Finished Off (A Bellehaven House Mystery Book 2) (14 page)

Willoughby nodded. "Funny thing, I spoke to Claude right after we heard the fire bell ringing. Sounds like someone's got a good one burning, I sez to Claude. He agreed with me, never dreaming it was his own family going up in smoke."

Meredith suppressed a shiver. "So he was here all that evening?"

"All evening and all night long." His expression changed. "Did his wife send you?"

Meredith frowned. "No, she didn't. She doesn't know I'm here."

Willoughby puffed out his breath. "Oh, good. I thought maybe she was checking up on him, so to speak."

"I think she knows where her husband spends his evenings," Meredith said primly.

"Ah, but she don't know with whom, do she." Willoughby glanced at Reggie, who leaned forward, hanging on to every word. "Perhaps I shouldn't say."

"Shouldn't say what, Mr. Willoughby?" Meredith sent Reggie a warning look to keep silent.

"Well, let us just say that Claude wasn't exactly alone that night, if you get my meaning. Getting to be quite a habit with him, it is."

"I see." Meredith gathered up her handbag and stood. Willoughby stood up with her, while Reggie rose more slowly, draining his glass as he did so. "I think you've answered my questions satisfactorily, Mr. Willoughby. I'll be on my way now." She glared at Reggie, whose head was tilted back in an effort to drain every drop of ale.

Willoughby rubbed his hands together, as if he felt a chill. "I'd be obliged if you didn't bring my name into this," he said as he led her to the door. "I don't want Claude taking his temper out on me when his wife finds out what he's been up to and all."

"You misunderstand me, Mr. Willoughby." Meredith paused in the doorway. "Mrs. Lewis will not find out from me or from my driver that her husband is not to be trusted. I'll leave that in the hands of the gossips. I'm sure word will get to her sooner or later. Thank you for your time."

She swept out of the building and hurried over to the carriage. Claude Lewis may not be a murderer, as she had at first suspected, but he was every bit as despicable as she had imagined. She felt quite sorry for Amanda. She deserved better. Much better.

As for her investigation, all her efforts had revealed nothing, except that Claude was obviously not guilty of setting fire to his brother's house. What's more, she was at a complete loss as to how to proceed from there.

Walking into the school later that afternoon, Meredith was surprised to see Felicity hurrying toward her. She had warned both of her friends to keep her absence a secret from Sylvia Montrose, if at all possible. Judging by the expression on Felicity's face, it seemed likely that one of them had failed to do so.

To her utter dismay, it was worse than that.

"Hamilton," Felicity barked as soon as she was within earshot. "He's waiting for you in your office and he's not too happy."

"Drat." Meredith glanced at the grandfather clock in the hall. Almost half past three. "How long has he been here?"

"Since noon. He had dinner in the dining room with the rest of us. Sat there with a face like thunder."

"What did you tell him?"

"Only that you had important errands to run." Felicity shook her head. "If you are going to insist on running all over town to assist someone who has already passed on, you might want to consider that what goes on in the hereafter is not nearly as important as your life in the here and now."

Already feeling out of sorts after her fruitless outing, which had been little more than a waste of time, not to mention the looming task of placating an angry Hamilton, Meredith sharpened her tongue. "I'm well aware of that, Felicity. You can stop worrying, however. Since it appears I am not capable of unraveling the mystery surrounding the deaths of the Lewis family, I am simply . . ." She flung out a hand in a dramatic gesture. "Giving up."

Felicity stared at her in astonishment. "Giving up?
You?
I don't believe it."

"Well, believe it." Meredith lifted her hands to unpin her hat. "My head is spinning with all the perhaps and maybes, the ifs and buts. I'm quite done with it all." Hat in hand, she marched down the corridor to her office, turned the handle, and thrust the door open.

Hamilton stood at the window, his back toward her as he gazed out at the lawns. Roger Platt sat at her desk, laboriously writing in a ledger. He looked up as she stepped inside the room and closed the door behind her.

"Oh, there you are, Mrs. Llewellyn," he murmured in his smarmy voice. "We were wondering what had become of you." He glanced at the broad back of Hamilton, as if expecting him to turn and vent his wrath on his wayward headmistress.

Instead, the gentleman kept his gaze on the view outside. "Mr. Pratt," he said, his voice devoid of emotion, "I would appreciate it if you would leave the room. I have matters to discuss with Mrs. Llewellyn."

Meredith's stomach gave a nervous little jump.

"It's Platt, sir." Roger sent her a look that could only be described as patronizing. He closed the ledger, stuck it under his arm, and left the room.

Meredith hung her hat on the hat stand, then moved around the desk to her chair and sat down. Being in the familiar position gave her confidence, and she directed her gaze on Hamilton's back. "Good afternoon, Mr. Hamilton."

"Mrs. Llewellyn." He turned then, and again her stomach skipped when she saw his stern expression. "I must ask you to explain your lengthy absence today. I understand you made use of the horse and carriage."

She met his gaze, even though the fluttering in her stomach was becoming quite uncomfortable. "Yes, I did. I needed to go into Witcheston to run some errands."

"I see." He pursed his lips, and her insides reacted in that ridiculous predictable manner. "I hope it had nothing to do with your health?"

She gave him a blank look. "My health?"

"Yes, I . . . ah . . . everyone I talked to went to great lengths to avoid telling me the reason for your absence, so I . . . ah . . . was wondering if perhaps you were visiting a physician."

Good heavens. Could the man possibly be concerned about her? Smiling, she answered, "I was not visiting a doctor, Mr. Hamilton. I am in good health. My visit to Witcheston concerned another matter which had to be attended to today. My absence in no way affected the students, since I gave them an assignment in lieu of their class."

He continued to stare at her, as if expecting her to explain further. She glanced down at her hands, unwilling to lie to him, and unable to tell him the truth.

"Well," he said at last. "I'm happy to hear you are not ailing. I do hope your . . . matter was resolved to your satisfaction."

"Thank you, it was."
Not really
, she added inwardly, but it would hardly be prudent to inform him that she was investigating the possibility of murder and had failed miserably in her attempts.

"I called today to ask how Pratt was working out."

She studied him briefly, wondering if he deliberately mispronounced the young man's name, and if it was some kind of test. Deciding she was being foolish, she murmured, "Mr.
Platt
seems adequate so far. He hasn't been here long enough to give a fair evaluation of his skills."

"Quite, quite." His gaze sharpened. "No . . . ah . . . problems with the young ladies, then, as you feared?"

Remembering the incident in the music room, Meredith bit her tongue. "Nothing that I wasn't able to contend with," she said evenly.

Hamilton nodded. "Good, good." He hesitated for a moment, then added, "Then I'll be off and leave you to get on with your work."

He started to move away, and deciding this was as good a time as any, Meredith held up her hand. "One moment, Mr. Hamilton, if I may, I'd like to have a word with you about something?"

"Of course."

He looked expectant, and Meredith glanced down at her hands again. If he was waiting for her to tell him where she had gone that morning, he was doomed to disappointment. She paused for a moment, then lifted her head.

"I was wondering if it is at all possible for us to acquire another horse."

His eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline. "Another
horse
? Whatever for?"

Taking offense at his tone, Meredith bristled. "To pull the carriage, of course. Major is getting old and I don't like to burden him. He tires easily, and could do an injury to himself if pushed too far."

Hamilton's eyebrows lowered only slightly. "I wasn't aware that you used the carriage that much."

She took a deep breath. This investigation was causing far more complications than she had ever imagined. It was definitely time to reconsider her course of action. "I'm finding the need to go farther afield in the interests of the school," she said, hoping it wasn't too much of a lie.

After all, she consoled herself, being badgered by a ghost desperate for her help affected her concentration, which adversely affected her performance in the classroom. Therefore, she was quite justified in trying to remedy the situation in the only way she knew how—to clear the way for the ghost to pass on.

Hamilton's skepticism was evident by his expression. "I trust this is not a permanent condition. If so, I shall have to assign such duties to Pratt. We can't have our headmistress obliged to run all over the countryside while her pupils are confined to their rooms with assignments."

Meredith was beginning to wish heartily that she'd never mentioned acquiring another horse. After all, if she no longer intended to pursue the matter of the Lewis family's deaths, there would be no need for another horse.

"I can see that my request is not favorably received," she said, trying to keep the resentment out of her voice. "Therefore, I withdraw it. We will make do with Major."

He continued to regard her until she was forced to drop her gaze. "Very well. I wish you good day."

She didn't look up again until the door had closed behind him. Insufferable man! Why did he make her feel as though she were a child in the presence of a forbidding parent? What did he know about managing a school, anyway? Why couldn't he simply trust her judgment instead of questioning her every move?

Thoroughly incensed, she glared as the door opened and Roger Platt strolled in.

He took one look at her expression and his grin faded. "Mr. Hamilton said I should return, but if you wish me to leave you alone—"

"No. I have a rehearsal in the music room in ten minutes." She got up from her chair. "You may have my desk back."

"Yes, m'm." He waited for her to move out from the desk, then laid the ledger down. "I trust Mr. Hamilton had no problems with my work?"

Obviously he was concerned she might have complained
about him, and rightly so, Meredith thought, with unaccustomed malice. "Not so far, as yet," she said, her voice curt. "You may carry on, Mr. Platt. I need you to start work on those proposals for the next fund-raiser."

"Yes, m'm." He sounded subdued, and she allowed herself a little smile of satisfaction. That young gentleman needed a firm hand, and she was quite capable of administering it, as he would no doubt find out if he crossed her again.

Frowning, she charged down the corridor to the music room, hoping that her choir were on their best behavior so that she could restore her good humor.

Meredith retired early to bed that night, exhausted
from the tumult of the day. The rehearsal had not gone well. The students had begun to show signs of stage fright, with only one more rehearsal before their big day.

After several false starts they finally got through the program, but it still sounded ragged, and Meredith had to seriously consider adding another rehearsal.

Moreover, both Felicity and Essie wanted to know every detail of her visit to Witcheston. Depressed by her lack of progress, Meredith was in no mood to discuss it, and it didn't help when Felicity chided her for giving up so easily.

What with trying to keep up with her duties at the school, keep Roger Platt in his place, and avoid arousing Stuart Hamilton's curiosity about her activities, Meredith just could not envision wasting any more time on such a fruitless endeavor.

Still trying to make up her mind whether or not she should go to the constabulary with her suspicions, she fell into an uneasy slumber, only to be awakened shortly after by the familiar chill in the room.

"Emma?" She sat up in bed, squinting in the darkness at the green glow in the corner. It seemed to fade, then burn a little brighter. Reaching for her lamp, she sighed.
Somehow she would have to make the child understand that she was unable to help her. She wasn't even certain that a murder had been committed, much less who could have been responsible and why.

The light flared from her match, and then, as she held it to the wick, the warm glow filled the room. She couldn't see Emma clearly, just a vague shape of her enveloped in a wispy cloud that ebbed and flowed.

"I went to your house," Meredith said, peering hard at the cloud in the hopes of seeing Emma's face. "I saw your room. It was very nice."

The mist thickened, then faded again.

Meredith tried again. "I found the horse statuette. It was on the floor of your parents' bedroom."

This time the cloud grew bigger, swirling around as if a tornado were whirling inside it. The vague figure in the middle became more distinct—the outline of a child, then her face, then her features.

At last, Meredith could see her expression. The child was crying.

"I believe someone else was there," Meredith said quickly. "Someone who wanted to hurt your parents. But I don't know how to find out who it was, or even to prove that the fire wasn't an accident. I tried, but—"

She broke off as Emma raised an arm. The child's finger pointed to her bedside table.

Following the gesture, Meredith frowned. There was nothing on the table but the oil lamp, its flame wafting back and forth as if caught in a draft.

She looked back at Emma, whose finger still steadily pointed at the table. "I don't understand, Emma. What are you trying to tell me?"

Emma's fingers closed into a fist, and slowly, she lifted her elbow and tilted her hand inward.