The Vital Principle (4 page)

Another wave of tiredness washed over him. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Perhaps he’d be lucky and find a quick answer to this mystery. Then, he could safely leave it in the hands of the constable. Based upon Crowley’s request, the circumstances of his death certainly pointed to one person. He studied Miss Barnard, wishing she’d lose some of her composure, break down, and save them all a great deal of trouble by confessing.

Then he realized someone else in the room also had a motive, and it was one of the best known reasons for murder. The quiet, soft-spoken Mr. Stephen Hereford would now inherit the baron's title and the estate. Rosecrest would be his.

While Knighton studied the guests, Miss Barnard bent over Lady Crowley’s shoulder and whispered into her ear.

Lady Crowley gazed up at her and patted Miss Barnard's wrist. She rose, bracing her hands tiredly against the edge of the table. “I believe I should like to retire,” she said, her voice wavering. “I…I can’t….” She lifted her eyes to Miss Barnard as her expression crumbled. “You must tend to him. Send for a doctor. There may be hope, yet. There
must
be. Perhaps it is only his heart after all. He drinks so much, you know. Too much….”

“I'll care for him,” Miss Barnard said softly. “You must retire and rest.”

When Miss Barnard caught Knighton’s gaze, she stared back with defiance, her dark eyes reflecting the flames from the candles on the table between them. Her expression grew watchful, as if waiting for his reaction.

He couldn’t help but admire her self-possession. If she were rattled or afraid, she didn’t show it. Again, he felt an unwanted sense of attraction. Although she appeared closer to thirty than twenty, her cool confidence, regular features, and beautiful, clean profile drew him. Strength and resolution showed clearly in her face.

She exhibited none of the nervousness that made him so impatient with most women, and that, more than anything, increased his awareness of her.

When he didn’t speak, Miss Barnard said, “Lady Crowley is exhausted. And I’m sure the other ladies are tired, as well. Please excuse us.” She slipped her arm around Lady Crowley, who leaned heavily against her. Mr. Hereford stepped closer awkwardly and held out his arm in a half-way position as if he wanted to assist his sister-in-law but was unsure how to do so. Or feared she’d reject him.

She ignored him. He dropped his hand self-consciously and his face grew even grayer. His expression was so desolate, his eyes so full of hopelessness, that Knighton felt a sudden certainty that Mr. Hereford could never have poisoned his nephew.

“This has been a terrible shock for her. For all of us,” George Denham replied quickly. “I can't understand this—how could this happen? Why?”

“Hardly surprising,” Lord Thompson said. “Your mental agility was always somewhat flat-footed, Denham. Though even you should find this comprehensible enough.”

Denham flushed but refused to respond to Thompson's baiting. He shook his head. Clearly, he knew the tall man well enough to recognize a temperament that resorted to anger and sarcasm when stressed.

“Perhaps after you assist Lady Crowley upstairs, you’ll join us?” Knighton requested, breaking the tension. He examined Miss Barnard. If he wanted this entire matter resolved as expeditiously as possible, questioning her seemed most likely to yield the desired results.

She returned his look steadily, her expression unreadable. “I’ll be here in the morning if you wish to speak to me. I’m not intending to leave Rosecrest this late at night.”

“Perhaps it would be easier if you returned so we could speak to you this evening. After the coroner arrives and while events are still fresh in your mind.” Then he could leave instead of begging for a room somewhere nearby.

There was a beat of silence. All eyes turned to Miss Barnard. She gazed at Knighton, tightening her arm around Lady Crowley.

Odd how her dark glance made the other occupants of the room recede into insignificance, he thought.

“If you think it helpful, then of course.” She helped Lady Crowley through the door without appearing to notice the others who continued to stare after her.

The remaining women, after agitated whispers to the men nearest to them, said muted good nights. Lady Howard helped Miss Spencer from the room as the young woman continued to cry and trembled violently if they strayed too close to the shadows.

When the men were alone, Mr. Jekyll stepped over to Knighton and watched him drape a linen napkin over the dead man’s face. “Why did you ask Miss Barnard to return? Surely, you don’t think she had anything to do with this?”

Mr. Hereford interrupted, “Poison is a woman’s crime. My nephew was trying to force her out of Rosecrest. That’s why he asked you here, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Knighton ignored the others and stooped to run his hand over the deep, thick pile of the oriental carpet in the space between Lady Crowley’s and Miss Barnard’s chairs.

There was no ridge, no imperfection in the rug to cause the maid to stumble, although the surface wasn’t entirely smooth. His sensitive fingertips detected a slightly raised nap outlining the floral pattern. However, he would have to wait for daylight to be sure.

Perhaps the maid was only clumsy. Or perhaps Miss Barnard had extended her foot and tripped the girl. If so, then her maneuver had certainly provided ample opportunity to poison Lord Crowley.

And despite her calm demeanor, it could only mean that Miss Barnard was furious at his attempt to defame her. Knighton shook his head, trying to make sense of it. The precise series of events leading to Crowley's death refused to crystallize in his tired mind, and he felt a small measure of discomfort at his precipitous decision to request Miss Barnard to return to the sitting room. If she were innocent, it was a terrible thing to do to her.

He ran his hand one last time over the soft carpet and stood. A small, mottled-tan object caught his eye. A cork rested on the floor, against one of the table legs. He picked it up and sniffed the darker, damp end.

Bitter almonds.

Aware of the other men speaking quietly in two small clusters, he wrapped the cork in his handkerchief and placed it in his pocket. He’d examine it later. For now, he was strangely reluctant to reveal what might be his first real evidence, other than the poisoned brandy in Lord Crowley's snifter.

As he looked around, an even stronger sense of unease crept over him. Aside from the cork and brandy, he had very few facts. He hadn’t seen Miss Barnard poison Crowley, although he’d been watching her closely. An ugly, niggling voice said he had no proof of anything, just Lord Crowley’s desire to expose Miss Barnard as a charlatan.

As a motive, it seemed a trifle weak.

“I can’t say I blame Henry for requesting assistance,” Mr. Hereford said. “I’ve always thought that woman shady. I hated to see her here, taking advantage of the dowager. Particularly when Lady Crowley was so distressed over losing her husband. Frankly, I was relieved when Crowley said he’d contacted you.”

Knighton grunted.

George Denham stepped forward. “How do you know Miss Barnard is not genuine? Miss Spencer felt something brush past her. And even I admit I felt the presence of something inexplicable. It must have been a specter bent on vengeance. Certainly, that’s the evil that poisoned the brandy, not Miss Barnard.”

Ah, the gallant believer
.

Earlier, Knighton had thought the young man might be interested in Miss Spencer. His attention had been on her for most of the evening. And despite the girl's status as Crowley’s betrothed, Denham had supported her by defending the possibility of spirit communications in the face of Crowley’s displeasure.

However, Miss Spencer was upstairs now, so she didn’t need Denham’s assistance in defending her superstitious views. Perhaps he’d been protecting Miss Barnard all along and merely agreed with Miss Spencer because she obviously believed Miss Barnard.

The stalwart farmer had hidden depths, or he was torn between two women.

“The brandy wasn’t poisoned, or anyone who drank it would be dead now,” Hereford pointed out.

“Then the spirit poisoned Lord Crowley,” Denham insisted. “You heard Miss Spencer. She
felt
it brush past her when the candle went out.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Denham,” Knighton said. “But I think we must look for a human agency.”

The rest of the men laughed uneasily. When Denham insisted on an incorporeal force bent on retribution for some past transgression, the others shook their heads and turned away tiredly.

“I’ll admit I’m just as curious as the next man about the unseen world, but I’m damned if I think a woman can convince the dead to scribble on a slate through the medium of her left hand,” Lord Thompson said after returning from helping Miss Howard to her room. He focused his gaze on a point in the center of Knighton’s forehead, clearly annoyed at having to deal directly with employed help. “They must arrest her tonight. No point in wasting time fumbling about for some incorporeal killer. If not, our hostess may give that creature a generous gift for her ridiculous message and send her on to the next gullible widow. It’s revolting to see a charlatan taking advantage of a woman of Lady Crowley’s caliber.”

“She won’t get a farthing. I’ll see to that,” Hereford commented.

Denham leaned against the table, resting his fists on the glossy surface. “What’s your basis for these assumptions? She won’t take money, I can assure you of that. She’s a guest. That’s all. In fact, she’s a well-bred young woman—a lady. She assisted her father in his work for years and collaborated with him on an excellent work,
Spectres of Surrey and Sussex: Proven or Fraudulent
. They researched and disproved many rumors of spirits. You’d hardly expect a woman who spent half her life helping her father expose such tales to suddenly begin creating them!”

“Why not?” Lord Thompson chuckled. “She ought to be very good at creating spirits out of thin air with all her practice disproving them. It’s certainly given her an unimpeachable reputation.”

“At least she’s an interesting houseguest,” Jekyll commented in a soft, dry voice.

“She’d have to be, wouldn’t she? If you’re going to be a professional guest, you must at least be entertaining,” Lord Thompson replied coldly.

The butler finally interrupted the men with the announcement that the local constable, the coroner, and Dr. Malcolm Winters had arrived. Before the butler bowed out of the room, Knighton ordered him to send in the maid. She’d been present when their host was poisoned and was their best witness.

To Knighton’s relief, the constable, Mr. Gretton, appeared to be a man with a calm, thoughtful demeanor and willingness to listen. Even better, Gretton proclaimed himself a man who refused to indulge in flights of fancy or fears of things one could not touch or see.

“Mr. Gretton.” Knighton stretched out to shake hands. “I'm Mr. Knighton Gaunt, of Second Sons Inquiries. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“An inquiry agent? What? And does the dowager have so little faith in the constabulary's ability to effect an apprehension as to hire you afore I arrived?” Mr. Gretton smiled just long enough to flash the gaping holes left by several missing teeth.

Knighton grimaced. “No. Unfortunately, I was asked to come by Lord Crowley on an entirely different matter.”

“Unrelated?”

“Perhaps, although I rather think not.” He drew Gretton aside. “Lord Crowley said he had spoken to you about one his guests, a Miss Barnard. Is that correct?”

“Miss Barnard? Aye. The poor gentleman hadn't no opportunity to speak at length. But he did ask about investigating that charlatan a-bothering his poor, widowed mother. So I suggests an inquiry agent might be better-like.” He shrugged. “It's your belief, then, that this Barnard woman be the perpetrator, as the saying is?” Gretton asked, ending his question with the phrase that made Knighton smile. It seemed common to most of the inhabitants of the Surrey countryside, and he could only hope he would not contract the habit due to constant exposure.

“I don’t know. It seems likely. Certainly, Crowley suspected her sufficiently to speak to both of us.”

Gretton nodded, but didn’t reply. A movement by the door caught his attention. Miss Barnard stood there, studying the occupants of the room.

Knighton strode past Mr. Gretton to escort her inside with a firm hand on her elbow. “Miss Barnard, perhaps you’d care to have a seat?” He stopped to consider where to place her. She would undoubtedly be uncomfortable in a room full of men.

However, despite his sympathy, he couldn’t help but hope that her discomfort would be sufficient to crack her composure. If she confessed, she could save them all a great deal of difficulty.

Assuming she was guilty.

A sense of injustice struck him, however, when he examined her pale face. Heavy circles left bruised marks beneath her dark eyes, and the corners of her mouth drooped as she stood next to him with an air of uncertainty. He glanced away, a flicker of shame gnawing at him. He’d been unfair to force her into an interview on such slim evidence when she was clearly exhausted.

“Lady Crowley ordered a room for you. Since her son invited you.” She eyed him with obvious distaste. “I don’t believe she realized you aren’t Lord Crowley’s
guest
.” With a jerk to free her arm, she glided away from him toward the center of the room.