A Stroke of Malice Page 8

  “Yes, I imagine Tait is sending for your local procurator fiscal as we speak.”

  She closed her eyes and heaved a weary breath, before nearly groaning. “Peter Rodgers. Why Sir Walter appointed that puffed-up buffoon . . .” She huffed, cutting herself off before she could utter any further insults. Her gaze lifted to meet mine, her eyes glittering in determination. “You must investigate. You and your husband.”

  I had expected her to say as much, but after undertaking this interview, I wondered if perhaps it was a bad idea. I feared I could not remain impartial, and that the duchess was counting on just that. As much as I liked her, I was not blind to the fact that she was a duchess, and as such, accustomed to getting her own way in all things, except those that contradicted the duke. However, in this, I knew, they would be in accord.

  When I hesitated, she slid forward on the chaise, grasping my arm. “Please, Kiera. You’re the only one I trust.”

  Her pleading words and the use of my given name might have been her first calculated maneuver to manipulate me, but I realized I was helpless to say no. Especially when my natural curiosity and drive to uncover the truth were already urging me to say yes. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to voice some stipulations.

  “If we undertake this, then you, your family, and your staff must cooperate fully,” I stated firmly, pressing a hand to my belly, feeling the baby stir in answer to my agitation and the late hour. “We will undoubtedly ask uncomfortable and impertinent questions, and we expect to hear the truth.” My gaze flicked to Lady Helmswick and then back. “We can be discreet when necessary. So long as something proves not to have bearing on the results of our inquiry.”

  “I would not have asked you had I thought otherwise,” the duchess replied, regaining some starch in her spine. “This family has many secrets. For all the gossip spread about us, much of it does not even begin to scratch our closest held confidences. I am trusting you to be gentle with us, and guard them in return.” She nodded in concession. “Unless revealing them becomes absolutely necessary.”

  I was not going to argue the precise definition of necessary with her, for our opinions would likely differ. I would simply have to confront it if and when the situation arose. For now, I had bigger problems to address, including an unpleasant postmortem examination. With any luck, I would uncover something that could definitively identify the victim. Or for the Kerr family’s sake, at the very least, rule Lord Helmswick out.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Though there were times when I despised my husband’s high-handedness, there were other times when I was heartily glad of it.

  After my interview with the Duchess of Bowmont and her daughter, I dragged my feet back toward the servants’ quarters, deciding it was better to have the postmortem over and done, despite my aching back and exhausted mind. However, Gage would have none of it. Intercepting me at the base of the stairs, he took one look at me and whisked me back upstairs, practically carrying me up the last two flights. He informed me that the corpse had been placed in a small antechamber off the wine cellar, one which was nearly as cold as the crypt below ground. The door had been sealed and locked, with him possessing the sole key. So there was no reason the examination could not take place in the morning.

  After only a token resistance, I had to admit he was right. The amount of decomposition that would occur between now and then, after the body had been already decaying for two or more weeks, would be negligible. While part of me would have rather undertaken the unpleasant task as soon as possible, the other part of me recognized my limitations. Perhaps if I had not been round with child, I would have fought harder, but I already felt slightly queasy, and the state of the corpse would only make that worse.

  “In any case, Lord Edward informs me Mr. Rodgers—the procurator fiscal for this county—is undoubtedly three sheets in the wind at this hour on Twelfth Night, if not already on his way to four,” Gage told me as we reached the door to my assigned bedchamber. “The likelihood of his arriving before midday is slim to none.”

  That this Mr. Rodgers would object to a woman examining the body was all but certain. Most men, particularly gentlemen, objected on principle alone, aghast that the prospect should even be presented to them. Which was why it was best to complete the task before he could balk at it.

  “The duchess, it seems, is none too fond of this Mr. Rodgers or his abilities, and she’s asked us to investigate,” I replied before stifling a yawn.

  “Has she?” he murmured thoughtfully, and then reached out to open the door.

  I would have elaborated, but the sight of Bree standing near the dressing table, her arms crossed over her chest, brought me up short. Her artfully coifed hair looked as if it had been through a minor windstorm, and she fairly bristled with exasperation.

  “Bree, what are you doing here? We told you that you had the night off.” I followed her glare toward Anderley, who leaned against the door leading to the sitting room that connected my and Gage’s assigned bedchambers, with his arms crossed over his chest. “Told both of you that.”

  My husband’s valet’s dark hair and clothing were likewise rumpled, belying his insouciant demeanor—a bearing I suspected he’d learned from his employer. Whether he realized it or not, Gage stood in just the same stance, sporting that exact expression when he was eager to conceal something. It was meant to deflect as well as distract, drawing one’s attention to his physical stature—his broad shoulders, narrow waist, and muscular legs—rather than his mental maneuvering. I had always thought of Anderley as a dark foil to my husband’s golden good looks, and his physique was similarly impressive, though it didn’t have the same effect on me. Or on Bree, if the black scowl she directed his way was any indication.

  “We heard aboot the body,” she replied, softening her anger as she turned toward me. “The entire servants’ hall was abuzz wi’ the news. And we thought ye might have need o’ us.”

  If the servants all knew, then the entire castle, as well as the adjoining village, if not half the county, would be aware of it by morning.

  Gage sighed, evidently realizing the same thing. “Not tonight. There’s nothing more to be done until morning. What’s left of the body will keep until then.”

  Bree wrinkled her nose, her only outward display of disgust.

  “As will our questions, given that most of the guests are too inebriated to stand upright, let alone answer a simply query. But we will need your help then.” He glanced between his valet and my maid, noting the same hostility toward each other I had. “Why don’t you both bring us our breakfast trays at first light, and we can discuss the matter then. For now, we could all use some rest.”

  And by all, I knew he really meant me.

  “Though I will use your assistance now,” he told Anderley, pulling the wig from his hair as he crossed the room. A cloud of powder billowed over his head. “This infernal wig is making my scalp crawl.” With his other hand, he reached up to scratch at his matted hair, making it stick up in sweaty clumps. “It’s no wonder men used to shave their heads. How else could they abide these things?” he grumbled as he led his valet through the door.

  Bree stepped forward to help me remove the veil and wimple, draping them over the bench at the foot of the bed as I loosened the belt fastened above my rounded stomach. “I heard the fiddlers when we passed by the servants’ hall,” I murmured idly. “Did you have a pleasant time? That is, before you heard about the body.”

  “Aye,” she replied simply. Too simply to explain the twin furrows between her eyes.

  “You must have fit in nicely.” Which I knew was not always the case. But as a fellow lowlander Scot, she would have had much in common with the duke’s staff. Anderley was the outlander this time.

  “Aye. Everyone was quite jolly.” A smile briefly flickered over her lips. “They seemed glad to have another Scots lass to swing aboot the room.” Her mouth tightened. �
��They were verra kind.”

  But someone had not been, and by her use of the word “they,” I could only suspect it was Anderley. The pair had always gotten along rather well, trading jests and teasing barbs like a brother and sister, but apparently this had gone beyond that. And did not bode well for the harmony of our investigative quartet.

  Bree whisked the scapula and the wool habit from my frame, and I sank gratefully onto the padded stool before the dressing table, relieved to be free of the heavy garment. Goose flesh raised over my skin from the chill of the room and the bare covering of my thin silk chemise, but I swiftly found myself swathed in the warmth of my woolen nightdress.

  “Wore ye oot, didna they, m’lady?” Bree cooed as she tucked my indigo dressing gown around me. “Yer gettin’ to the state where ye canna do as much as yer accustomed to. Ye must watch yerself,” she scolded gently.

  “Find a way for me to stop tripping over dead bodies and I will,” I grumbled, none too happy to find myself in the midst of another murder investigation.

  Her lips curled upward in empathy, and then she set to work on my hair, uncoiling it, brushing it, and then braiding it into one long chestnut rope. I hesitated to ask her about the animosity I’d witnessed between her and Anderley, wondering if it was my place to pry, but the deep groove creasing her forehead convinced me I couldn’t remain silent.

  “Bree, is anything amiss?

  “O’ course no’, m’lady.”

  But the clipped tone of her voice merely further convinced me she was lying.

  “Are you certain? You must know we noticed the tension between you and Anderley when we entered the room?” Gage and I were inquiry agents after all.

  She reached for a ribbon, pulling tighter than necessary to secure it around the end of my braid. “’Twas nothin’ but a childish squabble. Ye needn’t concern yerself.”

  “Bree . . .”

  “Will that be all?” she demanded, cutting off my sympathetic plea. Her gaze met mine briefly in the reflection of the mirror, and I could see the hurt she struggled to mask beneath the fury snapping in her eyes. Then she whirled away, reaching for my discarded costume.

  “Yes,” I replied belatedly, before reaching out a hand to stop her. “But leave the habit.”

  She glanced back at me in confusion.

  I grimaced. “I believe I shall have need of it in the morning.”

  She nodded in comprehension, and then wished me a good night.

  I stared at the door as she closed it behind her, wondering what the squabble had been about. And why it had rumpled both of their appearances.

  I pressed a hand to my forehead. I was too tired to contemplate the matter further. Daybreak would come soon enough, and with it, perhaps some answers.

  Tossing my dressing gown across the end of the bed, I climbed between the soft sheets of the four-poster bed. My muscles began to melt as I stretched my toes down toward the warmth of the cloth-wrapped brick Bree must have tucked down at the bottom of the sheets before Gage and I arrived. I fleetingly considered waiting for my husband to join me. Contrary to many married couples among the upper class, we shared a bed every night; Gage used his assigned chamber only to change his clothes. I wanted to find out if he’d wrung anything from Anderley about his quarrel with Bree, but if he was bathing to remove the powder from his skin and scalp, he could be some time yet. My eyes drifted shut happily on the thought of Gage’s muscled form in the bath, and that was all I remembered.

  * * *

  * * *

  Anderley and Bree returned with the sun, just as instructed. Fortunately, during the short days of early January, when Scotland received less than eight hours of sunlight, this did not occur until nearly nine o’clock. So while I still had to drag myself wearily into a sitting position, at least the six and a half hours of sleep I’d gotten had blunted the edges of my exhaustion.

  Anderley opened the drapes to allow a pale wash of light to flood the room through the northwestern-facing windows, while Bree helped me to draw on my dressing gown and then settled a breakfast tray over my lap. In deference to the cold of Scotland and the castle, I noticed Gage had donned proper nightclothes for once, and even he drew his burgundy dressing gown over his shoulders against the chill. He urged Bree and Anderley to pull a chair or bench closer to the bed, and each drew up flanks on either side of the bed, next to their respective employer. Though this was only natural, I could tell that whatever animosity had flared up between them the night before was still there, simmering beneath the surface.

  “Now, first things first,” Gage declared as he sliced a piece of sausage. “Has anything changed in regard to the arrival of our procurator fiscal from Selkirk?”

  Anderley shook his head. “Last night, I overheard the footman Mr. Tait sent to inform Mr. Rodgers say that the man had been drunk as a wheelbarrow, but his butler had promised to inform him as soon as he regained consciousness.”

  Gage nodded as he chewed and then swallowed. “Good.” His gaze slid sideways to meet mine. “Then Mrs. Gage should have time to do what needs to be done without interruption.”

  I smiled tightly, the bite of dry toast I’d taken settling like a lump in my stomach.

  “However, I shall need you to warn us if he arrives early, and distract him if necessary until Mrs. Gage is safely away.”

  They both agreed, intimately familiar with the outrage and disgust I routinely encountered when people were confronted with my past involvement in my late husband’s anatomical dissections. The scandal surrounding it all was still too fresh, no thanks to the recent conviction and execution of the murderers known as the London Burkers, bodysnatchers turned killers—and men my late husband had possibly acquired human subjects from when he was alive. There was no need to explain our desire to keep my continued connection with the dead a secret. People might appreciate Gage’s and, by association, my investigative abilities when they found themselves in a troubling situation, but that did not mean they accepted the necessity for a gentlewoman possessing my unique education to examine a corpse.

  Though the gossip and reproach surrounding me still stung, I had finally learned that the best approach to this vicious scandalmongering was simply to refuse to be cowed. I couldn’t stop people from saying or believing terrible things about me, but I could control my reaction to it. Rather than cower and slink away in shame, I could hold my head high and refuse to waste my breath or attention on those who only wished to castigate me. I’d learned that from the duchess, who had discovered early in her marriage that, even as a duchess, she had to demand respect, or it would be stripped from her.

  “Since you’ve already distinguished the victim’s most likely cause of death, I suppose your chief aim will be attempting to uncover something that will either verify or establish his identity,” Gage remarked to me before he took a drink of black coffee.

  “Yes,” I confirmed as I fingered the fine handle of my china teacup. “I informed Lady Helmswick last night that Lord Edward had tentatively suggested the victim might be her husband. I didn’t want her learning of our suspicions in some other way. That would be far too cruel. But we need definitive proof.”

  “Did she think it was possible?”

  “She insisted that Lord Helmswick was in Paris. That he could not possibly be lying dead in Sunlaws Castle’s crypt. But she also admits she hasn’t received any correspondence from him since he left.”

  Anderley’s dark eyebrows rippled as if he were struggling to withhold his reaction, but Gage had no qualms about allowing his astonishment to show, as his fair ones arched high. Likewise, Bree’s expression grew more troubled.

  “She insists this is nothing abnormal, that neither of them are great letter writers.”

  “It’s not unheard of,” Gage admitted. “But to be gone over Christmas and Boxing Day, and even Hogmanay for you Scots, and not send a word of greeting to your wife and chi
ldren seems rather harsh. He’s in Paris, for goodness’ sake. Not the edge of civilization.”

  The answering gleam in Bree’s eyes communicated this had been her thought as well. She had spent a few days in late December visiting her family near Gretna, a day’s journey from my brother’s home along the border between Scotland and England—her first visit since accepting the post as my lady’s maid a year earlier.

  My gaze shifted to Anderley, curious what he’d made of this turn in the conversation. I’d learned only weeks earlier that he’d been an Italian Boy—one of those sympathetic beggar lads working the streets of London, either performing, exhibiting animals, or selling wax images and busts. What I, and most of London, hadn’t realized, was that the Italian Boys were largely brought to England by padroni, who bought their services from their parents back in the economically devastated regions of Italy, promising to teach them a trade, but who actually treated them as little more than slaves. Anderley had run away from his master, and found himself in Cambridge, where he had fortuitously fallen in with Gage during a time when he’d most needed a loyal manservant. He’d quickly learned to valet, and Gage had discovered his other useful skills in the course of his investigations.

  What Anderley’s thoughts were on his family, who had essentially sold him into slavery, albeit unwittingly, I didn’t know. But Gage said he maintained a regular correspondence with them back in Italy, and had even visited them on Gage’s grand tour of the continent following university. His face now was a mask of indifference, though his eyes did seem to balk at meeting mine.

  “As to your proof, I think I may be able to help as well,” Gage continued, his eyes narrowed on something across the room.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I want to get a better look at his clothing.”

  I remembered then his reaction in the tunnel. “The boot.”

  He turned to me in confirmation.