Mallory gathered her thick hair into her hands and pushed it behind her. She could think now, with a cold remoteness that was alien to her. It was as though she were no longer herself but a stranger inhabiting a familiar body. In a way it was protective and comforting, for if she’d been herself—the same sensitive and trusting self she’d always been—she surely couldn’t have thought what she was thinking.
Someone who lives in this house is a murderer. One of them had killed Tipper and Deke and had tried to kill her. She looked at Boyce who watched her anxiously. She looked at Henrietta whose face was strained and slack with fatigue. Brooke was no longer crying but she avoided Mallory’s eyes and sat down in front of the fire and stared into it. Corinne, still strangely silent, waited for Mallory to speak.
Could a woman have done these things? Tipper could have been taken by surprise. But what had happened to Deke? Could a woman have followed him from the house? Had he paused on the bridge and been struck from behind and then fallen into the ravine? Could a woman have held a pillow over Mallory’s face and tried to smother her?
Maybe a very determined woman.
“I was trying to catch the dog and followed her all the way to the ravine. Deke was lying there. That’s all I know.”
“How?” Henrietta’s lips were blue. “How was he killed?”
Mallory shook her head. “I don’t know. I couldn’t see.”
“It was foolish to go out there alone,” Boyce said. “Did you see anyone?”
Mallory shook her head again.
“She was not alone,” Medora said stiffly. “Mr. Huger was with her—at least, for a time.”
“Alas,” Mr. Huger said.
Mallory paid no attention, for something more terrible had occurred to her. Suppose Logan, or Henry, or both of them, were involved in these murders—suppose they turned on Stuart!
But Stuart could take care of himself. He had, after all, a gun in his belt and the other two were unarmed. Besides, they wouldn’t take such a risk with a Union officer. She was being absurd. Nevertheless she stood up and walked across the room to stand beside Brooke and gazed with a troubled look at the fire.
“I’m glad nothing happened to you, Mallory,” Brooke said, her voice flat and without warmth. “I was frightened for you.”
When Mallory didn’t answer Brooke glanced up at her. “I’m sorry about what I said. About hating you and Stuart. You know I didn’t mean it.”
“You looked as though you meant it.”
“I was angry. But I’m over it now. You must be more careful.”
Mallory looked down at her. Brooke’s face was stony and colorless and she wouldn’t meet Mallory’s eyes.
“We’re still friends, Brooke…aren’t we?”
“Of course. We’ll always be friends, Mallory.”
She had a sudden remembrance of Brooke when both of them were young girls in short skirts, walking to the carriage one Sunday after church. The Wakefields attended the same church as the Holts and they often went together.
Brooke was deliberately splashing through puddles in defiance of her father’s remonstrations. Long curls bobbing, she’d looked at Mallory and grinned and held out a hand to her engagingly. Mallory had taken her hand in a slightly embarrassed way, thinking that the gesture seemed to condone Brooke’s behavior, when in fact she wished Mr. Wakefield would smack Brooke on the head with his Bible.
“You’re my friend, Mallory,” Brooke had said, grinning.
But we’ve never really been friends.
Brooke had always been so self-absorbed that Mallory had never felt close to her, certainly not as close and affectionate as she’d felt toward her other friends. But because they were neighbors and their parents were friends, they had grown up together, played together, attended the same parties, known all the same people.
When they were grown they’d drifted apart, for although Brooke was secure in her beauty she seemed obscurely jealous of Mallory. She’d often thought that Brooke hadn’t really wanted Mallory to accompany her to Philadelphia that fateful year. It was Adrian Wakefield who had insisted upon it.
Later she’d learned that her father had broached the idea with Adrian, saying he thought his daughter needed to experience life outside the confines of Grace Hall and Natchez.
But she couldn’t believe that Brooke would kill anyone, not even in a fit of temper, and she certainly wouldn’t have killed Deke!
Corinne, who’d been standing like a statue, moved restlessly, said in rapid French, “Ooh, j’en peux plus,” and went to the window. She put her face close to the glass and peered out at the spectral light filtering over the lawn.
“What did she say?” Brooke murmured uneasily.
Remembering her French lessons Mallory said, “I think something about not being able to take anymore.”
There was another French phrase about having a “crisis of nerves,” which Mallory thought seemed to aptly describe Corinne—and all of them. How much more could any of them take before this night was over?
“Will you come to the kitchen with me?” Mallory said to Brooke. “We could wash the dishes from breakfast.”
“He won’t let us,” Brooke answered glumly.
She was right. When Mallory approached Captain Bell he avoided her eyes and said, “Sorry, ma’am. Orders are that you all stay together.”
“Sit down, child. You are quite aflutter,” Medora said firmly. “I’m sure your colonel is safe enough.”
Am I that transparent? Mallory watched Ladybird get up and scamper from the room, probably in search of her water dish.
“Aunt Medora, don’t you have a collar and leash for Ladybird?”
“I’m sure it’s in one of those bags or trunks. We simply can’t look for them now, Mallory. Perhaps there is a rope or a belt, or even a sash from a dress we can use until I find them.”
The old grandfather clock chimed four times and had chimed again on the half hour before they heard footsteps on the porch and the sound of the door opening. They’d all been sitting in silence, lost in their own speculations, and were watched without seeming to be watched by Captain Bell.
Logan and Henry walked into the room, both of them looking rumpled and grim. They stood uncertainly just within the doorway until Stuart came in behind them. He said something to the captain and his steely glance went around the room.
“Mallory, bring your aunt and Mr. Huger and come with me.”
Brooke stood up and walked toward Stuart. “Aren’t you going to tell us what happened?”
“Later.” He seemed angry. He seemed, in fact, to be controlling a deep and silent rage.
Stuart led the way upstairs to Mallory’s room. When they were inside he closed the door. He took off his coat, which Mallory saw had dark wet stains on its front, folded it, looked around, and finally put it on the floor.
She repressed a shudder. He’d probably been carrying the upper part of Deke’s body.
“Please sit down,” he said, still with a cold, contained anger.
Medora and Mr. Huger exchanged looks and found seats before the empty fireplace. Before Mallory could sit down Stuart asked, “Where did you find the knife, Mallory?”
She showed him the place on her desk. He examined the entire desk minutely, glancing at her journal—he looked all around the room and even inside the armoire.
“Was anything missing?” He paused to look at her. “Anything changed at all?”
“Not that I remember.”
“Did you see anyone in the hall just before you came in? Did you see anyone where they shouldn’t have been or wouldn’t ordinarily have been? Any of you?”
No one had.
There was a chaise longue in the sitting area with the other two chairs. Stuart gestured for her to sit. She seated herself sideways on it and he sat down next to her, his arm lightly touching hers.
Medora was stiff—more so than usual—and Mr. Huger watched them with sad, anxious eyes.
“You seem angry, Colonel Wakefield,” Medora said. “May I ask if it is directed toward myself and Mr. Huger and Ladybird? I am dreadfully certain that Mallory’s being in danger just now was our fault.”
Mr. Huger coughed lightly, as if to say he didn’t necessarily think he should be included in her declaration of guilt.
“I don’t know what I’m angry about, Mrs. Sedgwick, and I blame myself more than anyone else.”
He turned his head to look down at Mallory. “I think Deke was killed with that knife. At any rate the wound in his back was made by a large knife. I’m no doctor but I’ve seen a lot of death the last four years. I think he’s been dead for several hours.”
“But that would mean he was killed as soon as he left the house!”
Stuart nodded. “You said he was scared, Mallory. He probably meant to hide for a while, until he saw that it was safe to get on the public road and head back to New Orleans—or wherever he was going. He may have stopped on the bridge and waited. I don’t think he heard whoever it was that approached him from behind—he probably never knew what happened to him. After he was stabbed he either fell or was pushed into the ravine.”
Mallory said, “You think, don’t you, that whoever killed Tipper heard Deke say he knew who had killed her and followed Deke after he left?”
“That is exactly what I think.”
“Then you suspect someone in this house,” Medora said sharply. “A member of the family.”
Stuart rose and strode slowly about the room. “Yes.”
“A man,” Medora went on, as though thinking aloud. “Not a woman.”
“It is physically possible for a woman to have committed both murders,” Stuart answered, adding—as Mallory had already conjectured—“if she was determined enough. Possible, but I don’t think likely.”
“Whom do you suspect, Colonel Wakefield?” Medora asked.
Stuart walked to a window where the black sky was beginning to show a faint touch of gray. A dark lock of hair had fallen across his forehead and he shoved it back. He thrust both hands in his pockets in what Mallory now recognized as a habitual gesture.
“Any one of them had opportunity,” he said, turning to face them. “Tipper was killed when everyone was supposedly in their own room, except Logan. Later any of them could have stood in the kitchen passageway or at the top of the kitchen stairs and heard what Deke said to Mallory.
“The person followed Deke at some distance so that he didn’t realize he was being followed, stabbed him, and ran back to the house. There are several entrances and they couldn’t all be guarded at once.”
Mallory asked, “What about the soldier that I—that was shot? Do you think that the same person killed him?”
Stuart flashed her a warning glance. Mr. Huger hadn’t been told about the fate of the deserter but he didn’t look even remotely curious.
“It’s possible, even probable. It’s also possible that what happened to Deke and Tipper had nothing to do with him. I believe that Tipper knew something about that situation and that’s why she was killed. For some reason whoever killed the soldier felt safe until tonight. Something or someone made the murderer feel threatened. Maybe the appearance of three Union soldiers, or maybe something else.”
Mr. Huger cleared his throat. “This knife, Colonel. Who could have been in possession of such a weapon?”
“It was a Bowie knife and there are plenty of them in town, in what’s called ‘Under-the-Hill.’ Any man would be likely to have one and any woman could have taken it.”
Natchez-Under-the-Hill was the “colorful” side of the city—a row of taverns and brothels directly under the bluff facing the river where drunkenness, robberies, fist fights and knife fights occurred almost daily.
Medora hadn’t been diverted. “But do you suspect anyone in particular, Colonel?”
“No,” he said at once. “That’s why I’m about to question all of them and I want you to be with me, Mallory. I want you to listen, and watch their faces. You know them. Maybe you can tell who’s lying.
“I don’t know the sheriff—I don’t know what kind of man he is or how thorough an investigation he will conduct. It’s of vital importance that we discover who committed these murders before he or she can get to Mallory.”
Before Mallory could react his eyes went to hers. “I don’t want to scare you, Mallory…yes, yes, I do want to scare you. You must see your danger. You must not be alone. Someone thinks that you know more than you know.
“That’s another reason I want you with me while I question them. I’ll be able to see how they look at you. It’s easier to deceive with words than with eyes and expressions.”
“Were you a spy in the war, Colonel?” Medora asked pleasantly but with a grim look in her own eyes.
Stuart glanced at her and half smiled. “No—but I knew a few. They were very brave men.”
“Well then.” Medora got to her feet. “I think you should be about it. If you gentlemen will please go into the corridor, I think Mallory will want to freshen a bit before she goes downstairs. Colonel Wakefield, if you would like to go on, Mr. Huger and I will escort Mallory.”
She marched to the door and opened it. Mr. Huger stepped outside at once but Stuart went to Mallory, pulled her up, and wrapped his arms around her.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said, his head bent over hers.
Mallory forgot her aunt standing beside the door. Her own arms moved beneath his to slide up his back, her hands clasping his shoulders.
“I won’t ask you again…for a while. I know this is no time to consider a marriage proposal but I want you to understand, Mallory, that I will do everything I can possibly do to make you happy. There’s trouble ahead for everyone, but we can overcome it. Don’t ever doubt that.”
He pulled back and looked into her eyes. “Do you believe me?”
“It isn’t that, Stuart. I can’t explain…”
“I know what you’re thinking. And you’re wrong.”
He drew away again, and was gone. Medora closed the door behind him, and with her lips pressed tightly together walked across to the armoire.
“You must change your dress, Mallory,” she said, sounding as though she had a cold. “It’s torn and dirty, and there are twigs in your hair.” She rummaged around and pulled out a gown of dark blue poplin. “Put this on.”
“But that’s the only dress I have to wear to church, Aunt Medora.”
“It will do. You won’t be running about the countryside any more tonight. Mallory, listen to me, won’t you?”
Medora had pulled out her handkerchief again and was dabbing at her eyes. “You must do as the colonel says. You must be safe. I should never have forgiven myself if anything had happened to you tonight. My Ladybird is very precious to me but she is, after all, a dog.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Medora.”
“And what are you apologizing for? Put on the dress. Do you require assistance?”
“No, thank you. It buttons in the front.” Mallory pulled the privacy screen around a table holding a basin and water. She removed the gray dress, which was indeed soiled around the hem with several pink ruffles torn off.
She washed herself and donned the other gown, actually a winter dress with sleeves that extended to her wrists and a tight-fitting bodice with a high, square neckline. Going to the mirror she saw that the mist at the ravine had created thick waves in her hair, and there were twigs in it that must have come off the trees as she ran wildly beneath them.
As Mallory began brushing out the debris Medora said, “Of course it’s none of my business, Mallory, but I must say one thing. Your idea about marriage to the colonel is the height of folly.”
Mallory stopped brushing, her eyes meeting her aunt’s in the mirror. “What do you mean?”
“If you don’t love him, that’s one thing. If you do love him, that’s quite another.”
Mallory struggled to follow her aunt’s reasoning. “I know that I love him, Aunt Medora, but—”
“But nothing! My dear, I have detected a note of bitterness in you. There is nothing attractive about a bitter woman. You must conquer it. It’s like a poison—it will spread until it takes over and touches everyone around you. We all have something to be bitter about. As I said before, we have all lost something, but we do have choices, after all.”
She added, with a sudden softness, “I lost three children. Miscarriages. One might say many things about me. I am direct and perhaps—assertive—but I am not bitter, my dear. What good would it do me?”
“I’m very sorry, Aunt Medora. I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t. No one knew but my husband and the doctor. And God, who gave me strength. Now, Mallory, you are right to take your time answering the colonel’s proposal, but your reasoning is all wrong.”
Mallory averted her gaze and continued brushing her hair. She opened a drawer, found a white ribbon and tied her hair at the nape of her neck.
Then she simply stared at herself, not seeing anything at all and feeling as if nothing that had happened tonight could possibly be real.
“Don’t stand there dawdling, my girl. The colonel is waiting.” Medora opened the door and moved spryly aside.
“I should rinse that out,” Mallory said, glancing down at the blood-stained coat.
“That,” Medora said briskly, “will have to wait.”
Followed by her aunt and Mr. Huger, Mallory descended the stairs. They encountered Captain Bell in the parlor doorway and Mallory asked, “Where is Colonel Wakefield?”
The captain nodded at the room across the hall. “Just you, ma’am. The others are to wait in here.”
Mallory gave a reassuring smile to her aunt, went into the music room and closed the door behind her. Stuart was sitting in front of the piano, looking at what appeared to be the notes Sergeant Munford had written earlier. He placed the papers on top of the piano and stood up when she entered the room.
“We’ve taken their weapons,” he said. “All we could find. I should have done it before, but I thought…never mind. We took yours too. I couldn’t—I mean I think you’ll be safer without it for the time being, as long as you’re never alone. And Mallory, whatever happens in this room, stay behind me. Do you understand?”
She nodded. Her gaze went to the revolver holstered at his waist. His eyes were shadowed—there was a dark stubble of beard on his face and his hair was no longer neatly combed but was disheveled and had been impatiently pushed back.
He didn’t look like a Union officer. He looked like a man who was tired and worried and restraining a deep, mysterious anger.