A Study in Murder Page 3

  The maid shook her head. “No, milady, it is Mr. St. Vincent who has called.”

  “What?” Dratted man. She did not want to speak with him. Had she been in London, she would have had Papa deal with the man’s visit this time, since he’d been the one to get her into the entanglement with Mr. St. Vincent to begin with. Her brother, Michael, who rarely spent time at their Bath home, was also in London, wreaking God knew what sort of havoc young men wreaked, so she was on her own. Although reluctant to admit it, even to herself, this was one time she would not have minded having a man to stand in front of her.

  She had already had her say, and there wasn’t anything else she wanted to discuss with him. Of course, she could instruct Lacey to refuse him admittance and send him on his way, but she might as well get it over with. She would emphasize that this was their very last visit and that she would no longer receive him, speak with him, or have anything at all to do with him.

  “Very well, I will be down shortly. I am expecting Lord Wethington to call also, so please put him in the drawing room when he arrives and direct Mr. St. Vincent to the library. Once Lord Wethington arrives, please fetch me from the library.”

  She would just let St. Vincent cool his heels, since he had not been expected, and then be rid of him quickly once William was announced. She checked herself in the mirror and smoothed back the sides of her unruly hair—which was futile, since her locks never behaved as she wished, curls always popping out of her chignon. After checking her timepiece once more, assured that enough time had passed that she needn’t spare her unexpected visitor more than a few minutes, she made her way downstairs to the library.

  “I don’t understand why you have called, sir.” Her terse words bounced off the walls of the library as she flung the door open wide. The very empty library. Where had St. Vincent gone?

  She quickly walked down the corridor to the drawing room, thinking Lacey had misunderstood. He was not there, either. She returned to the library, a slight draft coming from the open French doors that led to the garden, drawing her attention. Odd, that. Perhaps he had taken a stroll outside. She rounded the desk in the middle of the room and stepped onto the patio.

  “Mr. St. Vincent?”

  Silence.

  “Mr. St. Vincent?”

  She walked the few steps down the patio stairs into the garden. Without a full moon, and with the typical English mist, she could see very little. She called again.

  Silence.

  The damp, chilled night air caused her to shiver. She rubbed her arms with her palms and returned to the library. Frowning, she placed her hands on her hips and surveyed the room. Perhaps he had thought better of his visit and had already departed. She shrugged and headed back to close the French doors. In her usual rapid gait, she had gone only about five steps past Papa’s desk when she stumbled over something.

  She fell forward, landing on her knees, her hands resting on a totally unfamiliar item that lay in the shadow of the desk. Had someone dropped a large object and not picked it up? She raised her hands to examine them, as they felt sticky. She climbed to her feet and stared down, her eyes slowly adjusting to the dimness of the shadowed corner.

  Her hands came up to her lips as she screamed loud enough to tumble the walls.

  CHAPTER 3

  Amy backed away from the body on the floor just as a flushed and agitated William raced through the library door. “What happened? I heard you scream.”

  She shook her head back and forth as she continued to stare at the body of Mr. St. Vincent, a very large knife sticking out of his chest, his open eyes staring at nothing. All the blood left her head, and from what seemed like a vast distance, she heard William call her name just as her knees gave way and she slid to the floor.

  Dear God, please don’t let me fall on a dead body!

  When she awoke, she was lying on the sofa with a very worried-looking William sitting alongside her, tapping her cheek. He waved something nasty under her nose, and she coughed. Her sweet Persephone, all white and fluffy, sat on her chest, staring at her with her yellow and hazel eyes. Before she was able to cuddle the little dog, William waved the obnoxious vial under her nose again.

  Persephone turned to William and growled as Amy pushed his hand away. Whatever was she doing lying on the couch with William staring at her while her housekeeper, Mrs. Brady, and Stevens all carefully watched her as if they expected her to rise up and scream like a banshee?

  As she was gathering her thoughts, Lacey entered the room and approached the group, her face pale, her eyes wide. “Milord, I heard a scream. Is milady well?” Lacey glanced over the back of the sofa, sucked in a breath, and screamed herself.

  Amy remembered as it all came rushing back. She struggled to sit up, dumping Persephone on the floor, banging her own head against William’s chin. He rubbed the spot as she sputtered, “St. Vincent!” She looked at William and gripped his arm, her eyes wide. “Is he dead?”

  “The man on the floor? The one I believe is your fiancé? Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  She waved her hand and coughed again. “Ex-fiancé.”

  He glanced over at the body. “I haven’t checked the man closely, but blood no longer flows from the wound, so I am somewhat certain he has left this world.”

  How dare St. Vincent come here uninvited and then land on the floor in her library with a knife in his chest? The whole thing was so unbelievable, she wouldn’t even use it as a plot in one of her books.

  William looked at the group of servants who now stood huddled together, staring at her. Drawing on his consequence, he said, “Is Lord Winchester at home?”

  The rattled staff ignored his question, but Amy closed her eyes as she pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head. “No. He is in London.”

  “Perhaps your brother?”

  “Not him either. He is making his presence known at the various clubs and gambling hells in London.” She fisted her hands in her lap and sighed. Persephone jumped back onto her lap and flipped over, apparently wanting her tummy rubbed, which Amy ignored.

  “Bloody hell.” He might have mumbled the words, but she heard them. If only ladies were permitted to swear. She had a list of words she’d gathered over the years that she could use in this moment. One day, she vowed, when she was old, she’d let loose a torrent, and everyone would roll their eyes and say she was eccentric.

  And she would drink as much brandy as she liked at any time of the day she chose.

  “Very well, someone needs to take charge.” He turned to Stevens, who Amy noted didn’t look very well, his face as pale as new milk. The poor man was taking this hard. But then, she doubted his butler training had included guests being murdered in the library of one’s employer. On the other hand, it was most likely the first murder for all present.

  “Please send for the Bath police,” William said.

  Next he addressed Mrs. Brady, her ashen complexion making her a good candidate for the next woman to swoon. “Please fetch a blanket or sheet to cover the deceased.” He turned to the remaining staff. “The rest of you may return to your duties.”

  They all shuffled out, leaving just William and Amy.

  And a very dead Mr. St. Vincent.

  She covered her face with her hands again. Perhaps she could pretend this was merely one of the scenes in her book. No, she reminded herself. Too unbelievable.

  Gently, William pulled her hands down. “I think you might want to send for a wet cloth and clean yourself up.”

  Her brows furrowed; then she followed his glance to her hands and screeched once more. How had she forgotten they were covered with blood? She hopped up from the settee, dumping Persephone to the floor once again. The poor animal raced from the room at the rough treatment she had been subjected to. Amy danced around and jiggled her hands, as if to shake the blood off.

  “Lady Amy!”

  She waved frantically. “Get. It. Off.”

  “Out, damned spot! Out, I say!” he muttered.

 
; She stopped her hopping about and glared at him. “This is no time for comedy, Lord Wethington.” She took a deep breath to calm herself.

  “Shall I send for someone to bring you a cloth?”

  “No. If you will close the French doors, since the night air is quite chilly, I shall go wash.”

  As she left the room, William added, “Your face, too.”

  Still not too steady on her feet, Amy made her way to the kitchen, surprising Cook, who jumped as she entered. The room had been cleaned for the night, a lone lamp burning next to the bread for the morning, rising on the table with a cloth draped over the mounds.

  “Oh, milady. My apologies.” Cook’s hand shook as she poured boiling water into a china teapot. Her portly body was covered in a pink flowered dressing gown, her hair hidden beneath a ruffled white cotton mop cap.

  “No need to apologize. I merely need the sink.”

  The older woman placed her hand over her heart. “Is it true there is a dead man in the library, milady?”

  Amy dipped her fingers into the soap tin and smeared it over her bloody hands. “Yes, I’m afraid that’s quite true. But do not concern yourself. I am sure he will be removed before breakfast.”

  “He is your fiancé?” She whispered the words.

  Amy sighed and nodded once. “My ex-fiancé.”

  She scrubbed her hands until they felt raw. Out, damned spot, indeed. Now that she was away from the library and more herself, she did find a bit of humor in Lady Macbeth’s famous line. Very little humor, though, since a man was dead after all.

  Her smile dimmed when her thoughts returned to the matter at hand. St. Vincent lying dead on her library floor. With a knife stuck in his chest. Had she ever considered that her decision to end her betrothal might not have been the correct one, the lack of sorrow she felt at seeing his lifeless form would have convinced her.

  Not that she wished the man ill! And certainly not dead right under her feet. She shook her hands and then grabbed a cloth to dry them. Remembering the words William had tossed at her as she left the library, she dipped the cloth into the water once again and wiped her face.

  “I will send in tea, milady. I find that always settles the nerves.” Cook hustled around the kitchen, setting up a tray.

  “Wait until the police leave.” She was not going to entertain the Bath police department as if this were an afternoon social call. The sound of the door knocker reverberated through the house as Amy made her way from the kitchen back to the library. Two men entered.

  So, this was it. The police had arrived and the questions would begin. Hopefully their first order of business would be to remove Mr. St. Vincent from the library.

  “Bath police.” The bigger of the two nodded to Stevens.

  “This way, sirs.” The butler turned and stopped when he saw her. “The police have arrived, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Stevens.” She waved to the library door. “This room.”

  Taking a deep breath, she passed through the doorway, and they followed her. William stood near the French doors, a glass of brandy in his hand. She headed in his direction. “I would like a glass of something myself.”

  “Brandy or sherry?”

  She leaned in close so the men who were examining the dead body couldn’t hear. “I will have a small sherry now, but once they leave, I will require a very large brandy.”

  He poured a sherry and handed it to her, a slight smile of encouragement on his face.

  The larger of the two detectives flipped the sheet back over St. Vincent’s face. “May we sit, please.” He took out a notebook and pencil.

  They all sat in a circle around a small table, the two men dwarfing the chairs they’d chosen. “First of all, allow me to introduce ourselves. I am Detective Edwin Marsh, and this is Detective Ralph Carson.”

  She and William nodded in their direction.

  The two men stared at her, forcing her to use all her control to not fidget in her seat. She might have a dead body in the library with a knife sticking out of it, but she’d done nothing wrong. She knew from her writing that detectives often used the tactic of silent intimidation to bully a suspect into a confession.

  Except she was no suspect.

  Detective Marsh had to be more than six feet tall, slender, with a well-lined face, even though he gave the appearance of being much younger. He had what Amy would call “sad” eyes. Until you looked deep into them and saw the strength and determination there. He was no one to fool with, reminding her of Shakespeare’s Iago. In the play, Othello’s man had appeared to be trustful but caused his master’s downfall. She would need to watch herself around Detective Marsh.

  His partner, Detective Carson, barely came up to Marsh’s shoulders. He was round, bald, and had a perpetual smirk on his face, as if he intended to not believe anything he was told. She shuddered to think of how difficult the man could make her life if he so chose.

  Marsh licked his pencil point and peered at her. “You are Lady Amy Winchester?”

  “No. I am Lady Amy Lovell. Winchester is my father’s title.”

  “Never could get all that stuff straight,” he mumbled as he wrote. “Where is your father? Is he at home?”

  “No. He and my brother, the Earl of Davenport—”

  “Another title,” Marsh groused as he scribbled.

  “—only reside here on occasion. They are currently both at our home in London.”

  “Must be nice to be Top-of-the-Trees and have houses all over the place.” Carson shook his head.

  Truth be known, after only a few minutes she was growing weary of the man’s surliness. Before she could speak with him about it, the man glared at her and leaned forward. “Did you know this man?” He waved in the direction of St. Vincent.

  “Yes. I did.”

  “And who is he?” he growled. The detective had absolutely no finesse. And poor manners. There was certainly no need for him to speak to her as though she were a criminal.

  “He is Mr. Ronald St. Vincent, third son of the Viscount Trembly.” She paused for a moment and added, “Also, my former betrothed.” She glanced sideways at William, who gave her an encouraging smile. There was no reason to not mention the connection, since it would become known anyway, and if she failed to mention it now, it would only cast her in a bad light later if they thought she was trying to hide something.

  “Former?” Detective Marsh’s head snapped up from his scribbling, studying her as if she’d just admitted to chasing St. Vincent around the room and plowing the knife into his chest.

  She shuddered. She needed to pull herself together. She had nothing to feel guilty about. Perhaps she was entitled to feel annoyed at St. Vincent for getting himself stabbed in her library. Although he most likely hadn’t planned it. She raised her chin, eyeing him with the look all ladies of the ton learned to perfection in the nursery. “That is correct. We were engaged, and I recently broke the engagement.”

  Carson leaned forward, his beady eyes examining her. “Care to tell me why?”

  Amy glared at him. “I beg your pardon, sir? Did you just ask me why I broke my betrothal? Since that is none of your business, surely I misunderstood.”

  She didn’t need to have known Detective Carson for long to realize he did not appreciate her answer. “No, you did not misunderstand, and it is my business. Someone murdered this man, and everyone who had a reason to do so is a suspect. I would say a broken engagement could be one of the reasons why Mr. St. Vincent is dead—and in your house, with no other family members present.” There was nothing smooth or pleasant about the man. Honestly, was it necessary for him to be so very coarse?

  She picked invisible lint from her skirts. “My reasons were personal.” She wrestled with telling the detectives why she’d broken the engagement. If they uncovered that information during the investigation on their own, they would have no reason to assume she knew about it. In fact, admitting to knowledge of his activities might land her further up the suspect list if they believed s
he was involved in the sordid mess herself. The more distance she put between herself and that matter, the better.

  Detective Marsh jumped in. “Did you have a fight with him and then stab him?”

  Amy drew back and sucked in a breath. “Of course not. I broke the engagement a few nights ago. We did not fight then, and tonight I never even spoke with him.”

  “If you broke the engagement a few nights ago, what was he doing here?” Marsh continued to scribble, not bothering to look up at her.

  “I have no idea. I wasn’t expecting him at all.” She hated that she’d begun to perspire. She kept reminding herself that she was innocent and the sooner they found the murderer, the faster she could put all this behind her.

  And write her next book about a murder where she was not a suspect.

  Carson jerked his thumb toward William but directed his comment to her. “Who is this bloke?”

  “I am the Viscount Wethington.” Apparently William was not going to be ignored.

  Carson scowled, but Marsh wrote down the name. “You the new betrothed? Did she break up with this cur for you?” He gestured toward the shrouded body.

  Amy was impressed when William merely smiled at the detective, not showing any surprise or annoyance. “No.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Maintaining his composed demeanor, he said, “I am here to deliver a book to Lady Amy that she requested to borrow.”

  “What book?”

  Amy groaned when Wethington held the book out. Marsh took the tome, glanced at the cover, and looked at Amy, then passed it to Carson. “Interesting reading for a young lady. Have a need to discover why some murders go unsolved, do you?”

  “Of course not. It is merely a hobby.” Good heavens, if the man demanded to search her room, he would find a stack of books, newspapers, and other notes on murder that she used for reference for her novels.

  “Unsolved murder is your hobby?” Marsh’s eyebrows rose almost to his hairline.

  William nudged her. “Might I suggest you don’t answer any more questions until your father can be present?”