Chapter Nine. A Tale of Two Bullies

C HAPTER N INE

A Tale of Two Bullies

NOT five minutes after leaving Lady Amelia in the abandoned orangery I found myself in the company of Inspector Burnett and his young constable. The pair had just finished speaking with Lady Morton as I returned to the castle and the men latched on to me at once. My timing could not have been worse.

For four hours, we remained sequestered in a cramped closet outside the dining hall, the scent of food drifting in through the closed door, causing my stomach to rumble longingly. The inspector would ask the same questions over and over and I would answer them to the best of my knowledge. I certainly doubted that they’d kept Lady Morton in here this long without food or drink, but was wise enough not to comment.

All in all, I thought I was doing quite well, functioning on three hours of sleep and a pot and a half of coffee; however, I doubted the inspector agreed. The odious man eyed me across the rickety table.

“Tell us again, Miss Vaughn, what happened that night,” he growled.

I might have been more inclined to do so, had they the decency to offer me a glass of water, or a pickle and cheese sandwich. But as it was, my temper was running short. I rubbed my right eye, trying to decide if I’d changed my story at all since I’d been in here. I didn’t think I had, but I was also near delirious with hunger and exhaustion—I might have said anything just to get something to eat.

“I have told you everything I know in every way I know how. May I please return to my room?” I asked, trying my best to appear an obedient girl, my hands demurely in my lap.

Inspector Burnett, the older of the two men, leaned across the table, his bushy eyebrows raised. He had dark hair that had gone silver at the temples and he was missing the tip of his forefinger, a fact I noticed as he rested his chin on his hand. “Funny, because I don’t believe you have told us everything.”

I let out a little harrumph of annoyance, sounding far too much like Mr. Owen, before settling back in my chair.

“It doesn’t make sense to me, what you were doing out there… alone, ” the young constable added, drawling out the final word.

There was that question again, and I had a sense that they would not accept the excuse I’d given to Andrew Lennox earlier this morning. “I was walking, as I told you before. I couldn’t sleep after the commotion with the séance and went out to clear my head.”

“Couldn’t sleep, could you?” The constable waggled an eyebrow, withdrawing a large box from beneath the table. He lifted the lid and piece by piece withdrew my missing coat, my shoes, and the golden cloth hairpiece that had fallen into the tall grass when I took my tumble in the foxhole—or whatever it had been.

My breath caught in my chest. That’s where the missing items had gone.

“The staff here tells us that you came back with your hair all knotted, dress ripped and stained. They also found your coat and things lying in the tall grass beside the bridge… From where I’m standing, it certainly looks like you were doing a bit more than walking last night.”

“How dare you…”

“Then perhaps you’d care to enlighten us how your belongings got there?” The inspector flashed a wicked smile at me with his yellowing teeth.

The room was stiflingly hot. Sweat beaded up along the collar of my blouse, bleeding through and darkening the fabric. I shifted in the uncomfortable wooden chair. Good God. “I fell. In the grass . Then I took my shoes and coat off to jump in a damned lake to save what I thought was a drowning woman.”

“Aye, lass, but what were you doing in the grass to begin with at that time of night? When anyone or anything may have come upon you?” Inspector Burnett probed, his stale breath hot in my face.

Clearly, walking was not the answer he was looking for, but it was the truth. I tugged my legs up beneath me—one of the thousand benefits to riding breeches, in my estimation—the young constable leered at my thighs and then raised his brows with a decidedly unprofessional gleam in his beady eyes.

“I’m not afraid of the dark, Inspector. After four years of driving an ambulance during the war, there’s nothing in nature that frightens me, of that I can assure you.” Men, on the other hand.

The inspector’s expression softened at mention of the war, but the young constable remained unfazed, transfixed upon what I wore. Perhaps he’d suddenly discovered the novelty of a woman in trousers. “Or were you meeting someone out there?” the constable challenged. “You see, Miss Vaughn, you were overheard arguing with a woman outside Miss Campbell’s room before midnight. Then for you to be the one who found her body, I’d say that’s more than enough evidence to have you brought in.”

My throat grew tight. “As I told you, I wanted some air.”

The younger one flicked his attention over my loose-fitting lilac blouse with its sweat spots from this stagnant room. My jaw tightened in response, temper barely reined in. I was a Vaughn, after all. No one spoke to me like this.

“You see, what doesn’t make sense to me is this: a lady like you—” He pointed in the general vicinity of my bosom.

I crossed my arms. My bosom was none of his concern.

“You come to meet us in broad daylight wearing trousers like one of the lads. And yet you went for an evening stroll dressed for supper and leave half your clothing in the field. Why would that be?”

“One does tend to wear evening gowns in the evening. And while I don’t know how my coat was found in the grass, I assure you I took it off before jumping into the lake to try to save Miss Campbell. Perhaps some animal carried it off—but I promise you I did not hurt that woman. If I were you, I would spend more time worrying about who did kill Lucy Campbell and less time trying to concoct convoluted stories about me. As I have told you a dozen times—I went for a walk, saw the candles, and drew nearer. That was when I saw her floating in the water. I took off my coat—as not to drown myself in the process—jumped in and pulled her out.”

“Candles?” the inspector asked, attention rapt as he leaned across the table. “You’d not mentioned that before, and there were no candles out there, Miss Vaughn. Nothing at all of the sort.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded—and they saw it in my expression. “But how is that possible? There were candles. Thirteen of them. And a salt circle when I arrived. That would mean…”

“It’d mean that you’re making up ghost stories, lass, to cover your tracks. We know you were out there. What we don’t know is why,” Inspector Burnett said, his voice slightly softer. “If you were out with your lover, tell us and save us the time of finding out on our own. There’s no harm in having a discreet affair…”

I shot to my feet, not even having to feign offense. I had done a great many things in my life that I regretted, but I would never be ashamed of taking my pleasure as a man would. My personal life was none of their business, especially as it had no bearing on poor Miss Campbell’s death. “We are done here, gentlemen.”

The constable laid his clammy palm over the top of mine, holding me firmly to the table. “I don’t think so, Miss Vaughn. You see, I know you’re lying to me. The inspector”—he cocked his head, a lecherous smile on his face—“he knows it too. And if you were anyone else, you’d already be in irons on your way to Edinburgh.”

My skin crawled as he ran a finger down the back of my hand while the inspector watched, motionless. Panic clawed its way up my chest.

“Believe what you will, I’ve told you exactly what happened last night.” I struggled to summon my mother’s chilliness, a skill I could scarcely manage in the best of times. “And if you would please remove your hand from my person.” I tried to tug myself free, but he didn’t release me. Instead he pressed harder against the wooden surface, causing the skin to pinch and my palm to dig into the rough grain.

Spittle flew from his lips as he leaned closer still. “You see, what I think happened is this: I think you were out with your lover, the old bitch interrupted you, then Lord Hawick did her in—”

“How dare you! That woman was murdered. Murdered, and you would insult her in such a way when you ought to be finding her killer?” With a firm tug, I managed to jerk my hand back, scraping it along the desktop. I spun around, snatching up my tweed jacket and made for the door, both men watching me with thinly veiled contempt. “Until you have something other than insinuations about my virtue or lack thereof, I’d appreciate you leaving me in peace. Go find the real killer, fellas, because I have better things to do than talk to either of you. Maybe you should go over to Hawick House if you’re so certain he did it and leave me out of things.”

I stormed out of the small drawing room into the main dining room. My pulse ricocheting through my veins. This was terrible. I’d lost my temper and in the process made things infinitely worse for all of us.

I hurried along the sunny hallway toward my room when I ran smack into a warm body. Stammering out a nonsensical apology, I suddenly realized exactly whose body it was.

I’d crashed into the Duke of Biddlesford. My day could not get any worse. I suppose it could—at least I hadn’t knocked him down the stairs, killing him in the process. Now that would have been a problem.

The duke smiled down at me patiently, his golden hair neatly combed back. He was dressed for golf and had a green-handled walking stick.

“Are you all right there?” Convinced I wasn’t about to topple over, he released me, patting me on the shoulder.

I nodded numbly, still reeling from my encounter with the inspector. “Fine. Just fine.”

“That’s good to hear. I believe you are Ruby Vaughn, are you not?”

I was surprised he knew my name at all. “I am. And you are?” I didn’t need to ask, as I knew full well who he was. Mr. Owen had told me as much at the séance, but I was feeling a bit combative after my run-in with the inspector.

“James Swindon, Duke of Biddlesford,” he said with an almost rueful smile as if to apologize for his title. There was something boyish about the gesture that instantly made me feel guilty for being cross. “I think I’m next.”

He inclined his head toward the doors I’d just left.

“They’re questioning a duke?” I couldn’t disguise my surprise. In my previous encounters with the British aristocracy, any transgressions would be immediately brushed beneath the rug. To question a duke in a murder investigation was downright revolutionary.

He nodded, looking nearly as perplexed as I. “It seems so. I’m beginning to wish I’d not heeded my wife’s wishes. She was insistent upon coming. I could not tell her no.”

My ears pricked at his words. “Is she interested in the occult, Your Grace?” I asked politely, wondering how far I could pry before this duke would tire of speaking to me.

“Not at all. I found it peculiar at the time, but you know how women can be. And if this took her fancy, then how could I disappoint her?”

My mind was working twice as hard as before. I couldn’t very well ask if she’d received a letter requesting her presence here, but perhaps I’d get a chance to speak with Her Grace later. “Have they questioned her?”

He shook his head. “No, not yet, though I fear her nerves will get the better of her. I do not relish the idea of her sitting alone with them. My wife has a delicate constitution. I worry for her even on the best of days but to be questioned by the inspector?” He grimaced before shaking his head. “I hear they ruffled Lady Morton earlier, a feat I’d like to have seen. Perhaps that alone is worth the inconvenience.”

I snorted back a laugh; this duke was nothing like I expected. I’d known others of his kind. Stuffy and full of their own pomposity. But the Duke of Biddlesford was a great deal more likable than the others of his ilk. Then I remembered what Mr. Owen had said at the séance—he’d known Biddlesford as a young man. Perhaps that’s why this man was remotely tolerable. He had Mr. Owen’s seal of approval.

“As would I. She doesn’t seem to like me much.”

The duke gave me a conspiratorial grin. “Lady Morton doesn’t seem to like me much either, if it’s any consolation. I don’t think she’s liked anyone since she was a girl. But I had best see what the inspector has to ask.”

“Good luck, Your Grace.”

“I’m a duke, Miss Vaughn. I don’t need luck.” He flashed me a sad smile and shook his head. “Terrible business about the medium, though a woman like that, I suspect she had a great many enemies.” He nodded to me and started down the hall. I leaned against the wallpaper, watching as he disappeared into the dining hall, realizing I now had a series of puzzles to solve instead of just one.

Whoever killed Lucy Campbell was inextricably linked to the reason we were all brought here. I had no proof of that, well— little proof besides the letter from Mr. Owen and my peculiar conversation with Lady Amelia—but signs certainly pointed to the fact that Lucy Campbell wanted us all to come to Manhurst Castle for the séance.

The why was the difficult part. And was it Lucy herself who wanted us here, or was there someone or something else at play that I had not yet considered? I ought to leave it to the authorities as I’d scolded Lady Amelia this morning. However, the men who questioned me this morning did not instill confidence that they’d do the job properly.

I was shaken from my wonderings by the arrival of Andrew Lennox. “Are you all right, Miss Vaughn?”

I suddenly realized he’d been standing there for several seconds before I noticed he’d been speaking to me. Andrew’s gaze dropped to my injured hand, swollen and scraped with a smattering of thick dark splinters on the palm.

I’d been distracted by the duke and the mystery of Lucy Campbell’s death and nearly forgotten my injury. I folded my fingers into a fist. “It is nothing. I was just questioned by the inspector. That’s all.”

“Did they harm you?” Andrew’s voice grew grave. He reached down, taking my hand and gently unfurled my fingers for his inspection.

“No. Nothing of the sort,” I lied, wincing as he touched the large splinter in the middle of my palm. “I am fine.”

He probed around, testing each finger and joint to be sure no real damage had been done. I stepped back, tugging my hand away. “I’m fine. Truly.”

“Nothing seems amiss. Only a bit swollen, it might bruise. I could see to the bandaging if you’d like?”

“No. No, I’ll be all right.” I took a step back. Andrew nodded politely and turned, heading back to his room presumably—or wherever it was he was going—and I set off in search of the only person on this entire estate wholly unconnected to Lucy Campbell to help me unravel this mess.

Ruan Kivell.