A Conspiracy of Ravens (30 page)

With a quick motion Serafina closed the journal, got up quickly, and with a guilty air about her, replaced it in the chest and shut the drawer with unnecessary force. She went back to the desk, putting all thoughts of what she had read out of her mind and began to read the work of Pascal again.

She read doggedly for fifteen minutes, then suddenly the sound of feet coming up the stairs at a rapid rate caught her attention. She turned her head to listen, then rose and moved over to the door. It was close to midnight, and everyone in the house had gone to sleep, or so she supposed. She opened the door a crack and saw that James Barden, the butler, was tapping on her parents’ door with some urgency. He was dressed in a robe and wore slippers, the first time Serafina had ever seen him in anything but impeccable dress. Her parents’ room was down the hall, separated by several rooms from Serafina’s own, so when the door opened, she heard Barden speaking rapidly but could not make out the words. When he hurried down the stairs, she closed the door and began to throw on her clothes.
Something is wrong,
she thought and dressed hurriedly.

When she was fully dressed, she went down the hall and found her father just coming out of the door wearing a robe too large for him. His hair stood in wild array, and his eyes were wide open.

“What is it, Father?”

“It’s a messenger from Silverthorn. Barden tells me the man insists on being heard. He says it’s urgent. What are you doing out of bed?”

“I heard Barden coming up, and I thought something might be wrong.”

“Come along. We’ll go find out. It must be serious.”

The two went quickly down the stairs to the foyer where they found Tim Moorhaven, the coachman for Lord Darby. He was bundled up to his eyes in heavy clothes and pulled off his hat. He was a large man with red features and always spoke in a high tenor voice, almost like a woman’s, that belied his huge stature.

“What is it?” Septimus asked at once. “Is someone ill?”

“Not exactly, sir,” Moorhaven mumbled. His lips were numb with the cold, and he rubbed his nose with his mittened hand. “But there’s been some trouble at Silverthorn. Lord Darby sent me to fetch you and Lady Trent.”

“What kind of trouble?” Serafina asked quickly.

“It’s Crinshaw—Charles Crinshaw, the butler, sir. Well, he’s dead.”

“Dead? What happened to him?”

“I don’t know, sir, but Lord Darby told me to get you to come if you could, sir. He wants you to look at the body.”

“Well, of course we’ll come,” Septimus said.

“You can ride back with me, sir. We’ll see you get back right enough.”

“Very good. Serafina, would you tell Barden that I’ll be leaving?”

“Yes, but I’m going with you. I’ll make some arrangements with Rachel to take care of David.”

“Are you sure you want to go out in this weather?”

“Yes, I’m certain. We must go—it sounds serious.”

“Very well. Moorhaven, we’ll be ready very quickly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I can’t understand it. It must have been an accident,” Septimus said.

As usual, Trevor remained awake later than most in the house. He was used to late hours and had tried to read a book Gervase had given him. It was a novel, and he had never read a novel before. The name of it was
Oliver Twist,
and he found himself interested in spite of his usual distrust of books. He was reading in front of the fire in his room when suddenly he realized that he was hungry. He had not eaten much supper and now he found himself ravenous. He decided to go to the kitchen and find something to munch on.

Marking his place carefully in the book with a slip of paper, he walked out the door and was surprised to see Arthur and Gervase coming toward him. He was confused for a moment and said, “Well, I didn’t expect to find anyone else up.”

Gervase said at once, “There’s something wrong. We don’t know what exactly.”

“Something wrong? There ain’t a fire, is there?” Trevor asked.

“No, it’s not that.”

“Well, I was just going down to get something to eat. Maybe I could go with you.”

“Yes, come along,” Arthur said. “We heard Moorhaven driving the carriage away, and then one of the maids came and told us that there was some kind of problem. Let’s see what it is.”

The three were descending the stairs when they were met by Emily Swifton, the head housekeeper. “Lord Edward’s in the parlour, Mr. Arthur, if that’s who you are looking for.”

“What’s happened, Mrs. Swifton?”

“I don’t rightly know, sir, but it’s trouble.”

Arthur moved quickly down the hall accompanied by Gervase, and Trevor tagged along behind. They went into the smaller of the two parlours where, as soon as he was inside, Trevor saw his father and Rupert, both of them looking troubled, especially the earl.

“What are you doing up?” Edward asked with surprise, looking at the three.

“We heard there was some sort of trouble, and we were worried,” Arthur said. “What is it, Edward?”

“It’s Crinshaw. I’m afraid he’s dead.”

Arthur’s eyes opened wide. “Crinshaw? Whatever happened? Was there some sort of accident?”

“We don’t know yet,” Rupert broke in. “He’s dead in the butler’s pantry.”

“Are you certain—well, of course you are,” Arthur caught himself. “Did it seem to be his heart?”

“How can I know? I’m no doctor,” Rupert snapped. “All I know is that he’s dead.”

Edward said, “I sent for Dr. Newton. We need a physician to make the report. I sent for the police also.”

“The police!” Gervase said with surprise. “Why would you need the police?”

“I think in the case of sudden death, it’s always necessary to notify the police.”

They were interrupted suddenly when Lady Leona Moore came in. Her lavender robe covered her down to her toes, and a pair of heavy black shoes peeped out from underneath the hem. “What is it?” she asked. “Is somebody ill?”

“What are you doing up, Leona?” Edward asked.

Lady Leona looked like a small bird. She bobbed her head about and moved her eyes around the room and said in a clear, distinct voice, “He’s dead, isn’t he? Leslie is dead.”

“Now, Mother, come along. You shouldn’t be up like this,” Arthur said. He went over and took her, but she reached up and touched his face. “I knew it was death. A bird got into my room last week. Everyone knows that means death.”

“Now, Mother, that’s just superstition. Come along.” Arthur led his mother out of the room, and they could hear her protesting, “Leslie is dead. A bird got into the room . . .” until their voices faded.

“She’s getting worse.” Rupert shook his head. “She may have to go to Bedlam sooner or later.”

“No,” Gervase said strongly. “We’re not putting my grandmother in that place!”

Rupert started to answer, but Edward said abruptly, “Of course we won’t. We’re going to take care of her. She’s harmless enough. Just confused is all.”

“What do we do now?” Gervase asked.

“We wait for Dr. Newton and the police.”

By the time they reached Silverthorn, Serafina and her father were both numbed by the cold. The temperature was below freezing, or so she thought. When they pulled up in front of the house, a servant was waiting to open the door and help Serafina out of the carriage. As she climbed down, she had to hold on to him for a minute because her feet felt numb. “It’s bad cold outside, lady,” the man said. “Let me help you up the steps.”

Serafina said, “Thank you,” and found her lips were so numb she could hardly speak. The big man helped her up the steps, and she waited until her father had navigated the short journey. The door opened, and Edward Hayden said, “Come in, Septimus and Lady Trent.” He put his hand out, and Serafina took it. “Come in. It’s freezing out.” He got them inside and said, “You’ll need to thaw out after that cold ride, I expect. Come into my study. I’ll explain what has happened.”

Serafina followed with her father beside her. In the study a small fire burned, warming the room. Both of them went over to it and began to thaw out. Almost at once Septimus asked, “What’s the problem, Edward?”

“It’s my butler, Charles Crinshaw. I’m afraid he’s dead. It came as quite a shock.”

“What happened to him, do you know? Was it an accident?” Serafina asked.

“No, it wasn’t an accident, I don’t think. It may have been his heart. It seems to have been very sudden.”

By the time they warmed up sufficiently, Edward led them through the house into the kitchen, which was occupied only by Annie Simms, the cook. On the far side was the butler’s pantry where Crinshaw had kept special spices and records. It was his domain.

Edward asked, “No one has been inside the pantry, have they, Annie?”

“No, sir, I’ve been watching all the time.”

Serafina and her father moved forward, and Lord Edward stepped aside. “There he is, poor fellow.”

Serafina let her father go first. Septimus leaned down and touched the man’s throat, but they both knew that that was futile. Death was in the man’s face. He had a look of surprise and agony on his features, and his eyes were wide open. Serafina caught an odor that seemed strange to her. She moved closer to her father. They examined the body as well as they could without touching it, and then both of them rose.

“Who found the body?” Septimus asked.

“I did,” Edward said. “It was quite a painful thing.”

“What time was it?”

“It was late, after ten. Crinshaw always brings me a drink every evening before I go to bed. It’s an old habit of mine, and Crinshaw was faithful, always on time. He didn’t come tonight for some time, and I thought, perhaps, he might have forgotten it—though that would have been unusual for him. Then when I got here I found him as you see him.” He shook his head. “He was a good man.”

“Have you notified the police?” Serafina asked quietly.

“Yes. They should be here soon. Does it look like a heart attack to you?”

“I can’t say until we’re able to move him.”

Serafina turned to face Edward. “Nothing must be touched until the police have made their investigation.”

“Of course you’re right. I hate to leave him there, but then that doesn’t matter to him now, does it?”

Matthew Grant was sleeping soundly when he heard the banging on his door. He awoke at once. He grabbed a robe, slipped into it, and padded barefoot on the cold floor to the door. He opened it, prepared to have it out with whoever was disturbing his sleep, but then he blinked and said with some surprise, “Superintendent, it’s you?”

Indeed it was Edsel Fenton, the recently appointed superintendent of Scotland Yard. Fenton was a short, rather overweight man of sixty-two with a reddish complexion and bulging eyes. He drank too much, which he tried without success to conceal, and loved rich food. “What is it, Superintendent?”

“There’s been a death at Lord Darby’s. I feel it’s necessary that I go. Get your clothes on, Grant.”

“Yes, sir. Come in. It’s cold out.”

Fenton stepped in and said with an imperious gesture, “Hurry up. I want to get there as quick as I can before anyone tampers with the scene.”

“Is it a crime, sir?”

“Well, we won’t know that until we investigate, will we, Grant? Hurry!” His voice was strident, as it usually was when he spoke to Grant. Grant understood well that Fenton disliked him intensely. Grant himself had been the logical choice to become Superintendent of Scotland Yard, but Fenton was a man with friends in high places, and although he had far less experience than Grant, he had been appointed. Grant was jealous of Fenton’s position, and though Fenton was intelligent, there were also gaps in his abilities that Grant had spotted almost at once.