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  “Oh,” Jimmy said. “Hell.”

  “When was that?” Bill asked.

  “After luncheon. Perhaps two o’clock.”

  “We’d better go and talk to the others,” Bill said grimly. “And we’ll need to lock this room while we do it. Is there a key?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Mertons stayed on guard, carefully not talking about anything, until Jimmy returned with a key. Bill locked the room, considered a moment, then slipped the key into his pocket. “You needn’t mention I have this to anyone. Let’s go down.”

  They passed a couple of groups of panicky-looking servants whispering in the hall. The house party was gathered in the drawing room, all present except for the obvious omission, in total silence. Victoria sat very straight, with Preston hovering by her; Lady Anna was next to her mother on the sofa but not touching her, dry-eyed and white-faced. Jack stood behind her, as if on guard. The Earl huddled in a chair with Fen crouched next to him in a pool of skirts.

  Bill touched Jimmy’s arm as they walked in. Jimmy turned to look at the fireplace, a gesture so obvious that everyone followed it. The emptiness of the sheath hanging next to the mantelpiece seemed glaring now.

  “The kirpan,” Victoria said in a thread of a voice. “It’s missing. Was that—”

  “I’m afraid so,” Jimmy said. “I’m awfully sorry.”

  “You saw it was gone at two o’clock, is that right? Did anyone notice it was gone earlier?” Bill asked, to a general shaking of heads. “Nobody?”

  Victoria’s hands were entwined, knuckles standing out. “I didn’t observe— It’s always been there. That was my father’s gift. It is an insult.”

  “Some might say the insult was to my husband,” Lady Anna said, in a voice cold and sharp as broken glass.

  Victoria turned sharply. Fen rose, putting herself between the two. “May I ask, what is to be done now?”

  “We’ll need a doctor, and the police,” Bill said. The Countess gave a faint cry of protest.

  “It’s thirty miles to the nearest police station,” Jimmy said. “We could ’phone from the village if the lines haven’t come down in the storm, and summon Dr. Chorley as well, but we can’t send a man there tonight unless we want another—that is, we can’t.”

  “Why do we need a doctor?” Pat asked. “It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?”

  Fen made a noise that sounded like a giggle, and clapped her hand over her mouth, eyes widening in horror. Pat couldn’t blame her. She felt on the edge of hysteria herself.

  “Procedure,” Bill said. “I dare say the police will have their own man, but someone needs to examine the body as soon as possible.”

  “And he must be laid out,” the Countess said, sitting up. “Anna, you must—”

  “No,” Lady Anna said. “No, you can’t make me do that. You can’t!”

  “Nobody must do that, madam,” Bill said. “It—he must be left untouched until the police arrive.”

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Merton. My son-in-law will be given the respect that any man, any member of this family is due.”

  “Rites,” the Earl added. “Decencies.”

  Bill looked between them, then pointedly at Jimmy, who swallowed. “Ma, Pa, you don’t understand. It’s—well, it’s murder.”

  “No,” the Countess said. She was shaking. “No.”

  “He’s got a knife in his back.” Jimmy’s control sounded to be slipping. “The knife from down here, stuck in his back while he was sitting at a desk. He didn’t trip and fall on it!”

  “Jim,” Bill said. “Get another drink. Get me one, while you’re at it. I’m afraid he’s right. Mr. Haworth has been murdered and this is a police matter.”

  “But that’s not possible,” Preston said. “That is, obviously it is, but for heaven’s sake. How did the fellow get in?”

  “What fellow?” Bill asked.

  “The murderer.”

  “What murderer?”

  “The one who put a knife in his back!”

  Bill massaged his temple with one hand. “I grasp that, but what do you mean, get in?”

  “I think he means that it was a—a passing tramp,” Pat said. She could feel a laugh rising again, and dug her nails into her thumb.

  “Exactly,” Preston said. “Someone who came in to steal. Maurice must have surprised him.”

  “He was stabbed in the back while sitting at a desk on the first floor.” Jimmy spoke with tenuous calm. “He was killed with a knife taken from this room. And how many passing tramps have you seen out there?”

  “It’s a nice thought,” Bill added, more gently. “But it isn’t awfully likely.”

  “But it has to be,” Fen said. “Because if it wasn’t someone from outside the house, you know, it would have to be someone inside, which— Oh.”

  “One of you.” The bones were stark under Lady Anna’s skin. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it? One of you killed him.”

  “The servants—” Jack began.

  “Have all been with us for years,” Jimmy flashed. “And had no reason to kill him.”

  “And any of us did?” Jack retorted, and then his face changed. The silence spread like spilled oil, rolling and dripping over them all.

  “You hated him,” Lady Anna said. She was looking straight ahead, not at anyone in particular. Jimmy and Preston both shifted. “You all hated him and one of you killed him.”

  “One of us did, yes,” Bill said. “Would anyone care to confess?”

  “What?” Jimmy’s eyes bulged.

  “The police will come tomorrow and the first thing they’ll ask is what reason any of us had to dislike Maurice Haworth. As Lady Anna says, there will be a lot to talk about.”

  A cry of protest came from several throats at that brutal statement. Bill ignored it. “We’re all going to have to account for our whereabouts, and our motivations, and each other’s motivations. The police do not respect personal feelings, and they will find out the killer in the end. Whoever murdered him could spare us all a great deal by admitting it.”

  He was carefully not looking at anyone, so Pat scanned every face she could. She saw anger, shock, incomprehension. She couldn’t see that anybody looked guilty, whatever guilty looked like.

  The silence stretched for a moment, then Bill shrugged. “In that case, I suppose there’s not much more to be said except, of course, that nobody ought to leave the house.”

  “Well, there is something else,” Fen said. “I’m sorry to labour the point, but either one of the servants is a homicidal maniac or someone in here is a murderer, and I’m a little nervous about going to bed under these circumstances!”

  Thunder cracked overhead, with stage-perfect timing. Several of the women jumped and shrieked.

  “For heaven’s sake,” Preston said. “You’re not in danger.”

  “That depends on why somebody killed Maurice,” Victoria pointed out.

  “We could pair up,” Pat said. “Or at least anyone who’d feel safer that way could. Er...” she added, as the flaw in that dawned on her.

  “Indeed,” Victoria said. “One would need to be sure of one’s pair.”

  The Countess put a hand over her mouth. Preston moved closer to Victoria, a protective sway.

  “Anyone who wishes to, should,” Bill said. “In fact it might not be a bad idea if we could all vouch for each other’s whereabouts from now on.”

  “What do you mean?” Pat asked.

  “Just thinking ahead. I can’t see there’s much more we can do except batten down the hatches, summon the police tomorrow, and wait.”

  “Wait,” Lady Anna said. “Wait for what? She hated him, and her father’s knife killed him! What are you waiting for?”

  “Anna!” the Countess almost shrieked. Fen gave a sharp gasp, Preston an inarticulate shout.

  Victoria looked at her accuser with bafflement. “I’m a vegetarian.”

  “The Sikhs are a fighting people. Didn’t you always say that?” Lady Anna
swung to her father. “You always said, rely on a Sikh to avenge an insult. Of course she had a grievance against Maurice because he said what he thought.”

  “If you’re going to accuse everyone your husband insulted, the field will be pretty wide,” Pat said. It wasn’t, perhaps, the kindest remark to a widow, but Lady Anna wasn’t being terribly kind herself, and Victoria’s look of stunned betrayal was unbearable.

  “Quite. What utter nonsense,” Preston said. “As though we don’t all know who had an actual motive to kill him.”

  “I don’t know who you’re directing that at, and I don’t care to find out,” Jimmy said thinly.

  Jack held up both hands. “We all need to stay calm. This won’t help anyone. Granted the use of that particular knife is, ah, suggestive—”

  “Yes, it is,” Pat said. “The blade must be six inches long judging by the sheath, and it was driven in to the hilt. I doubt I could do that and I’m stronger than Victoria. And more used to cutting up carcasses.”

  There were multiple noises of strong objection. Bill said, “Could have put that better, old girl.”

  “I’m still right. A man struck that blow. If I don’t have the arm strength, none of us women do.”

  “We’ve only your word that you don’t,” Lady Anna said. “And you made your dislike of Maurice very clear.”

  “Luckily, you don’t need Pat’s word for anything,” Fen told her. “I’ve been with her almost every minute since we last saw Mr. Haworth alive, so you may keep your nasty insinuations to yourself, and I would if I were you before people wonder why you’re so awfully keen to assign blame to other people considering that horrible man was your husband!” She took a much-needed gasp of breath.

  “How dare you, you impudent slut!”

  “Stop it, all of you. This is getting us nowhere,” Bill said. “We’re all tired and shocked and we all need to sleep. And Miss Carruth made a good point, I fear: someone in this house killed Haworth, and we all need to be conscious of that. I think we fellows should pair up, so we can account for one another’s whereabouts. Preston, suppose you and Jack share a room, and so will Jimmy and I.” He did not look at Pat as he said that.

  Jack and Preston looked warily at one another. Pat said, “Good idea. Victoria, if you want to squash in with Fen and me...?”

  “My room has a lock and a key,” Victoria said. “And I shall put a chair under the door handle. But thank you.”

  “Then I think it’s probably bedtime,” Pat said. “Coming, Fen?”

  Fen headed across the room, then took a detour to the drinks table. She poured two hefty whiskies, handed one to Pat, said, “Now I am,” and led the way out.

  “Cheers,” Bill said from behind them.

  FEN’S MAID WAS WAITING in her room, eyes wide. “Miss Fen!”

  “I know. Are you doubled up with someone for the night?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “Good. Get along now. Miss Merton will be in here tonight, so she can unbutton me, if you shouldn’t mind, Pat.”

  “Not at all.”

  “But, miss—”

  “No, go,” Fen said. “The sooner we’re all in our rooms the better. I don’t want you wandering around the corridors.”

  “Sir Peter would want me to stay with you,” Travers said obstinately. “In case anything happens.”

  “Miss Merton is armed,” Fen said. “With a gun. And she can shoot it, so off you go.”

  “I’ll get my revolver if you like, but I’m not bringing it to bed,” Pat said, once the maid had left.

  “I can’t think you’d need it. There’s no maniac prowling the halls, is there? He wasn’t killed at random.” Fen handed her a glass, hopped onto the bed, and patted the covers. Pat locked the door—she agreed about the homicidal maniac but there was no point taking risks—and came to sit by her. “I suppose you’re right that it had to be a man?”

  “Probably,” Pat said. “I wouldn’t swear to it. I wanted to end that line of conversation, but the truth is, if the knife was sharp enough, I’m pretty sure I could have done it and so could any determined woman.”

  “Oh. So Victoria could have killed him, theoretically?”

  “Probably, but I can’t see why she would. She could have just left the house and never seen him again.”

  “Unless you believe this idea that she would be naturally inclined to avenge an insult.”

  “That sounds like a lot of nonsense to me,” Pat said. “I don’t know anything about Sikhs, but it’s a silly way to talk about people. I don’t feel ‘naturally inclined’ to behave like every Anglican alive. And Victoria studied at Girton, for heaven’s sake. I suppose there may be Girton women who would avenge an insult in blood, but she doesn’t strike me as one of them.”

  “Indeed. I’m sure she hoped something awful would happen to Haworth; I’m sure we all did. But I can’t see why she’d kill him either, so when you said ‘any determined woman’, you were thinking of Lady Anna?”

  Pat supposed she’d get used to Fen’s occasional sharpness, peeking out from her lush appearance like a velvet-handled stiletto. “I was, rather.”

  “She has arms like chicken bones,” Fen said unkindly, considering her own delightfully round and dimpled arms. “Then again, the papers say drug fiends are capable of all sorts of unexpected physical feats. Why would she kill him?”

  “You don’t think being married to him would be a motive for murder?”

  “Well, obviously, but I suppose I meant why today. I dare say there may have been something.”

  “A row in the night, an insult too far. This is an awful conversation.” Pat wrapped her arms around her knees.

  “It is awful,” Fen said. “And it would be nice to believe in the passing tramp, or blame one of the servants, but—”

  “But the house is full of motives.”

  “Is it full? Who else would want him dead?”

  Of course. Fen didn’t know about Lord Witton’s troubles. Pat hesitated a second, then threw caution to the wind. She needed to talk this out. “I’m afraid the Earl is in a tricky situation.”

  She explained the business as she understood it. Fen looked appalled. “My goodness. Of course I knew they’d lost money, but I had no idea the Earl was to blame. I’m extremely surprised Daddy didn’t find this out after Jimmy proposed.” She paused. “Unless he did, and didn’t tell me.”

  Pat winced on her behalf. “It’s under investigation. He might not have known the Earl is personally implicated.”

  “With your brother investigating.” Fen made a face. “I don’t suppose Jimmy likes that. But why would it benefit the Yoxalls to have Haworth dead?”

  “I got the impression he was wringing money out of them under the threat of making the financial business look bad for the Earl. And of course he was holding Lady Anna’s well-being, and the child’s, over their heads.”

  “So the whole family had every reason to want him to go away,” Fen said. “Ugh. Does anyone else apart from the family have a motive? Mr. Keynes?”

  “I’d have said no, except that he had a good try at killing the blighter last night.”

  “He did, didn’t he? I suppose he’ll have some explaining to do to the police, with the bruises on Haworth’s throat.”

  Pat hadn’t thought of that. “Oh, dear. Yes, that won’t look good at all. Though that was a hot-blooded response to insult, whereas this was cold-blooded murder. And that particular knife points the finger at Victoria. I can’t think Preston would do that.”

  “If he realised it would be taken that way, of course. But even so, it seems utterly out of character, though murder generally must be, mustn’t it? What about Mr. Bouvier-Lynes?”

  Pat frowned. “There’s his affair with Lady Anna, but wouldn’t it be more likely that Haworth would have murdered him?”

  “I suppose Jack might be desperate to marry her?” Fen offered dubiously. “A grand passion, no chance of divorce, this is the only way for her to be free?”

&n
bsp; “How...newspaperish. People do kill for love, I suppose.”

  Fen pulled a face. “I wouldn’t have guessed that he loved her that much. Not that he could show it in the circumstances, so perhaps I’m wrong, but it doesn’t look like a great tragic love affair. Which brings us back to the family.”

  “Yes. Although— Oh Lord, Fen, there’s something else. Haworth was a blackmailer. I heard him at it.”

  Fen’s eyes rounded. “What? When?”

  “My first morning here.” Pat explained how she’d come to hear the conversation. “I couldn’t tell who he was speaking to, only that it was a man, but he was unquestionably demanding money and threatening to spill the beans about something.”

  Fen nodded slowly. “Are you going to tell the police what you heard?”

  Pat hugged her knees closer. “It would be concealing important evidence not to.”

  “Does it make a difference, though? I suppose if he were blackmailing Mr. Keynes—but that’s awfully hard to imagine. I don’t see how he could do much damage to Mr. Bouvier-Lynes either. A scandal might be inconvenient to him, but not in the way it would be to Lady Anna.”

  “I wasn’t really thinking of him.”

  “No.” Fen took a gulp of whisky. “You’re thinking of Mr. Merton and Jimmy.”

  “Oh God, Fen,” Pat whispered. “He was a blackmailer, and Jimmy hated him, and we saw Jimmy heading into the East Wing with Haworth coming after him—and if it was Jimmy, if Haworth was blackmailing him over Bill— Oh dear heaven, what will I do? I can’t tell the police about the blackmail if it risks Bill, but if I don’t and someone gets away with murder—”

  “Stop it. Come here.” Fen held out her arm. Pat hesitated a second and then leaned against her side. Fen pulled her close, and Pat twisted to bury her face in the warm shoulder.

  “I can feel your heart beating,” Fen murmured. Her hand was moving gently over Pat’s hair. “Breathe.”

  Easier said than done with her nose and mouth pressed against Fen’s skin. “I can’t,” Pat mumbled.

  “Of course you can,” Fen said, apparently unaware that the mound of her bosom was almost as much an impediment to working lungs as the shadow hanging over Bill. “And don’t panic. This is dreadful, I grant you, but we don’t know what sort of dreadful. Haworth might have been blackmailing Jimmy, but it might just as well have been, uh, someone else.” Pat didn’t miss that little hesitation: evidently no alternative candidate leapt to mind. “The fact is, Mr. Merton was quite right in what he said, that the police will pry into everyone’s private business. So I think we just have to do what he suggested, and everything will be all right.”