Love Bade Me Welcome (26 page)

“Who did it?” he asked, his voice like a whip. “Who are you protecting? I won’t believe you killed him, your own husband. Do you think he did it himself? He knew he was mad. It might have been a suicide arranged to look like an accident, to spare the family remorse.”

My mind was in awful confusion. Why had he had the body exhumed, brought suspicion onto his own shoulders? It was the act of a fool. Or an innocent man. To add to the irony, he suspected me. I realized I had been staring rather a long time, with a silence stretching nervously between us.

“Well?” he asked harshly. “What’s the story? I’d like to believe Bulow responsible for it, but that, no doubt, is my prejudice speaking,”

“Why should
he
commit murder for
you
to inherit?” I asked, in a scathing tone.

“Obviously he wouldn’t stop at one murder in that case.”

“No, nor even two. Jarvis is next in line after you.”

“Old men don’t live long.”

“Why did you have the body exhumed?” I asked, my mind hastening back to that one point that spoke of Homer’s innocence.

“Because I wanted to know what killed him—a healthy young man who was never sick a day in his life.”

“The cake that killed him came from Wyngate, Homer. A birthday gift from home. He told me so.”

“No one in this house bakes but Mrs. Soper. I’ll ask her.”

“I’ll go with you,” I said at once, to prevent any tampering with her answer.

I noticed a movement beyond the windows, just saw it from the corner of my eyes as I turned to go with Homer. I looked back, but saw only the bushes swaying and the colored lanterns bobbing to and fro. He marched out at once, and I hastened after him to the kitchen to confront Mrs. Soper.

“Mrs. Soper, did you make up a birthday cake for Norman this year, send it to him for his birthday?” he asked bluntly, with no preamble. “My mother didn’t ask you to, or Mr. Jarvis or Aunt Millie?”

“Why no, Sir Homer. What would they do that for? Sending a cake through the post—what nonsense! It would get crumbled to pieces, to say nothing of going stale.”

“Yes, I thought it nonsense myself,” he said. Cook looked from him to me with a curious face. Just curious, nothing more.

“What put such a notion in your head, if a body might ask?” she enquired.

“A misunderstanding,” he said, then went back upstairs, with me at his heels. We went to his study, where we were accustomed to holding our private conversations.

“Did you actually see the parcel? Did it have an address on it, or any note enclosed?” he asked.

“I didn’t see the parcel. I believe it arrived in the morning mail. Norman must have opened it and sent it to the kitchen while I was busy with something else. He always took his mail to his study to open and read while I attended to household affairs. He said that night when he was eating it that it was from home. He fed Rogue some. When Mrs. Winton told me his dog was found dead of the same symptoms—that’s when I deduced it was the cake, because I didn’t eat any.”

“And next you deduced
I
had prepared it for him.”

“Somebody did. You don’t think Jarvis...”

“Of course not. He takes only an historical interest in the place. And I won’t believe he planned to kill
me
as well, which is the only way it would have profited him. He hasn’t even a son and heir to leave it to. No, it wasn’t Jarvis,” he said, with cold certainty. He said no more, but it wasn’t hard to read his mind. Bulow was next in line.

“Bulow wasn’t here the day I was pushed,” I reminded him.

“How sure are you that you were pushed? What did you see, or feel?”

“I saw a hand in a black glove. I felt it on my back, pushing me.”

“You were nervous. It must have been dark, too.”

“I saw it. I only became nervous
after
the accident.”

“Where was Bulow that day? How are you so sure he was away?”

“He went to Exeter, to the selling race. He even bought a filly, so he must have been there. You remember we were talking just the night before about my walking about without an escort.”

He rubbed his chin. “I was right.
Now
you realize it. And did it seem plausible to you, all this time, that I would have urged an escort on you when my design was to get you alone and kill you? How
could
you believe that of me?”

“None of it made any sense. Your kindness after...” A dark, unhappy frown was turned on me. Accusing—oh yes, he accused me for my thoughts. How do you deny a thought? It comes; it doesn’t ask permission. It just enters your head without an invitation. Once in, it is a hard lodger to evict.

“I’m sure you invented some unholy reason to account for it. I wonder you ate the berries I was at pains to find for you.”

He would never know how carefully I scrutinized them before I
did
eat them. And every blessed bit of the sweets thrown out. “What do you think we should do?” I asked.

“God only knows. It’s late in the day now to go to Norfolk looking for evidence. The cake box, or any message in it, will have been thrown out long ago.”

“I got rid of everything. The place has been rented again.”

“You saw nothing more than a black glove? Nothing to indicate, however slightly, who could have been there?”

“No, it was dark. I only had a split second to look. It was just before I felt the hand that I saw it. I couldn’t even recognize the glove if I saw it again.”

“I wonder if Woodie saw anything.”

“He wouldn’t have. He was below, and there was no horse outside, nothing so obvious as that, naturally.”

“I can find out if Bulow
was
in Exeter that day. There’s more than one way, or place, to buy a filly.” He had leaned against the edge of his desk, his arms crossed against his chest. “It’s odd it never once occurred to you Bulow might be at the bottom of it. Love must be blind indeed,” he scoffed.

“There is nothing else to be done here tonight. I’m going home.”

“You’re staying here,” he contradicted baldly.

I was not keen to return home, though there was no real danger in it. My own two servants would be there, and I would not make the trip alone. Someone would accompany me. What I disliked was the imperative manner of his suggestion. Suspecting Bulow might easily become a pretext to rule me as closely as though I were a youngster.

“No, I am returning to the dower house,” I countered, not dignifying my reply by anger, but just stating my decision firmly.

He directed a challenging stare on me; whatever he saw in my face made him back down. “I’ll see that Bulow is occupied while we go.” The “we” was slipped in noiselessly, but some escort was needed, so I did not object. “Or do you still take
me
for the culprit in the case?” he asked with a haughty stare.

“I’ll just mention to the family that I am going with you,” I told him. If he wished to read an insult into it, he was welcome.

He was stiff as starch when he opened the study door. We looked in at the card parlor, but there was no sign of Bulow. Jarvis said he hadn’t seen him since the young folks went off to dance, and likely we would find him at the barn with the serving girls.

“He mentioned it, actually,” I said.

“Are you leaving so soon, Davinia?” Jarvis asked.

“Yes, it is time for me to go.”

“I’ll get you the parcel. You remember you were going to take Norman’s diary back with you.”

“She can get it another time,” Homer said.

“I would like to take it now,” I told Jarvis.

Millie, who was only an onlooker at the game of cards, offered to fetch it. “I’ll get you some sweets to take home as well,” she promised, with a roguish nod of the head. “There’s a ton of stuff in the kitchen. The whole neighborhood brought boxes. Some dandy fudge from Mrs. Pepperidge, and Nora, Bulow’s mama, sent those tasty Chinese squares. You’ll have to try them.”

“No, thanks, Millie.”

“I just threw a handful of Mrs. Pepperidge’s fudge in on top of Nora’s box. She sent two in her hamper. This one hasn’t been touched. She always sends too much, so she can tell everyone she helped out with our public day. As though we need it! But family after all.”

Homer carried the box of sweets, I the slim diary. The walk was short enough that we did not have the horses put to. When we arrived at the house it was all in darkness.

“You can’t go in there. Your servants are at the May Day dance. God knows when they’ll be home. You’ll have to come back to Wyngate with me,” he said.

“How foolish of me not to have thought of it. I’m sure they won’t stay late.”

“You can’t go in alone. We’ll wait till eleven, and if they aren’t back by then, you’ll have to return with me.”

“You can’t desert your guests for so long, Homer.”

“It’s no matter. The card players will think I’m at the barn, and the dancers will think I am playing cards.”

The door was locked. I was disconcerted to see Homer carried a key. “I could have crept in any night and bludgeoned you to death, you see,” he told me with a sardonic glance when he noticed my unhappiness at his having a key. When he had the lock open, he removed the key and handed it to me, then he busied himself lighting lamps while I put away the two parcels.

“A glass of wine while we wait?” I asked.

We could not think or speak of anything but the business of Norman’s murder and my miscarriage. We no longer looked beyond Bulow for a suspect either. Once he came up as a possibility, anyone else was forgotten. I knew his character to be flawed. A man who is unfaithful in love might be unfaithful in other matters. Other details too dovetailed neatly. I remembered Millie telling me that Bulow got her the lock for her poison chest. He might easily have kept a key for himself. He was in the laboratory every second time he came to call. He could know all her poisons. He showed poor judgment in managing his money too, spending more than he could afford for showy horses when he was in debt.

“He’s your own age, Homer. Older actually. All this crime he has indulged in—it only benefits him after your death.”

“I realize that. My death, and before I produce an heir. I’ll be watching over my shoulder every step I take, till we have him locked up.”

“Maybe Jarvis is in danger too.”

“It’s possible, but I don’t take Bulow for that big a fool. A quick succession of violent deaths that ultimately leave him the heir to Wyngate is bound to raise questions. He’ll take his time. I doubt he intends to do me in for a year or so. He might intend to let Jarvis live out his short term as heir. That would give him an aura of innocence, you know, to inherit after a normal, peaceful death.”

“It’s long-term planning on his part, if that is what he has in mind. He’s more volatile than that. You must take the greatest caution.”

“I mean to, but Bulow is not all flash. I begin to wonder whether he didn’t have this in mind when he talked Norman into leaving Wyngate. He is the one convinced him it would be good for him to escape the scene of—whatever you want to call it. The memories of his mother’s madness. As though the seeds of it were in the house, and not in his own head.”

“He convinced Norman he was the only friend he had, and tried the same trick on me.”

“He did you a graver injustice in making it possible for you to marry Norman than in depriving you of the child.”

“It’s hard to believe a man could be so evil, and seem so...”

“Handsome? Handsome is as handsome does.”

“Handsome isn’t what I was going to say.”

“Attractive? You obviously were attracted to him, to judge by tonight’s performance.”

“It must have looked very bad to you. It wasn’t the way it seemed. We were dancing. It’s been a long time since I was—dancing with a man. Bulow kissed me without much warning. I should have tried to stop him. He—I—I don’t know how to say it. I got carried away.”

“You miss having a husband,” he suggested.

“Yes, I guess that’s what I mean. It was stupid of me. I hope it doesn’t give him ideas.”

“It will.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it gave me ideas, just watching you.”

I arose to get a wine decanter, though my glass was still half full, and so was Homer’s. He set his glass down and got up to come after me. I was at the wine table, decanter in hand, before he caught me. That too was returned to the table. “I said, it gave me ideas, too,” he repeated.

“I heard you.”

His arms encircled my waist, pulled me against him, and held me fast. I averted my head to duck his lips, which searched for mine. He persisted in this game for longer than a gentleman should, till it was perfectly clear I did not welcome his advances. I was extremely aware of the empty house, of my jangled nerves, and close to overwrought with the doings of that tumultuous day and evening. He hardly seemed like Homer. He was more determined, ruthless even, in his advances. In this mood, he seemed entirely capable of murder.

What if Bulow
had
been at the selling race in Exeter the day I was pushed? Then what? All I had were suspicions, and they were mostly based on Homer’s unproven statement that he had had Norman’s body disinterred, which might have been said to allay my suspicions of him. And if he had had Mrs. Soper bake that plum cake, naturally she would deny it to me, of all people.

I was a fool, and Homer was fast becoming unmanageable. He held me in a painfully tight grip, forced my head upwards to his, with a very strong hand holding my neck. Then he kissed me, with a fury that was composed largely of frustration, or anger. I had no choice but to let him. I struggled till I was tired, then I stopped struggling and let him vent his anger on my lips. Oddly, when I stopped struggling, he stopped kissing me, and lowered his arms. I turned away, unable to keep back the tears, though I did not sob or make any sound.

The house was suddenly as silent as death. Not even a clock ticked. I was turned from him; the floor behind me emitted a squawk, alerting me he was moving. I almost expected to feel his hands around my neck. “Davinia?” he asked, his voice low. “I’m sorry. That was unforgivable. It won’t happen again. I’m no better than Bulow. Worse; you didn’t try to stop him.”