To Wed an Heiress (18 page)

E
da hesitated briefly before tapping on the door of the room that Mrs. Alfred had told her belonged to the French maid. She was not generally a shy person, but she did feel some slight discomfort at initiating a conversation with an unknown foreigner on a topic overheard from a linen closet.

The door opened. “
Qu’est que c’est?
Can I help you?” The disdainful curve of the Frenchwoman’s thin eyebrows belied the sincerity of this last question.

“Oh, yes, hallo,” said Eda. She had not meant to knock yet. Her nervous fingers must have brushed against the wood by accident. “May I talk to you? Now? Inside?” she blurted out. Lady Anglesford aside, she had always found it easier talking to men than women.

The Frenchwoman’s eyes radiated confusion, but she did not protest Eda’s unconventional entrance.

“I overheard you arguing with Mr. Hastings earlier.”

Mademoiselle Mathilde’s eyebrows arched superciliously, but she offered no comment.

Eda thanked the good Lord that she had turned down Lady Anglesford’s offer for a French maid of her own.

“I think I heard you say that there were some…secrets that Mr. Hastings would not want you to reveal….”

“I do not think you heard me correctly.” The Frenchwoman’s words were clipped.

“Oh, but I did!” said Eda, suddenly panicking that the maid meant to dismiss her. “What did you mean? Please tell me!” She did not know why this woman had the power to fluster her so.

Mademoiselle Mathilde’s eyes narrowed. She looked Eda up and down. “You have money? Yes?”

Eda breathed in sharply. “Of course! Whatever you need.” She winced as soon as she said it. Her worldly-wise captain of a father would have known better than to offer an unlimited sum to a mercenary lady’s maid. “That is…I mean to say…I will pay you handsomely for any secrets that shed light on Miss Hastings’ death. Is there anything you can tell me about her past that will help?”

“What sort of thing?”

Eda floundered, not sure what to suggest. “Secret admirers, clandestine meetings….”

Mademoiselle Mathilde laughed in a way that was not at all good-natured. “You want to know about affairs of the heart? I am sorry to disappoint you, but Mademoiselle Hastings was more circumspect than you give her credit for.”

Eda’s hopes fell.

The maid, however, sensed her chances of remuneration were receding and dredged up one item of scandalous import to dangle before her buyer’s nose.

“I suppose I could tell you, though, that she
was
engaged to be married.”

“To Har—Lord Anglesford, you mean?”

“
Non
. To someone else.”

“Did he jilt her too?” asked Eda, a little too pleased at the prospect. The idea of more men than Haro having abandoned matrimony to Miss Hastings held a strange appeal for her.

Mademoiselle Mathilde turned her head away. “
Zut alors!
I don’t remember.”

Eda clenched her teeth in annoyance. She should have thought to bring some half-crowns with her tied up in a handkerchief, but as things were, it looked like Mademoiselle Mathilde would talk no more until her palm was plied with coin.

***

Pevensey pulled his muffler up around his ears. Egad! But it was
cold
in these parts! He had been hoping that a brisk walk around the exterior of the house would clear his head and give a new direction in which to turn his thoughts. But it seemed more likely that his toes would freeze than that his thoughts would crystallize.

Who were the principal suspects in this case? He had his hands in his pockets, and he was not about to take them out in order to pull out his sketchbook. He excused himself for the omission, reminding himself that he could make pictures in his mind’s eye just as easily.

First, there was the Earl of Anglesford. As tempting as it was to put on Revolutionary spectacles and look at every aristocrat with a jaundiced eye, Pevensey had to admit that he liked the earl. He seemed fond of his family. A blundering idiot where women were concerned and a babe in the woods when it came to managing Mr. Hastings, but a decent chap nonetheless. It would surprise Pevensey if the earl had had any hand in the murder. No, he was too difficult to provoke and chivalrous to a fault. Even if backed into a corner or taunted beyond endurance, was it possible that he could have lashed out by throttling a woman?

The earl’s nature was in his favor, but circumstances were not. He was the only person—so far—that Pevensey could place with certainty near the pond during the fatal window of time when Miss Hastings must have met her demise. But was this enough to damn him?

The second suspect that materialized in Pevensey’s mind was Philippe Bayeux, the enigmatic architect. There was no good explanation for his presence at Woldwick. The projected renovations seemed a thin excuse at best, and Pevensey was willing to lay money at poor odds that the man had arrived without any invitation whatsoever, not even one from Miss Hastings. Why the pretense on her part then? And on her father’s, he had to wonder? What was Bayeux himself trying to achieve? More than one interview had hinted at a romantic entanglement between Bayeux and Miss Hastings—although those in a position to confirm the rumor absolutely refused to do so.

Was Bayeux the murderer he was looking for? It was clear that his character was a brooding and a moody one. Jealous that his
amore
was affianced to another man, had his passions gotten the better of him on the bridge? Pevensey exhaled and watched his breath freeze in front of his face. It was well known that Frenchmen were volatile, especially when it came to affairs of the heart. Pevensey could far easier imagine the architect’s thumbs purpling Arabella’s neck than he could the earl’s.

And yet, was it even possible for Bayeux to have been present at the pond given the time Miss Hastings left the house? He stamped his feet, attempting to regain some of the feeling in them. There were times that must be verified—Bayeux’s visit to the village inn for breakfast and his appointment with the stone mason following. An adjunct to the magistrates’ office was supposed to be as impartial as the law itself, but Pevensey could not help but admit that it would give him far more satisfaction for the brooding Frenchman to swing for this crime than for the well-mannered Englishman.

Of course, these two were not the only suspects in the case. Pevensey found his mind being inexorably drawn back to his recent conversation in the library and to Mrs. Rollo’s large, bony hands. That grim-faced governess had hated Arabella Hastings—he had no illusions that it could be otherwise—and her quiet hatred had not dissipated even at the death of its object. During his career at Bow Street, Pevensey had met no female stranglers, but experience taught him that crimes could always surprise one. The housekeeper Mrs. Alfred had hesitated when asked whether she had breakfasted with Mrs. Rollo on the fateful morning—hesitated and then affirmed it. Was the hesitation because she was about to tell an untruth or was it because she knew that the friendship between a lady’s companion and a housekeeper was irregular?

And then there was Eda Swanycke, the earl’s black-haired, voluptuous cousin. Hers were not the hands of a strangler—Pevensey refused to allow a possibility that farfetched—but she was hiding something, and he very much wanted to know why. Was she casting red herrings into the trail on purpose? Was she striving to protect the person who had killed Arabella Hastings?

A movement in the trees caught Pevensey’s eye. There, where the naked branches met the edge of the carriage drive, he saw a tall figure, clad in an old-fashioned frock coat. Pevensey squinted trying to make out who it was. The tallest man he had met at Woldwick had been the young earl himself. This fellow looked like he would top Lord Anglesford by a hand’s breadth, and his gait, though not unsure, was that of a far older man.

“Hallo there!” called Pevensey, waving a hand in greeting.

“Oh? Hallo! And who might you be?” asked the elderly gentleman—for though his frock coat was worn, Pevensey had an inkling that he was a gentleman and of aristocratic breeding.

“Jacob Pevensey, at your service, sir, attached to the London magistrates’ office.”

“Ah, yes! The fellow here to investigate things. How do you do?” The old man dug into his pockets and pulled out several chunks of dry bread. Rubbing them between his hands, he began tossing the dry crumbs onto the frozen ground.

Pevensey combed his mind for clues to the gentleman’s identity. Was he a genteel tenant with a cottage on the Emison land? Was he a neighbor out for a ramble and curious about events at Woldwick?

Without the aid of his sketchbook, he remembered that Mrs. Alfred, when itemizing the list of upstairs residents for Pevensey’s benefit, had mentioned an eccentric great-uncle, brother to Lady Anglesford’s father. Harold Harding, he was called. He shared a Christian name with the current earl, and their height, blond hair, and blue eyes were just three of the similarities to their appearances.

As Pevensey watched, the old man took a polite step away from the crumbs, and a party of wildfowl—those that had not left the woods for the winter—darted in to devour them. “Are you bound for the house?” he asked, with a nod towards Woldwick.

“Just come from it! I usually stay out with my birds all day, as long as I can keep my fingers warm enough to crumble up their bread.”

“Then perhaps you could keep me company? I’m on my way to—”

“The lake,” interrupted the old man. “Yes, I will accompany you.” He reached into his pocket and threw a few more crumbs in parting to the congress of winged creatures who had assembled.

Pevensey sensed that this offer to keep him company was a rare thing on the old man’s part. “Many thanks,” he said, pulling the collar of his coat up around his freckled face and falling in step along the path that led away from the house and into the woods. He cast a surreptitious glance at his pocket watch—half past noon. The time it took to reach the pond would be an essential piece of information.

***

“Drat!” said Eda, rifling through the drawers of her writing desk. Her quarterly allowance had been completely spent, and there were no overlooked piles of pocket change to be found. Should she go to Lady Anglesford and ask for pin money? It would be a strange request, and she would certainly have to explain herself.

Torin! Perhaps
he
had some money left over from his allowance—although it was more than likely that he had squandered it on books when they were in London. Still, it would not hurt to ask him. Eda hurriedly stuffed the contents back in her drawers and, opening her bedroom door, darted into the hallway.

“Oh!” she said, stifling a screech as she nearly collided with her cousin. “Haro, what on earth are you doing?”

“As you can see from my raised forearm, I was just about to knock on your door.”

“Whatever for?”

Haro opened his mouth, then shut it again.

“Never mind then,” replied Eda. “I’m looking for Torin. Although I suppose you’ll do just as well. Have you any money?”

“Money?” asked Haro, with a shake of his head. His face broke into a wry smile. “Isn’t that the reason we’re in this predicament in the first place?”

Eda wrinkled her nose, but could not refrain from smiling back. “Just some pin money, I mean.”

Haro reached into his pocket and fished out a guinea, holding it out between thumb and forefinger. Eda placed her hand below, waiting for him to drop it into her palm. But instead, he just held it there, the round coin suspended in the air. She reached up to take it from his fingers, but as she did, he took her hand in his and pulled her closer until they were standing face to face in the doorway.

“Pin money? Are you planning to buy a new hat?”

Eda felt his breath brush against her face as he looked down at her. She had the distinct impression that he was planning to kiss her.

“No, I’m planning to buy secrets.” She forced herself to attend to the task at hand.

“Secrets?” Haro’s blond eyebrows arched. “Whose?”

“Never you mind that.” Eda knew instinctively that Haro’s gentlemanly nature would revolt against her plan. No matter the outcome of the investigation, he would not think it proper for her to stick her nose into Arabella’s past. But Eda also refused to let Haro’s sensibilities trump her own good sense.

That kiss could wait.

“Thank you for the guinea. And now, if you’ll excuse me….”

Before Haro could protest, she slipped from his grasp and darted out into the hallway. She must find her way back to Mademoiselle Mathilde for more questions.

“
S
he was a fickle thing,” the old man said, staring down into the ice. The freezing weather had fully repaired the cracks from Miss Hastings’ unceremonious tumble of two days ago. “Pretty, clever—a little too clever. I thought she had made up her mind to start afresh, but in the end, she went back to him. It was her fickleness that was her undoing.”

“Went back to him?” asked Pevensey. “Whom do you mean?” The walk to the pond—nearly thirty minutes of cold trudging along a winding trail that seemed to point north, south, east, and west—had been conducted in silence, but now, poised upon the fateful bridge, his companion had suddenly waxed garrulous.

“Perhaps she cared a little too much about the prestige of being a countess. Perhaps she really did have feelings for him.”

“Are you speaking about Arabella Hastings?” It seemed to fit, but Pevensey sensed that the old man’s mind was somewhere else besides the present, in the mists of remembrance and times past.

“Arabella Hastings?” Harold Harding spoke the name as if he had never heard it before. “No, no. Maria—the Countess of St. Petersburg.”

“Ah. What happened to her?”

The old man sighed. “Murdered. I heard of it later. Murdered by the hands of jealousy.”

“Not your hands, I hope?” said Pevensey brightly. This fellow’s hands were certainly large enough to fit around a woman’s neck.

The elderly Mr. Harding did not respond.

“Did Arabella Hastings remind you of the Countess?”

“Haro’s fiancée? Yes, a little. She had much of the same figure and color of hair. But Maria would never do such a cold-hearted deed.”

“What deed do you mean?”

“Why, cut down the woods, of course! She loved the trees, Maria did. And the birds—” The old man gestured toward the small bird chirping expectantly from the rail of the bridge. “She could get that titmouse there to eat out of her hand if she wanted.”

“Were you the only one distressed by Miss Hastings’ idea to level the forest?” Pevensey studied the wrinkles around Harold Harding’s mouth. He wished it were not so cold so he could pull out his sketchbook and draw the changing lines of human skin.

“No, of course not! Torin, and Eda, and Edith were against it. And Haro would have been too, once he came to his senses.” He paused and pursed his lips, as if remembering something unpleasant. “Is it true that you think my nephew, Haro, is the murderer?”

Whenever someone asked Pevensey what he thought about a case, he made a point of obscuring the direction in which his mind was leaning. “I think he’s the only one who can, of a certainty, be placed at this bridge at the time of death.”

The old man’s lips compressed into a thin line and his face looked grave. “If money were to be supplied, might you reconsider your certainty?”

“I’m afraid not.” Pevensey had been offered bribes often enough to no longer be offended by the overture. Perhaps his face looked susceptible to such persuasion. Perhaps some people assumed that everyone’s integrity could be bought. Or perhaps it was a single, desperate attempt from a compassionate old man who did not want his great-nephew to hang.

“I’m surprised that there would be money available to supply,” said Pevensey, finding an opening to prolong the conversation, “since the Emison estate is so…encumbered at present.”

“Ah, it’s not Emison money,” said the old man, a spark lighting his eyes. “I’ve seen my share of adventure in the world and amassed my own chest of coin. I daresay if Maria had stayed by my side, she’d have run through it by now, but after her, there was no one else to captivate me so.” He smiled modestly at the circle of birds surrounding him. “I have enough money to buy the Emison estate thrice over.”

Pevensey rubbed his nose. This fellow was
full
of fantastical tales. One hardly knew whether to believe them or to consider them proof of his advancing senility.

“And what does the family think of your vast fortune? Surely, if you are as rich as Croesus, you have considered helping the earl out of his financial predicament?”

“Oh, they don’t believe me. They never have. I daresay they will when I’m gone.”

Pevensey glanced from the battered brown boots to the worn frock coat to the lined face. Nothing about Harold Harding’s appearance indicated that his claim was anything more than the delusions of an attic-dwelling octogenarian. But Pevensey was willing to keep an open mind. In his profession, he had seen the contents of many wills, and it was true, more often than not, that the deceased’s relatives were surprised by those contents—either favorably or unfavorably, as the case might be.

But even if these claims to wealth were false, they were still an important clue to the larger case. An old man who walked his beloved woods oblivious to the realities of life was an old man who might confuse an opinionated young lady with an enemy to be dispatched. And though Harold Harding was not in the prime of his life, he was still large enough and strong enough to do away with a slender antagonist of the opposite sex.

“Where were you the morning of the murder?”

The old man blinked. “Out walking, of course.”

***

Haro peered around the corner. He had not been able to resist trailing Eda after she had slipped away—“like a woodland faerie” would be the more poetic description, “like an eel” would be the more accurate one. What secrets was she trying to buy? She had been so coy about the whole thing that he almost suspected she had
meant
for him to follow her out the door and down the hallway.

He had expected her to take the main stairs down to the ground floor, but instead, she had opened up a small door in the wall and disappeared into the servants’ corridor. Although Haro was a large man, he was also lithe—when the occasion demanded, he could tiptoe around a covert without flushing the pheasant. He followed Eda down the corridor, keeping to the shadows, and as he peered around the corner, he saw her knocking on a dark wood door—once, twice, thrice without success.

Unable to resist, he came out of the shadows and had the satisfaction of startling her. Her large eyes, blue as deep water, conveyed surprise so well. “Oh goodness, Haro!” She put a hand to her heart. “It’s just you!”

“Yes, just me,” he said wryly. “Whose room is this?”

“Well, if you must know, it’s the French maid’s room.”

Haro was not aware that there was a French maid on the premises.

“You know, Ara—Miss Hastings’ maid.”

“Ah, I see. And she’s the one you wanted the guinea for? The one with the secrets?”

Eda did not respond, but her eyes turned defiant.

“I don’t like this, Eda. Arabella’s dead. Why do you have to go prying into her secrets? Why are you trying to paint her blacker than she was? Are you so mean-spirited?” He knew that he was lecturing her, but he could not help it. “Come away. I don’t want you talking to her maid.”

“Well, her door’s locked and she’s not answering, so for all we know, she could be lying dead in there. The strangler’s struck again!”

“And locked the door from the inside?”

“Or owns a set of keys to the whole house,” Eda shot back. It was the closest she had ever come to accusing him of committing the crime.

Haro set his jaw. That face, which he had wanted to kiss so much just a few moments ago, was eminently un-kissable at present. “Strangely, I don’t seem to have my set of keys with me, so perhaps we’d better call Mrs. Alfred.”

The scullery maid was scurrying by at this exact instant, casting sidelong looks at these intruders in the servants’ quarters. Haro halted her with a word and dispatched her on a mission to find the housekeeper. The cousins stood there in cold silence for the few minutes that it took to retrieve Mrs. Alfred. Haro could see that Eda was biting her tongue.

“Can I help you, my lord?” asked Mrs. Alfred, a little flustered to see the earl and his cousin in this unexpected location.

“Yes, Mrs. Alfred,” replied Haro, trying to set her mind at ease with a smile. “You can open this door, if you please.”

The housekeeper took out her large iron key ring and thumbed through the keys until she came to the correct one. Haro watched Eda’s face as Mrs. Alfred inserted the key in the door and turned the handle. She did not think Mademoiselle Mathilde knew secrets involving
him
, did she?

With the door unlocked, Mrs. Alfred hesitated. Perhaps she disliked invading the privacy of an innocent domestic. But Eda, apparently, had no such qualms. She stepped past the housekeeper to enter the room, and Haro was close behind. The bedclothes were in disarray, and the chair was askew against the wall. There were no personal possessions in sight. Mademoiselle Mathilde and everything she owned had disappeared.

***

It had not taken long after their exchange on the bridge for Harold Harding to disappear deeper into the woods. Pevensey watched him go, hoping the old fellow would be able to navigate the patches of ice on the path without mishap. He returned to Woldwick the circuitous way he had come, making the trip again in a little under half an hour. It was two o’clock now, and he could think of no better way to spend his afternoon than by riding into the village. He had a hired horse in the stables—Mr. Hastings had been generous with the funds he had sent, desiring Pevensey’s presence faster than the post would have been able to bring him—and the beast could doubtless use some exercise.

Confirming the Frenchman’s whereabouts was to be the main thrust of this expedition. He had already timed the distance from the village to Woldwick on his initial journey. It was a forty minute ride at a decent pace. He imagined a more delicate rider would take an hour or so, but the Frenchman hardly qualified as delicate.

Upon reaching the village, Pevensey noted the bright arms of the Rose and Thistle. It was the main establishment in the village, the dispenser of ale and gossip, and the stop for posting carriages that travelers less advantaged than the Emisons and Hastings would employ.

“Good afternoon, sir!” said Pevensey to the round man whom he took, quite rightly, to be the innkeeper. “May I have a drink of your best?”

“But of course!” said the innkeeper, wiping his hands on his apron and reaching for an empty tankard on the shelf. His bald head glistened as brightly as the copper pans hanging above the shelf. “What brings you to these parts?”

Pevensey suspected—again, quite rightly—that the innkeeper was already quite familiar with his name and business. A murder on the local landowner’s estate could hardly have escaped public notice. “Just here to enjoy the wintry weather,” he responded with a twinkle in his eye.

The proprietor of the Rose and Thistle plopped down the tankard of ale with a bit of disappointment.

Pevensey took pity on him. “And to ask you some questions.”

The innkeeper rubbed his hands together. “Oh, certainly! What can I help you with?”

“Do you remember a Frenchman coming in here two days ago?”

“Yes!” The innkeeper’s eagerness was palpable. “He sat in the exact same seat you’re in, Mr. Pevensey.” Pevensey smiled inwardly. He had not given the innkeeper his name, but it was apparently already common currency in the village. “I served him a breakfast pastie, the ones my wife makes.”

“And at what o’clock did this take place?”

The innkeeper scratched his bald head. “It was before the morning post, I remember.”

“And the morning post comes at…?”

“Nine o’clock. And the afternoon post comes at half past three.” The innkeeper glanced out the window. “It should be here soon now.”

“How long was the Frenchman here?”

The innkeeper scratched his bald head. “Hard to say. It was busy here that morning. I don’t rightly remember how long he sat, but I did serve him that pastie my wife makes.”

“And I’m sure the pastie was delightful,” said Pevensey obligingly. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his notebook. The aproned innkeeper was too splendid a specimen not to be sketched. “Did he say anything about his plans for the day?” He drew the crown of the bald head with one bold, curving sweep of the pencil.

The innkeeper pursed his lips. “Not to my recollection. I had the feeling that he was planning on taking the morning post, but I probably just assumed that since he breakfasted at the same time as all the travelers. He didn’t take the post, did he?”

“No,” said Pevensey, working quickly on the lines of the apron.

“Oh, hallo there!” said the innkeeper suddenly, walking over to the window. “It’s Henry, up from the big house. And who’s that he’s got in the dogcart?” He gave a low whistle.

Intrigued, Pevensey set aside his sketchbook and came over to the window just in time to see Woldwick’s first footman lifting down an elegantly dressed female from the front seat of the wagon.