A Death by Arson Page 6

‘I rang the bell,’ protested Bertram. ‘You can’t really expect more from a man in situations like these.’

  ‘But no one has come.’

  ‘I could ring it again,’ said Bertram.

  ‘What an excellent idea.’

  He did so. We waited. ‘Do you think scotch might help?’ I asked.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Bertram, and poured himself another.

  ‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ I began when the door opened and a footman entered, followed by an older woman dressed in a maid’s uniform, who rushed to Lucinda’s side and held a little bottle under her nose. The stench of ammonia drifted towards me and I rose to stand by Bertram. Lucinda’s eyelids fluttered and she gave a little moan. I could not help but notice that she moaned rather nicely, like a kitten. (Really, I had to stop thinking of her as some kind of pet – but the metaphor seemed all too apt.)

  ‘Sir Richard has asked me to see the lady and her maid to her room,’ said the footman, loftily.

  ‘Can you stand, my love?’ asked the maid with alarming familiarity. ‘Or shall I ask this man to carry you?’

  I felt Bertram draw back behind me. ‘She means the footman,’ I whispered to him.

  ‘If I could lean on you a little, Louise,’ said Lucinda, as the maid helped her rise. ‘Has Mary retired for the night? I could do with the counsel.’

  ‘I’ll get the man to find out for you, my love,’ said the maid. ‘You, Scotchman, find out if Miss Mary Hill has retired yet, and if she has not, request her to join Miss Lucinda in her rooms.’

  The footman gave her a look filled with disdain, but nodded curtly. The maid threw Bertram and me a furious look and helped Lucinda out of the door.

  ‘I say,’ said Bertram, ‘that was jolly well out of order.’

  ‘Which bit?’ I asked distractedly.

  ‘That maid! The way she looked at us. Like it was all our fault.’

  ‘What else was she to think?’ I replied. ‘We were the only two left in the room. You don’t think it could be the same Mary Hill, do you?’

  ‘Same?’ asked Bertram. Then realisation dawned in his eyes. For all Bertram can, far too frequently, and especially around his family, perform an excellent impression of an idiot, he has a quick and active mind. ‘Mary Hill, the suffragette, who you were in jail with and who you wrongly accused of murder?’

  ‘We accused,’ I said automatically.

  ‘It was your idea to do the confrontational tea.’

  ‘Confrontational tea! What a way of putting it.’ I sighed and rubbed a hand across my tired eyes. ‘But yes, you’re right. Really, this New Year is getting better and better.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Bertram, patting me on the shoulder awkwardly. ‘At least no one is dead.’

  ‘Yet.’

  ‘Don’t. Just don’t, Euphemia,’ warned Bertram.

  ‘Do you honestly think Richard is going to sit by and let his sister take the country seat from him?’

  ‘He doesn’t need it. He’s got all this! And probably more.’

  ‘It’s never been about the money,’ I said. ‘Owning Stapleford Hall is an obsession with him. He killed twice to get his seat in Parliament.’

  ‘I say, hush,’ said Bertram. ‘You can’t go around saying things like that. Nothing was ever proved against him.’

  ‘There’s only us here,’ I said. ‘And you know it’s true. Or do you think we have been misjudging your half-brother all these years?’

  Bertram sat down in a wing-backed chair. ‘No,’ he said, sighing deeply. ‘My half-brother is as black-hearted as they come.’

  ‘The question is whether he is black-hearted, as you so poetically phrased it, enough to kill his pregnant twin sister?’

  Bertram made a gargling noise and went rather pale.

  ‘You have developed the most alarming habit of letting your jaw go slack when you are startled,’ I said. ‘It is most unattractive and makes you look quite stupid.’

  ‘Since you have become Richenda’s companion,’ snapped Bertram, ‘you, Euphemia, have changed a lot and not, I may add, in a good way. When I think of the sweet little maid I first found searching my room…’

  ‘That’s better,’ I said. ‘You think so much better when you’re annoyed than when you are startled.’

  Bertram raised his eyebrows at me and poured himself another scotch. ‘Do you really think he would murder Richenda?’ he asked, taking his seat by the fire and motioning me to join him.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said slowly. ‘It would be difficult to do. I mean, there are a lot of people in the castle and once she has returned to the Muller estate I am sure Hans can keep her safe.’

  ‘You put a lot of trust in Muller,’ said Bertram grumpily.

  ‘However, it occurs to me that in a crowded castle with so many alterations, twisting staircases…’

  ‘He might find her alone and off her?’ finished Bertram dramatically.

  ‘No, but he might arrange for a slight accident.’

  ‘How would that help him?’ asked Bertram.

  ‘I meant a fall.’

  Bertram shrugged. ‘I don’t see how getting her bruised would help him. He’s always been the kind of mean little sneak that would put trip wires across stairs when we were kids. I remember once when he got Mrs …’ he began to giggle. ‘All thin gangly legs and petticoats, she was coming down the stairs. Never seen anything like it. For ages afterwards I was convinced all women were half spider –’

  ‘I meant,’ I said, cutting him off, ‘that a fall could bring on a miscarriage.’ I looked at his uncomprehending expression. ‘Not a missed carriage, Bertram, but a miscarriage of the baby. She could lose the baby.’

  Bertram paled. ‘My God, think what that would do to Muller! After his first wife lost all those…’

  ‘I do not think it would be good for Richenda, either,’ I said waspishly.

  ‘No. No. Bad all round.’ He stood up. ‘Right, there is only one thing for it.’

  ‘It would be difficult to leave,’ I said. ‘We have no proof that Richard will do such a thing, and I recall that Hans needed to be here for business reasons.’

  ‘Muller knows full well what kind of man my brother is,’ said Bertram. ‘But I didn’t mean that. Cause an awful fuss. No, what I meant was that you and I, Euphemia, shall have to guard my sister and her unborn child with our lives!’

  Chapter Eleven

  A midnight tryst

  I realised that this was the many glasses of wine Bertram had imbibed during dinner talking. ‘I completely understand that you wish to protect your sister,’ I said. ‘But we are not of the same ilk as someone who might make a decent protector.’

  ‘Who better than her own kith and kin?’ stormed Bertram.

  ‘Well, we know Rory is handy in a fight. But someone like Fitzroy would be better. I don’t suppose he is here? He has a habit of turning up when one least expects him.’

  ‘That bounder!’ exclaimed Bertram. ‘I’d not trust him further than I could throw him.’ He looked me in the eye. ‘Not, I admit, that that would be very far. You are right that I am not exactly a man of action – thanks largely to my dicky heart – but I have my wits about me.’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ I said more gently. ‘I suppose we must go and apprise Hans of our fears.’

  Bertram pulled a face. ‘I suppose we must, but the way he and Richenda were going on …’ He took a deep pull from his glass. ‘It was quite revolting. I can only imagine what they are…’

  ‘Let’s not,’ I said hastily. ‘Why do you not seek out Rory and ask him to stand guard by their rooms tonight?’

  A sly smile spread over Bertram’s face. ‘He’s probably relaxing in the servants’ hall; flirting with the maids.’

  ‘What is it with you two?’ I asked. ‘You have the strangest master-servant relationship I have ever encountered.’

  ‘Pot. Kettle,’ said Bertram. ‘We can reconvene after breakfast. I will meet you at the Mullers’ room tomorrow at nine a.m. On
second thoughts, let’s make that ten a.m. I’ll go set Rory to it.’ So saying he rose, put down his glass and wandered off, whistling tunelessly. I watched this, wondering if he had drunk even more than I had thought. Could I really trust him to find Rory and set him to watch Richenda? To convince him that it was necessary, even? For one dreadful moment, I found myself deeply missing Fitzroy.

  I made my way up to my room. To my surprise, I found it quite easily. The layout of the modern side of the castle was actually far simpler than I had thought. There were more floors, but they were generally smaller than those in the old section, and were connected with direct passageways and stairs.

  When I arrived in my room, I was delighted to see that Enid had been in already to lay my fire. Although the castle had been wired for electricity, Enid had lit a number of candles around the room, which gave it a warm and homely glow. I was glad of this. The new lighting system made me uneasy, and I was not looking forward to having to deal with it daily at the Muller estate – whatever Hans had said about its safety.

  I could have pulled the bell to ask for her help in undressing, but as I was quite adept at this myself – as I was in styling my own hair, a skill my mother had forbidden me from ever mentioning – I got myself ready for bed, climbed under the covers (which the efficient Enid had heated with a warming pan), and blew out my candle.

  At once, I was overcome with a feeling of foreboding. The room seemed to expand in the darkness. I became aware of the wind howling outside my window. Even the crackle from the fire seemed filled with a venomous menace. Although my father had been a vicar, and I had strong feelings that the preternatural and supernatural should stay quite separate from my world, I had in my previous exploits succumbed more to a belief in superstition than I would have liked.

  The light of the fire ensured the room was not completely dark: instead it sent shadows dancing across the walls. I found myself checking them to be sure that they did not conceal another person. I plumped up my pillows and told myself to be rational. I had no feeling that someone was in the room with me – and as this had happened before, that in itself was reassuring – but yet my fear would not leave me. Of course, the circumstances that awaited me tomorrow – and my all-too-close involvement with the Stapleford family – would make for an uneasy time, but did I really think Richard would commit murder just before his wedding? Were my instincts warning me that death was about to enter my life yet again? I comforted myself that Richard, however evil his intentions, was not a quick thinker, though he was cunning. He had the sense to plan rather than act rashly. I consoled myself there was likely to be no immediate threat. And yet the unease lingered.

  Lucinda was a puzzle to me. That anyone should link their life willingly with Richard Stapleford’s confused me, but she had appeared to be without guile. Either she was a consummate actress, or her fainting had been the result of her seeing for the first time the true nature of her husband-to-be. Were my instincts trying to tell me she was also in danger?

  And Mary Hill – here? What if it was her? She had a fine mind, but she despised me. How could I draw her into my plans?

  The thoughts went round and round in my head, but I could make no sense of them. I was on the verge of sleep when there was a sharp knock at my door. Instinctively, I grabbed at the nearest heavy object to hand – my unlit candlestick. I sat there, my heart beating furiously, waiting for whatever would happen next. There was another loud knock. Through my sleep-addled mind I realised that a would-be assailant would be unlikely to ask for entry. With a huge sigh, I threw back my warm and cosy covers. I could not have been lying there long as the fire still burned brightly. A third knock caused me to call out, ‘A moment!’ while I struggled into my wrap and slipped shoes onto my feet. There was a very small part of me that wondered if it might be Rory; I own to both a slight disappointment as well as an unwelcome shock when I opened the door, and beheld the face flickering in the candlelight to be that of Mary Hill.

  ‘This is not my idea,’ she said bluntly. ‘At least not wholly my idea, but it seems you are the only person who might be able to help me.’

  ‘Could not this discussion wait for daylight? Breakfast?’ I asked wearily.

  ‘No, it could not. I only have Lucinda’s word that she will wait for my return.’

  I looked at her blankly. ‘She is threatening to run away into the night,’ said Mary. ‘It appears something happened tonight in your presence that distressed her very much.’

  ‘I hardly spoke to her!’ I objected.

  ‘No, no,’ snapped Mary. ‘I am not suggesting you did anything. I understand it was Sir Richard’s behaviour that was to blame. She is now saying she will not marry a monster. I need you to come and convince her that Sir Richard will make a good bridegroom.’

  I swallowed. ‘I really do not think you have the right person,’ I said.

  ‘I can hardly ask his sister. I believe it was their conflict that agitated the whole situation.’

  ‘I am surprised that you would urge a young woman into an arrangement she now regrets making. You are still a member of the Sisterhood, are you not?’

  Even by the candlelight, I could see Mary’s face darken. ‘Things are not always as simple as one would wish,’ she said. ‘Will you come or not?’

  I hesitated. ‘I cannot think that giving Lucinda my opinion of Sir Richard will help,’ I said baldly.

  ‘Well, if you will not help I shall have to have Sir Richard’s servants rouse him to attempt to make amends.’

  ‘Surely her parents can help? And forgive me, but what business is this of yours?’

  ‘Lucinda is my cousin on my mother’s side. As for her parents, neither of them is in good health and I would rather not distress them.’

  A great many retorts came to mind, but I only said, ‘I will come, but I am not sure my intervention will secure the outcome you wish.’

  ‘Her circumstances may make you change your mind,’ said Mary cryptically. She then refused to answer further questions and I had no choice but to follow her bobbing candle light along the passage.

  As I had been told, Lucinda’s bedroom was on the same level as my own, so we managed to reach her room without the interference of any servants. At her door, Mary halted. ‘I want you, on your honour, to promise me you will not advise my cousin ill for your own purposes, and that you will tell her nothing but what you know to be true. I have seen before how you can fantasise the truth.’

  Anger and shame boiled inside my chest. Reason told me that Mary had little reason to believe in me after I had wrongly accused her of murder but, likewise, she had no knowledge of the number of issues I had resolved correctly, especially those in the service of King and Country. ‘I promise,’ I said through gritted teeth.

  Mary waited a moment more, as if deciding if she could trust my word, and then opened the door. Lying in front of the fire, on the most beautiful Persian rug, was the violently sobbing figure of Lucinda. At our entrance, she sat up, tears streaming down her beautiful face, her blue eyes brimming with more – I noted that unlike Richenda, this was a female who could cry to advantage – and reached out a hand to me melodramatically.

  ‘At last,’ she cried, ‘Someone who will tell me the truth.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Lucinda sees sense

  I managed to get Lucinda to stop crying and sit in a chair, by dint of refusing to speak to her until she stopped her ‘dreadful noise.’9

  Lucinda was now hiccupping softly like a puppy that has gobbled down one too many biscuits. My initial impression that she was interested in little beyond the details of her wedding was confirmed at the sudden onslaught of tears when she suddenly said, ‘Now I will never wear my dress, and it suits me so well.’

  I heard Mary sigh beside me and for once felt completely in sympathy. ‘What exactly is it that distresses you, Lucinda?’ I asked.

  ‘Richard is a monster,’ she said, her eyes widening. ‘You saw how his face became reddened and he roared. H
e looked positively inhuman.’

  ‘He was upset,’ I said. ‘Stapleford Hall has long been a bitter bone of contention within his family.’

  ‘So he only wants me so he can own the Hall?’ asked Lucinda.

  My tongue tied itself into knots. Unexpectedly, Mary came to my rescue. ‘Lucy, you know full well that the purpose of marriage is to ensure heirs. If this is what you are now quailing at, can I remind you that your other options are at least equally unappealing.’

  Lucinda nodded slowly. ‘And he does have a castle.’ Her face puckered. ‘But so did the ogre in the tale of the golden goose.’

  I turned to Mary. ‘Does your cousin believe Richard is literally inhuman and not as a metaphor?’ I asked incredulously.

  Mary shrugged. ‘Lucy has a lively imagination – but I cannot imagine that you believe the man to be a fairy tale monster!’ she said, turning to her cousin. ‘That is beyond melodrama, even for you.’

  ‘Well, maybe not,’ admitted Lucinda, sniffing. ‘But you have to agree, Euphemia, he did seem quite ferocious.’

  ‘He did,’ I admitted, ‘but, as I have explained, his ire was not directed at you.’ I paused, but could not help myself from asking, ‘Has he ever shown you this side of him before? I presume you have spent some degree of time in his company?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Lucinda. ‘It was a full three weeks before he proposed. It normally takes gentlemen far less time.’

  ‘So you have other suitors?’ I enquired. Mary threw me a warning look.

  ‘Oh yes, loads,’ said Lucinda simply. ‘But Mummy and Daddy have only approved of one other alongside Sir Richard, and I could not marry him!’ Her eyes filled with tears once more.

  ‘And why is this?’ I asked, suppressing a yelp as Mary jabbed me in the ribs with her elbow.

  ‘He has whiskers growing out of his nose!’

  ‘Lucy is referring to my uncle’s partner, Mr George Smythe. He is a family friend. He and my uncle were at school together.’

  I digested this slowly. From the glimpse I had caught of them, Lucinda’s parents had seemed at an advanced age to have such a young daughter. Mary met my eyes and nodded slightly. ‘Lucy is the youngest of eight children. None of the others survived infancy. She is quite the miracle for her parents.’