The Vital Principle (13 page)

“With me?” She looked up in alarm and pricked her finger with her needle. She inhaled and sucked her finger for a moment before studying her work for staining. It was white-on-white embroidery, and she examined it front and back before glancing up again in relief. “Thank goodness. This is a christening robe for my aunt’s new son—I’ve been so nervous about ruining it.”

“Congratulations to your aunt, Miss Spencer.” He bowed.

She smiled but her eyes flicked past his face toward the door. Her jerky movements reflected her nervousness. “Thank you.”

He moved to the chair opposite her. “May I?”

“Certainly!” She moved her sewing basket to wedge it between her chair legs and the wall.

With an air of relaxed casualness, he placed the book Denham had given him on the table and cleared his throat.

Her eyes flashed to the volume and then to his face. “Oh!” she exclaimed before he spoke. “You’ve been talking to Geo—Mr. Denham?”

A curious slip…
.

“Yes. I met him in the library this morning. He leant me his copy of Miss Barnard’s book. Have you read it?”

“Oh, yes. Mr. Denham leant it to me last year. I enjoyed it very much.”

“I hadn’t realized you and Mr. Denham knew each other so well.”

“He’s a close friend of my betrothed. Of course I knew, um,
know
him. That is, he
was
Lord Crowley's friend. I could hardly avoid him, they were such dear friends.” She dropped her sewing on her lap and clasped her hands on top of it. Her face assumed an earnest expression. “Oh, this is dreadful, isn’t it?”

“Yes. However, it must be comforting to have friends near at a difficult time like this.”

Her face assumed a strangely blank expression as she picked up her embroidery. She used her fingernail to push the needle out after she’d wedged it in the material near the wooden frame when he sat down. After pricking herself again, she sighed and dropped it once more to her lap. When she glanced up and caught his gaze, her eyelashes fluttered violently. She shifted in her seat and transferred her gaze to her embroidery.

“This is dreadful!” she exclaimed. “Our families were so pleased when Lord Crowley announced our engagement. I hardly know what to think.”

“And of course, you were pleased at the announcement?”

“Oh, yes. Of course. His family is very well respected.”

“And well off?”

“Yes. I was fortunate he offered for me. My portion is not large, you see, and after two Seasons…. Well, I was grateful when Lady Crowley presumed upon her friendship with my mother to suggest this arrangement. Everyone agreed it was best for all involved. And as it happened, the dowager’s husband passed away a few weeks after the engagement was announced. We were fortunate he lived long enough to alleviate his worry that his son might not find a suitable wife—” She pressed her fingers against her mouth. “I beg your pardon. You must forgive me, I’m very upset.”

“Of course.” He smiled and wished he dared to ask if the senior Lord Crowley had been worried because his son, Henry, had been attracted to women of the lower classes. The notion seemed fairly obvious, now, considering Crowley's secret marriage and his father's concerns. However, Miss Spencer seemed unlikely to confirm his suspicions, despite her inadvertent revelation. “It’s entirely understandable. Don’t distress yourself. Anything you mention to me is quite confidential.”

“You’re very kind. I feel dreadfully sorry for Miss Barnard, despite her deplorable behavior.”

“Then you think it likely she was involved in Lord Crowley’s accident?”

“Why, no. No. I meant, well, she travels quite independently, doesn’t she?” she said slowly.

“I see. So you don’t believe she’s responsible for the death of your betrothed?”

“No. I—I felt a chill pass me, as I said. A spirit. That’s what murdered my betrothed. It’s so dreadful to think no one believes me. And that Miss Barnard might be blamed for something she didn’t do. Geo—Mr. Denham indicated this morning that her arrest was imminent. When will it happen?”

“I believe our initial assessment may have been premature.”

“Oh! Does that mean she will not be arrested?”

“No. At least it’s unlikely at this point.”

“Oh, that’s lovely.” She smiled. “I’ve always been so fond of Miss Barnard.”

“Fond of Miss Barnard? I thought you only knew of her through her writing. Have you met her before?”

“Why, yes! I simply had to read her book after meeting her. Several of us were at Houpton House when she and her father investigated poor Suzanne's fate. What a lark! I was only eighteen then, of course, but it was terribly exciting.” She leaned forward, her blue eyes gleaming. “Mr. Denham was thirty and so—well, never mind. And Miss Barnard was simply the cleverest lady! My mother let me attend one evening, and we gathered at midnight to see her work.” She shivered and rubbed her arms with ill-concealed excitement. “It was frigidly cold in that corridor in front of Miss Suzanne’s door. I nearly fainted dead away when the moaning started. But Miss Barnard ignored it with the most amazing courage! She found gaps where she claimed the air was being forced through, causing the dreadful sounds and freezing temperatures.”

“Fascinating,” he murmured.

She touched her fingertips lightly to a blond curl dangling in front of her ear. “I’ve always thought, despite what Miss Barnard said, that there was something mysterious about that house. And Geo—Mr. Denham agrees. He’s an artist, you understand, and is more sensitive than many other men. I’m ever so sure he’s correct. Miss Barnard may have explained one phenomena, but you’d be wrong to conclude there are no unnatural events that can—and do—occur around us every day.

“Why, even Miss Barnard has seen the truth of this! Just last night Lady Crowley’s husband spoke through her. She’s obviously seen there is more to life than the dreary mundane world we see around us. Don’t you agree, Mr. Gaunt?”

“That is certainly an interesting explanation,” he temporized, searching for a way to broach the subject of Lord Crowley’s married status. He wanted to avoid alarming Miss Spencer, or giving her more information than necessary, which would only complicate matters.

Before he could decide, George Denham strode into the room. He headed for Miss Spencer and stopped abruptly when he caught sight of Knighton.

“You! I thought you were in the library?”

Knighton smiled. “I was. However after you left, I got restless and found Miss Spencer.”

Denham glared at him and walked over to stand by Miss Spencer’s chair. He placed a hand on the back of it and Miss Spencer flicked a quick glance up at him. “He isn’t pestering you, is he?”

“Oh, no.” She smiled graciously. “I was just telling him about poor Miss Suzanne, and how Miss Barnard proved she wasn’t a ghost at all.”

Instead of making Denham happy, this remark made his brows snap down, shadowing his hazel eyes until they grew muddy brown. “He already knows about that. I told him downstairs not a half-hour ago.”

“I hadn’t realized Miss Spencer and the Crowleys were also at Houpton House,” Knighton interposed. “It must have been an interesting party.”

“Yes. We had several guests that weekend, including Lady Howard and her daughter, and the Jekylls. There was nothing unusual about it. We were all friends—are still, though we shall miss Lord Crowley, of course. Don’t you have anything better to do than creep about disturbing those in mourning?”

Knighton glanced at Miss Spencer’s clothing. She was wearing a dove gray dress with black rosettes sewn around the hem and up the front. The pale color emphasized the blue of her eyes and white-blond hair and looked more modish than funereal.

There were no dark circles under her eyes, nor any puffiness. Nothing indicated a sleepless night, or undue grief over the death of her betrothed except her nervousness. She repeatedly glanced from Knighton to Denham and ran her fingers over the embroidery in her lap. Her fingernail picked at the stitches.

“I hope I haven’t upset or offended you, Miss Spencer?” Knighton asked, aware of how fleeting opportunities to question the guests would be. He wished Denham would leave.

“Not at all. To own the truth, I was thankful when you came into the room. All I could think about was poor Lord Crowley and Miss Barnard, and it was too distressing by far. She simply
couldn’t
have poisoned him, could she? It must have been the apparition I felt.”

“Well, it could have been one of the others.”

“Oh, no. Not one of us,” Miss Spencer said. “Couldn’t it have been just an accident? Truly?”

“Doubtful.” He summoned the nerve to try a different and much bolder approach. With a relaxed smile, he said, “Of course, I suppose it’s possible the maid poisoned him. What was her name? Do you recall?”

“I beg your pardon?” Miss Spencer asked, her eyes growing round. “The
maid
? Why would she poison anyone?” Her expression showed nothing except confusion.

For his part, Denham appeared equally confused.

Knighton nodded. “She
is
the one who tripped, causing the confusion necessary to administer the Prussic acid in Lord Crowley’s brandy.”

“Anyone can trip,” Miss Spencer said. “I’ve done so many times on that carpet. There’s something dreadfully wrong with it. I told Lord Crowley several weeks ago that after we were married, I’d like that carpet replaced with something in brighter colors.” She waved her hand. “Along the lines of this room. This is the only room I truly enjoy at Rosecrest. Lady Crowley has done a marvelous job with it, hasn’t she? She renovated it just a few months ago, after we announced our engagement.”

Knighton agreed before asking, “Can you think of anyone else, then, who may have wanted to harm Lord Crowley?”

She shook her head and glanced up at Denham. He also shook his head, keeping his gaze on her face.

“I suppose the butler is also out of the question?”

“Why would the servants bother?” Denham asked. “He’s their employer. Even if they hate him, they aren’t going to kill him. If they don’t like it here, they can always leave service. Or find another situation.”

“What if he gave them bad references? Or no references at all?”

“Crowley? No. He was fair, I’ll say that for him. I’ve hired a few of his staff over the years, myself. Took on his cook last Christmas—left him in a bit of a pickle, I don’t mind saying—what with the holidays and a house full of guests. But he wrote her a damned fine reference nonetheless.” Denham seemed to enjoy the remembrance.

“Friendly competition?” Knighton asked.

He grinned. “Why not? We’ve known each other our entire lives. We went to the same schools and naturally competed. I suppose you could say it started in Oxford.” He shrugged. “And it made life more interesting, didn’t it?”

“I suppose, unless you became jealous—”

“Jealous? Of Crowley? No.” He chuckled. “I wasn’t jealous of him in the way you mean. We were friends, but I don’t mind saying he often had rather low tastes.” He glanced down at Miss Spencer, before adding hastily, “Nothing that needs to be discussed here.”

Knighton wasn’t entirely satisfied that George Denham and Miss Spencer were unaware of just how low Lord Crowley’s tastes had driven him. However, he doubted he’d get more information from either of them, not when they were together at any rate. Denham would never reveal anything unpleasant in front of a lady. Particularly Miss Spencer.

Whatever secrets the past held, there had to be something unpleasant enough to lead to Lord Crowley’s death.

It was just a matter of shining a light in the proper direction.

I decline to buy repentance at the cost of ten thousand drachmas
. —Demosthenes, c. 384-322 B.C.

Saturday evening, October 10

To the surprise of everyone, the dowager felt strong enough to join her guests for dinner. Pru was further disconcerted when the dowager requested her to sit on her left where Lady Howard usually sat. When they arrived at the fruit course, the dowager finally revealed why.

“Miss Barnard, I have a favor to ask.” She pushed away the remnants of her apple tart. “I should like you to arrange another sitting. Tomorrow night. I’d like to speak to my son.”

“Your son?” Pru replied, startled. “I’m not sure—”

“It is the only way we will ever know.”

The dead man’s cold hand seemed to grip Pru's throat. She took a sip of water before speaking, trying to organize her thoughts. “Lady Crowley, is this wise? You've already suffered so many shocks…. And we can’t be sure he'll communicate with us.”

Lady Crowley focused her red-rimmed eyes on Pru’s face. Pru shifted uncomfortably under her regard. The dowager’s face was gray and haggard, but there was determination in her faded blue eyes. Pru felt a surge of pity, but the emotion could not bring Lord Crowley back. He was gone, and it was cruel to raise the dowager's hopes.

“His murderer is here!” The dowager’s gaze swept the room. “Therefore, you’ll try, won’t you? You must!”

“Of course,” Pru replied, her resolve crumbling. “But don't expect too much. Lord Crowley may not be aware of what happened. He may have nothing but his own confusion to relate.”

“Surely he’d know what occurred?”

Pru’s cheeks grew warm. The sensation of someone watching her grew, reaching uncomfortable proportions. A quick glance confirmed that Mr. Gaunt was examining her, his mouth twisted into a cynical smile. Her chin rose in defiance. She turned to face her hostess.

“He may not be aware,” she stated, again. “My father held a theory that some odd occurrences could be due simply to the confused consciousness of victims who had died and not realized it. He didn’t believe death would necessarily reveal all to the deceased.”

“And what do you believe?” Mr. Gaunt asked.

The muscles in her jaw grew tight, but she glanced at him briefly. “I believe it’s a theory worthy of consideration. We weren’t privileged to prove it while he lived.”

Lord Thompson snorted and wiped his mouth before speaking. “Sounds damn convenient to me. Means you can scratch any confusing mess of words on your slate and be believed.”

“It means nothing of the sort,” she replied, trying to keep her voice light and amused. “And I promise we’ll try, Lady Crowley. Tomorrow night.”

She glanced briefly at Mr. Gaunt, wishing she could discover enough to identify the murderer by tomorrow night. It would be the perfect opportunity. The papers she had seen him discover earlier leapt to mind, but their usefulness was questionable. They didn’t seem to have helped Mr. Gaunt. He was still busy questioning everyone.

And yet, they might tell her something he’d overlook. She was at least glancingly familiar with most of the guests. The only question was if she could get them away from him long enough to peruse them.

Some remained in the desk in the library. She had seen him replace them in the drawer. But he also folded up what appeared to be a letter and put it in his pocket. Suddenly, she felt an urgent desire to read that document. Someone at Rosecrest had murdered Lord Crowley and there had to be evidence of a motive. No matter what the others believed, she had not laced his brandy with Prussic acid.

Even if she’d wanted to do so at least once since her arrival at Rosecrest.

“Well, I, for one, have no intention of being party to such a farce.” Lord Thompson threw his napkin down on the table next to his plate. Pru noticed wryly that he had waited until he had finished his tartlet before making his sanctimonious declaration. “It’s absurd.”

The dowager lumbered to her feet, leaning heavily against the edge of the table. “You
will
participate, young man. And I should think you’d want to. He claimed you were friends. If you were, then you should be as anxious as I am to hear the truth.”

“I beg your pardon, Lady Crowley,” Lord Thompson said stiffly. “Of course I wish to know the truth. But you can’t seriously believe—”

She cut him off. “What I believe is not your concern. Miss Barnard, your arm. Ladies, we will now retire to the yellow sitting room.”

Shortly after the dowager settled into her chair by the fire, Pru pleaded a headache. However, while she easily escaped from the ladies, she needed another excuse if anyone caught her wandering around the house. So treading lightly, she went downstairs to the library. The door was open. She paused in the doorway, studying the shadows and listening. There was no sound of anyone moving in the room.

The gentlemen must have remained in the dining room. With luck, when they were done, they’d join the ladies in the sitting room. She started to walk in the direction of the desk when she paused, glancing at the shelves and then back at the door. A light step went past.

Unnerved, she edged toward the bookcase and selected a book to prepare a reason for her presence. Ironically, the book was the one she’d found on her previous visit to the room, Ovid’s
Metamorphosis
. The shelf above it contained a Latin dictionary and she took that, too. Then she opened
Metamorphosis
to the third page, the point at which she’d stopped reading three years ago on the day when her father suffered his fatal heart attack. It was a bare two months after the publication of the first volume of his life’s work,
Spectres of Surrey and Sussex
.

Still, if questioned, she’d remember those first few pages of
Metamorphosis
. She would never forget them.

Going through the desk drawers quickly, she removed items of interest and closed each drawer carefully before reading through what she had found. Her pulse raced. Anyone entering would notice if he heard her close a drawer, particularly Mr. Gaunt. He seemed to notice everything. And he’d know she was not simply sitting there, reading Ovid.

She couldn’t afford to increase his suspicions of her.

A book of accounts interested her and after a brief hesitation, she slipped it into her pocket for later perusal. In another drawer, she found a letter from Lord Crowley’s neighbor, Mr. Jekyll. She read through it and put it back in the drawer. There was nothing else of interest.

Had Mr. Gaunt removed everything of relevance? Would he keep the letters on his person, or would he leave them in his room?

She didn’t think he’d leave them out for anyone to find. But it seemed just as unlikely that he’d tuck them into his evening jacket when he went to dinner.

Frustrated, she collected Ovid and the dictionary. They served as her excuse for not being in her room. Then she slipped up the stairs, pausing outside the yellow sitting room. Inside, the voices of men and women rose and fell. There was no laughter, just the soft sounds of muted conversations. And although it was difficult to be sure, she thought she heard Mr. Gaunt’s low voice talking to the dowager.

The trip to the men’s wing would be difficult to explain if she were caught, but she had to take the risk. She could claim to be searching for someone, or something. Or simply say she was lost.

Thankfully, she saw no one as she entered the wide hallway. The Crowleys had thoughtfully placed placards on the doors to help their guests find their rooms. The information now prevented Pru from accidentally ending up in the wrong chamber. Mr. Gaunt had been placed in a smallish suite almost at the end of the corridor, by the servants' stair. The Jekylls shared the more spacious corner rooms at the very end.

Glancing up and down the shadowy hall, she knocked briefly on Mr. Gaunt’s door. After a minute, she entered and closed the door behind her. She leaned against the wooden panels, heart pounding.

The furniture and decorations were unabashedly masculine. The bed, wardrobe and chest were massive oak pieces with stark lines. A table flanked by two chairs stood near the windows, which were open despite the chilly autumn breeze. Paintings of dogs and horses graced the walls, against a background of green-and-gold flocked paper above oak wainscoting. Over the bed hung a beautiful painting of a stormy ocean in muted grays and deep blue that drew her eyes.

How she longed to escape the claustrophobic confines of Rosecrest.

She sighed, reluctant to pry, but determined to find any evidence that might exonerate her. She couldn’t rely on Mr. Gaunt. She had to defend herself.

The first, most obvious place was under the mattress. Feeling like a thief, she thrust her hands under the edge and ran her fingers along the ropes suspending it within the bed frame, but her search discovered nothing except a few loose knots. The pillows were equally free of foreign objects. Standing next to the bed, she surveyed the room for more likely hiding places. The chest and wardrobe caught her increasingly frantic gaze. A floorboard somewhere creaked. She stilled, unable to breathe. Finally, she shook off her nerves and searched the wardrobe. Nothing. The chest was equally unrewarding. She pulled one of the chairs over to the wardrobe and stood up on it to feel along the top of the heavy piece of furniture. Nothing but a few puffs of dust.

She stifled a sneezed and froze to listen. Silence.

The writing table contained nothing except a sheaf of expensive paper and a bottle of lavender ink. Frustrated, she shook the bottle and held it up to the candle. Lavender? What an odd shade to place in a man’s quarters.

Grimacing, she again stood in the center, turning slowly and trying to think calmly despite her frantic heartbeat. Where would she put secret papers?

The richly colored portrait of a pack of beagles opposite the bed caught her eye. She moved closer, smiling at the exuberance of the painted animals’ lolling tongues and bright eyes. Then she noticed the painting was slightly askew. She tried to straighten it, but it kept wanting to sag to the left. Lifting the edge of the frame, she peeked behind it. A piece of wire stretched between two small nails opposite each other in the left bottom corner. Between the wire and the edge of the frame rested a small bundle of paper.

Pru paused, listening. The house seemed eerily devoid of life. The silence increased her tension, making her feel that someone waited nearby, watching her. Smoothing her hand over her hip, she waited, concentrating. Nothing except the throbbing of her heart.

She eased the packet out and carefully picked at the red wax seal to open it. After pausing to listen again, she skimmed the contents. Shock dripped past the collar of her gown like melting ice. Her hands shook.

Lord Crowley had wanted to divorce May Allen?

She reread it to be sure, wondering who else had seen the letter. Had Mr. Gaunt already shown this to Lady Crowley? Should Pru tell her? It might comfort her to hear Lord Crowley hadn’t completely lost all sense of status and position? Somehow, she wasn't sure if the information would make the dowager any happier.

Concentrating, she read through the remaining papers. Unfortunately, nothing else contained information as interesting as the letter to a lawyer. She folded up the papers and used her candle to warm the red wax seal. After carefully reapplying the seal, she replaced the packet behind the picture. She stepped back and eyed the painting to make sure it hung straight. Finally, she escaped from the room and closed the door quietly behind her.

The hallway was still deserted when she swept through clutching her books. At the head of the stairs, she paused. She could hear the voices of the guests growing louder. They were leaving the sitting room and coming upstairs.

“Miss Barnard!” Mr. Gaunt stood a few steps below her on the stairs with a lean hand gripping the railing. “We thought you had retired for the evening.” He stepped up to the landing where she stood and glanced over her shoulder at the long corridor stretching out beyond her.

She smiled and held up her two books. “I wanted something to help my headache. Attempting to translate Latin may make me forget about it. Don’t you find it so?”

“Yes, well, we missed you.”

“Surely you could have persuaded Miss Howard to play. I’ve heard her on the pianoforte, and she’s quite good.”

The other guests flowed around them, their steps dragging as they moved toward their rooms. Pru nodded as they bid good night. Everyone looked tired and nervous in the flickering candlelight.

“No one desired music,” Mr. Gaunt replied.

“That's too bad. And you'll have to wait until tomorrow for my poor entertainment, fraudulent though it may be.”

He stared at her searchingly before smiling. Her breathing hitched in response to something in his twisted grin. She glanced away, blaming her sudden nervousness on her clandestine search of his quarters.

“Perhaps. However, it was your conversation that we missed, Miss Barnard.”

“I see,” she replied lightly. “I’d have thought you’d be sick of the sound of my voice after chattering so much during dinner.”

He seemed about to say more, but he finally smiled again and bid her goodnight. She watched him walk away, her heart still thudding too swiftly for comfort.