She set the sheets on a table, took a key from her apron pocket, and opened a door to reveal a room similar to the one she’d left—light-colored paneling, a carved bedstead, a fireplace instead of a stove, and a large window overlooking the garden.
I thanked the maid. She said nothing at all, and once I’d entered, she closed the door hard behind me. I half thought she’d lock it, shutting me in, but I heard no click of a key, just the thump of her feet as she stalked away.
I took a calming breath and scanned the room.
The bed had been stripped, the bare tick mattress exposed. The wardrobe I opened held Erica’s gowns and a coat that had been wrapped in paper, put away for summer. Another cupboard held her boots. Her clothes and shoes were elegantly made of expensive fabrics, the shoes of soft leather, but all were in muted colors, the trim either plain piping or nonexistent.
I’d worked for matrons and widows who, within the boundaries of what was appropriate, decorated themselves without worry. They might be expected to wear dark blues, grays, and maroons, but they fitted out their gowns with laces, ribbons, feathers, and beading that flaunted their wealth or taste.
Erica had been like a subdued wren, trying to efface herself to the point of absurdity. Her marriage had been unhappy—perhaps she preferred people not to notice her and remind her of it.
I closed the wardrobe and moved to the small desk, a delicate thing on slender legs that could be moved from place to place. It sat against the wall with no seat before it, and I imagined Erica had had it carried to the cushioned chair near the fireplace when she’d wanted to use it.
The desk was locked, but a small key on a ribbon dangled from a nail on the desk’s side. I inserted the key into the lock then lowered the desk’s lid, which formed the writing surface.
“Mrs. Cook, is it?” a male voice said behind me. “Does Mama know you’re here rummaging through poor old Erica’s things? Perhaps I ought to take you downstairs and let her shake some respect into you.”
I swung around to behold the handsome Jonathan, a half smile on his face as he thoroughly blocked any escape through the door.
23
I remained where I was at the desk, stemming my uneasiness. “Lady Covington gave me leave to be here, yes.”
“What are you looking for? A stray bit of cash to line your pocket? A trinket to sell?”
Jonathan advanced, menace in every line of him in spite of the smile. His dark hair was neat enough to gain approving looks from mothers but tousled enough to charm their daughters.
“Of course not,” I told him in indignation. “I am trying to discover who murdered Mrs. Hume. I believe it was murder, not an accident.”
“Oh?” Jonathan came closer. He was tall, and I imagined strong. “Do the police hire cooks now? I mean, to do policing, not cooking.” He laughed but the laughter did not reach his eyes.
“I am acquainted with Detective Inspector McGregor,” I said, standing my ground.
“Who is he, when he’s at home? Oh, wait, he’s that ungainly, bad-tempered copper who came to question Mama, isn’t he? Old Jepson showed him the door. She hates the police, does Jepson. I imagine her as a member of some secret criminal society—in odd moments when I have nothing to do.”
He unnerved me, and I was very aware of being alone with him. If I shouted, would the other servants hear me? Would they come to help me or decide I would only receive what I deserved?
“Do you not wish to discover who killed your sister?” I asked, trying to hide my nervousness.
“Stepsister. I never liked her. Fair—because she never liked me.” Jonathan ran a hand through his hair, rumpling it further. “Though I hated to see the poor thing go like that. But yes, I’d like to find out who this mad poisoner is before I feel funny after eating my veal stew. I’ve been taking all my meals at my club since Erica died. It’s not one that lets in affected sticks like my stepbrother, so I’m safe from him.”
“Do you believe Lord Covington is doing this?”
Jonathan, who didn’t seem to be able to keep his hands still, clutched the lapels of his frock coat. “I wouldn’t put it past George. If he rids the world of Mama and then the rest of us, he inherits the lot. Then he can rush off to the South of France with his lover.”
“His lover?” I thought of the stiff, slightly balding George—good old George, as Lady Cynthia referred to him—and tried to imagine him whispering sweet words into a lady’s ear. I could not.
Jonathan moved abruptly to the door. I wondered why he was leaving so suddenly—and was relieved that he was—when he shut it and returned to me.
“Prying ears,” he said quietly. “Servants in this house snoop atrociously, but I know secrets they don’t. My dear, George’s lover is not a lady.”
I blinked, then I understood. “Ah.”
“Ah, indeed.” Jonathan’s laugh was breathy. “You’d never think such a pompous prick would attract anyone of either sex, but apparently, he’s been carrying on with this chap for ages. If George is happy, fine with me, but of course, no one can know.”
“He could be arrested,” I said in alarm. Such a thing was illegal, a hanging offense.
“True, but fortunately for George, it must be proved beyond all doubt, which means witnesses to the act. I can’t imagine that would be pleasant, seeing George in such a position.” Jonathan shuddered. “I meant no one must know because even if George wasn’t arrested, he’d be dismissed from his precious railway board and break Mama’s heart. She loves the railway. I think she married Covington when Papa died so she could stay close to it, no other reason. Not that she’s fond of trains and steam engines and that sort of thing, like an enthusiast. She simply likes the money and the power. That’s why I believe George is trying to kill her. She won’t let him run the business without her guidance—wise of her, because George is an idiot—but the man has his pride.”
What Jonathan said made much sense. However, proving George had put ground pieces of rhododendron into the food Erica had eaten would not be simple.
“Poor Erica.” Jonathan glanced about the room, true pity in his voice. “She didn’t leave much, did she? Never really alive, the hapless girl.”
“If you know secrets,” I said on impulse, “can you tell me who Henry is?”
Jonathan started then sent me a broad smile. “Of course I can. I know all the messy little scandals of this family. I followed Erica one day, you see. She made mysterious outings, and I am naturally curious.”
He stepped past me to the desk, amused when I scuttled out of his way. He pulled out a small drawer inside the desk and set it aside. It contained letters, I saw, folded carefully.