Knighton replied evasively. “Are any of the other guests awake?”

“You are the first of the gentlemen.” The valet cleared his throat discreetly behind his fist. He nodded in the direction of the tray bearing the remains of a roll and marmalade. “A more substantial meal is laid out at nine-thirty in the breakfast room. You could have a canter 'till then. His Lordship often arose early-like for a ride.”

“No, thank you. That’ll be all.” Knighton felt slightly uncomfortable with the continued misunderstanding that he was a guest and not a mere employee of the late Lord Crowley. However, it was convenient for his purposes so he did not bother to disabuse the valet of his misapprehension. The man would find out soon enough, anyway.

Knighton left his suite and paused in the hallway, unsure of his plans. There was a distant hum and muted clatter as the other guests rose and gave orders to their servants. A maid hurried by, carrying a ewer of water while another servant knocked at a door a few yards away.

On impulse he turned and went downstairs to the drawing room where Lord Crowley had died. There might be additional evidence he had missed previously, and he wanted to see the room in daylight.

The drawing room was much larger than he had realized. The previous night, shadows had hidden the far walls. Heavy red and gold brocade drapes now hung open, letting in the watery sunshine and casting a pale grayish pall over the furnishings. He glanced around and briefly studied the grandeur of the gilt moldings and ceiling frescoes of clouds and very substantial-looking angels encircling the central chandelier.

The Oriental rug had been cleaned of all traces of the wine, leaving the air smelling faintly of ammonia. The round table they used the previous night remained in the center of the room and its gleaming surface bespoke of an early morning waxing by some industrious maid. The unknown girl had even filled a large crystal vase with yellow chrysanthemums and placed it in the center on a scrap of lace. The chairs had been rearranged and stood along the walls, flanking the wide doorway. The rest of the furniture was rearranged to form several intimate sitting areas near the huge fireplace.

He walked over to the window and stood there, letting the light stream over his shoulder as he examined the room, trying to see if anything caught his attention. Everything looked blandly normal, awaiting the pleasure of the guests. As he shifted to the right, the light picked out an odd, silvery gleam just under the seat of one of the chairs lining the opposite wall. He smiled. The fanciful Mr. Denham might suggest the reflection came from the tiny, glittering wings of a fairy, accidentally trapped in the room overnight.

Knighton thought there might be a much more prosaic explanation. He strode over, turned the chair on its side, and laughed. Someone had clamped a clever little contraption consisting of a “V” of heavy wire into the corner of the wooden frame supporting the seat. A tiny silver bell hung suspended between the arms of wire. An additional lever of wood connected by a spring to the “V” kept the bell from ringing unless someone pressed the lever against the chair leg to release the bell. Knighton depressed the lever and shifted the chair slightly. The bell rewarded him with a high, silvery ting.

Thinking with amusement of Miss Barnard's reluctance to change seats the previous evening, he gently removed the tiny bell and its accompanying framework. She would certainly want to recover it, although probably not from his hands. After righting the chair, he took another slow survey of the room.

All traces of the previous night were gone. Or almost all.

The slightly darker patch of carpet caught his attention. Kneeling by the table, he ran a hand over the spot where the maid had dropped the bottle of Madeira. The area was still damp and the scent of ammonia didn't quite eliminate the odor of the spilled wine. Sunlight streaming through the windows sparkled off a few tiny shards of glass from one of the glasses that had fallen from the maid's tray. He idly picked them out of the carpet fibers and placed them on the table.

Then he leaned down with his head an inch above the carpet to study the texture of the area. The nap was indeed irregular. The patterns of lotus and other flowers were raised above the background to give it a realistic effect. Sculpted blossoms twined across the pale bluish-gray background near the area where the bottle of Madeira wine had fallen. The uneven, higher pile near the edge of the carpet where the blossoms concentrated might indeed trip someone expecting a smooth surface underfoot.

“Oh!” a woman’s voice exclaimed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was here.”

Knighton got to his feet. Miss Barnard stood staring at him from the other side of the table. “Miss Barnard,” he greeted her. “How are you this morning?”

“Quite well. And you?” Her voice was coldly polite and a small frown puckered the skin between her brows.

His lips twitched with faint amusement at her expression. She appeared annoyed with his presence, and he had a notion he knew why. He clasped his hands behind his back.

“I'm surprised to see you up so early.”

“It's nearly mid-morning.” Her eyes flashed as her gaze quickly surveyed the room.

“Indeed, so it is.” He paused, waiting for her to speak, but she just stared at a point somewhere around his left ear. “May I help you?”

“Help me? You can stop flinging false accusations about and find the person responsible for last night's atrocity.”

“I intend to do so.”

She nodded. “They are serving breakfast in the dining room. However, you'll have to hurry. They were preparing to clear away.”

“I already ate, but thank you for your concern. I can accompany you to the dining room, if you wish.”

“No—I'm not hungry.” Her frown deepened. “Are you sure you don't want something to eat? They have some lovely kippers. Or perhaps you'd rather go for a walk? It's a beautiful morning.”

“Excellent notion. Would you accompany me?” He struggled to keep from chuckling, knowing she wanted him out of the room so she could retrieve the tiny bell. Her face and the tense set of her shoulders revealed all too clearly her growing frustration.

“No, um, the dowager sent me on an errand.” She strode forward hesitantly.

“Then perhaps I can assist you? Did she mislay something last night?”

“No.” Her glance alighted on a few objects resting on a low table near the marble hearth. “I’m to fetch Lady Crowley’s magazine and her embroidery bag.” She walked briskly toward the fireplace.

He couldn’t see her face but the tips of her ears glowed crimson. She was blushing although not, he believed, from mortification. She was angry that he hadn't taken the hint and left her alone. When her gaze drifted repeatedly toward the chairs lining the wall, he rubbed his mouth to hide his smile.

Having committed herself to the lie, she picked up the magazine and sewing basket. Then, with a brief glance at him, she moved over to the straight-backed, wooden chair nearest the door. She hesitated.

“Are you leaving?” he asked.

She sat down, her face flushed. “No. I, um, feel faint.” She brushed her fingers over her temple.

Her left hand dropped down past the edge of the seat. Her blush deepened. She leaned forward and the basket and magazine slipped off her lap.

“Good,” he said in a voice of hearty approval. “Put your head in your lap if you feel light-headed.” He bent and picked up the basket and periodical.

Her dark eyes met his. He was not surprised to see hers hard as agate.

“There's a draft here,” she announced, shifting to the next seat. With a sigh, she cradled her head in her lap with one arm while the other reached under her seat.

He studied her, wondering what possible series of excuses she could give for moving from one chair to the next until she managed to sit on—and check—every chair in the room. When she straightened, her face was carefully composed but her eyes alive with frustration. He choked and turned aside to hide his grin.