He cast her a quick, rather cynical glance. “I understand the protests, and I can imagine what you’ve heard. But the days of heavy-footed Runners creating havoc for no good reason are very much in the past. The Metropolitan Police Force of today is a very different beast to its origins. It’s evolved into an authority to be reckoned with, a weapon of law and order that isn’t to be sneezed at—not at all.”
She studied him as he looked down at the grass before his feet.
“I’ve seen them in action,” he went on, “albeit from a distance, and there’s a particular inspector who specializes in cases such as this—cases of murder within the ton.” He looked up and caught her eye. “If this case is reported to Scotland Yard, then unless there’s something more socially pressing on his plate—like the murder of a nobleman—the case will be assigned to an Inspector Stokes. And whenever he works on cases within the ton, Stokes calls on two…colleagues, I suppose one would call them. The Honorable Barnaby Adair—the Earl of Cothelstone’s son—and Adair’s wife, Penelope, who is connected to more of the haut ton than I can enumerate.”
She frowned. “So this Inspector Stokes works hand in glove with two members of the haut ton?”
He nodded. “I don’t know how the association started, but it’s been in existence for a good many years and is accepted by the powers that be in the police force.” They neared the entrance to the shrubbery. “For what it’s worth, my experience of Stokes and Adair, brief though it was, suggests that they will be relentless and thorough, but also sensitive to the nuances those not accustomed to the ways of the ton might not comprehend.”
“I see.” They passed under the cool shade of the archway cut into the high hedge that bordered the shrubbery. As they turned and approached the spot where Glynis had lain, she added, “You speak highly of them—I’ll put my trust in that.” A very strange decision for her; she rarely trusted anything men said. “If nothing comes of Sir Godfrey’s investigation, I—or rather, my grandfather through me—will press for Scotland Yard to be called in.”
His gaze already quartering the ground around the spot where he’d found Glynis’s body, Carradale inclined his head. “Do. I’ll press with you, and I suspect Percy will, too. He’s not as spineless as his recent behavior has painted him, and as he is the owner of the house in which the crime took place, his voice will carry additional weight.”
She accepted that with a nod and settled to search alongside him. “The chain was gold?”
“Yes. Rose-gold and not that thick. The usual weight of chain on which young ladies wear small pendants.”
They searched through the thick grass, then poked and peered into the hedges on either side of the short passageway that led from one of the shrubbery gardens to the entrance.
After several silent minutes of parting leaves and pushing aside branches, he observed, “We won all the concessions from Sir Godfrey that, to this point, we needed to secure. Yet you seem…dissatisfied. Not satisfied, at any rate.”
She glanced sharply at him, but he was busy searching and wasn’t looking at her. After several seconds—feeling almost as if she couldn’t help it—she opened her lips and said, “I mentioned that I was sent to fetch Glynis—to fetch her safely home. I arrived in the village on Monday evening. I could have come straight here and demanded that Glynis leave with me immediately. If I had, she wouldn’t be dead. Instead, I allowed social niceties to guide me—I thought it would create too much of a scene for both her and me if I barged in during dinner. So I did what I thought was the right thing and waited until the next morning…and by then, she was dead.” She paused, then went on, “I will always regret my decision to wait. I know her murder is not my fault, yet regardless…I feel that I’ve failed. Failed the trust the family put in me to rescue her from whatever she’d got herself into and bring her safely home.”
His “Ah yes. The weight of familial responsibility,” uttered in a matter-of-fact tone that suggested he truly understood, was the last reply she’d expected.
Instead of making her feel silly for her thoughts—her persistent and irrational emotion—his words suggested that her reaction, at least for her and possibly for him were he in the same straits, was natural and understandable.
Feeling insensibly better, she said, “As things stand, the only appropriate response I can think of is to ensure that Glynis gets justice.”
“Indeed. And as I mentioned earlier, you’re not alone in pursuing that goal.”
They continued to search—high, low, and everywhere between.
Alaric was far too wise to say anything more regarding the emotions he could sense behind her dramatically arresting features. Her eyes were particularly fine—a clear green, like a fern-shadowed woodland pool—but she wouldn’t like knowing just how easy he was finding it to read the vicissitudes of her thoughts in their depths.
Eventually, Constance straightened and looked around one last time. “Not even a piece of the chain. If it was ripped away by main force, a chain of that thickness might well have broken into more than one section.”
“True.” He straightened. “But we haven’t found anything.” He glanced around, then pointed to the spot where Glynis had lain; the grass was still crushed enough to show. “She was there.” He took two steps back toward the entrance, then mimed having his hands around a throat and flinging the body away… He shook his head. “Even if he flung her rather than just opening his hands and letting her fall, he couldn’t have been standing farther away than this.”
“And we’ve searched that far and beyond.” She scanned the area and grimaced. “It isn’t here.”
She turned back to see him resettling his coat. Sober, he met her eyes. “It’s not here—which suggests the murderer took it. Judging by the marks on your cousin’s neck, it seems whoever he is tore it from her.”
“Which,” she concluded, “leaves us to wonder what it was that Glynis wore so secretively on the chain.”
She turned toward the shrubbery entrance, and he fell in alongside her.
“Have you had a chance to speak with Mrs. Macomber?” he asked. “She might well know what Glynis’s pendant was.”
“I tried, but sadly, she’s still too sedated to even rouse. I suspect she took sufficient laudanum to ensure she slept until morning.”
They stepped out of the shrubbery and headed for the front door.
After a moment, he shot her a glance. “It’s tempting to think that Glynis was murdered for whatever was on that chain.”
She met his eyes. “But what sort of pendant could possibly be worth murdering a young lady for?”
He tipped his head to her. “That’s a very good question.”
* * *
Unsurprisingly, dinner that evening was a subdued affair, but with Constance to make up the numbers of ladies, at least there wasn’t a glaring gap about the board.
She was now glad that Pearl had insisted on packing her bronze-silk evening gown, the matching slippers, and her pearls; the accoutrements allowed her to move among the other guests without standing out sartorially. Not that she cared about such things, but she was aware others did, and she wanted the ladies to feel at ease in her company, the better to elicit comments about Glynis that might lead them further in pursuit of the murderer.
With that aim in mind, when the ladies rose from the table and trailed back into the drawing room, Constance said, “I noticed there’s a conservatory. Does anyone else feel like a stroll to study the plants?”
Five other ladies leapt at the chance to be elsewhere; no doubt the drawing room held memories—echoes of the previous evening when Glynis had moved among them.
Mrs. Collard led the way, explaining that she’d already ventured into the heated atmosphere of the conservatory; she quickly added that she had something of a green thumb and had been drawn to see what Mandeville had growing, then named several species of plant that she declared Mandeville—or more correctly, his gardener—had succeeded in cultivating.
C
onstance knew next to nothing of what might be grown in a conservatory; on crops and orchards, herbs and vegetables, she was close to being an expert, but her knowledge of exotic species was essentially nonexistent.
Luckily, Mrs. Collard was matched in knowledge by Mrs. Finlayson, and while their small company wended this way and that along the tiled paths between the groupings of pots and planters, the pair entertained the rest—Miss Weldon and her chaperon, Mrs. Cripps, Mrs. Cleary, and Constance—with a running commentary on matters horticultural.
Constance strolled slowly at the rear of the group beside Mrs. Cleary. Rosamund Cleary seemed unsettled and skittish—ready to jump—which was hardly to be wondered at. Despite wanting to interrogate Mrs. Cleary in case she’d seen more than she’d said, Constance felt that, at least at that moment, it would be unkind to press the woman. She was already nervous, as if the realization that the murderer was very likely in the house, under the same roof, had sunk into her awareness in a more definite way than it had with the other ladies.
Constance suspected that the rest of the guests believed themselves mere bystanders, not in any way connected with Glynis or her death and so immune from any threat.
The more she dwelled on the situation, the more Constance’s respect for Mrs. Cleary’s courage in speaking up and reporting what she’d seen grew. In response, Constance adopted a quietly encouraging mien and hoped Mrs. Cleary might share a comment—something that would allow Constance to ease into a conversation about the figure Mrs. Cleary had seen leaving the shrubbery the previous night.
Sadly, she hoped in vain.
When the time came to return to the drawing room and they filed out of the conservatory, Mrs. Cleary had managed to utter not a single useful word, although she had made the effort to share her opinion on the best species of palms for decorating a ballroom.
Even with that, her tone, at least to Constance’s ears, had sounded brittle.
In the end, she wasn’t sure if Rosa Cleary was skittish because she was truly frightened or because she was a nervous sort and utterly distracted.
The route between the conservatory and the drawing room lay via a long corridor that ran past the billiard room. The billiard room door was still yards ahead of them when it opened and a horde of gentlemen streamed out. To Constance, tall enough to see over the other ladies’ curls, it seemed as if every male guest had taken refuge in the billiard room and all were now intent on hurrying to join the ladies for tea. Talking, settling coats, and briskly striding toward the drawing room, the men had come through the door already turning in that direction; not one noticed the six ladies coming along the corridor.
Mrs. Collard gave an audible sniff, which caused Constance and Mrs. Cripps, who was walking beside her, with Miss Weldon on her other side, to cynically smile.
Then Rosa Cleary gasped and halted.
They’d been walking three abreast, with Rosa in the middle in front, ahead of Mrs. Cripps.
Behind Mrs. Collard, Constance saw Rosa’s left hand dart out and grip Mrs. Collard’s wrist.
Instantly, all the ladies gathered around.
“Are you all right, Rosa?” Mrs. Finlayson inquired.
“You’ve gone dreadfully pale,” Miss Weldon observed.
Mrs. Collard closed her hand over Mrs. Cleary’s, shifting her arm to be ready to support her in case she fainted. “Do you need to sit down, dear?”
With the change in positions, Constance found herself standing beside Mrs. Collard. Able to see only Mrs. Cleary’s profile, Constance saw her lower her eyes, until then apparently wide, then Rosa Cleary sucked in a breath, closed her eyes, and briefly shook her head. “No, no—it’s nothing. Just a turn.”
“A turn, dear?” Mrs. Cripps solicitously inquired. “Are you sure?”
Rosa drew in another long, bracing breath and opened her eyes. “Yes. I…sometimes get them. It’s of no moment, I assure you.”
“Oh!” said Miss Weldon. “That must be so trying.”
Along with the other more experienced ladies, Constance wasn’t convinced.
Rosa managed a smile, but it was patently strained. “Indeed, it is.” She dipped her head to Mrs. Collard and included the others with a glance as she said, “Thank you all. I’m quite recovered now.”
As if to demonstrate that, she drew back her hand, stiffened her spine, and waved down the corridor. “We should get on—all the men are before us.”
Constance looked ahead and glimpsed the last of the men turning briskly in to the front hall. They—at least the last stragglers—must have heard the ladies’ exclamations, but in typical male fashion, they hadn’t dallied. No doubt, they were terrified of being drawn into a discussion of some female malady.
Then again, they probably had looked—Constance vaguely thought they had—but the instant Rosa had declared it was nothing, they’d hurried to make themselves scarce.
Considering such behavior nothing more than to be expected of men—gentlemen or otherwise—Constance continued with the other ladies as they made for the drawing room. The tea trolley should have arrived by now.
They reached the front hall, but instead of continuing on, Rosa stepped toward the stairs. She still looked distinctly peaky. “If you would be so good as to make my excuses, I believe I’ll go straight to bed.”
“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Cripps said.
“We’ll tell Mrs. Fitzherbert if she asks, but truthfully, I doubt she’ll notice,” Mrs. Collard said.
“You’re still a trifle pale, my dear,” Mrs. Finlayson said. “We’ll hope it’s nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”
Rosa assured them all that was so. With wishes for a good night’s rest following her, she went upstairs.
Constance noted that Rosa went up rather quickly; she dallied long enough to make sure Rosa didn’t trip or fall, then turning her mind to wondering how to engineer a moment—several moments—alone with Mrs. Cleary on the morrow, Constance followed the other ladies into the drawing room.
She’d been right. The tea trolley had already arrived. With an inward sigh, she lined up to accept her cup of overbrewed tea from Mrs. Fitzherbert’s gnarled hand.
Chapter 4
A piercing scream jerked Constance awake. Eyes wide, she sat up, clutching the covers; her heart thumped, then started to race.
“Oh no. What now?” She scrambled out of the bed, grabbed her night robe, shoved her arms into the sleeves and her feet into her slippers, spared a glance for Mrs. Macomber—still in a drugged sleep—and rushed out of the door. Hurriedly belting the robe, she ran toward where she’d thought the scream had come from—farther along the wing containing the rooms assigned to the ladies of the party.
Toward the end of the corridor, Constance saw a maid, her hands over her mouth, her eyes staring, backing out of a room. The maid’s gaze remained locked on what lay beyond the open door…
Constance’s lungs seized; a sense of looming horror gripped her.
Other doors opened. As Constance sped past, several guests looked out; some—the gentlemen who had spent the night in one or other of the ladies’ rooms—came out and strode after her.
Constance reached the maid, who had halted, frozen, just outside the room. The girl was breathing in ragged gasps.
Constance took the maid by the shoulders and steered her around so her back was to the corridor wall and she was no longer seeing whatever was inside.
Then Constance whirled and, with Guy Walker and Robert Fletcher on her heels, rushed into the room.
They pulled up just beyond the threshold, their feet coming to faltering halts at the sight that met their eyes.
On the bed, Rosa Cleary lay on her back, wide eyes staring upward. Her head was tipped back on the pillow, her mouth partly open as if she’d cried out, and her hands had clenched into claws, gripping the sheets to either side.
Her legs had thrashed violently, churning the covers.
She was very definitely dead.
Constance was dimly aware
of others pushing into the room behind her. Unable to drag her eyes from the sight of a woman who only hours before had been very much alive, giving in to the pressure of bodies behind her, she slowly stepped forward and around the side of the bed.
She looked into Rosa’s face and saw terror etched in her features—in those staring, now-blind eyes with their expression of horrified disbelief.
Several of the ladies had peered in; gasps and wails—quickly cut off—came from beyond the door.
Most of the gentlemen—stony-faced and grim—had pushed into the room, but they remained closely bunched, blocking the door.
Then Percy arrived. “What’s happened?”
Constance tore her gaze from Rosa Cleary’s face and looked up as the gentlemen shuffled and let Percy through, into the clear space at the foot of the bed.
She studied Percy as his gaze fell on Rosa’s body. Already hollow-eyed and pasty, he lost every vestige of color, and his eyes widened until it seemed they would fall from his head. As Constance had done, he stared. “Oh God. No—not Rosa as well.”
His shock and the stunned grief in his voice struck Constance as entirely genuine. No man could be such a good actor.
The gentlemen before the door shifted again, and Edward Mandeville appeared. He walked forward, halting to stand shoulder to shoulder with Percy.
After a second of looking down on Rosa’s body, Edward humphed. “This is very distressing. I heard that she was unwell last night and retired early. Perhaps she had a weak heart.”
Constance frowned. “I don’t think she died of any malady.”