He nodded and thoughtfully refilled her glass.
“Poor Rosalinde.” She turned back to the Runner. “You said she was drugged?”
“That seems the most reasonable explanation. It was meant to look as if she killed herself.”
Lady Woking took another gulp of the amber liquid. “I see. You think the person who killed her—who killed poor Louisa—hoped we would think Rosalinde murdered her daughter-in-law then killed herself in remorse?”
“Something like that, m’lady.”
She shuddered. “Here. In my home. How dreadful.”
“Now, no one is a-blaming you, m’lady.”
“Blaming me!” Lady Woking flared. “I should think not. I only hope you catch the-the scoundrel who had the infernal impertinence to commit his crime in my home! And on the night of the ball!” Her eyes widened. “Someone is out to ruin me! Arrest them at once.”
Mr. Frake’s lips twitched. “I should be delighted to oblige. Who?”
She blinked. “Why, the person who killed Rosalinde, of course. I can’t have this ruining the ball. Not after all the work we’ve done to prepare for it. I won’t—” She broke off and her expression brightened. “I have it. You must not discover her body until tomorrow morning.”
Mr. Frake coughed. “Begging your pardon, m’lady but I fear we already have.”
“But can you not
pretend
? For such an important cause?” She stared beseechingly at his immobile countenance then spun about to face Phyllida. “It is
your
charity I’m aiding.
You
make him help us.”
Phyllida giggled, recognized it as rising hysteria, but was unable to control it. She turned to the Runner. “You could always ask the maids to run along upstairs and tidy the body, just in case one of the guests happens to enter that chamber. Why, with the coverlet more neatly arranged, I doubt anyone would notice her at all.”
“Steady.” Ingram’s hand closed over her shoulder.
“What, may I not indulge in the vapors this time? I should think I have every right. I have shown such remarkable restraint upon other occasions.”
He shook his head but his smile sounded in his voice. “I do not believe this is quite the moment for levity, Miss Dearne.”
“I wasn’t joking,” she protested, but felt considerably better for their brief exchange.
Mr. Frake turned his reproving regard on them. “There can be no question of trying to pretend a dreadful crime has not been committed on these premises—”
“You wouldn’t dare ruin the ball!” Lady Woking drew herself up to her full, commanding height. “It must and shall go on. I cannot possibly cancel it at this last moment.”
Mr. Frake glanced at Phyllida. “The wounded soldiers,” he muttered. He drew a deep breath, puffed out his cheeks then nodded. “All right, m’lady. I won’t hide nothing but you can go ahead with your party. Have your butler assemble the staff in the kitchens. Then, if you’ll answer a few questions, I’ll see if I can’t have everything under control here so’s you can hold your ball with your guests none the wiser. I guess I don’t have to tell anyone else about our murder until morning.”
Lady Woking beamed on him. “I
knew
you were a reasonable man, Mr. Frake.” She summoned her butler, gave him his instructions when he arrived only minutes later then turned back to the Runner. “Now, what would you like me to tell you? Where I was all afternoon? That will be very hard, I fear. I have been in every room, overseeing the last-minute decorations.”
“No, m’lady. I have only two questions for you at the moment. First, what was it you and Mr. Enderby was discussing in the card room a little while ago?”
She stiffened. “Of all the impertinent, ill-bred questions.” She met his gaze directly. “Surely it is not a crime to indulge in a little flirtation?”
“No, it is not, m’lady.”
A satisfied smile just touched her lips. “And your second question?”
Mr. Frake leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowed, watching. “Have you ever had access to the charity project’s funds?”
She stared at him, her expression perplexed, then her eyes widened and dark color suffused her cheeks. “What are you suggesting?” she demanded in frigid accents.
Ingram swung his quizzing glass idly by its riband. “It has come to his attention, you see, that five hundred pounds are missing.”
A long, tense moment passed before she responded. “I see,” she said at last and turned her fulminating eye on the Runner. “Of all the insufferable, impertinent, odious things to imply. I will have you know, my good man, my husband is handsomely established. I have no need to steal such a paltry sum.”
“Yes, m’lady.” He jotted a quick note in his book. “I’ll just confirm that, all routine-like, and that’s the last we’ll have to worry about that little matter.” He rose. “Now I think I’ll break the news to Lord Allbury. You may get back to your preparations.”
Phyllida stood also but didn’t follow Lady Woking from the room. “There is one more thing,” she said to Mr. Frake, then hesitated.
“Yes, miss? Something that might help?”
“It
might.
But it feels more like gossip.”
He shook his head and the mildly amused expression he’d maintained throughout the preceding interview vanished. “I’ll be the judge of that, miss. There are two people dead and it would be a mighty peculiar circumstance, it would, if the murders weren’t connected. We’d best clear this little matter up before there’s a third.” He waggled an admonishing finger beneath her nose. “And I hardly need point out, miss, that a person who knows something and doesn’t tell anyone is the most likely one to be found dead next.”
“There is no need to try to frighten her,” Ingram declared.
“No, no need at all,” Phyllida agreed weakly.
Mr. Frake tapped his Occurrence Book with his pencil. “There’s two possible reasons as her ladyship might have been murdered. It might be for the same reason as the young lady was killed. Or it might be because she knew something—which if she’d told me, she might be alive right now.” He turned back to Phyllida. “Well, miss?”
“It-it’s probably nothing.” Yet Phyllida’s throat felt dry and an unpleasant sensation crawled along her skin. “Maria Enderby came down the stairs shortly before I went to search for the dowager. She looked startled—as if I’d caught her doing something she shouldn’t. She had probably only been escaping the work.”
Mr. Frake nodded. “Well now, miss, you did the right thing in telling me. You just leave it to me and I’ll find out what she was about. Under the circumstances, her being upstairs like that is interesting, as you might say, very interesting, indeed. It would be mighty helpful to know who all knew the dowager Lady Allbury was a-lying down.”
Phyllida swallowed. “Almost anyone might have seen her go upstairs and followed. Maria Enderby might have seen someone,” she added quickly. “I never meant to imply that
she
—”
“There, now, miss, don’t be in such a taking. If she
did
see something then I’d best find out as quickly as possible, or we might be finding
her
next.”
Phyllida nodded. “Only telling you makes me feel the most dreadful
sneak.”
Ingram sobered. “You may very well have just saved someone’s life.”
“Maria Enderby’s,” Phyllida agreed, feeling a little better.
“Or your own.”
Phyllida nodded and turned away. She wanted to leave, to go
home.
That Allbury House could no longer offer her sanctuary she thrust from her mind. She could remain another day. Then she and Miss Yarborough, lacking a respectable female to act as hostess, would have to leave, for it was now a gentleman’s establishment. Tears welled in her eyes and she dashed them away in anger.
“Are you all right?” Ingram took her arm and led her out the door.
“Yes. I
despise
females who behave like watering pots!”
A wry smile quirked his lips. “Under the circumstances I believe you have earned the right. Just this once, of course. I promise I won’t tell a soul.”
A watery laugh escaped her. “No, I won’t embarrass you. Oh Lord, what a
dreadful
day.”
“As you say.” He glanced back at the bookroom. “He will send for Allbury now, to tell him.”
She looked up quickly. “It might be easier for him if you were there.”
“Will you be all right?”
After assuring him she could manage perfectly well, she watched him rejoin the Runner, then made her way once more to the secluded alcove. Poor Allbury. At least he would have Ingram’s support. Unless he had no need of it…
The suspicions that flooded her mind proved too strong, too persistent, to ignore.
Could
Allbury have killed his own mother? If he had first murdered Louisa then he would have needed someone to take the blame. If his mother had known, or guessed, his crime, he might have thought her a danger—especially if she had used that knowledge as a threat, to order the choice of his next bride, to run his household to her liking, to redecorate it according to her taste… Had her death been accepted as the suicide it appeared, he would have been in the clear.
Suicide. Ingram had sworn the dowager had taken her own life, even when he must have realized from the first it was no such thing. Had he suspected Allbury of her murder and done his best to protect him? Strong loyalty existed between those two. Ingram would do everything in his power for the sake of his old friend.
Was that why he had arrived so quickly at the dowager’s deathbed? Had he come at Allbury’s request, to arrange everything so the murder would be mistaken for suicide? Ingram was a soldier, no stranger to violent death. He would know what to do. Only she had arrived first…
Or had she?
The marquis had never been in combat, never seen death at close range, never killed.
Unlike Ingram.
She huddled into her chair, chilled, ill with a growing dread. Had Ingram done more than merely assist his friend?
Chapter Fifteen
Phyllida closed her eyes. Suddenly Ingram’s presence in their box at the opera took on a new and deadly significance. Had the marquis, bitter toward his faithless wife, sent for Ingram to rid him of the heir who would not be his own? Ingram would not be seriously suspected, for no reason appeared to exist for him to want Louisa dead. Then when the investigation seemed to single out Allbury, had they chosen the dowager to be the sacrificial scapegoat?
No, she couldn’t believe that. More likely the dowager had murdered Louisa and Allbury had killed her to avoid the scandal of trial and execution. That had to be the solution. And Lord Ingram had done no more than insist the dowager’s death had been suicide. Ingram could not be guilty. Not the man she knew—and had come to love.
For several long minutes all other thoughts vanished from her mind. She loved him, with an aching longing that tore her apart. If he’d had any involvement in either murder she would not be able to bear it.
Silently, she cursed herself. She had come to depend on him, which she should never have allowed. His calm air of authority disarmed her—made her vulnerable, made her willing to listen to any tale he might weave for her entrancement. And now she was paying the price.
“Miss?” The Runner’s voice broke through her unhappy reflections.
She looked up from her clasped hands. “Have-have you told them?”
“That I have, miss. And right shocked they all seemed.” He shook his head. “Except one of them killed her.” He fell silent then nodded to himself, as if coming to a decision. “I’d best have a look at her suite of rooms, I suppose. I don’t want to give no one a chance to go through her things before me. Will you help me, miss?”
“Me?” Phyllida stared at him, surprised. “But I thought—”
“As I had you under suspicion? No, miss. You’re just about the only one I don’t suspect. I’d like someone with me who can give me a few opinions.”
“But I’ve only been in her rooms a few times. I wouldn’t know if anything was out of place. Perhaps her maid would suit you better.”
He took her elbow and drew her to her feet. “No, miss. You’ll do a mite better for what I has in mind.”
“And what is that?” she asked, suspicious.
“Talk out a few ideas.” He led her down the steps to the entry hall, talking as they went. “You know everyone involved better than I do. You might come up with a few answers as have eluded me.”
She digested this. “What do you think you’ll find in her rooms?”
Mr. Frake sent a footman running for a hackney, then stared thoughtfully at the tiled floor beneath their feet. “The reason as her ladyship was murdered, miss. She must have discovered something and mentioned it to the wrong person.”
“Louisa’s diary,” Phyllida breathed. Maybe it hadn’t been Ingram or Allbury. Hope surged through her. Maybe one of the others, mentioned in that volume Louisa kept so mysterious, had killed her to keep his or her secrets. And the dowager— “You think it was Lady Allbury in Louisa’s dressing room that night, don’t you?” she said suddenly.
“Well, miss, it does seem likely. That person went at you with a vase. Our murderer always seemed to have a fan tucked away somewheres. Partial to knives, he must be. Like in your room.”
Phyllida shivered. The memory of that dark figure looming over her bed then stabbing that blade into her mattress filled her mind, leaving her cold.
“You think the dowager found the diary, realized who Louisa’s murderer must be then confronted him?” she asked.
“No, miss. Whoever killed her ladyship didn’t strike out in fear. It was planned, it was.” He rocked back on his heels, his expression thoughtful. “Even if our fine villain just happened to have the drug at hand, and give it to her at once, she would have had time to tell any number of people before it took effect and she went to lie down.”
“Then why was she killed? This doesn’t make any sense.”
“I’d say as her ladyship didn’t know what she had. Mayhap she read it without realizing the significance. She must have only mentioned finding it.” He shook his head. “If she’d known, she wouldn’t never have put herself in such danger, I wager.”
Phyllida drew a shaky breath. “Louisa would have,” she said. “Not that she’d have seen it as putting herself in danger, of course. It never would have occurred to her someone might kill her. But the dowager—no, you must be right. She’d have gone straight to you if she were certain of anything.”
Or would she have? Phyllida fell silent. Had the dowager told Allbury not to worry, that she had the diary safe? Or had she mentioned to someone else it was now in her possession and she intended to read it? The possibilities were enough to make her headache unbearable.
They returned to Berkeley Square in the hackney. Fenton admitted them to the house then returned to his duties. Phyllida stared after him.
“The servants don’t know yet,” she said as they started up the stairs.
Mr. Frake shook his head. “His lordship will tell them.”
The late afternoon sun streamed through the windows in the dowager’s sitting room as they entered. Mr. Frake strode to the marquetry desk that stood on the far wall and quickly looked through the contents. Phyllida walked about the room, uncertain.
“Nothing in this,” the Runner announced after a minute. “The bedchamber, I think.” He strode into the next room, cast a cursory eye about then pulled open the top drawer of a bureau.
Phyllida applied herself to the bedside table. Her methodical search turned up no diary, no papers, only a prayer book.
Behind her, Mr. Frake turned to a wardrobe. He ran his hand along the inside of each box, along the edges of every shelf. If the dowager had hidden the diary there they would find it.
Phyllida checked the bedstead then stood upon the mattress to reach the canopy. Mr. Frake started on the second clothes cupboard.
“Well, well,” the Runner declared a moment later. “Here it is.”
Phyllida almost fell off the bed. “Louisa’s diary?”
He held up the thick volume for her to see. She took it and flipped through the pages. “Yes, that’s her writing. So the dowager
did
find it.”
“I think maybe I’ll just have a look at this.” He took it back from her and settled in a chair near the bed. From his pocket he drew a pair of spectacles and perched them on the bridge of his nose. “This is very recent,” he remarked. “It’s dated only last month.”
“There must be other volumes then.”
Phyllida went to the cupboard and a minute later unearthed five more books. Mr. Frake, now engrossed in his volume, chuckled, then turned the page without enlightening her. She glanced at him then selected another tome and opened it at random. She read an entry and found herself hard pressed not to either laugh or gasp at her sister’s scandalous observations on life and members of the
ton.
Minutes passed in silence then an involuntary giggle escaped her. “Anyone she wrote about might well want to murder her—and with good cause.”
“That well may be so, miss.” Mr. Frake turned another page and shook his head. “I don’t suppose she threatened to have these published?”
“I imagine she had other uses for them.” Phyllida closed the volume and stared at the blank cover. “She never would have resorted to open blackmail—but she would have let people know, in a subtle way, that she knew their dreadful secrets and would be only too happy to help them out of their difficulties.”
Mr. Frake puffed out his cheeks. “Apparently she at last approached the wrong person. We’d best keep reading these until we find something bad enough about one of our suspects.”
Phyllida flipped through the pages. Notes, written in a variety of hands, peeked out from various places, as did several letters and a couple of pressed flowers. She glanced at them then laid the volume aside and selected the earliest of the journals to study, which dated to Louisa’s first term as a parlor boarder at the seminary.
“Here is all the evidence we could desire,” she declared at last, “but it provides motives for too many people! Here she has written about Maria Whitcomb—that’s Mrs. Enderby—bribing a maid to let her in after meeting a gentleman in the shrubbery.”
She fell silent, turning more pages. “Oh dear, one of the mistresses—Miss Jennings, in fact, Lady Woking—entertained a gentleman in her room. And here she actually says—” She broke off as warmth flooded her cheeks. She could hardly tell a man what she had just read.
Mr. Frake peered over her shoulder and snorted. “Scandalous goings-on for an elite seminary. A fifteen-year-old schoolroom chit has no business getting herself in the family way, and by a groom. She’s not one of our suspects,” he added, his tone regretful.
Phyllida read on, aghast at the gossip and illicit activities in which the young ladies had indulged. Scandalous doings, as the Runner had said. But not sufficient to warrant murder to keep them from being known. She finished her volume and turned to another.
Mr. Frake did the same. After an hour he rose and lit candles then resumed his labors. Another hour slipped past before they finished the six books. At last the Runner laid his current volume aside. “You didn’t find nothing neither?”
Phyllida scanned the final entry then shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense.
Why
was Louisa killed?” She spread her hands, a journal in each. “There isn’t sufficient reason in these!”
“Mayhap someone didn’t know that.” He pulled off his spectacles and rubbed his tired eyes. “I’d best take these with me and read them again. Mayhap we just missed something.” He crossed to the wardrobe and picked up a handful of papers from the next shelf. “I thought you said as her ladyship had no interest in this charity of yours.”
“She didn’t. Why?”
“These. Notes, mostly, on the fans. Do you know who wrote them?”
Phyllida peered over his shoulder. “I did. And these are Miss Yarborough’s sketches. Except this one.” She took a drawing from him.
Mr. Frake replaced his spectacles. “Simple head and shoulders, in three-quarter view, could be almost anyone. Features aren’t filled in. Sergeant Samuel Simpson of the Seventh Foot,” he added, deciphering Louisa’s none-too-tidy copperplate across the bottom of the sketch. “Well I doubt very much Lady Woking would have been pleased to receive this memorial of her late first husband.”
“No,” Phyllida agreed, then frowned. “She might not want Lord Woking to hear of him but she isn’t likely to have committed murder to prevent it, is she? It is just like Louisa, though, to have done something so unkind as to have used this as a sample. It must have made poor Lady Woking terribly uncomfortable.”
He nodded, his brow furrowed. “Well I’d best be getting back to Woking House, miss. The ball will be starting in just over an hour.”
“Will it?” Phyllida checked the mantel clock, surprised to discover it lacked but ten minutes until eight o’clock. The gong hadn’t sounded to change for dinner—but that shouldn’t surprise her. Allbury must have returned home long ago and told the staff of the latest tragedy, casting the household into chaos.
Mr. Frake gathered together the volumes. “I’ll tell everyone as is concerned how we found your sister’s diary, miss—and as how it hasn’t provided no motive for anyone. Whoever our murderer is, he has nothing to fear from this. No one need search for it anymore.”
“Thank you.” She followed him into the hall.
“There, now, miss. Everyone will be all tied up with this here ball—which I’ll be attending. Don’t you worry none tonight.” With that he took his leave.
Phyllida made her way up to her room, lost in unpleasant thought. She had been so certain the diary must provide the key. Then Allbury—and Ingram—would be proved innocent. Now they loomed in her mind, as dark and menacing as her worst nightmares.
Not Ingram.
She stared blindly into the mirror as she jabbed pins into her hair, neither seeing nor caring where they went. She
would not
believe it. She could not be so wrong about a person.
She changed into her bombazine gown. The dowager had ordered her to buy it for mourning—and now Phyllida wore it for her as well as Louisa. She turned from the room and ran down the hall. At the staircase she paused to compose herself then descended with more propriety.
Lord Ingram emerged from his chamber as she reached the next floor and strode toward her. “Miss Dearne,” he called.
A thrill danced through her. No, he could have nothing to do with this dreadful bumble broth. She met his gaze and her knees nearly buckled. “How is Allbury?” she asked when she mastered her voice.
“He is taking this very hard.”
Phyllida nodded but didn’t trust herself to say more. Together they entered the salon. Ingram crossed to the decanters and poured ratafia for Phyllida and Madeira for himself. The door opened behind them and Phyllida tensed then turned.
Allbury entered, his tall, thin frame slumped, his features drawn and haggard. He almost fell into a chair and accepted with gratitude the glass Ingram pressed into his hand.
“I can’t believe it,” the marquis breathed. He drained the Madeira and handed the small crystal goblet back to his friend for a refill. This too he drained, and the color crept back into his face.
Constance Yarborough joined them but stopped on the threshold, her hand that rested on the jamb trembling. Her pansy-like eyes filled with tears. “It is too dreadful,” she cried as one slipped down her pale cheek. “Lady Woking positively insists I return for the ball. How can I face it?”