Death Comes to the Nursery Page 9

  Mrs. Jarvis set about tidying Jeremiah’s side of the room while still muttering about both men and their lack of cleanliness. Lucy waited until she’d finished and then stood up herself.

  “I would appreciate it if you kept what we found to yourself, Mrs. Jarvis. I don’t want Bert knowing we’ve been through his possessions.”

  “I won’t tell a soul.” Mrs. Jarvis drew a cross over her bosom. “Except for Mr. Jarvis, that is. I can’t keep anything from him.”

  “As he accompanied Sir Robert down to the cellar, I think he will have his own secrets to keep, don’t you?” Lucy opened the door, letting in a welcome blast of fresh air. “You have both been very helpful.”

  “If Bert was the one to murder that poor girl, then he deserves everything he gets,” Mrs. Jarvis said fiercely. “I’ll be the first one at his hanging if he’s guilty.” She sighed. “He did seem to be really sweet on her at first, but seeing her with James set him off in a black mood, and he never recovered from it.”

  Lucy reentered the inn and found her husband ensconced on a stool, enjoying a pint of ale with the innkeeper.

  “Are you ready to depart?” she asked.

  In reply, Robert drained his tankard, offered Mr. Jarvis some coin, which was declined, and came over to Lucy.

  “Bert will be residing in the cellar for at least another night while we investigate his claim to have been in London for the past three days.” He nodded to Mrs. Jarvis and led Lucy out to the coach yard. “Did you find anything interesting?”

  “Yes, indeed. I’ll show you when we get home.” Lucy allowed him to assist her into the gig, and they set off.

  * * *

  Robert waited in his study for Lucy to go upstairs, take off her bonnet, and check in on Anna and Ned. Dermot had left some correspondence on his desk for him to sign, so he occupied himself with that until his wife reappeared.

  “Is everything all right in the nursery?” Robert asked.

  “Ned is rather ill-tempered. Anna says he is missing his Polly and his James.” Lucy sighed. “Agnes is not herself, either.”

  “I’m quite glad to hear she at least has a conscience,” Robert replied as he poured them both some coffee. “If she was happy as a lark again, I might reverse my decision about keeping her on.”

  “It is just so unsettling for Ned,” Lucy said. “I promised to take him down to the stables later, but he cried and said he wanted to go with James.”

  “I’ll take him,” Robert said abruptly.

  His wife studied him for a long moment. “Mayhap we could both go.”

  “I’m quite capable of dealing with my son for an hour or two.”

  “I know you are, but he does tend to get rather excited around the horses, and—”

  “You wouldn’t want me panicking and making things worse.” Robert finished the sentence for her.

  “I wasn’t going to put it quite like that, but—”

  “It’s all right. I am well aware of my limitations.” Robert scowled at her. “Take him yourself.”

  She reached for his hand, his gaze steady. “Come with me. Ned would be thrilled.”

  “Perhaps tomorrow after I’ve spoken to the mail coach driver.” He finished his coffee in one gulp and refilled his cup. “Now, would you like to hear what Bert Speers said, or do you want to tell me what you found in his room?”

  Lucy brought out a small leather purse and placed it on the desk. “I found this wedged in one of Bert’s boots.”

  Robert opened it and allowed the coins to spill out. “It’s hardly a fortune, is it?”

  “It’s exactly what we paid Polly for her first month of service,” Lucy said. “And I just showed the purse to Agnes, who confirmed that Polly had one that was very similar.”

  Robert counted the coins. “You didn’t find Polly’s purse with her, did you?”

  “No, which makes one suspect that this might well be hers, and that Bert took it from her at some point.”

  “He claimed he saw her in the village and warned her not to make up stories about him, or she’d be in trouble.”

  “He admitted that?”

  “Yes, which I found quite remarkable. When I told him Flora was dead, he lost his temper, insisted he hadn’t killed her, and that he’d been in London for the past three days visiting his sick mother.”

  “How very convenient for him,” Lucy sniffed

  “Indeed.” Robert paused. “He didn’t seem particularly surprised, either. But if he did kill her, why on earth did he come back to Kurland St. Mary?”

  “Mrs. Jarvis had the same thought.” Lucy nodded. “Everything in his bedroom had been turned upside down as if he’d departed in a great hurry. Perhaps he came back because he realized he’d left Flora’s purse here and feared it would be discovered.”

  She offered him a much-folded piece of paper. “He also had this in his pocket. Mrs. Jarvis thought it might have something to do with his betting on the races.”

  Robert frowned at the list of numbers. “I’m not sure what it is. When one bets on a horse, one usually has the odds and the name of the runner, and this is just a jumble of numbers.”

  He placed the paper on the desk and flattened it out with his palm. “It could be anything at this point.”

  “The fact that Bert kept it in a safe place, and had obviously been doing so for a while, might indicate that it is important, yes?” Lucy asked.

  “I’m not discounting it in the least,” Robert assured her. “I’m more interested in seeing what he has to say about having Flora’s purse in his possession.”

  “Perhaps he stole it from her to teach her a lesson.” Lucy sipped her coffee and ate one of the biscuits Foley had provided on the tray. “He did admit to speaking to her, didn’t he?”

  “He said he gave her a good shaking.” Robert grimaced. “Perhaps her purse fell out while he was doing so.”

  “I doubt that if it was in her pocket under her skirts,” Lucy objected. “Unless she had it in her hand.” She set her cup down and leaned forward. “It almost sounds as if you are trying to find excuses for Bert’s behavior.”

  “Not at all. I’m attempting to think of every possible explanation before I get ahead of myself and start casting blame where it doesn’t belong.”

  “But Bert practically admitted to killing her!”

  “No, he didn’t. He flatly denied it.”

  “Then he obviously lied.”

  “Mr. Jarvis told me that he’d seen Flora and Bert talking perfectly amicably at the inn on several occasions, and he was surprised when I’d asked him to keep Bert away from her.”

  “That was probably when Bert was attempting to court her.”

  “I suppose so.” Robert crossed his arms and stared out over the parkland. Something was nagging at him, and from his wife’s expression, he was conscious that he was failing to adequately address what it was.

  “What about James?” he asked abruptly.

  “James saw Bert and Flora together, was hit on the head, and was deposited at his father’s farm,” Lucy said firmly

  “So if Bert was with Flora, who hit James?”

  Lucy’s mouth formed a perfect O as she stared at him. “Maybe Bert saw James watching them, ran back to knock him out, and then took James to the farm.”

  “Leaving Flora alone?”

  Lucy’s brow creased. “This is all getting remarkably complicated, isn’t it?”

  “That is one thing we can agree on completely,” Robert said. “If James is telling the truth, who hit him on the head? Is there someone else involved that we do not yet know of?”

  “Mr. Fletcher?” Lucy suggested. “Have you spoken to him about any of this yet? He did say he saw Flora walking down to the village that day.”

  Robert frowned. “As I already mentioned, he was with me the day Flora was killed.”

  “All of it?” Lucy asked. “Can you absolutely swear that he couldn’t have gotten away from you at some point?”

  Robert relapsed
into silence, his booted foot tapping impatiently against the floor.

  “I can’t possibly conceive of Dermot being a murderer.”

  “I agree, but if he saw Flora, perhaps he saw James or Bert or some other person of interest.” Lucy suggested.

  “I’ll talk to him after I’ve spoken to James again.”

  “Thank you.” Lucy sighed. “I asked Foley to send a message down to Mr. Snape to collect Flora’s body from Dr. Fletcher’s.”

  “Mr. Snape does have excellent storage facilities. I’ll pay for the coffin and for his time.” Robert finished his second cup of coffee. “I’ll wager Patrick will be glad to release the body into the care of the undertaker. He says that his wife objects to him storing bodies in her cellar.”

  “She would,” Lucy remarked rising to her feet as she smothered a yawn. “I hope the real Polly Carter’s mother replies to my letter soon. I sent her enough money to cover its delivery to us.”

  “You’ll probably never see that again.” Robert rose and went to open the door for her. She paused to look up at him.

  “Which gives us all the more reason to go to London and speak to her directly!”

  Chapter 8

  Having made no headway with James, who was stubbornly sticking to his story that he’d only seen Bert Speers with “Polly” and had not spoken to either of them afterward, Robert turned his attention to his land agent. He had invited Dermot to accompany him down to the Queen’s Head early the next morning and now sat beside him in the gig. He’d promised Lucy he would return by eleven so that they could take their walk with their son.

  “Do you think Bert Speers is the culprit, then, Sir Robert?” Dermot asked as he expertly turned the corner onto the country road.

  “He certainly seems to have some grievance with Polly.” Robert glanced over at his land agent. “Did you ever see them together?”

  Dermot took a while to answer, his gaze fixed on the road in front of them. “I saw them.”

  “Mr. Jarvis suggested that not all their encounters were acrimonious.”

  “No, they weren’t.” Dermot relapsed into silence again.

  Robert was just about to prompt him with another question when his companion rushed into speech.

  “She seemed quite friendly with him at first. Then, later, she confessed that he was angry because she was spending time with me, and that he thought she was getting above herself.”

  Robert pondered that interesting information. It mirrored almost exactly what Polly had apparently said to James.

  “I have begun to wonder whether Polly was just”—Dermot paused—“playing with all of us.”

  “What makes you say that?” Robert asked.

  “Mayhap she enjoyed us fighting over her.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “It seemed like it was all a big game to her sometimes. That she didn’t take any of us seriously.”

  “Maybe she didn’t.”

  It occurred to Robert that if Flora had indeed been an actress and a dancer, her ability to play a role might have stood her in good stead in the unfamiliar world of Kurland St. Mary. Being agreeable to all had its advantages.

  “Not that she derived any pleasure from seeing us fight over her,” Dermot said. “In fact, she found it extremely annoying and told me in no uncertain terms to stop.”

  “Which perhaps validates your observation that her heart wasn’t really involved in any of her interactions.”

  “Sadly, yes.” Dermot grimaced and sighed heavily. “She never really cared for me, did she? She just reflected back my own desire for her.”

  Remembering how easily Flora had calmed his own fears and made herself amenable to his orders, Robert found some truth in that.

  “When you saw her that last morning walking down to the village, did you follow her?” Robert asked.

  “As I was intending to visit the Queen’s Head to send a letter to my sister in Ireland, I had no choice but to follow her.”

  “Did you see her with anyone?”

  “James, who was ahead of me, caught up with her, and they had a somewhat animated discussion before she stormed off toward the High Street.”

  “What did James do after that?”

  “He followed her for a little while, and then I lost sight of him.” Dermot fumbled with the reins as he turned into the coaching inn. “I saw Polly meet with Bert, though.” His expression darkened. “He grabbed hold of her arm and thrust his face into hers. I yelled at him to stop, but I don’t think either of them heard me because I was too far away.”

  “Did they leave together?”

  “Yes. I don’t think Polly had much choice in the matter, seeing as Bert had hold of her arm and was dragging her along behind him.”

  Robert turned to stare fully at Dermot. “Forgive me, but I find it hard to believe that a man who professed to be in love with a particular woman would make no effort to intervene when she was accosted by another man.”

  A flush of color stole up from Dermot’s collar to cover his face. “You . . . ordered me not to get involved with her, sir. I tried to do as you said.”

  Robert continued to stare at his subordinate until Dermot jumped down from the gig and spoke to one of the ostlers. Perhaps Lucy had been right, after all, and his land agent was not averse to lying about what had happened, either.

  Unwilling to let the matter drop, but aware that he needed to speak to the driver of the mail coach before he left the inn, Robert got down from the gig and headed out into the crowded yard. A collection of passengers was boarding the coach, and one of the ostlers was putting up their baggage on the roof.

  Robert sidestepped around two chickens in a crate and narrowly avoided standing on a small child almost obscured in his mother’s skirts.

  “Excuse me, ma’am.” He briefly raised his hat and concentrated his attention on the elderly man sitting on the box, who was shouting out instructions as to the loading of the coach.

  “Are you Henry Haines?”

  “Yes, sir.” The man touched the brim of his old-fashioned tricorn hat. “You must be Sir Robert Kurland. Mr. Jarvis said you’d be wanting a word with me.” He checked the time on his pocket watch and beckoned to Robert. “Climb up here so I can hear you proper. We don’t have much time at this stop.”

  Robert gave one harried glance at the four horses harnessed to the coach and vaulted himself upward to sit beside the driver.

  “One of Mr. Jarvis’s ostlers, Bert Speers, claims he rode with you to London three days ago. Is that correct?”

  “Aye, he did.” Henry nodded. “I brought him back, too.”

  “Did he stay on the coach until it reached London?”

  “I didn’t see him leave.” Henry turned to bellow something to one of the ostlers about the placement of a bag. “Sorry, sir.”

  “Whereabouts in London did you drop him off?”

  “Whitechapel.”

  “And you picked him up there three days later?”

  “I picked him up in Mayfair, sir, which was something of a surprise, but he paid me the extra fare.” Henry checked his watch again. “I didn’t see that pretty young nursemaid of yours going back to London, either.”

  “So I understand.” Robert grimaced.

  “I do remember her traveling down here, though. She was sitting up top, and she got to talking with Bert, who was just starting his new job as an ostler here.”

  “They arrived on the same coach?” Robert made sure to clarify the coachman’s words.

  “Aye. They chatted all the way, merry as larks.” Henry shook his head. “God rest her soul.”

  “Amen to that,” Robert said.

  Henry put his watch away and reached for his horn. “We’ll be leaving in a minute, Sir Robert, so unless you fancy a trip to London, you might want to get yourself off the coach.”

  “Thank you for your help.” Robert contemplated the jump and decided that dignity be damned. He would sit on his arse and slide down carefully. “I wish you safe pass
age to London.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  As soon as Robert reached the ground, Henry blew on the horn, and the activity around the coach redoubled, their actions reminding Robert of a frenzied swarm of bees.

  “Last call!” Henry shouted as the final passenger scrambled up to the roof and the ostlers slammed the doors and stood back. “Next stop Clavering!”

  Robert held his breath as Henry maneuvered the impossibly laden coach beneath the arched entrance to the stable yard and out onto the road. As a child, he’d loved to come down to the inn with his father to see the teams of horses. Back then, he would’ve been up on their backs, examining every horse and asking a thousand questions. He already suspected Ned would be the same.

  So Bert had been to London, which still didn’t absolve him of murdering Flora but did, at least, corroborate his account of not being in the vicinity of Kurland St. Mary for three days. Robert paused at the door. But if Bert had been away when Flora’s body was discovered, when had he learned that she was dead?

  He sought out Mr. Jarvis and found him in the kitchen, eating a hearty breakfast.

  “Morning, sir. Fancy something to eat before we go and speak to Bert?”

  Robert studied the huge slab of sizzling gammon and four eggs on Mr. Jarvis’s plate, and his mouth watered.

  “That would be most welcome.”

  “Then sit yourself down, sir.”

  Mr. Jarvis pulled out a chair as his wife placed a clean plate in front of Robert and dished him up a succulent piece of ham and two eggs.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Jarvis.”

  She winked at him as she returned to the stove and refilled the pan. Robert spent the next few minutes indulging his more physical appetites by slowly chewing the home-cured and -smoked gammon, which had been fried to perfection.

  Eventually, after downing half his ale, he turned to Mr. Jarvis, who was on his second plateful of food.

  “Did you tell Bert that Polly was dead when he arrived back here?”

  “No, sir. I left that to you.”

  “But you said he was in fighting humor when he got off the coach.”

  “He was, sir, but that might have been because he’d taken three days’ leave without telling me and knew I was going to be angry with him.”