Seventeen
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Birdie looked closely at Cordelia as she stared at the blank sheet music in front of her. At a loss for anything else to do, she had taken out her music to start copying it the way Maurice had told her, but she hadn’t been able to keep her mind on it.
“Yes,” Cordelia said. “As well I can be, anyhow.” A large part of her was angry, and it was that rather than sadness that was making it hard for her to concentrate. She’d finally made love to a man who truly cared about her the night before, and she should have been reliving those wonderful memories in her mind instead of seeing her husband murdered in his bed. Now instead of playing the piano she was wearing the same black dress she’d worn to her father-in-law’s funeral and trying not to think about how this was all Arthur’s fault.
It was obvious to her that Arthur had been killed by one of his lovers but she couldn’t exactly tell the police something like that. For one thing it sounded so sordid and dirty, never mind that she now had a lover of her own. Also, admitting that Arthur had preferred men to her made her feel guilty somehow, as if it was through some failing of her own that he had sought them out.
There was a knock on the door of the conservatory, and with Mrs. Richmond gone it had fallen to Arthur’s former valet to announce the presence of a guest.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said. “There’s a gentleman here who says he’s come to discuss Lord Whittemore’s funeral arrangements.”
“Oh?” Cordelia looked up with a frown. “I thought Mr. Pembroke was going to take care of all that for me.” The valet nodded.
“Yes, but there are still a few things you’re going to need to settle with them.”
“All right, send them in,” Cordelia said with a sigh. She put her sheet music back into its folder and set it aside. “I don’t know what all they want or what I’m even supposed to be approving. I do wish Mrs. Richmond was here. At the very least she would know what to do, seeing as how she had to make the arrangements for her husband.”
“Good morning, Lady Whittemore.” The door opened again and a gentleman in a police officer’s uniform came through the door with his hat in his hands. “Forgive me for the intrusion.”
“Good morning,” Cordelia said cautiously. “I was under the impression that I was meeting with someone about my late husband’s funeral arrangements.”
“I’ll leave you to speak to them in just a few minutes,” the officer said. “Provided you can give me the information I’m looking for.” He extended a hand to her and Cordelia shook it without getting up. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Arnold Christianson and I’m one of the police detectives from over in Elston.”
“Elston?” Birdie stood up. “What are you doing here, then?”
“Greenley doesn’t really have much in the way of detectives,” Mr. Christianson said. “Seeing as how this is a sensitive case involving nobility, they asked me to come down here and look into it. Fresh eyes and all that, you know.”
“I’ll tell you whatever I can,” Cordelia said, motioning to one of the chairs that sat around the small table where she and Birdie had been sitting. “Please have a seat.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Mr. Christianson remained standing. “I only have a few questions. I’ve spoken to a number of people this morning, and they said the same thing your guests told the police last night. No one at the party saw you after your performance until you discovered your husband’s body. It seems rather convenient, wouldn’t you say?”
“If I’d murdered my husband in cold blood while my guests were dancing downstairs, don’t you think I would have had blood all over my clothes? Besides that, my lady’s maid was with me when I found him. I wasn’t alone.” There was something Cordelia didn’t like about this detective. He seemed different from the officers the night before. Colder.
“According to the report, Lord Whittemore was stabbed to death. There were multiple wounds, which suggests that someone was very angry with him. If it was a crime of passion rather than premeditated murder, the courts might go a bit easier on whoever committed it.” He tilted his head slightly. “Family arguments get out of hand sometimes. You can’t really be blamed for something that happens in the heat of the moment.”
“I hope you’re not suggesting that my sister had anything to do with her husband’s death,” Birdie said, taking offense on Cordelia’s behalf. “That’s absolutely ridiculous.”
“Clothes can be washed or thrown away,” the detective said, ignoring Birdie. “A lady’s maid isn’t much of an alibi. She’s going to say whatever you tell her to say, and she might even be the one who helped you get rid of the evidence. If that’s the case, then your defense that it was committed in the heat of the moment goes out the window.”
“I’m not putting forward a defense because I didn’t do anything wrong,” Cordelia said. “I didn’t kill my husband.” She realized that in talking to the detective she was doing exactly what Victor had warned her against but it was too late to stop, otherwise he would really suspect her.
“How can you stand there and accuse a grieving widow of murdering her husband?” Birdie’s face was a mask of anger and she folded her arms across her chest. “This is preposterous. I want you out of this house immediately.”
“I’ll leave as soon as your sister tells me where she was when Lord Whittemore was murdered,” Mr. Christianson said. He turned to Cordelia. “I’ve been given the authority to arrest you if need be, Lady Whittemore. If you don’t tell me the truth about what you were doing, you’ll be leaving with me.” His eyes were cold as they moved over Cordelia’s face. “You can spend the night in the comfort of your own home or in a jail cell. It’s up to you.”
“This is ridiculous,” Birdie said again. She turned to her sister. “Just tell him where you were, Delia. Before he tries to make up some sort of horrible lie about you.” Cordelia’s heart sped up as both the detective and Birdie stared at her. Victor had said not to talk to the police unless he was with her but there was no way for her to get in touch with him and the detective was threatening her with jail. She didn’t know what else to do and there was nowhere to run.
“I was here,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “After my performance I came upstairs with Mr. Pembroke.”
“Your solicitor?” The detective looked at her closely. “What were the two of you doing?”
“What do you think?” Cordelia knew she should be polite but she couldn’t help being as cold to the man as he had been with her. “Use your imagination if you must.”
“You were having an affair with your solicitor,” Mr. Christianson said. “While you had guests in the house? That was rather bold of you. How long has this been going on?”
“It hasn’t been,” Cordelia said, afraid to look at Birdie for fear of the disappointment she would see. “Last night was the first time.”
“Mr. Pembroke will admit to this as well?”
“Yes,” Cordelia said. “I’m sure he will. Is that all? Are you finished with me?”
“For the moment, yes,” the detective said. “If Mr. Pembroke corroborates your story, we’ll start exploring other avenues.” He looked her up and down and Cordelia narrowed her eyes at him. “Before I go, do you have any idea who might have killed your husband if it wasn’t you?”
“It wasn’t me,” Cordelia snapped. “And of course I don’t know who might’ve done it. Don’t you think I would have told you if I did before I had to go into my private business?”
“I suppose so. Then I shall take my leave and speak to Mr. Pembroke. Good day to you, Lady Whittemore,” the detective said, putting on his hat. “I shall send in the gentleman for the funeral arrangements.” With that, he left the conservatory and Cordelia stared at the place he’d vacated. She was afraid to turn to her sister, afraid to see what was in Birdie’s eyes. She’d never lied to her little sister before she’d married Arthur. Taking a deep, shaky breath, she looked at Birdie.
“I’m sorry, Birdie.”
“I knew something was the matter between the two of you,” Birdie said, her eyes wide. “You and Arthur, I mean. But why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to think poorly of me,” Cordelia admitted. “Though I suppose that’s unavoidable now, isn’t it?”
“Delia, I don’t think poorly of you,” Birdie said, hugging her sister. “Will you please explain to me what’s going on, though? Were things really so bad between you and Arthur that you had to have an affair with Mr. Pembroke?”
“I’ll explain everything,” Cordelia said with a smile. Tears of relief were standing in her eyes. Her dear little sister didn’t think badly of her and the truth was out. With Arthur dead the only thing she had to worry about was her reputation, and if Victor did as he promised and took care of her, she didn’t have to worry about ending up broke in the streets. She might not be as wealthy as she was now, but at least she wouldn’t be reduced to washing clothes to make ends meet. “I do wish I’d confided in you before. Maybe things would have ended differently.”
“It’s all right,” Birdie said, kissing her on the cheek as a sallow-looking gentleman came in with a thick book under his arm and a satchel in his hand. “We’ll get these arrangements put together and then we can have a nice cup of tea and talk it over.”
“Yes,” Cordelia said, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Tea would be lovely.”