Death Comes to the School Page 6

  Aunt Rose sighed. “I must confess that I am rather tired. Would you mind very much if I had my supper on a tray in my room?”

  “Not at all,” Lucy hastened to reassure her. “I’ll let Foley know what is required.” She pulled the bell rope. “Why don’t you take yourself upstairs to rest?”

  Foley came into the drawing room and bowed as low as he could manage considering his rheumatism and advanced years. It was probably time to pension him off, but neither Lucy nor Robert had the heart to insist upon it.

  “Good evening, my lady, ma’am.”

  “Foley, can you ask Cook to send a tray up to Mrs. Armitage? She will not be dining with us tonight.”

  “Of course, my lady.” Foley bowed and turned to aunt Rose. “Before you go upstairs, ma’am, I have a note for you from Sir Robert.”

  Rose blinked. “For me?” She glanced at Lucy and took the folded sheet of paper from the butler. After searching for her spectacles in her reticule, she donned them and read the note

  “Robert sends his regrets and says he has been detained at the doctor’s house and is not sure whether he will return in time to dine with us.” Rose looked over her spectacles at Lucy. “I wonder why he told me that and not you.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t want you to feel slighted at him not being present on your first evening with us.”

  Even as Lucy made the suggestion, her mind was filling with a hundred possibilities for his decision. Why was he at Dr. Fletcher’s house? Was something wrong with him or with Penelope?

  She half rose from her seat. “I wonder if I should take the carriage down and—”

  “He did add a postscript, which, I suspect, was meant for my eyes only.” Rose cleared her throat. “ ‘Do not allow Lucy to chase after me. I do not wish her to take cold.’ ”

  “Chase after him?” Lucy raised her chin. “I am not the kind of wife who insists on hanging on her husband’s sleeve. I was merely apprehensive for his well-being, but obviously, my concern is not required.” She turned to Foley, who had remained by the door. “I will eat at six, or whenever Cook is ready to serve dinner. Sir Robert may or may not be joining me.”

  * * *

  Robert took a deep breath and followed Dr. Fletcher into the back room of his practice where he laid out the dead and performed minor medical procedures. Miss Broomfield lay on the marble slab the doctor had bought cheap from an old butcher’s shop.

  “I found something interesting when I attempted to undress her,” Dr. Fletcher said.

  “What was that?”

  Robert advanced farther into the room, reluctantly inhaling the stinging odor of lye soap and the infinitesimal hint of death that always permeated the enclosed space. It reminded him all too forcibly of his own experience of narrowly avoiding being butchered by an incompetent surgeon on the battlefield at Waterloo. He had Patrick Fletcher’s intervention to thank for saving his leg.

  “This.” Dr. Fletcher held something up.

  “It looks like a hat pin.”

  “That’s exactly what it is. I attempted to remove Miss Broomfield’s gown, and this pin had been pushed through the fabric.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  Dr. Fletcher moved to the body and pointed at the back of the neck, where there was a small puncture wound. “Here. I cannot be sure, but I suspect that from this angle, the pin was long enough to penetrate the heart and cause internal bleeding. I’d have to open her up to confirm that, but as that is still frowned upon, you’ll have to take my word for it.”

  Having worked as a military surgeon and having trained in Edinburgh, Dr. Fletcher had seen more of the innards of bodies than most physicians. It was a pity that the medical community in England did not universally agree on the concept of further scientific examination, deeming the human body a sacred and untouchable vessel.

  “May I?”

  Robert took the hat pin and examined it carefully. There were no obvious markings on the head of the pin, which could’ve been made by any local blacksmith or even manufactured by one of the new factories in the north. He estimated it was almost twelve inches long and saw it had a sharp point. He gauged the length against Miss Broomfield’s upper body and slowly nodded.

  “It looks long enough and sharp enough to do some damage. Can we assume that someone came up behind her and stabbed her? She might not have known much about it.”

  “Yes. As I said earlier, there is no sign that she struggled, and so far I’ve not seen any evidence of bruising to suggest she was held down in any way.” Dr. Fletcher took the pin back and placed it on a tray on the side table. “She also wore a gold cross, which I’ve set aside with her other clothing. Do we know whom to contact to assume responsibility for the body?”

  “I don’t, but my wife probably will,” Robert said absently. His mind was already busy trying to imagine the scene and what had provoked it. “I wonder who would want to kill Miss Broomfield.”

  “She was not well liked, Sir Robert, I can tell you that.” Dr. Fletcher covered up the body with a white sheet.

  “So I understand, but not liking someone is hardly a motive for murder.”

  “Miss Broomfield and I had more than one heated discussion about her refusal to understand that the children in her care were not lazy and stupid, but merely tired and sometimes hungry. I disliked her intensely, but I never had the urge to kill her for her heartless opinions.”

  Robert frowned. “You never mentioned this to me, Patrick.”

  The doctor shrugged as he washed his hands. “I assumed you had your reasons for employing her, and I didn’t wish to add to your problems.”

  “I wish you had.” Robert held the door open for his friend. “I feel as if I’ve neglected my responsibilities.”

  “As I said, you have had a lot to deal with recently. If I had really believed she was a danger to any of the children, I would have marched up your drive to make my opinion heard.”

  “I’m too used to my wife being my eyes and ears in the village.” Robert continued down the narrow hallway, through the kitchen, and into the more formal part of the house. “I didn’t realize how much I’d come to rely on her.”

  “Well, Lady Kurland is as formidable as you are in her own way,” Dr. Fletcher said diplomatically. “How is she feeling today?”

  “She still tires easily and is somewhat low in spirits.”

  “Which is to be expected, considering the events of last summer.” The doctor studied him carefully. “Is there anything in particular you are worrying about?”

  Robert paused outside the parlor door and lowered his voice. “I was intending to come and speak to you before I was waylaid at the schoolhouse.”

  “About what?”

  “Do you think I should dissuade Lady Kurland from organizing all these yuletide activities?”

  His companion smiled. “I’d like to see you try. If Lady Kurland wants to be involved in such events, I would encourage her to do so. It will certainly keep her busy and less likely to dwell on the past.”

  “I met old Dr. Baker in the village yesterday,” Robert said. “He suggested I should forbid all activity, order Lady Kurland to stay in her bedchamber for the next six months, and not let her venture out for any reason at all.”

  Dr. Fletcher’s smile faded. “Firstly, did you ask for his advice?”

  “Of course not, but—”

  “Secondly, can you really imagine ordering Lady Kurland to remain secluded for six months?”

  Robert considered that. “No.”

  “With all respect to a fellow practitioner, Dr. Baker is of a generation that believes ladies are delicate hothouse flowers who should be protected and cosseted from every incoming breeze. You and I marched with an army and know that women are far hardier than most men realize.”

  “Women perhaps, but what about ladies?”

  Dr. Fletcher raised his eyebrows. “They all have the same anatomy, Sir Robert. In truth, Lady Kurland would’ve made an admirable officer’s wife.”

&nb
sp; “I suspect you are right.”

  Dr. Fletcher awkwardly patted Robert’s shoulder. “She will regain her strength, I can promise you that. It will take time, but she will get better. By the spring, she will be her old self again.”

  “Thank you.” Robert forced a smile. “I care about her very much.” He cleared his throat. “I will find out who Miss Broomfield’s next of kin is, and will let you know as soon as possible.”

  “Thank you.”

  Dr. Fletcher opened the door into the parlor, where Dermot was sitting with Penelope. At least Josephine appeared to have stopped crying.

  Dermot immediately rose to his feet. “Dr. Fletcher’s man took your note up to Kurland Hall, sir. There has been no reply.”

  “Then we should be on our way.” Robert bowed to his hostess. “Thank you for caring for Josephine, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “You are most welcome, Sir Robert,” Penelope said.

  Robert put on his hat and gloves and got into the gig beside Dermot and Josephine. He wished he had taken the opportunity to order Coleman to bring down the closed carriage, as the temperature had dropped considerably. It was, however, nowhere near as cold as the mountainous regions of France that he and his fellow soldiers had navigated during the war, so he didn’t complain.

  Dermot clicked to the horse, and they set off into the night. If all went well at the Greenwell residence, Robert would be back home by nine, ready to face his wife. He suspected she might have a few pointed questions for him. . . .

  * * *

  The sound of the study door creaking open roused Lucy from her doze by the fire, and she sat bolt upright as Robert came quietly into the room.

  “Where have you been?” Lucy demanded.

  He regarded her for a long moment before limping over to stand in front of the fire. His expression was drawn, and his face pinched with cold. “Didn’t you get my note?”

  “Your aunt Rose received a note and shared the contents with me, if that is what you mean.”

  “Did she also tell you why I wrote to her?”

  “Because you didn’t want me spying on you.”

  “Hardly that.” He gestured at the seat opposite her. “Do you mind if I sit down? It’s been a long day, and my leg is aching like the devil.”

  She waved him to the chair. “It’s your house. You may sit whenever you like.” She was aware that she might sound a little peevish, but he had deliberately excluded her from whatever had befallen him, and had left her alone to worry.

  “Thank you.” He contemplated the fire as he settled back into the chair. “It is very cold out there tonight. I think we might have snow on the morrow.”

  “Indeed.” Lucy folded her hands in her lap and waited as patiently as she could for him to continue.

  “I went down to the schoolhouse this afternoon to speak to Miss Broomfield. Dermot showed me her only reference and a letter he had just received from her last known position, where, apparently, she had been turned off without a character.”

  “I knew there was something suspicious about her.” Lucy sat forward. “Did you dismiss her? Is that why you were delayed?”

  “Not exactly.” He finally met her gaze. “That was my intention, but when I reached the schoolhouse, someone had got there before me and had put an end to Miss Broomfield’s existence.”

  Lucy stared at him. “You mean she is dead?”

  “Worse than that. I believe she was murdered. Someone stabbed her with a very long hat pin.”

  Lucy brought her hand to her mouth. “That is . . . horrible.”

  “Yes.” His blue gaze turned inward. “I understand that she wasn’t very well liked, but someone maliciously and deliberately took her life.”

  Lucy shivered and drew her shawl more closely around her shoulders. “Does she have family in the village?”

  “I was going to ask you the same question.”

  “As I wasn’t involved in her hiring, I know very little about her. My father might have some information. I will speak to him tomorrow.”

  “As will I.” Robert sighed and shoved a hand through his hair. “There is the question of the disposal of the body and her possessions.”

  “I will take care of those matters.” Lucy paused. “Perhaps she was simply the victim of a robbery. Did you check to see if anything had been stolen?”

  “From what I could tell during my brief inspection, there was no sign of a forced entry or any disruption either in the schoolroom or her private apartment. I have to assume that whoever killed her came in through the front entrance. She was sitting at her desk when she died.”

  “At her desk?” Lucy frowned. “So either her assailant crept up on her from behind or she knew them and didn’t fear them.”

  “Or both. Dr. Fletcher said the hat pin entered the back of her neck or thereabouts and was angled downward. There was no sign of a struggle.” Robert grimaced. “So I would assume that whoever killed her was known to her and was not considered a threat.” He cleared his throat. “There is one more thing.... She was stabbed in the eye with a quill pen.”

  Lucy stared at him for a long moment as she struggled to contain her repulsion. “Which somehow makes the killing far more personal than just a random act of violence.”

  “I agree.” Robert reached into his pocket and took out some folded papers. “I found these under her hands on the desk.” He passed them over to Lucy.

  “He is guilty,” Lucy read out. “She deserves to kno—” She looked up at Robert. “What on earth does that mean?”

  “I have no idea, but it’s the last thing she wrote.”

  Lucy smoothed a hand over the papers as a hundred thoughts jostled through her mind. Should she tell him about the letter addressed to her, or would that open up a treacherous avenue of conversation that she was unwilling to follow?

  “Mrs. Jenkins received an unpleasant letter about Nicholas last week.”

  Robert blinked at her. “What does that have to do with this?”

  “Nothing, perhaps, but she was not the only person to receive such a note. I have had similar complaints from several of our villagers this week. One has to wonder whether Miss Broomfield knew anything about those malicious unsigned letters.”

  Robert raised an eyebrow. “You are rather leaping to conclusions.”

  “I am aware of that, but there is something”—Lucy reread the words on the paper—“something odd about people in our village receiving unpleasant letters, and our schoolmistress being murdered and stabbed in the eye with a quill pen. Wouldn’t you at least agree with that?”

  “If you say so, my dear.” His smile was tired. “Over the years I have learned not to ignore your intuition, but this does seem somewhat far-fetched.”

  “Then I will have to investigate the matter to my satisfaction.” Lucy nodded.

  “You will do no such thing,” Robert retorted.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You are not well enough to rampage around the countryside, searching for a murderer.” There was a stubborn set to her husband’s jaw, one that Lucy had learned to dread. “I would much prefer it if you focused your considerable abilities on finding Miss Broomfield’s family and dealing with her possessions.”

  “As you wish.” Lucy pressed her lips together hard. “I will certainly do that.”

  “And you will not use this as an excuse to teach in the school, either.”

  She was not willing to start an argument when he had been kind enough to persuade his aunt to come on an extended visit simply to cheer her up. Such matters could simply be left to another day or conveniently ignored.

  She rose from her seat. “I think I will go to bed. I am rather tired.”

  He stood, as well, and bowed. “I have a few matters to attend to before I can join you.” He kissed her fingers. “Sleep well, my dear.”

  She was almost at the door before he spoke again.

  “We can visit your father together after breakfast tomorrow, if that is convenient?”

/>   Lucy turned gratefully back to him. It was a pleasure to enjoy a moment of conversation that wasn’t directly related to her health or current mood. “Yes. We can ask your aunt if she wishes to accompany us. My father always enjoys her company.”

  “When he forgets her ‘common’ roots.”

  “He is something of a snob,” Lucy sighed.

  “As the son of an earl, I suppose he has that right.” Robert limped over to his desk. “Although, as the grandson of a wealthy brewer, I am more inclined to be thankful for my family’s source of income rather than despising it.”

  “Are your aunt’s children really behaving badly toward her?” Lucy asked.

  “Indeed, they are. She gave the girls large enough dowries to marry into the aristocracy, and now they look down on their own mother.”

  “That is horrible,” Lucy said. “I would never do that.”

  “I know.”

  His smile was so full of warm appreciation, it made her yearn to go back across the room, take his hand, and lead him to bed. She hesitated, her fingers wrapped around the doorknob.

  “Are you quite certain that you don’t want to come upstairs, Robert? You look rather tired.”

  His smiled died, and he looked away from her toward the stack of books on his desk. “Alas, I have too much work to do. Good night, my love.”

  “Good night.”

  Lucy carefully closed the door and walked along the hallway to the bottom of the main staircase. The house was quiet, but Foley had left two candles at the bottom of the stairs. Lucy took one and made her way up the shallow oak steps, pausing on the first landing to look out at the moonlight streaming in through the diamond-paned windows.

  The horrible desire to cry came over her again. There was no getting away from it. Her husband of three years was avoiding her company. It had been months since he’d come to bed at the same time as her. She missed that, missed sharing her last sleepy thoughts with him and lying in the shelter of his arms....

  She started walking again. It was not unusual for married couples to maintain separate lifestyles; she had enough relatives in the aristocracy to know that. She’d foolishly imagined that she and Robert were different, that they genuinely liked as well as loved each other. But the friction between them . . . The distance seemed wider every day. Even worse, there was no one she could ask about how to bridge the gap, seeing as her best friend was currently on the other side of the divide....