Chapter Thirty-Three
Pacing in her father’s office, Rosie said, “Are you certain they will come, Papa?”
“I’m certain.” Papa stood by the window behind his desk, his keen gaze surveying the street below. “There’s still a quarter hour before the appointed time, so be patient.”
“You’ll try not to alienate Lady Charlotte and the Misses Fossey, won’t you? They’ve been so kind to me of late—”
“If they are innocent of the crime, then they’ll have no reason to be offended, dearest.” This came from Mama, who sat in one of the chairs that had been arranged to face the desk. She was dressed for battle in a stylish navy dress embellished à la militaire. “At any rate, your safety is more important than the ton’s approval.”
Rosie bit her lip. Her mother was right, of course. Yet her new friends were doing wonders for her reputation. Their glowing accounts filled the gossip rags: the beau monde was eating up the tragic tale of the Young Beautiful Widow, and she was the Plucked Rose no more. She’d begun to receive notes of condolence from ladies (even some sticklers) and bouquets from gentlemen (these she promptly dispatched to the rubbish bin).
The ton was now courting her; the acceptance she’d fought so long for was finally hers.
Now she just had to live long enough to enjoy it.
“What if no one confesses?” she said.
“We don’t expect anyone to,” Emma said from her chair by the desk. “But even alibis can provide clues.”
“We’ll sift the truth from the lies.” Mr. Lugo’s deep bass joined the conversation.
He was the final member of the group who would be conducting the interview. For propriety’s sake, Andrew couldn’t be present, and Mr. McLeod had left for Gretna to hunt for clues. For a lot had happened since the discovery of the dead cutthroat two nights ago.
Papa had brought in Dr. Abernathy, a brilliant Scottish physician, to examine the corpse. Yesterday afternoon, the doctor had presented his findings to the family and Andrew.
“I believe the cause of death was poisoning,” Dr. Abernathy had said in his strong burr. “The man was otherwise healthy, the wound on his shoulder nearly healed. Most telling, I found several dead rats by the pool of his vomitus. I tested some of the remaining cognac on other rats: all of them died.”
According to Dr. Abernathy, foxglove was the likely toxin as it was fast-acting, symptoms occurring within half an hour of administration. Foxglove often went undetected for it mimicked the signs of a heart ailment, accompanied by slurred speech and flushing of the skin. At the physician’s description, Rosie had had a sudden, jolting memory: the smell of vomit on Daltry’s breath, his garbled speech and red face on their wedding night. She’d attributed it to his drinking—but what if it he’d been poisoned?
What if Daltry had been murdered?
She recalled that he’d been absent for two hours before coming to her room. What if he’d met with the murderer then and been given the poisoned beverage? When she’d blurted her suspicions, the energy in the room had grown even darker.
“That makes sense,” Andrew had said, his jaw hard. “Whoever murdered Daltry did so expecting to get their hands on his money. When instead Primrose inherited everything, the murderer then tried to eliminate her as well.”
“We’re back to Daltry’s relatives,” Papa had said. “But which one—or ones?”
“Poison, as they say, is a woman’s weapon.” Em grimaced. “I can vouch for that personally.”
Strathaven’s arm circled his wife’s waist. “So we focus on the female suspects?”
Papa shook his head. “We cannot deny that Theale has the most to gain financially. We must continue pursuing all leads. Whoever the villain is, he or she is damned clever. I’ve had the suspects followed on a few occasions, but none of them have done anything of note.”
“He or she is being careful,” Emma mused, “now that they know they’re under suspicion.”
“Shall I make a trip to Gretna?” This had come from McLeod. “Maybe the innkeep or staff saw Daltry with someone.”
“Thank you, McLeod. An excellent suggestion.” Stroking his chin, Papa had said, “In the meantime, we’ll interrogate the suspects as a group and get their alibis for the time of Daltry’s murder. With the others present, it’ll be more difficult for the culprit to get away with lies.”
Everyone had agreed to the plan. Which brought them to the present.
The clock on the mantel struck three.
“Here they come,” Papa said, his eyes on the street below.
Minutes later, Papa’s clerk ushered the visitors into the office. Rosie exchanged warm greetings with Lady Daltry, the Fossey sisters, and Mr. Theale. She returned Mr. James flirtatious smile with a reserved one of her own and kept her distance from his stepmama, who seemed no friendlier today than she’d been at their prior meeting.
“What’s this about, then?” Mrs. James announced imperiously the instant everyone had taken a seat. “I have prior engagements. Indeed, I would not have responded to these presumptuous summons had Alastair not convinced me that it was in the best interests of the family.”
“My stepmama is all about duty,” Alastair James said in an undertone to Rosie and winked.
The glare Mrs. James trained upon her stepson ought to have melted the skin from his bones.
“I apologize for the inconvenience,” Papa said from behind his desk, “but we have come upon some new evidence.”
“Evidence?” The dowager countess looked faintly alarmed. “Concerning what?”
“We now have reason to believe that the former Earl of Daltry was poisoned.”
If the surprise Rosie saw in the office was feigned, she couldn’t tell. Mrs. James paled and exchanged horrified looks with the dowager. Alastair James blinked, then his eyes narrowed at Mr. Theale. The latter, in turn, was looking in the direction of the Fossey sisters, who were sitting side by side on the leather sofa, their hands clutched.
“George was poisoned?” The dowager was the first to regain her voice. “But… why?”
“The answer’s obvious, don’t you think?” Mr. James drawled. “Which one of us benefits the most from his death?”
Mr. Theale jumped to his feet, his mask of amiability slipping. “How dare you accuse me, you bastard. I should call you out, sirrah!”
“Name the time and place.” Mr. James smirked. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“Alastair,” Mrs. James said sharply.
“That’s right—I forgot. Of course the great Alastair James isn’t afraid of a duel.” Mr. Theale’s fists clenched at his sides. “After all, you’ve killed before.”
Mr. James rose. “That was a goddamned accident!”
“Once a murderer always a murderer,” Mr. Theale shot back.
“Please,” Sybil said, her timid blue gaze skittering between the two men, “fighting doesn’t help matters.”
“Sit—both of you,” the dowager said. “And finish listening to what Mr. Kent has to say.”
The pair sat, anger and resentment sizzling between them.
“To clear up the matter, I wish to know your whereabouts, what you were doing and with whom, on the day Daltry was killed,” Papa said evenly. “You should also know that my colleague is, at this moment, en route to Gretna, where he will question the innkeep and others to track down the killer. One way or another, the truth will come out.”
“This is outrageous.” Mrs. James’ voice lacked its normal conviction.
Papa opened a notebook and picked up his pen. “Who would like to go first?”
“I will. I have nothing to hide,” Mr. Theale declared. “I was in Brighton.”
As Papa jotted this down, Mr. Lugo said, “With whom?”
“I was staying at the home of Mr. Albert Brace.” Mr. Theale flushed, his gaze trained on the carpet. “His daughter, Miss Bertha Brace, was also present.”
“I was at a house party,” Mr. James said quickly, as if he didn’t want to be outdone. “At a crony’s country seat in Kent.”
Papa’s pen poised above the page. “And this crony’s name?”
“Viscount Cranston.”
“Mrs. James?” Emma prompted, going along the circle of seats.
“I was in Ashford,” she said with clear reluctance. “I fancied some solitude so I did not bring a maid.”
“Am I to understand that both you and your stepson were in Kent that day?” Papa said.
“It was a coincidence.” She wetted her lips. “Kent is a large county. We did not see each other.”
“Aunt Charlotte and I were in Town,” Eloisa chimed in. “I cannot recall for the life of me what we were doing, however.”
“We visited the haberdasher’s that day,” Lady Charlotte replied, “because you wanted new ribbons for the St. Clare affair that night, remember?”
“Quite right,” Eloisa agreed. “And we saw oodles of people there.”
“Were you with them, Miss Fossey?” Emma turned to Sybil.
“No, I was visiting a friend in Lancashire. I didn’t have a maid with me either since my friend lives in a tiny cottage,” Sybil said apologetically. “You see—”
“As I’ve mentioned, my older sister has a charitable nature.” Eloisa’s sapphire eyes were mocking. “She befriends outcasts wherever she goes.”
“Miss Bunbury is not an outcast,” Sybil protested.
“She’s an invalid spinster with no connections to speak of.” With a sniff, Eloisa confided to Rosie, “Miss Bunbury is my sister’s old schoolmistress and forever on her deathbed. Don’t you think Sybil could make better use of her time?”
“I think Miss Sybil’s loyalty speaks well of her,” Rosie said.
Sybil sent her a grateful smile.
“Are we done?” Mrs. James said abruptly.
“I have a final question.” Mama’s emerald eyes circled the group. “How would each of you describe your relationship with the former earl?”
Tension blanketed the room.
Alastair James spoke first. “I’ll say what everyone is thinking: George was a mushroom. The pushy merchant relation that none of us wanted anything to do with until the title fell into his lap.”
“Speak ill of yourself if you wish,” Eloisa said heatedly, “but not of the rest of us. Aunt Charlotte generously entertained Cousin George in our home for years. Long before he became the earl. And Sybil and I were always nice to him.”
“Quite right. And George always made a point of telling me how much he enjoyed his visits,” Lady Charlotte agreed.
“He reeked of trade,” Mr. James said with a sneer.
“Alastair,” Mrs. James said faintly, “don’t be unkind. You were George’s favorite.”
“George had only one favorite: himself. He didn’t give a damn about anyone else. Did you know he used to make fun of you all when he was in his cups?” Mr. James’ derisive glance swept around the room, pausing on each of his relations in turn. “He called you a whiny milksop, Peter.”
Theale’s shoulders stiffened.
“And you, Charlotte, a fat old hen who couldn’t lay eggs.”
Lady Charlotte’s hands pressed to her bosom, her lips trembling.
“He thought Eloisa was pretty,” Mr. James went on. “And a conniving bitch.”
Eloisa’s nostrils flared. “How dare you.”
“As for Sybil,” Mr. James said, his eyes gleaming with malice, “George said she was like cut-rate goods that a shop couldn’t get off its shelf.”
Tears shimmered in Sybil’s pale blue gaze.
Peter Theale surged to his feet. “Stop picking on her, you bastard!”
“Really, Alastair.” Even his stepmama looked uncomfortable. “Is this necessary?”
“Mrs. Kent asked about our relationships with George; I’m answering her question.” Alastair aimed a sardonic look at Mama. “George also thought that my stepmother was a grasping termagant and I a toadying fool who was after his money. There you have it: our splendid family portrait. Now are we done?”
A chilling awareness swept over Rosie. Her dead husband had had enemies—and not just because of his money. Hostility crackled in the room.
“We’re done.” Papa closed his notebook. “For the time being.”
One by one, Daltry’s stony-faced relatives filed out.
As they passed her, Rosie shivered. Which one of you killed Daltry? Which one of you wants me dead?