Neddy glanced down at Ofelia, who nodded, trying not to look too eager. She had no desire to see Mr. Clive again—he had made her distinctly uneasy—but she had no intention of being left behind now.

  “Certainly,” Neddy agreed. “Mr. Powell, will you be joining us? We could squeeze in five if we must.”

  “No, I thank you,” said Mr. Powell, his tone stiff with disapproval. “I believe it is a mistake to take Mr. Wright anywhere. And I have no desire to speak with Mr. Clive, who I imagine will take great pleasure in being as unhelpful as possible.”

  “You want to be done with the whole thing, I take it?” Mr. Hurst asked, displaying a moment of shrewdness that Ofelia would not have expected from the young runner. Perhaps he knew what he was about after all.

  Mr. Powell nodded. “As you have arrived, Mr. Hurst, I believe I may leave the matter, and Mr. Wright, in your hands. Murder is, I must admit, not quite my forte.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Mr. Wright, running his fingers through his hair in a useless effort to tidy it. He gave the Bow Street constable an assessing glance, smiling a little, as though unimpressed by what he saw. “I am sure young Mr. Hurst will be well able to contain a wily criminal such as myself. I shall likely see you next time Dennings kicks me out of the inn, Powell. Or not.” He glanced in the direction of Belleford, and Ofelia thought he might be suppressing a shudder. “Might not be long for this little village.” Turning to Neddy, he bowed. “Lead on, Sir Edward.”

  “A moment. If you’d please hold out your hands.” The constable, surprising them all, pulled out a pair of handcuffs, a satisfied edge to his smile as Mr. Wright blanched in shock. “You didn’t think I’d let you just traipse around willy-nilly, did you?”

  * * *

  It was fortunate that the drive into the village was a quick one. Mr. Hurst was silent the whole way, watching Mr. Wright with an assessing, impassive gaze. Mr. Wright, for his part, seemed determined to show the Bow Street constable that he harbored no guilt or uneasiness, in spite of the way he kept glancing down at the handcuffs on his wrists. He spent the drive making overly flirtatious comments to Ofelia, as though being locked up had left him with a store of bad behavior that he needed to get out.

  “Were your husband not here, Lady Carroway, I should be tempted to tell you how ravishing you look today and what a true solace it was to see your face after my imprisonment.”

  “And had your imprisonment lasted more than a single day, sir, I might be more tempted to take your flattery seriously,” Ofelia said severely. “I should think your mind would be on your paramour—who is still locked up, as I hope you remember—rather than on a stranger.”

  “And her husband is here,” Neddy said, still cheerful but with a sharp edge creeping into his voice. “So I suggest you refrain from saying anything that will tempt me to strike you in the face. I doubt Mr. Hurst wants his primary suspect bloodied at this juncture.”

  Ofelia was saved having to find out what sort of outrageous thing Mr. Wright might have said in reply by the carriage suddenly drawing to a halt. They were outside the inn, where Mr. Powell had told them the bookmaker Clive could be found most days.

  “Ah, here we are then,” Mr. Wright said, leaning awkwardly over to glance out the window and losing his balance a little because of his cuffed hands. He sighed and shook his head as he held them out toward Mr. Hurst. “You will do something about these, I presume?”

  Neddy hopped out, then turned to hand Ofelia down. The Bow Street runner climbed out next, then gestured to Mr. Wright to join them. “Down you come, sir.”

  Even in the dim interior of the carriage, Ofelia could see Mr. Wright recoil. “You cannot be serious, man,” he hissed, holding up his hands. “I’ll not be seen like this! Have you any idea what sort of talk it will prompt?”

  Mr. Hurst planted his feet firmly and took a deep breath, as though steeling himself. “You’re the one who insisted we come talk to the bookmaker,” he said, only a slight quaver in his voice. Ofelia wanted to cheer for him; instead, she exchanged a glance with her husband, who looked downright smug to see Mr. Wright put in his place. “If you’ve changed your mind, I assume it’s because you’re afraid of what we might learn.”

  “Damn it all, that isn’t—” Mr. Wright growled, then lurched toward the door, stumbling down the step and nearly landing face-first in the dirt because of his haste. Only Neddy’s quick reflexes kept him upright, though Ofelia thought her husband looked a little irritated at himself for his instinctive helpfulness. He dropped Mr. Wright’s arm quickly. “Fine then, lead the way. I shall show you I’ve nothing to hide.”

  “Lady Carroway,” the Bow Street constable said, clearing his throat a little awkwardly. “Would you care to wait in the carriage?”

  “Absolutely not,” Ofelia replied, polite but firm, and while he was still registering his surprise, she took Neddy’s arm and began towing him toward the inn’s door. To her relief, Mr. Hurst was too occupied with his suspect to offer more than a brief, “Lady Carroway!” as an objection, and within a few moments all of them were blinking as their eyes adjusted to the dim light of the inn’s common room.

  “Sir Edward!” The inn’s owner, Mr. Dennings, came bustling over, a woman Ofelia assumed to be his wife following in his wake and not bothering to hide her curiosity at all. “A pleasure to see you again, sir, and this must be your lady wife—an honor, madam.” He had just begun to bow to Ofelia when he caught sight of the two men standing behind them. His bemused gaze passed over Mr. Hurst and landed on Mr. Wright, at which point his shock seemed to make him forget what he was doing. He stood still, halfway into a bow, his eyes fixed on Mr. Wright’s handcuffed wrists, until his wife gave him a forceful jab with her elbow, and he pulled himself upright. “To what do I owe—that is—how can we—what’s going on?”

  “We need to speak to a Mr. Clive. Is he here?” Mr. Hurst stepped forward, giving Mr. Wright a nudge to do the same, which he obeyed sullenly, his face red with mortification and anger.

  “To be sure, I’m here,” a voice drawled from the corner. They all glanced over to find Clive, the bookmaker, eyeing their group curiously, his booted feet propped up on the table in front of him and his chair tipped back against a wall. Mrs. Dennings looked aggravated and, walking over, hoisted his heels up and dropped them on the floor. Clive just laughed. “Sorry, Mrs. Dennings, you know how absentminded I am. But I never forget a pretty face.” He gave Ofelia a wink, followed by a long perusal of her figure. “My lady, if I remember correctly?”

  Neddy tensed. Ofelia’s jaw clenched, and she was about to give him a piece of her mind when Mr. Hurst stepped forward. “Mr. Clive, I believe?”

  “That’s me,” the young man agreed, smiling insolently. “And I recognize a London voice when I hear one. What brings you to Hampshire, Londoner?” He glanced at Mr. Wright, his smile growing broader. “And what have you done to my good friend here?”

  “You’ll find out sooner if you make some room at your table, Clive,” Mr. Wright muttered.

  “Then I shall,” he agreed amiably. “Will her ladyship and the red-faced fellow I presume is her husband be joining us?”

  Ofelia gave him a disdainful look, then turned to the innkeeper. “Mr. Dennings, would you and your lovely wife be so good as to grant us a moment in private? Mr. Hurst is here on official Bow Street business and requires a word with Mr. Clive.” She gave Neddy a nudge with her elbow; after a final dark look in Clive’s direction, he was quick to produce several shillings, which Mrs. Dennings was just as quick to receive and whisk away under her apron.

  “Certainly, Sir Edward, Lady Carroway, whatever you might need. Come along, Mr. Dennings.” Glancing at them with undisguised curiosity, she herded her husband toward another room, though Ofelia had the distinct impression that the innkeeper’s wife, at least, would be listening at the door for whatever gossip she could manage to overhear.

  Luckily, there were no other patrons in the common room at the moment. They were left in relative privacy as they all took seats at Mr. Clive’s table.

  Mr. Hurst leaned forward. “I’ll get right to it, then. I understand you’re the fellow in town most likely to be collecting money from anyone interested in a spot of gambling. Is that correct?”

  Clive shrugged, starting to look a little wary. “There is more than one man in the neighborhood who likes to have a bit of fun with his money. I’m happy to provide a way for them to do it.”

  “And to make a tidy profit when it doesn’t go well for them?”

  Clive shrugged again. “We don’t all have the good luck that my friend Wright here has, to be born a gentleman in a wealthy family. Some of us must make do with the talents God has given us. Mine happen to be for gambling.”

  “Can’t say I feel particularly lucky at the moment,” Mr. Wright muttered, and from below the table they all heard the clank of metal.

  Clive winced at the sound, and some of his bravado seemed to falter. “What exactly is going on?” he asked.

  “As I’ve learned, your friend Wright here isn’t always the luckiest man when it comes to his bets,” Mr. Hurst continued. When Clive nodded tersely, he leaned forward. “How much money does Mr. Wright here owe you?”

  Ofelia caught the quick, startled look that Clive gave his friend before a bemused smile stole over his features. “How much does he owe me?”

  Mr. Wright sighed. “You can tell him the truth, Clive. What red-blooded man hasn’t got into a spot of trouble gambling, after all?”

  “But my friend here owes me nothing at all. His debts were settled some days ago—the morning after his mother’s tragic passing, I believe.” Clive smiled. “I was most appreciative of the prompt payment, as I have expenses of my own, you understand.”

  “But …” Mr. Wright stared at him, spluttering in disbelief. “But that is not true at all! I owe you near eight hundred pounds, man, and I’ve yet to settle a single shilling of it.” His voice rose as he spoke, and for a moment it seemed his body would rise too. Instead, he gripped the table with his cuffed hands, leaning forward and speaking urgently. “Tell them. Tell them!”

  Ofelia didn’t believe for a moment that he was a talented enough actor to fake either the surprise or the unmistakable note of panic in his voice. She glanced at Neddy, who was looking apprehensive, and at Mr. Hurst, who was not bothering to hide his skepticism.

  “Well, no, you did not,” Clive said, raising his eyebrows and looking genuinely confused. “But she said it was to settle your account. And as I didn’t see how a housemaid could have come by such a sum unless you had given it to her, I was more than happy to take it.”

  “The housemaid delivered this payment?” Mr. Hurst asked, leaning forward. Ofelia did the same without thinking and saw that both Neddy and Mr. Wright did too.

  “From your big fancy hall,” Clive said, a sour note creeping into his voice. “She came knocking on my door bright and early that morning and said I wasn’t to spread it around, but she was there to pay off your debt, and I was to confirm it with you in a few days.” He gave a mocking half bow in Mr. Hurst’s direction. “Of course, I was the soul of discretion until an esteemed officer of Bow Street instructed me to share. And where else would the girl have gotten half your mother’s jewelry if you did not give it to her yourself? We all know Mrs. Wright did not willingly part with it.”

  “But I knew nothing of this,” Mr. Wright protested, his ruddy cheeks going pale as he glanced from one face to another, finally turning toward Mr. Hurst with a pleading look. “Nothing, I swear! If she stole my mother’s jewels, she did it of her own accord. I never suggested such a thing, and I never encouraged her beyond a mere dalliance. I swear, I never lifted a finger against my mother or encouraged anyone else to.”

  He was deadly serious, Ofelia thought, more serious than she would have ever thought possible for such a frivolous, self-absorbed man. She was almost tempted to come to his defense, a sensation that surprised her, given how off-putting she found him.

  Glancing at Mr. Hurst, Ofelia was surprised to see the considering look on the constable’s face. “I think,” he said slowly. “It is time for us to go speak with Etta.”

  CHAPTER 21

  The discovery of Alice’s body shocked everyone, but it was easy to deduce what had happened. She had been sent the evening before, Isaiah explained, to take Etta a tray of dinner and a blanket for the night. But with everything in disarray, and Miss Wright demanding all their attention and care, no one had noticed that Alice hadn’t come back.

  “She was always so quiet,” Isaiah said once they were back in the kitchen. Lily had made him sit down, and then, unobtrusively and without asking permission, had gone upstairs to the family parlor and poured them each a drink from Mr. Wright’s liquor cabinet. Isaiah hadn’t argued or asked where it came from, but drank half of it in one gulp and dropped his head into his hands. “She was shy, and she was young—we were always overlooking her—Etta used to laugh that no one ever noticed when Alice walked into a room. And I laughed too, God forgive me. I called her Mouse because she was always scurrying silently from room to room. But now …”

  When she had first seen Alice’s body, Lily had thought she might be sick. The shock had overpowered her nearly as much as it had Isaiah. But she hadn’t known Alice well, hadn’t lived or worked with her. Once she had turned her back on the grisly sight of the girl’s body, Lily had been able to pull herself together and take charge. After closing and locking the door once more, she had herded Isaiah back to the kitchen.

  He was shaking as his voice trailed off, and it was unnerving to see such a strong, good-humored man reduced to such a horrified state. Lily poured the contents of her own glass into Isaiah’s, resting her hand on his shoulder for a moment before telling him not to leave the kitchen while she went to find her aunt.

  Eliza was with Miss Wright, of course, and Mr. Mears was in the room as well. Lily was grateful for that—better to tell them both at once, she reasoned, and let the stoic butler take care of his employer. Eliza looked as though she would be ill, and she asked Lily to repeat herself twice before it seemed she could comprehend what she had been told. Even Mr. Mears registered more emotion than Lily had yet seen on his face at the news of Alice’s murder. But that was nothing compared to Miss Wright, who immediately went into hysterics, begging for her brother to be summoned.

  “I shall go to Mr. Powell’s,” Lily said firmly, once she could make herself heard, hoping that Mr. Hurst would still be there. “Perhaps he will allow your brother to come to you.”

  “It is that girl who did it, that wretched, murdering girl,” Miss Wright sobbed, clinging to Eliza. “Oh dear God, we will all be killed—if it is not the ghost, it will be her! Whatever happened, it was her fault, not Thomas’s. They will have to see that now, won’t they, Mrs. Adler? They will have to!”

  When Lily finally removed herself from the room, she stopped only briefly in the kitchen to ask Isaiah to keep an eye on the shed with Alice’s body.

  He looked visibly shaken by the idea. “Do you mean … I’ve got to go back in there?”

  “No, nothing of the sort,” Lily said, brisk but gentle. “The door is closed and locked, and I have the key with me. All you need do is sit where you can see the door to make sure no one attempts to open it.”

  “Do you think Etta will …”

  “No,” Lily said firmly, hoping it was true. “I think she is long gone. She saw her opportunity to escape, and she took it, no matter the cost.”

  And such a terrible, bloody cost it had been. Lily pushed the image out of her mind; she couldn’t afford to take the time to process it just then. Every moment she delayed, Etta was getting farther away.

  Ignoring the sick feeling in her stomach, Lily went outside to hitch up the horse and gig once more. But she had taken only a few steps down the front stairs when she was confronted with the Carroways’ carriage thundering up the drive.

  In short order, Lily found herself crowded by her friends, by Mr. Hurst demanding to know what she was doing there, and to her surprise, a very shaken-looking Thomas Wright. It took her several minutes to cut through the confusion of their demands to see where Etta was being kept and speak with her instantly. But at last she was able to deliver her news: Alice was dead, and Etta gone.

  The stunned silence that met her announcement lasted only for a moment before she was bombarded with questions.

  The loudest voice among them, and the most bewildered, was Mr. Wright’s plaintive, “But what do you mean? What on earth could you mean? Etta would not—Etta could not—”

  At last, Mr. Hurst, after several timid attempts, found enough volume to overpower the others’ questions and demand that Lily take him to the maid’s body. Mr. Wright insisted loudly that he come as well, and the Bow Street runner, after a long, considering moment, relented.

  Lily wondered if he wanted to take the measure of Mr. Wright’s reaction, to see whether he had indeed been in league with Etta or whether she’d acted alone. But she kept her suspicions to herself, only nodding and leading them through the building.

  It was a strange procession. They added Mr. Mears to their company in the hall, who asked to be allowed to see for himself what had happened. When they reached the kitchens, Isaiah jumped up, looking nervous.

  “I haven’t seen anyone since you left,” he said, his voice shaking. “But I haven’t gone any closer than this, I’m not ashamed to admit. I can’t bear to see her like that again.”

  “That’s all right,” Mr. Hurst said briskly, clearly better at taking charge when he didn’t have to talk over a group of strangers. “I’ll be back to speak with you—what’s your name? Isaiah? I’ll need to speak with you and anyone else who was in the house to find out what happened.”

  “And just who are you?” Mr. Mears asked, drawing himself up to his full, frail height and glaring at the constable.

  Lily quickly intervened, not wanting any more delays. “Mr. Hurst is a Bow Street constable, summoned by Mr. Wright himself to look into the matter of Mrs. Wright’s death. And now, I suppose, into Alice’s death.”

 

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