Death at Daisy's Folly (24 page)

“I should think so,” Kate said, “but I don't believe we can rule out the possibility that a woman—particularly one with whom he was on friendly terms—might have bidden him to sit down. In any event, it is something we must consider.”

Charles nodded, feeling a swiftly increasing respect for Kate's keen intelligence and reflecting, in a kind of mute celebration, that he could not have been more blessed in his choice of a wife if he had searched the length and breadth of England.

Kate was continuing. “Verena Rochdale might have had the opportunity, although you must ask Isaacson whether he was with her last night, as Ellie suggests. But Verena appears to have known Wallace only in society. I could uncover no relationship between them and no motive that might have compelled her to kill him. And speaking of Ellie, I fear it is impossible for me to believe that she had anything to do with the man's death. If you think otherwise, you must speak with her and draw your own conclusions.”

“And the servants?”

“I learned nothing from them that either amplified or contradicted their mistresses' stories.” Kate glanced at Charles and added, “I have not yet talked to Lady Warwick. I thought that you might wish to join that conversation.”

“Perhaps it would be best if we saw her together,” Charles replied. “Before then, we should have a look at Wallace's room, and on the way, I will tell you what I learned from the farrier. But first—” He took her hand once again. It lay in his, small and inexpressibly precious, though it was ink-stained. “You've had no second thoughts, Kate?”

“About our marriage?” Her glance was direct and clear, nothing reserved. “None. Have you?”

“I am surer now than ever before,” he said, standing. He pulled her to her feet and into his arms, kissing her with a sudden burst of passion that nearly unnerved him, and, he feared, must have frightened her. Overtaken by a rush of desire to possess her that he hardly knew how to quell, he stepped back and dropped his hands to his sides.

“How soon can we be married?” he asked, thinking that even a few days' delay was too long.

She looked down, then up at him again. “I fear I do not know what is customary, Charles. What would your family expect?”

He frowned, remembering Robert's wedding in St. Paul's Cathedral, a protracted, ponderous affair which had required the attentions of a battalion of cloth makers, seamstresses, flower merchants, bakers, caterers, and coachmen, who had been remunerated through the sale of thousands of acres belonging to his sister-in-law's father. He remembered the months of negotiations over the marriage settlement, the contentious arguments between the fathers of the groom and the bride, the prolonged debates over terms and allowances.

“What my family expects is of no relevance to us,” he said firmly. “My brother's marriage was the social event of the year, attended by half a dozen minor Royals.”

“Your family could hardly spare the time or effort just now to be involved with an elaborate wedding,” Kate said thoughtfully. “They might even wish us to wait until after the year's mourning is done with.”

“Wait? Not if I have anything to say about it!”

Kate touched her finger to his face, tracing the line of his brow. “A year is much too long, I think,” she said softly.

Charles put his arms around her once again. “Then perhaps we could induce Barfield to marry us without ceremony,” he said, his lips against her fragrant hair. “Next week, perhaps.” Barfield Talbot, with whom Charles was well acquainted, was the vicar of the parish where Bishop's Keep was located. “I will speak to him myself as soon as the weekend is over.” He snapped his fingers. “No, by heaven! I shall straightaway send off a telegram!”

Kate's eyes grew large. “Charles! I hardly think—”

“A fortnight?” He shook his head urgently. “No longer than that, surely. No longer, Kate, please!”

“Let us speak more on this later, Charles,” she said. “You have an urgent commission to resolve matters here. When you have satisfied the Prince, we can settle the details of our wedding.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss him lightly. “I promise you, my dear, it will not be long.”

Charles took her hand and kissed it, feeling that he loved her far more than he could say. “Well, then,” he said, with a deep sigh, “the sooner we are done, the sooner we can begin our happiness. So let us get on with this murderous business and have it over! Shall we go to Wallace's room?”

Kate nodded. “Have you spoken to his manservant yet?”

“His manservant? No, it hadn't occurred to me.”

“Well, then,” Kate said, “why don't we ring for the house steward and ask him to send Wallace's servant to the room? We can interview him there.”

“Of course,” Charles said, wondering once more why he had not thought of that.

Wallace's bedroom was on the second floor, Kate discovered as she accompanied Charles up the central staircase. They went into the west wing and down a long hallway, where Charles pointed out the room where he himself slept. Rooms for single men were designed for sleeping and dressing, it appeared, and were smaller, less elegant, and more spartan than the ladies' rooms.

As they approached Wallace's room, they saw Kirk-Smythe, stationed outside the door, speaking with a young girl, a laundry maid, it appeared from her basket. Kirk-Smythe's arms were folded and he was shaking his head adamantly.

“Sorry, miss,” he said. “No one comes into this room until the investigation is finished. Orders of His Highness.”

The girl gulped. “But ‘tis my job t' git th' sheets fer th' washin'!” she replied desperately. “‘F I doan't, Mrs. Wospottle' ll sack me! She counts
ever'thing,
down t' th' last pillercase!”

“It's all right, Kirk-Smythe,” Charles said. “Hello, Meg,” he said.

The girl jerked around. “Sir?” she asked apprehensively, then appeared to recognize Charles. “Sir!” she exclaimed, seeming—oddly, Kate thought—even more frightened. From the name, Kate recognized her as the farrier's daughter, of whom Charles had spoken on their way upstairs.

“It's not likely that Lord Wallace's bed was slept in last night, Meg,” Charles said in a kindly tone. “And if it were, it won't be slept in tonight. The laundering can wait.”

The girl's chin trembled. “But that woan‘t—That woan't satisfy Mrs. Wospottle,” she said, half-choked. “She'll still be wantin' 'em done.”

Mrs. Wospottle, Kate thought, seemed a bit unreasonable. And it was odd that the upstairs maid who was responsible for the rooms on this corridor had not already remade the bed. But Charles was smiling at the girl in a kindly way.

“Well, then,” he said, “you may go into the room and get the sheets, if you must.”

Kirk-Smythe took out a key, unlocked the door, and the girl slipped inside as if a wolf were snapping at her heels. “Am I to wait?” he asked.

Charles shook his head. “The Prince asked me to send you to the library, where some telegrams are to be dispatched. I was also asked to tell you that His Highness is about to exhaust his supply of cigars.”

Kirk-Smythe seemed to linger. “About last night, Sheridan—” He shifted uncomfortably and his eyes went to Kate, a red flush creeping along his jaw. “His Highness being otherwise occupied, you see, I was given leave to pursue my own interests. A certain young lady and I...” He hesitated, his mouth twitching. “That is to say—”

“Celia has already spoken to me about your meeting last night,” Kate said gently, “and I have relayed her account to Sir Charles.”

“Then you know what transpired.” The young man was visibly relieved. “Celia's a lovely girl and I mean to marry her, if she will have me. In fact, I plan to ask His Highness to intercede on my behalf.” His face darkened. “But Lady Rochdale is a damned termagant, if you don't mind my saying so. If she knew that her daughter and I—”

“Lady Rochdale will know nothing from us,” Charles said. “Did you see or hear anyone in the vicinity of the Folly last night?”

Kirk-Smythe shook his head.

“As the Prince's guard, I assume that you carry a gun.”

Kirk-Smythe lifted his trouser leg, reached into his boot, and pulled out a small, deadly-looking derringer. He handed it to Charles. “I have had it on my person since His Highness and I arrived at Easton,” he said.

Charles turned the gun over in his hand, opening the breech and examining the cartridge in the chamber. “A forty-one caliber,” he remarked.

“Correct. Has the fatal bullet been recovered?”

Charles returned the gun. “Yes. It was fired from a smaller weapon, thirty-two caliber, most likely.”

“Ah,” Kirk-Smythe said, and slipped it back into his boot. He straightened and handed the room key to Charles. “I should see to those telegrams now.” With a half-bow to Kate and a muttered “Ma'am,” he went quickly toward the stairs.

Charles pushed the door open and Kate followed him into the room, where the girl was stripping the bottom sheet from the bed to add to the pile on the floor. The room was high-ceilinged and dark, with a dark green wool rug on the floor and heavy green damask draperies over the window. Kate went to them and pulled them open to allow light into the room. Turning, she saw a bed against one wall, a large, barrel-fronted mahogany dresser against another, and a fireplace with a white-painted mantel-shelf let into a third. A small writing table sat beside the window, and with it a carved wooden chair. A more comfortable upholstered chair in green, with a small oak footstool, was placed beside the fireplace.

“What are we searching for?” she asked.

“I don't know,” Charles admitted, looking around. “Something, anything that might provide a clue to the motive for Wallace's murder.” He went to the dresser and began to pull out the drawers.

There was a soft knock at the door, and Kate went to it. A frock-coated manservant was standing stiffly outside. “I am Richards, ma'am. Sir Reginald's valet.” He glanced at the open drawer in which Charles had been searching. “You are the gentleman commissioned by His Highness to investigate Sir Reginald's murder?”

“I am Charles Sheridan, and this is my assistant, Miss Ardleigh.” He stepped aside to allow the girl to leave the room with her basket of sheets. “Please accept our condolences on the death of your master, Richards.”

Richards inclined his head and the starchiness went out of him. “Thank you, sir. If there is anything I can do, you have but to ask. Poor Sir Reginald—” He swallowed. “Well, sir, it's a dreadful shame, that's all I can say. Appalling, is what it is.”

“It is indeed a great pity,” Charles agreed sympathetically, as Kate went to the writing table. Upon it was a clock, a green blotter, an inkwell, a collection of pens, and a leather portfolio filled with clean sheets of heavy vellum, embossed with the Easton seal. She raised the blotter, which appeared to be clean. There was nothing under it, and nothing in the drawer.

“I wonder,” Charles was saying, “whether you know of anyone who might have borne ill will toward Sir Reginald?”

The man's face hardened. “‘Smatter of fact, sir,” he said, “I do.”

Kate turned, surprised, and Charles asked, “Who?”

“Sir Thomas, sir,” Richards said, with much feeling.

“Thomas Cobb?” Charles asked, his eyebrows going up.

“Sir Thomas is—was—Sir Reginald's wife's father, sir. There has been bad blood between them since Lady Wallace died. Sir Thomas, you see, believed—oh, quite wrongly, I assure you—that his daughter was murdered.”

“Murdered!” Kate exclaimed.

“Yes, madam.” Richards's lips thinned. “By Sir Reginald.”

Charles mulled this over. “I see,” he said presently. “Have you ever heard Sir Thomas threaten Sir Reginald?”

Richards became earnest. “Oh, several times, sir. They quarreled often, and heatedly. Yesterday, as a matter of fact, just here. Sir Thomas's room is down the hall, you see, and he stopped on his way to dinner.”

Of course, Kate thought. That explained why Sir Thomas, who had been seated beside her at dinner, had spent the entire meal glowering across the table at Sir Reginald. Had the unmistakable animosity between the two men blossomed into something much deadlier?

“How did Sir Thomas suppose his daughter's death to have taken place?” Charles asked.

“Lady Wallace was injured when she and Sir Reginald were out riding, sir.”

“Ah, yes,” Charles murmured. “I recall something about a fence.”

“Indeed, sir,” Richards said. “Her horse refused a fence and she was thrown against a tree. She survived for several days, unable to speak. Sir Thomas was most distraught. He charged that ... well, that Sir Reginald had struck his daughter.”

“And the supposed motive?”

Richards dropped his chin into his high starched collar. “At the time, Sir Reginald was ... on friendly terms with Lady Warwick.”

Kate shivered. Under the circumstances, it was perhaps not surprising that Sir Thomas had accused his son-in-law, or that he glared at him across the dinner table. More surprising, actually, was that the two men had agreed to come to the same house party. Was something to be made of that fact?

She was glancing around the room, wondering where to search next, when her attention was caught by a folded paper on the floor beside the bed. She went to pick it up.

Charles was going on with his questioning. “Setting Sir Thomas aside, Richards, are you aware of anyone else who might have wished your master harm?”

Richards pushed his lips in and out. “One does not wish to speak ill of a lady,” he said carefully, “but Lady Metcalf ... that is to say ...” He stopped, looking uncomfortable.