Death on a Silver Tray (11 page)

Mr. Dawlish looked at me in surprise. “Are you saying someone
stole
Miss Ashton’s journal?”

I tilted my head to one side. “What do you think? Miss Ashton writes out her feelings each night before she retires. She may have expressed some completely understandable frustration about Lady Wrayburn in that journal. She kept the journal in the same place at all times. Now, it is suddenly missing.”

“Oh, Mr. Brummell,” Miss Ashton said weakly, “I did indeed air some angry feelings about the countess in that journal. How astute of you to know. But, upon my honor I did not truly mean any of the ugly things I said.”

“Of course not, my dear,” the rector proclaimed roundly. “No one in their right mind would think you did.”

“True,” I said. “However, someone who wished to cast blame on Miss Ashton might have done a casual search through her room and stumbled across the journal. It would have been simple enough to wrap it up and send it to Bow Street anonymously.”

“But there is no one here who would wish me harm!” Miss Ashton cried.

“It may not be so much a matter of wishing you harm as much as protecting himself or herself from a charge of murder,” I pointed out. “Think it over, Miss Ashton. And if you find the journal in the meantime, do send me word.”

“I shall.”

“How is the maid, Lizzie?” I inquired.

 Miss Ashton opened her mouth to speak, but Mr. Dawlish was ahead of her. “God will provide for Lizzie. As it says in Psalms, ‘In times of disaster, they will not wither.’“

“No doubt you are correct,” I agreed amiably. “However, I cannot help but feel
He
appreciates it when we mere mortals do our part to help
Him
out. With Lady Wrayburn’s son, Lord Wrayburn abroad, I imagine Mr. Hensley will make all the decisions now. Are you aware of his feelings on the matter of Lizzie’s continued employment, Miss Ashton?”

“Yes, thank goodness. He told us in a most discreet and kind manner that there would be no staff changes for the time being. I believe he must be waiting for the will to be read tomorrow—”

The rector interrupted her, staring at me with a shrewd expression. “Perhaps he has been
too
anxious for the will to be read.”

“Indeed?” I encouraged this all too obvious hint.

“Mr. Dawlish!” Miss Ashton exclaimed. “You cannot mean to cast doubt upon Mr. Hensley’s character. I shall not have it.”

“And why is that?” the rector peered at her through his spectacles. “You told me yourself that you saw Mr. Hensley dressed for the outdoors the night of the murder. Mayhaps he poisoned the milk before he left the house.”

“When did Mr. Hensley leave?” I queried.

Miss Ashton shot the rector an exasperated look. “I saw him when I came downstairs from Lizzie’s room in the attics. But it signifies nothing, as Mr. Hensley remarked to me that he was going out for a walk—”

Mr. Dawlish spoke heatedly. “
Someone
murdered Lady Wrayburn and the investigator from Bow Street thinks you did it. Your friend Mr. Brummell here asked you to think if there is anyone in the household who might wish to cast suspicion on you. I know you are innocent, as I know that there are those in this world who cannot wait to get what they consider to be rightfully theirs. Some, like the prodigal son, wish to hasten their inheritance.”

Miss Ashton rose to her feet. I immediately followed suit, the rector more slowly.

She gave voice to her frustration, her tone terse, her cheeks flushed. “Mr. Hensley is no prodigal son. He does not squander his wealth. It is too much on top of everything else to hear you, Mr. Dawlish, whom I have considered to be my closest friend, cast aspersions on Mr. Hensley’s character. Doing so is just as dreadful as Mr. Lavender assuming I am guilty.”

Mr. Dawlish appeared remorseful, but before he could move to make amends, we were interrupted.

“Did I hear you say you are
guilty
, Miss Ashton?” a female voice asked in a dry tone. “Was that a confession?”

We all turned to see the new arrivals. A lady and gentleman—whom I could only assume were Mr. and

Mrs. Hensley—stood framed in the doorway. The woman was attired in a strikingly elegant bronze silk gown. However, the pleasure afforded me by its resplendence was somewhat marred by the wearer.

Although Mrs. Hensley must have been a beauty during her come-out into Society, two decades of marriage had etched lines of dissatisfaction around her mouth. Frown lines creased her brow above a nose which could not escape being called sharp.

Her husband was a clear contrast. His face was smooth, almost boyish. Where one felt an air of strength and determination about Mrs. Hensley, Mr. Hensley did not seem to have an ounce of fight left in him.

Miss Ashton made a quick recovery at Mrs. Hensley’s barb and stepped forward. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hensley,

Mr. Hensley,” she said calmly. Then her eyes widened. “Oh, goodness! Mrs. Hensley, is that Lady Wrayburn’s topaz broach you are wearing?”

Cordelia Hensley eyed the younger woman coldly. “Yes, it is. With Lord Wrayburn unwed, the countess’s jewels would remain in some musty box. I saw no reason why I should not have them. Not that it is any of your business.”

“No, ma’am. It is only that Lizzie, as part of her duties, took inventory of Lady Wrayburn’s jewels and noticed that several pieces were missing.”

Mrs. Hensley raised her nose. “There is no sense in making a fuss. I am entitled to take whatever I want now that the spiteful old woman is gone.”

My right eyebrow shot up at this callous speech, but I said nothing.

Mr. Hensley gave Miss Ashton a twisted smile and stood with his hands thrust into his pockets.

Mrs. Hensley led the way inside the room, her steps taking her to the decanter on a nearby side table. Before she could reach it, she discerned my presence and her direction abruptly changed. Her demeanor also changed, and the difference was almost comical. She went from sullen superiority to gushing graciousness in an instant.

“Mr. Brummell! How remiss of Miss Ashton not to let me know you were here. Why, I confess myself charmed that you would visit Wrayburn House.”

I bowed. “Good afternoon.”

Mrs. Hensley and I had never been formally introduced, but a woman like her would never let a little nicety like that get in her way. Mentally, I heaved a tired sigh. I run across women of Mrs. Hensley’s sort oftentimes. I know enough to tread carefully, maintaining a polite reserve. Because if I did not give her my unfailing acceptance and approval—which I never would, considering her capable of the very heights of presumption—she would join the legions who spoke disparagingly behind my back. Why give her any ammunition?

Her smile faded when she turned toward her husband. “Timothy, what can you be thinking? Fetch Mr. Brummell a glass of Madeira at once, and you may bring me one as well.”

I stretched out my hand to a man I could tell led a dog’s life. And I am not speaking of one of Freddie’s pampered pets. “Hensley.”

“Brummell, good to see you.” He clasped my hand with a weak grasp and then scurried to do his wife’s bidding. I would wager he had been scurrying his entire married life. His thick, dark blond hair fell in heavy waves and he frequently pushed it back in a nervous gesture. I had seen him at entertainments, but rarely, if ever, could I recall seeing him at White’s. He probably was not allowed to leave his wife’s side for very long in case she needed him to ‘fetch’ something for her.

I accepted the glass of Madeira more for his benefit than for mine. Mrs. Hensley was sure to find fault with him if I rejected it.

“I have a sermon to write,” Mr. Dawlish informed us. “I promise to return on the morrow, Miss Ashton.”

The rector took his leave, then Mrs. Hensley seated herself in an armchair. I sat next to Miss Ashton on the uncomfortable settee.

Mr. Hensley joined us with the drinks. I accepted mine and took a sip. Excellent stuff, Madeira. Noting

Mrs. Hensley’s zealous gaze on me, I took a bigger swallow.

“Mr. Hensley, you have suffered a terrible loss,” I began, although the fellow did not strike me as grieving for his dear mama. More like harassed. I felt a rush of pity for a man caught between a tyrant of a mother and a domineering wife. “May I offer you my condolences on the death of your mother?”

“Ah ... yes, kind of you and all that,” he replied in a vague way. He swallowed the contents of his glass and crossed the room for another.

Mrs. Hensley, her faded blonde hair swept up in a severe style, could not sit by and let someone else be the center of attention. “What you
could
offer, dear Mr. Brummell, is your advice on a problem I mean to correct here at Wrayburn House.”

“A problem?” I asked, thinking of Miss Ashton and Lizzie’s fate.

“Many problems,” Mrs. Hensley assured me fervently. “How I have longed to take the reins of this household and change this depressing old barn into the stylish house it should be. Why, my friends have teased me on the subject time out of number. Now, at last, I am in command.”

It is a testimony to my ability to keep a cool countenance and a civil tongue that I did not simply rise from my seat, state that I would not waste my time trying to discuss elegance with a woman who had already sunk to the very depths of vulgar behavior, and make a swift exit. Instead, I remembered my mission to draw the Hensleys out on the subject of the late Lady Wrayburn. “Was Lady Wrayburn reluctant to make changes in the decor of Wrayburn House?”

Mrs. Hensley completely ignored mention of the dead woman. “What think you of the new Egyptian style of furnishings,

Mr. Brummell? Will they be fashionable? I saw a delightful sofa with crocodile legs I do so adore. But I wouldn’t dream of purchasing it without your recommendation.”

“Mrs. Hensley,” I said in a low voice, leaning forward in the manner of a conspirator. “A sofa depicting crocodiles would be perfect for you.”

Miss Ashton made a choking sound, Mrs. Hensley preened, and I rose, my patience tried. I would get nothing out of them this afternoon. Perhaps later, if I contrived to encounter each individually, I would meet with success. Mr. Hensley, for one, would never speak of personal matters in front of his wife. “Ah, Riddell, after you have taken that tea tray away, would you alert my men that I am ready to leave.”

The butler shuffled out of the room.

“Oh, but you mustn’t go,” Mrs. Hensley protested. “I haven’t asked you about my draperies.”

Running my gaze down Mrs. Hensley’s ample form, I replied, “I imagine something voluminous is needed.”

“Precisely my thought,” Mrs. Hensley crooned.

“I rather think not,” I muttered. Miss Ashton’s eyes glowed with perception of my subtle insult of Mrs. Hensley’s figure. I bowed over the younger woman’s hand and whispered, “I shall return tomorrow.”

Mr. Hensley shook my hand again. “Good of you to come. Must see to something in my library.” He hastened out of the room.

“Good day, Mrs. Hensley,” I said and walked out into the hall where the polemen had brought my sedan-chair.

“Oh! Look at that sedan-chair!” Mrs. Hensley had followed me into the hall. “It’s most unusual, Mr. Brummell. Why, I’ve never laid eyes on a wood such as that. It’s different, isn’t it?” she asked with disapproval.

The fate of Mr. Griffin’s creation was decided in that instant. “Yes, Mrs. Hensley, how clever of you to notice. It is indeed
different
. This is calamander wood, a rare wood formerly only used for royalty. I imagine there will be quite a crush of customers vying for it in the future.”

Mrs. Hensley stood with her mouth open. One could almost see her brain working, trying to devise a way to obtain the wood for herself before her friends caught wind of the new discovery.

I took the opportunity to enter my chair. Riddell opened the front door, and I was mercifully away.

As the polemen carried me toward Bruton Street, I reflected on my visit to Wrayburn House. Without doubt there were more questions now than ever. And with the new development of Mr. Lavender posting a guard to see that Miss Ashton remained in the house, coupled with the ominous news that he possessed additional evidence, I felt an urgent need to narrow what seemed to be an ever-widening list of suspects.

Mrs. Hensley was currently uppermost in my thoughts. A domineering sort, she obviously resented having to bow to another woman’s wishes. Was she capable of murdering Lady Wrayburn in order to run Wrayburn House the way she wanted? Her casual dismissal of the mere mentioning of Lady Wrayburn indicated the coldness required of a murderess.

I felt sorry for Timothy Hensley, ruled by his mother and his wife. Was he frustrated enough to dispose of one of them? Divorcing Mrs. Hensley would have been out of the question. Divorce is a long and scandalous process. I could not see the weak Mr. Hensley putting himself through it. But, a few drops of poison in his mother’s evening glass of milk might be an act he could carry through. I definitely had not perceived any familial devotion there.

And why had Mr. Hensley kept Miss Ashton and Lizzie on? Neither one would have any duties, unless he decided they could serve his wife. Somehow, I think Miss Ashton would have relayed such an insufferable change in circumstances to me.

As for Miss Ashton, although I could not logically rule her out as a suspect, my instinct still told me she was innocent. She really was an independent girl. I could see her leaving Wrayburn House with Lizzie in tow, determined to eke out a living, before I could see her murdering the countess.

Very well, perhaps it was her beautiful eyes which blinded me to the thought of her committing any wrongdoing.

And who had taken her journal? I was convinced that it had been stolen, not misplaced.

 Just as troubling were the two missing suspects. I had yet to interview Lizzie, the pregnant maid. Tomorrow, I planned to return to Wrayburn House around the time of the reading of the will. I would try to interview her then.

As for the other member of the household, Sylvester Fairingdale, I thought I could find him at a
Beau Monde
entertainment tonight. When I returned home, I would ask Robinson to enlist the aid of his league of fellow gossipy servants to find out what gathering Mr. Fairingdale planned to attend.