A Murderous Affair, page 12
“McTavish happens to be a valet in that household. He is there because he has nowhere else to be.”
Pru’s voice might have been a trick of the wind for all the attention Harriet gave her. She drove the final nail into the coffin when she added, “If you’d like to know what I discovered today, you’ll have to bring me with you. I’m not about to tell you what I learned from my friend until I’m sitting in Lord Annandale’s parlor, discussing the matter with everyone at once.”
Katherine nodded, but Harriet didn’t appear to be paying the least bit of attention to her.
She brushed down the front of her dress and frowned. “I must change clothes so I don’t smell of lye. Even better, what if the men come here, to Dorchester House?”
At that, Katherine balked. “My father—”
“—won’t find out. Isn’t he at the New Year’s ball tonight? He’ll be there until after one of the morning at the earliest.”
To Katherine’s surprise, Pru smirked and embraced the idea. “Yes, let’s invite them here. I know my Annandale won’t mind, and what do you care if Wayland does?”
“I don’t.”
“Then it’s settled.” Having been at Dorchester House many times over the past few months, Pru stormed towards the writing desk and opened the drawer containing the parchment. She grabbed all the accoutrements for writing and began penning a note to her fiancé. “Do you have any footmen on duty to deliver this?”
“I’ll check,” Harriet promised. She pointed a finger at Katherine. “Then I’ll change my clothes, and we’ll have to hurry if we hope to prepare.”
“Prepare for what?”
Harriet threw her hands in the air. “What do you think? The new year!”
They almost certainly had servants for this. However, Katherine swallowed her protests, and for the first time in their acquaintance, she answered Harriet’s command as she, Harriet, and Pru set about cleaning the house. As she swept the last of the imaginary dirt — she was certain the servants had already done this today — out the back door, thereby sweeping out any lingering negativity from the year, she straightened. She sighed as the ache in her back eased.
“What time is it? It feels as if we have been going about this for hours.”
Harriet scoffed. “It wasn’t very much work. An hour at most.”
“An hour! Why haven’t Wayland and Annandale arrived yet?”
Surprisingly, Pru didn’t look worried. When Katherine fixed her gaze on her friend, Pru’s eyes widened. “Don’t look at me, I haven’t the faintest idea.”
Katherine had been trained by her father to detect lies in those she questioned. Even a child could have told from Pru’s tone that she knew precisely why Annandale and Wayland hadn’t yet arrived. As she opened her mouth to protest, the stroke of a clock shattered the silence in the house.
Clang, clang, clang.
The grandfather clock was joined by other, smaller pieces throughout the house in a symphony of ringing of bells.
Was it midnight?
Pru clutched Katherine by the hand and towed her through the house toward the front. Seeing as she was more than ready to sit down again, Katherine didn’t protest. Between the three of them, they had not only swept the house, but had put on a pot of wassail to warm in the kitchen.
At last, the twelfth chime rang resonated, growing dim. The sound of Katherine’s footsteps sounded overly loud in the silence as Pru hauled her into the foyer in time to intercept a knock at the door. At last. The moment Pru released her, Katherine reached for the handle.
“If this isn’t the men, we’re going to have words about that note you sent.”
Pru batted her hands. “Open it!”
Katherine swung the door wide to reveal three mountainous men — Lord Annandale and McTavish standing behind Wayland, their heads visible over his shoulders. Snow clung to their heads and shoulders, dusting the dark greatcoats they wore. Without a word or invitation, Wayland stepped into her house.
Chapter Twelve
Katherine took the smallest of steps back to make room for Wayland, but it felt like a retreat. She straightened her spine and opened her mouth, but she didn’t know whether she was about to redress him or formally invite him and the other men inside the house. She found the chance to do neither. From behind, Pru clamped her hand over Katherine’s mouth, stifling her words.
Wayland looked a bit sheepish, his shoulders rounded and his hands tucked into his pockets. He gave her a halfhearted shrug and said, “Happy new year.”
Pru released Katherine’s mouth. She turned, glaring at her friend, who didn’t look repentant in the least. From the parlor, Emma erupted in a series of happy barks as she scrambled forward to greet Wayland. She jumped on her hind legs, planting her front paws near his knee as she begged him for attention. He didn’t take his eyes off of Katherine’s.
“Happy new year,” she answered, irritated and breathless. This year was starting in an extremely bizarre manner.
It only grew more peculiar from there. Lord Annandale nudged Wayland’s elbow, giving him an enthusiastic nod.
Whatever that was about, they must have rehearsed it, because Wayland tucked his hands into his greatcoat pockets. He emerged with a bundle wrapped in a handkerchief. “I have gifts.”
Katherine frowned. “Why?”
Lord Annandale grinned. “It’s tradition, lass.”
Not any tradition she practiced. However, she accepted the handkerchief and waved everyone inside. Once Lord Annandale and McTavish stepped free of the door, they revealed a fourth, lankier man in their wake. Katherine smiled without reserve. “Lyle! I didn’t know if you would make it, with your work schedule.”
He shrugged as he tapped his boots to rid them of snow and stepped into the house. “Call me curious.” When he jerked his chin towards the handkerchief in her hand, Katherine couldn’t decide whether he was more curious about the investigation or about the gift she’d been given.
“Must I open it in the foyer, or can we move into the parlor? It’s dreadfully cold with the door open.”
Wayland, for whatever reason, glanced at Lord Annandale for the answer. The big man shrugged. “The parlor will do. But do not tarry, we have an investigation to discuss.”
Nodding, Katherine stepped back and beckoned everyone forward. As Wayland kneeled to pay homage to Emma, setting something behind him, Harriet squeezed in between those gathering and collected everyone’s cloaks. As she reached McTavish, standing close to Lyle, she raised her gaze. “I see you came as well.”
He grinned. “I could nae miss this, could I?” He handed over his greatcoat and gloves without protest. Harriet struggled a bit under the weight of everyone’s outer garments but pressed her lips into a thin line and continued to Lyle.
As she gave McTavish one last, lingering glare, his smile widened. “I hear you’ve been dabbling in the investigation yourself, lass. If you ever need some advice—”
Lyle forgotten, Harriet straightened and glared at McTavish, never mind that she only reached as high as his chest. “I think I would be the one to give you advice. After all, I’ve been doing this far longer than you have.”
The air between them crackled with tension. Katherine had been right to suspect a rivalry between the two, even if she couldn’t decide when it had been born. McTavish grinned at Harriet with the same flirtatious look he gave to half the female population. More puzzling … did Harriet return it?
His expression forbidding, Lyle stepped between the pair, turning his back to McTavish. “Those look heavy. Let me help you, Harriet.”
Grudgingly, Harriet let him relieve her of the weight. Lyle stood a bit taller as he accompanied her to the hooks in the back room where she would hang the clothes to dry. Could Lyle be jealous of the attention Harriet gave McTavish?
No. Katherine had been taking on too many matchmaking jobs. They were befuddling her mind.
As Harriet and Lyle disappeared towards the servants’ wing on the ground floor, Katherine led her guests up the stairs to the same parlor where she had awaited Harriet’s return. The hearth was cold, at Harriet’s insistence that it not be lit until after the clocks chimed midnight. Katherine was thankful her maid hadn’t insisted on the candles being snuffed as well. She set her gift on the mantel and knelt to take care of the fire in the hearth. It wasn’t a task she did herself often, but it couldn’t be too taxing to light a flame from the tinderbox. As she reached for the box, also on the mantel, Lord Annandale interrupted her.
“Open your gift first, lass.”
The chill had started to creep into her bones, born from the cold air let in by the men. However, she readjusted her shawl and reached for the handkerchief without protest.
She unfolded it to reveal an eclectic array of gifts.
“What on earth?” She stared at the gifts. A shilling, a lump of coal the size of her fist, a piece of shortbread smaller than her palm, what looked like a pinch of salt, and a black bun.
“This, too,” Wayland said as he offered one last gift. He held out a bottle of amber whiskey. The label was Scottish. At a guess, he’d pilfered it from Annandale’s stash.
He shrugged sheepishly as she accepted it. “It didn’t fit in the handkerchief.”
“Thank you,” she answered, more from years of etiquette training than anything else. “But these have to be the most bizarre gifts I’ve ever received.”
Wayland looked every bit as baffled at them as she did. She turned her attention to the one man who seemed to know the reason for the gifts.
“It’s tradition,” Lord Annandale answered to the inquisitive raise of her eyebrows, as if that explained everything.
It did not.
At her blank look, he raised his gaze heavenward as if praying for patience. He smoothed his well-groomed beard. “The first man through the door on the new year has to provide the host gifts that represent” —he counted items off on his fingers— “financial prosperity, warmth, food, good cheer, and flavor for the new year.”
“If it’s so important that these gifts are provided, why didn’t you give them?”
A funny feeling wrapped her chest as she pictured Wayland fighting Lord Annandale for the honor. A pugilist match, perhaps, or a race.
Bluntly, Annandale answered, “My feet aren’t the right shape.”
On second thought, perhaps she ought not to ask more about the business.
“Why don’t you sit down? I’ll tend to the fire, and we’ll begin when Harriet and Lyle return.”
However, when she reached for the tinderbox, Wayland took it from her. His expression was impassive, and looking far surer of himself than when he’d given her the gifts, he told her, “I’ll take care it for you. I think you’re meant to burn the coal.”
Thrown so off-balance by this entire exchange, Katherine stepped back and let him take the liberty of lighting her fire. The other men in the room remained standing, although Pru had found a loveseat for her and Lord Annandale to sit in. Katherine supposed that the men, practicing good manners, would remain standing until she chose a chair as well. She sat in a plain armchair near the hearth and patted her lap to beckon Emma closer.
Instead, the traitorous dog trotted at Wayland’s heels, still begging for his attention. Katherine scowled but pretended she didn’t notice.
Harriet and Lyle returned a moment later, the former carrying a silver serving tray laden with seven steaming cups. The moment she entered, McTavish turned to her with a gleam in his eye. “That looks a mite heavy fer you, lass. Why don’t I take it off yer hands?”
“I have it.” She tugged the tray away from him when he reached for it. Sidestepping him neatly, she set it down on the table. She waved everyone to their seats. “Sit down, and I’ll have these out in a trice.”
McTavish filched two cups from the tray and added, “I’ll help. It’ll go faster.”
Indeed, it went extremely fast. Harriet seemed to be competing with McTavish to dole out the most cups. In the end, he only served his master and Pru before turning back to a tray that held only enough cups for him and Harriet. He took them both and, with a wink, handed her one. She took it from him grudgingly, then retreated to the edge of the settee nearest to Katherine.
Katherine had had more than enough of competition for one night. Weary, she peered across the room at Wayland, who had claimed the other armchair, next to Lyle on the far end of the settee from Harriet.
Katherine warmed her hands with her cup as she asked, “How are your inquiries at the club faring?”
Lord Annandale spluttered on his wassail. “How do ye know we were asking ’round at the club?”
Katherine leaned back in her chair, smiling in satisfaction. “I have my ways.”
She thought she caught Wayland smirking, but when she looked at him directly, his face was composed. This time, instead of finagling her for information, he offered up his own without protest.
“From everything we’ve uncovered, Mr. Blake is not what you would consider a saint, nor even a gentleman. He has lovers aplenty in his household and out of it, and I suspect he is involved in smuggling silk, lace, brandy, or all three.”
Lyle straightened. He removed a small notebook out of his pocket and opened it to a new page. He dabbed the end of a graphite pencil to his tongue before perching over the page. “I don’t suppose you have any details on the smuggling?”
Wayland wrinkled his nose. “I’m afraid I don’t. All I’ve heard is that he has a warehouse along the Thames…” Wayland looked pondering as he took a sip from his cup. Emma seemed to take that as an invitation, because she jumped into his lap and curled into a comfortable ball. Katherine gritted her teeth at the pug’s blatant preference.
“Actually,” Wayland answered, “I think the warehouse is down the street from the Hound and Ale Pub, the establishment struck by lightning and burned the night of the murder.”
Harriet tapped her toe. Rap-tap-tap, rap-tap-tap. “Do you think Mr. Blake could have killed Ellie? Perhaps he tired of her and she protested.”
“Doubtful,” McTavish drawled. Somehow, he’d managed to position himself between Harriet and Lyle. Neither seemed particularly pleased with him, and not only because McTavish’s large body stretched across the bulk of the settee as he draped his arms across the back. In that casual pose, he tipped his head to Harriet. “He’d nae have a reason to kill her. A wee scrap of a maid would nae cause him any trouble simply if he didn’t want to take her to bed anymore. No offense, Harriet.” McTavish smiled, a welcoming expression that said he counted himself her equal when referencing class.
It didn’t seem to mollify her. Sourly, Harriet bit out, “None taken.”
Pru added, “What if she had more than one lover? Mr. Blake could have been jealous and killed her because of it.”
At that, Wayland laughed. “Trust me, Mr. Blake is not the kind of man to care. He has women in every corner of London. One maid offering herself to another man won’t bother him one way or another.”
Katherine frowned, hiding it behind a sip of her wassail. How could Wayland possibly know that? From experience? The heirs of titled lords often caroused through London, taking women left, right, and center — and disposing of them when they grew bored. However, Katherine had never considered Wayland to be that sort of man. Was she wrong? Did he have women squirreled away in London, the same as Mr. Blake?
And why did that thought make her uncomfortable?
Fortunately, no one — least of all Wayland — realized her discomfort. He continued, “You might be on the right track though, in spirit. Annandale and I have come to the conclusion that the killer might be one of Mr. Blake’s other lovers who was jealous of Ellie. And killed her to get her out of the way.”
Sullenly, Katherine mumbled, “We came to that conclusion two days ago.”
He raised an eyebrow in her direction. “Does it matter who concluded the matter when? I thought our wager was about who could figure out the killer first, not the reason.”
Katherine forced herself to unclench her jaw. Reluctantly, she admitted, “It was. And I must say, I agree with you. I don’t think Mr. Blake tired of Ellie or killed her out of jealousy. When we spoke with Ellie’s sister, she told us that she saw Ellie entering a carriage with Mr. Blake’s crest on the door. At first, I thought he loaned it to her, but it makes far more sense if he was in the carriage, awaiting her. He certainly wouldn’t be driving around with her if he’d tired of her or she’d thrown him over for someone else.”
The men around the room nodded. All save for Lyle, who seemed consumed by thought. Abruptly, he asked, “Is Mr. Blake right-handed?”
Everyone turned to stare at him, frowning. He looked up from his notebook, seeming to return from whatever thought process had taken him away from the conversation. He smiled, sheepishly.
Slowly, Wayland answered, “Yes. I believe I saw him sign something at the club. He is right-handed. Why?”
Lyle tapped his notes. “The way the wounds were described on the victim, I believe she must have been stabbed by a right-handed person.”
Katherine sighed. Tarnation. That information did little to narrow their suspect pool.
Seeming to hear Katherine’s thoughts and agree with them, Wayland stroked Emma’s rump as he mused. “That leaves ninety percent of the population as suspects.” For all that he’d argued with her deductions initially, they seemed to have realigned their thoughts.
Had they been working on the same team, that would have been to the better. Alas, if he was apt to deduce the same things she did, she would have to work harder to win this wager.
“May I tell you what I learned today?” Harriet asked. The tapping of her foot ceased as the room turned to her. Katherine had forgotten about the new, interesting clue that Harriet claimed to have found.
She leaned forward and nodded. “By all means, please do.”
Smug, Harriet patted down her skirts. “I went to Mr. Blake’s house to learn more from a friend about Ellie. I was hoping to find she’d taken an additional lover, but unfortunately my friend wasn’t able to help me in that case. However, she did tell me that when Ellie was home earlier the day she was killed, Rita — another maid and lover of Mr. Blake’s — entered her room and spoke to her. I was told the two were friendly and often chatted, but when I spoke with Rita, she seemed more jealous than anything else.”
