Chapter
1 of The Key to Secrets
Cold
had settled into Bee’s heart the way the snow had settled over the land,
covering the fertile soil and sending the living plants into their wintry sleep.
The blank whiteness stretched over the fields and pastures, a glory of ice
crystals packed together, sealing the good earth under a vacant layer both
lovely and deadly.
Her
internal snow had fallen so quickly and so completely that she hadn’t even
noticed its danger. It settled first into the empty crevices of her heart and of
her hopes. From there it spread to cover her life. Now she was trapped. She’d
said “no” to her barren life and “yes” to a life with potential only to realize
how iced over that life would also be.
Bee
watched Mad Aunt Beth use her cane to knock snow off the frozen rosebushes. White
clumps fell to the ground. A repeated whack, suss filled the air.
No sound came from the garden or the air. The birds and little animals kept to
their warm cover. No sounds came from the manor or the carriage house and
stables. Sane people hovered beside their hearths. Only she and Mad Aunt Beth
had ventured out, she reluctantly and the old woman with the defiance that
became all the more obstinate when faced with reason. Bee had given up
argument, bundled them both into wool shawls and cloaks, and followed into the
garden.
Shivering,
mittened hands held to her face, she watched Aunt Beth mutilate the bushes. The
wintry sun hadn’t strength enough to melt the new snow. She had lost her own
strength to stand up for the life she wanted. Like a coward, she accepted the
life chosen for her. A life she should never have agreed to. It had seemed an
escape then. Now she knew it would be a prison.
Aunt
Beth gave a hard whack to the largest rosebush. Bee stepped forward to stop her.
The gardeners would complain about the damage once they ventured away from
their cozy quarters. She faltered before interrupting Aunt Beth. The older
woman could be vicious with her cane. Her usual nurse hid the cane that her
charge didn’t need but always wanted. Yet Nurse Gregg had catarrh, and Aunt
Beth wanted sunshine after days of clouds. Bee was the family retainer who did
the miserable tasks that no one else in the Chalmsley family would do. Her
dogsbody existence had driven her to say “yes”.
She
should have said “no”.
A rider
emerged from the trees, following the drive that led to the main road and then
Chalmsley Village. He came at a canter, the dark horse moving easily over the
snow-covered gravel. The capes of his greatcoat lifted and fell, lifted and
fell, like black wings. The wide-brimmed hat hiding his face added to the
impression of a great black bird.
“Ha! One
for sorrow.”
Bee
jumped. Mad Aunt Beth had quietly come to her side. She held the cane over her
shoulder, like a cricket bat, and pointed at the rider.
“Carrion
crow, out of the oaks, come to catch a murderer. ‘Fol de riddle, lol de riddle,
hiding do’.” Her singsong of the nursery rhyme sounded as creaky as rusty
hinges. “Come too late for you, that one. Come too soon for her.” She sang that
as well then grinned at Bee, revealing missing front teeth.
“Aunt
Beth, what are you talking about? Too late for me? Too soon for her? Who are
you talking about?” Then, she remembered the sordid murder discovered this
morning. The old woman should have known nothing about the crime, for she would
have been in the nursery with Nurse Gregg. “What do you know about the murder,
Aunt Beth?”
The
shrewdness of the deranged had the old woman looking around before she patted
Bee’s arm. “Poor little Bee. Buzz here, buzz there, never quite know where to
go, never quite know what’s to know, never quite know what to do with the truth.
You know he didn’t just die in the night, little Bee. You know she killed him.”
He. William Kennington had died last night. The
hullaballoo over finding his bloodied corpse had filled the house this morning.
The chambermaid who found him had fetched Bee. Bee had alerted the butler and
the housekeeper to the crime. Then Bee took on the unenviable task of waking
her great-uncle to inform him of the murder of an important guest.
The
hullaballoo eventually had abated to sobs from his fiancée Moira Fraser and
whispers from the other guests. The Chalmsleys maintained a stoic front. After
being the center of the maelstrom, Bee discovered that she now circled the outer
edge. With Nurse Gregg pleading sickness, Bee was relegated through the noon
hour and half the afternoon to the nursery with Aunt Beth. At the top of the
house, the nursery was intended to offer quiet solitude to the old woman.
Yet how
did Aunt Beth, cooped-up in the old nursery, know more than Bee did about the
murder?
“Carrion
crow you’ll know, though,” Aunt Beth said now. “Unless the snow has frozen your
heart. I’m cold.” The cane came down to help her cross the snowy paths back to
the house.
Bee
trailed her. “Who is he? Who is this carrion crow?”
“Most
wanted. Least expected.”
How was
she to interpret that? Then she realized. Her heart thumped madly. “Hector? Is
it Hector Evans? He’s in London.”
“Where
are your ears, girl? He came back last Spring, appointed constable by my
nephew-in-law. He straightened out that mess over at Helmesford.”
“He
came here to Chalmsley Court? I didn’t see him.”
“No,
they were careful about that. He stayed over in Meadowbrook except for a couple
of visits here. Lord Chalmsley’s niece mustn’t marry a lowly constable. A Seddars
mustn’t marry a clerk’s son.”
“Aunt
Beth, Hector and I never—we were too young to expect—he left. I forgot him
because he never wrote.”
“Wrote
and wrote, never answered.”
She
gaped at the old woman. She had written to Hector, several letters, awkward
little outpourings of her heart. When he never responded, she had abandoned
them. Had he written her, and those letters were confiscated? That last summer
had seemed idyllic—until Lord Chalmsley decreed Hector would remove to London. Had
more driven that decision than Bee realized?
Should she
believe Aunt Beth? The old woman didn’t sound deranged, even though her earlier
comments seemed crazed. Aunt Beth’s insanity had its own sense, skewed and
riddling. She had a knack for prophetic announcements that most of the
Chalmsley family ignored—until they were suddenly true. As her pronouncement
that Sampson and his son would soon be traveling far had come true two years
before.
Not an
hour ago she claimed the two servants would soon return. Since Sampson and
Daniel had escorted the son and heir to Vienna, was George also soon to return?
Aunt
Beth did know things that others at Chalmsley Court did not. Especially Bee. Like
Hector Evans now served as constable for Lord Chalmsley, the district
magistrate.
She
glanced again at the rider. Carrion Crow. He had reached the forecourt. A groom
ran from the stables to take his horse. The black-brimmed hat still hid his
features.
From
her frozen stance in the side garden, she couldn’t see enough to trust Aunt
Beth was right. Bee vividly remembered the blood on the bed, the blood on her
hands after she bent closer to examine the wound, the blood she had scrubbed
and scrubbed to remove. She said the only thing that fit with the morning’s
uproar and the appearance of a carrion-crow rider. “William Kennington was
murdered.”
“Murdered.
Stabbed with a steely pick. I’m cold. I want my tea.” And Aunt Beth headed into
the house.
Bee
followed. She wondered how Aunt Beth knew that someone used a steely pick to
murder William Kennington.
She
wondered if she would have a chance to see Hector, to talk with him.
Was it
too late to re-kindle the spark between them?
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
A thin
hole. Something small and sharp and long.
He’d
expected some kind of violence when the message to report to Chalmsley Court
arrived. Lord Chalmsley would not send for a constable unless violence
occurred, and the only violent person at the Court was George, his lordship’s
only son.
He
wished Lord Chalmsley hadn’t ordered the corpse moved to the chapel. He wished
a dozen things. Mostly, he wished he hadn’t seen Bee Chalmsley as he rode
toward the house.
The two
women in the snow-covered garden could only be Bee and Mad Aunt Beth. Only Mab
would ignore sense and venture outdoors. Only Bee or a servant extremely well
paid would follow to ensure the crazy bat didn’t hurt herself. Aunt Beth had
never hurt anyone, though. With a shawl hiding the taller woman’s pale hair and
her shape enveloped by a cloak, she could be anyone—but he knew it was Bee.
Eight
years away from Chalmsley Court, yet he still felt the old stirrings. She had
broken his heart once. He’d heard that all the young Chalmsley ladies became
engaged over Christmas. Hector had wondered if Bee was included, but he hadn’t
asked. He wouldn’t. He didn’t want anyone to guess that a too tall, too thin
woman-child had captured his heart one long-ago summer and never given it back.
He
refused to moon about looking for her, hoping for a chance to speak with her,
not when he had a murder to solve.
He
straightened and yanked the sheet into place over the corpse. The footman
lowered the lantern.
“Who
found him?”
“I
don’t know, sir.”
Hector
narrowed his eyes, but the footman continued to look ignorant. The man was new,
not a servant that Hector remembered from his own years at Chalmsley. “You’ve
been here since they brought the body to the chapel?” He didn’t say ‘corpse’. He’d
learned during his London years not to use that word to people unused to
murder.
“Yes,
sir. Lord Chalmsley himself appointed me to this duty.”
“Did
Lord Chalmsley order that the body be brought to the chapel instead of leaving
it in place?” Once again, the man looked blank. “While you have stood guard,
did anyone else wish to come into the chapel, perhaps to see the body?”
“No,
sir. Well, sir, Miss Fraser, she came with her parents. She wanted to see him. She
didn’t believe he was dead.”
“Miss
Fraser was Mr. Kennington’s fiancée?”
“Yes,
sir.”
“I
expect that Lord Chalmsley would like a report.”
“I
wouldn’t know, sir.”
Nor did
Hector. His lordship left his constable to his duties, boring enough most of
the time. His only excitement had come immediately following his return from
London, over in Helmesford, when an arson exposed a decade-old murder. Although
he narrowed his suspect for the arson to one man, he’d lacked the evidence
needed to take the case to an inquest or to the magistrate. As for the
ten-year-old murder, he wound up with three suspects: one he didn’t think had
done it, the second he wanted to pin the murder on but had no evidence, and the
third and most likely suspect would never be considered seriously by a jury. Cat
ladies never were considered for serious crimes. They reminded people too much
of afternoon tea, buttered crumpets served with preserves and a cat purring
away on the mantel. He would never have gotten a conviction of Aunt Sally.
If the
old maid aunt had shot the man. Maybe she hadn’t.
Lord
Chalmsley would frown if Hector failed a second time. Any jack with a bit of
sense could see the drunks home and find stolen articles and hurry vagrants
along to the next shire. Murders needed cleverness—and Hector didn’t know if he
were clever enough.
He left
the footman with instructions to keep everyone out of the chapel. The
Kennington family would expect the body’s return soon. He needed to investigate
the murder scene and start interviews, especially of the man’s fiancée.
Half
hoping his lordship was elsewhere, Hector knocked on the door to Lord
Chalmsley’s study. The “enter” was muffled but clear enough.
Chalmsley
glanced up but continued his writing. Hector stood before the desk, remembering
earlier years when he had stood in this very spot, waiting to hear either
compliments for his skill in his lessons or discipline for his multiple
mischiefs. He had ceased fearing the discipline long before Chalmsley sent him
to work with London’s chief magistrate Sir Richard Ford.
He used
the wait to study his lordship. Although his body appeared fit, dissipation
showed in the pouches under his dark eyes and the slackness of his jawline. He
wore a gentleman’s country attire with the nonchalance afforded by wealth that
could replace expensive clothing with ease. Silver streaked his dark hair, but
he showed no other signs of age.
Lord
Chalmsley set his quill in the stand then leaned back in his chair. “I expected
you earlier, Evans.”
“Yes,
my lord. I have viewed the body. A clear case of murder.”
“I knew
that.”
“Yes,
my lord.” He sounded like the footman and vowed not to fall into such dumb
obedience. “I’ll look for the murder weapon when I search the scene. Where was
his chamber?” He wasn’t surprised when Kennington’s room was the second floor. The
first floor was reserved for family and privileged guests. He himself had never
rated below the second floor. For many years he’d had a room on the third, down
the hall from the nursery, closer to the servants. “Another question, my lord. Can
you tell me the reason his body was removed to the chapel?”
“Couldn’t
leave him lying there, could I? The Fraser girl was caterwauling in the
corridor ,and her parents demanded answers I didn’t have. Still don’t. You’ll
need to speak with them. Lord Fraser plans to leave in the morning. Unseemly
haste, I’d say, but he seems to think murder is contagious. When will you speak
with them?”
“After
I’ve viewed the crime scene, my lord. I understand you and Lady Chalmsley are
hosting a week-long party? Did Mr. Kennington have any family members here? I
would wish to question them as well.”
“Is
this an example of your new methods of investigation? Ask questions? Search
about for things? No, Kennington has no family, not here. There’s a mother
living and an uncle. He’s a diplomat, assigned to Prussia, I understand. A
sister, I think, married. But no one here.”
“Thank
you, my lord. And the other guests? Do they have plans to leave?”
He
huffed. “They’d rather stay and titter about whatever transpires. Who do you
think murdered Kennington?”
“I will
not say until I have completed my examination of the evidence and conducted
several interviews. I apologize in advance for inconveniencing your guests—.”
Chalmsley
waved aside the comment. “They inconvenienced me by coming here at my wife’s
invitation. Her idea, to host a party to celebrate the engagements at Christmas.
Then she has to drag in my daughters’ friends and their fiancés and parents. At
least we don’t have schoolchildren running about. How long do you think you’ll
need?”
“I
could not say, my lord. The evidence and the interviews will determine that.”
“Learned
to be cagey, have you?” Chalmsley gave a decided nod. “You’ll be staying here. Taking
your meals with us. After all, I raised you with my own boy.” He picked up the
quill and reached for another parchment. “You’ll be wanting to start your
investigation.”
“Yes,
my lord.” Feeling as if he should have questioned Chalmsley—how did a constable
interrogate a magistrate?—Hector bowed then retreated from the study.
Without
thinking, he turned left, heading for the front hall and the main stairs. Fitting
back into the house would not be difficult. Chalmsley Court never changed.
Fitting
back with the family? He knew George was off on a reduced Grand Tour, abbreviated
to avoid Napoleon’s army. Lord Chalmsley’s daughters Cordelia and Portia had
never cared for Hector and had stayed out of his way. His presence at dinner
would not please them. As for Lady Chalmsley—Hector had never managed to get a
read on that woman. For many years of his time here, she’d taken laudanum so
much that he suspected an addiction. Yet in his fifteenth year, when he’d
returned from school, she’d been brighter and happier than he’d ever known her,
with no signs of laudanum anywhere around.
And
Bee—. He finally allowed himself to dwell on her. How would Bee react to his
presence here at Chalmsley Court? Would she welcome him? Would she be happy to
see him? Or had she forgotten him, a singular mark on the map of her life, a
mark that had long ago lost any meaning for her?
He
didn’t know, but he desperately wanted those answers.
He had
yet to see Richardson, the butler. Two footmen stood in the entrance hall,
statues paired, with nothing to do until a Chalmsley gave an order. They didn’t
blink when he passed them and started up the stairs.
“My
goodness! Cordelia, look! I do believe that’s Hector Evans. Hector! Do stop,
Hector.”
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