The Vital Principle (17 page)

No man was ever written out of reputation but by himself
. —Richard Bentley, 1662-1742

The moon, sliding toward morning, was still bright enough to shine straight in Knighton’s face. He awoke restless and bathed in the pale, silvery light. As soon as he opened his eyes, his mind dredged up a tangle of questions, including some uncomfortable ones relating to his own motivations. Rolling over, he tried to relax. It was at least an hour before dawn—much too early to rise.

But his conscience pricked him. He’d been unfair to Miss Barnard.

Normally, he prided himself on his impartiality regardless of what he personally thought of the participants in any drama.

However last night, instead of staying indifferent, he’d felt deep anger after Miss Barnard’s extraordinary speech. To make matters worse, his feelings were stronger this morning.

He had no business having
any
feelings during an investigation.

Nonetheless, he couldn’t stop hoping to find her guilty of something, preferably murder. She showed absolutely no remorse for living a life based upon deception. In fact, she made him believe it had been the only course open to her.

The idea was ludicrous.

There were always other choices, including honest ones.

He stretched and crossed his arms under his head. He had to stop letting Miss Barnard distract him. His only interest lay in finding the truth, and there were many others at Rosecrest with much stronger motives for murder. Particularly Mr. Hereford, Lord Thompson, Miss Spencer, and May.

A few minutes later, his decision reversed itself and his unruly mind circled back to Miss Barnard. Her arguments were logical and convincing on the surface. When viewed from the perspective of someone relying on her value as a charming and interesting guest, then rumors regarding her truthfulness dwindled in importance.

How many females, or males for that matter, were really expected to tell the truth during a social call? One might argue it was bad form to be too truthful, which certainly explained why Knighton did not receive a great many invitations. He preferred not to lie outright. And he had chosen employment as an inquiry agent because of that.

Both were poor decisions for a member of the aristocracy. Or a former member, now, as a result of those choices.

In truth, it was possible she had more to lose if her host died than if someone called her a charlatan. Even if she were declared innocent, many of her patrons might decide her involvement in the Crowley affair overrode her dubious charms as an entertaining guest. There were many other entertaining guests eager to do their best to relieve the tedium of a few months in the country.

According to Miss Barnard, her next hostess had already rescinded her invitation, based solely upon the unsavory rumors surrounding Lord Crowley’s death. Should he believe her? She apparently received that information several hours before their conversation. So she’d had sufficient time to understand the ramifications of poisoning Lord Crowley.

Time enough to create a convincing tale to support her innocence.

He leaned back against his pillows, wearily studying his room, painted in shades of gray by the fading moonlight. A good night’s sleep ought to ‘knit the weary sleeve of care’ according to Shakespeare, but thus far, it had only unraveled a few more inches.

Sweating, he threw off the covers and picked up his case book. He wrote out what he knew, seeking clarity. Finally, he stood and stretched, feeling none the wiser for his diligence. The sun seeped through the windows, shining along the edges of his curtains. He realized with a shock that it had risen hours ago. By the angle, he judged it to be well after nine in the morning.

He yanked the bell for Crowley’s valet and poured water into the heavy white bowl to wash away the remnants of sleep. The water, laced with his sweat, burned his eyes. He pushed his face into the water and rinsed it over his neck and scalp.

As the water trickled through his hair, he realized he had neglected an important clue. He should have explored it already, but he’d allowed the question of motive to distract him.

Who had had the Prussic acid?

The murderer must have purchased it somewhere. So this morning, Knighton would initiate inquiries with the apothecaries. The sharp sense of time passing pinched him. If he didn’t make headway soon, he feared the case would dissolve around him.

And an innocent person might suffer the consequences.

The coming inquest would most likely only confuse matters further. And given what he had already discovered, it could very well shatter some already tragically injured lives.

Knighton knew the potential costs for women like Miss Howard only too well. The drive to solve the murder and save her further pain wouldn’t let him rest. If she didn’t have a hand in Lord Crowley's death, she didn’t deserve to be publicly humiliated with tales of what Crowley and Thompson had done to her.

And then there was the maelstrom sure to arise around Miss Spenser and May Allen when it became known Lord Crowley was married—to the upstairs maid.

So there had to be proof somewhere that could help provide a swift and discreet end to the investigation. And he had to admit part of the increasing pressure came from the blow to his pride. He’d been present when it happened.

The murderer had killed his client right in front of him.

He ran the towel over his head and draped it over the narrow rail attached to the side of the wash stand. With the help of Crowley’s valet, he dressed. By ten, he was downstairs. He’d barely walked into the dining room when he was surprised by the sudden arrival of Constable Gretton. The constable, under pressure himself to solve the crime, apparently hoped to arrest someone and present them at the pending inquest.

“Mr. Gretton,” Knighton greeted him with a handshake.

“Mr. Gaunt, the magistrate has requested an interview. He's awaitin' you in the servants' dining hall. If you please.”

“Certainly.” Knighton nodded and followed Mr. Gretton's stocky form as he led the way through a green baize door at the end of the hall. They walked through a narrow corridor, the worn floorboards creaking beneath their footsteps, and down a flight of stairs to the utilitarian space used by the staff.

The dining room itself was surprisingly cozy, situated next to the kitchen. The wall dividing it from the corridor had a series of windows that made the room seem less dark and claustrophobic. A wide, wooden table took up most of the space, with heavy chairs at either end for the butler and housekeeper. Benches stood neatly tucked under the long sides of the table.

An older gentleman of perhaps fifty-five or sixty sat in the butler's chair, watching the door. A neatly trimmed gray mustache and beard hid the jaw line and chin, but Knighton had the distinct impression of a lantern jaw hinting at stubbornness to match the sharp temper hardening his blue eyes. When he caught Knighton's gaze, his mouth pursed as if he’d just bitten into a lemon.

“This here's Mr. Gaunt, sir,” the constable said, standing just inside the door and waving Knighton forward.

“Come in,” the magistrate said. “The coroner and his jury will be here shortly to view the unfortunate deceased. In the meantime, I have a few questions to put to you.”

“I am at your service—”

The magistrate cut him off by slapping his palm on the table. “You're an inquiry agent, sir?”

“Yes, your worship.”

“Hired by the deceased? Lord Crowley?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hmph,” the magistrate snorted impatiently. “For all the good it did him. So an inquiry agent was present at the time the murder was perpetrated, sitting not ten feet away. And yet we cannot identify the culprit?”

“I—”

He slapped the table again. “And we have no one in custody?”

“No, your worship,” Gretton confirmed from the doorway, shaking his head and fixing his gaze on the scarred surface of the table.

“Then I have to wonder what kind of inquiry agent you are, Mr. Gaunt. Well? What have you to say, sir?”

Ice slowly cracked beneath his feet, leaving him balancing precariously above a frigid sweep of deep water. The magistrate hadn't said anything Knighton hadn't already told himself. He was well aware he’d failed his employer in a very public and dramatic way.

However, that didn't make it any easier to hear.

“It was unexpected—” Knighton said.

“I should think so!” The words exploded from the magistrate’s mouth in a shower of spittle. “A sad day it is, too, when a man is poisoned in his own house in front of his guests and his own mother!”

“Lord Crowley requested I come to expose one of his guests as a fraud—”

“Did he have a guest paying for the privilege of staying here?” the magistrate asked in tones liberally laced with sarcasm. “Masquerading as a guest?”

Knighton took a deep breath to quell his anger. The magistrate was clearly mocking him in front of the constable. Gretton stared at the floor and hugged the door, his face showing a desperate desire to be gone. Although to Knighton's surprised gratitude, he’d closed the door to shut out the curious servants, apparently anticipating an uncomfortable interview.

“He felt Miss Barnard was a charlatan taking advantage of his mother's grief by offering to contact the spirit of the late Lord Crowley,” Knighton answered in a calm voice.

“By late, I assume you mean the father of the most recently deceased Lord Crowley?” the magistrate asked. “That late Lord Crowley?”

“Yes, your worship.” Knighton kept his expression and replies properly dispassionate and respectful despite the temptation to answer in kind. “The victim requested I determine if Miss Barnard was a charlatan.”

“And just for the sake of curiosity, was she?”

“In my judgment, yes. In the sense that I believe she can't really communicate with the spirit realm. However, as there is no compensation involved, and she was a guest of the dowager, I couldn’t say she was a fraud. It's akin to any other form of entertainment, on the order of playing the pianoforte. Or a game of whist. Nothing more.”

“And yet, our constable, here, has indicated she is our most likely perpetrator?”

“That was the initial consensus.”

“But you do not agree?”

Again, he felt the ice shift beneath his feet. “The remaining guests are close friends. She is an outsider.” He shrugged. “It was convenient to assume she poisoned Lord Crowley.”

“And you saw nothing to clarify matters?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you considered that the deceased's uncle, Mr. Stephen Hereford, will now inherit? Have you considered that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And still you have no conclusion? Nothing to present at the inquest?”

“I am looking into matters further—”

“Oh, you are, are you?” The magistrate sat back in his chair with a tight little smile on his face. “And we should be reassured by this? When you've done such a fine job of it thus far? When you were in the room when the murder occurred and
saw precisely nothing?
Apparently, it has not occurred to you that Mr. Hereford has a stronger motive than Miss Barnard who was, as near as I can tell, simply an amusing guest?”

“I agree wholeheartedly, your worship,” Knighton replied, hoping to stem the tirade he could see brewing, reflected in the magistrate's increasingly florid complexion. “That's why I wished to remain and continue the investigation. If I may be permitted to do so.”

“Why should we permit this? Can you at least tell us that?”

“I—”

“Because you are Lord Graystone's brother? And you believe this places you in a position to obtain information Constable Gretton may not? Could that be the reason?”

“I may be able to help the constable since I am here, at Rosecrest,” Knighton agreed. “And the guests have accepted me.”

“I suppose that means they're happy to confide their little secrets to you?”

“Some,” Knighton replied, thinking about Miss Howard and May. He ought to pass the information to the magistrate. In fact, he’d be in serious difficulties if it came out that he knew something germane to the case and didn’t inform the magistrate, but he was reluctant to do so.

If the information came out during the inquest, so be it. For now, he wouldn’t volunteer it until he had a better notion of what was, and was not, important.

The magistrate studied him. Slowly, the anger in his blue eyes diminished, although his voice was still sharp with sarcasm when he said, “And my constable needs that help. He does well enough in the village. But not here.” He turned his piercing gaze on Gretton. “And no more jumping to conclusions, Mr. Gretton. I don't want to hear speculation without proof. You will not drag Miss Barnard, or any other guest of the dowager's, into my court as a suspect unless you catch her trying to purchase poison. Or she confesses. There will be no claims of miscarriage of justice. Not with the Crowleys involved. Is that clear?”

“Yes, your worship,” the constable agreed quickly.

“And you, Mr. Gaunt, will report daily to the constable. Or directly to me. This will be a delicate process to question those present. I hold you responsible for maintaining cordial relations as much as possible. We may wish to obtain written statements to read at the inquest for those whose positions make it untenable to be called forward to face such questioning. The dowager, for example.” Even the magistrate appeared subdued and uncomfortable at the concept of dragging in the dowager, or members of the peerage such as Lord Thompson, to the local inn to be questioned by the coroner and his jury of twelve stalwart souls from the village.