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AT DINNER THAT NIGHT, Lord Montford rose to address the houseguests. A tall man with wavy brown hair, he appeared to be some years his wife’s junior, and judging from the genuine smiles he directed her way, he also appeared to be quite enamored of her.
“Following our trek over the estate this afternoon and very nearly losing two footmen in a deceptively deep snow drift,” his lordship declared, “in my estimation, it would be foolhardy for anyone to even think of vacating the premises so long as this dastardly snow storm persists.”
“I quite agree,” put in Mr. Lyttleton, looking up from his plate of roast beef, and potatoes; his resonate tone commanding attention. “If you recall, sir, I turned my ankle whilst pulling one of your footmen out of that snowdrift. Consequently, there’ll be no more roaming the estate for me. You and your intrepid footmen, and your hounds, may do as you like so far as apprehending the culprit, just do not invite me along.” His lips twitched.
“I did wonder why you were limping, Miles,” said Lady Montford sweetly, casting a glance across the table at her longtime friend.
Lyttleton looked up and smiled. “Fret not, my dear. No doubt I shall recover in a day or two. Most especially if we are all stranded indoors, and not allowed, nor required, to be out of doors in this nasty weather.”
“Not to worry, Lyttleton,” replied his lordship, who had resumed his seat and begun again to eat. “I have decided it best to abandon the search altogether. Appears gypsies are far more adept at hiding themselves away than we are at uncovering their whereabouts. I daresay, the lot of them are taking shelter in an abandoned cave somewhere in the woods.”
“Or perhaps the stables,” replied Lyttleton absently. “However,” he glanced about the table at his fellow actors, “in order to occupy ourselves indoors, how about we stage a play for our own amusement, or at least choose a favorite scene to perform from one of our own productions? Which, could very well mean we will likely be obliged to play multiple parts. I’m game for either; what say the rest of you?”
The gentleman’s question received nods all around after which the guests launched into a full-blown discussion on the matter, each eager to voice his, or her, opinion. I noted that not a one of them was the least bit timid about making their thoughts known, which I suppose was to be expected, timidity not being a common trait amongst theatre folk. Because I had no intention of joining the cast of a play, or performing in any way, I instead took advantage of the opportunity to further study the houseguests.
As everyone filed into the dining hall this evening, I had got my first look at the renowned widow Lady Westcott, the popular actress known on stage as Ardeth Myers. I confess I was a bit taken aback. At forty, or a scant few years beyond, the lady was still quite attractive. Statuesque and blonde, she was curvaceous and possessed the most unusual violet eyes I had ever beheld. Fringed with thick dark lashes I could detect no kohl rubbed above or below her incredible eyes, although I suspect her cheeks and full lips had been enhanced by the rouge pot.
Without a doubt, the lovely Ardeth Myers was very comely, indeed. And, carried herself as if she fully expected to garner most, if not all, the attention, at least from the gentlemen. Tonight she wore a purple silk gown that beautifully set off her eyes, and also displayed her . . . other assets. Nearly every man in the room had rushed to pull out Lady Westcott’s chair, and several (at least those who could ambulate with any degree of speed) had even jockeyed for the pleasure of sitting next to her. Tonight, Miles Lyttleton and the playwright Henry Egerton had won out, each now seated on either side of her.
The two older ladies with whom Tilda and I had ridden out from Town, Emma Stevens and Carlotta Marydale were not nearly so finely turned out as Miss Myers. Both still wore the same non-descript frocks they’d arrived here wearing. Although both ladies had also painted their faces, not a great deal could be done to truly enhance their faded looks. On the other hand, Helen looked presentable and I believe I did, as well, judging by the looks directed at me from both Mr. Nordstrom and old Mr. Torbitt, and on occasion even Mr. Egerton, all of whom I ignored after the small smile and nod I directed at them. For now, I endeavoured to keep my eyes lowered.
At length, when the noisy discussion amongst the actors finally wound down, it had been universally agreed that a talent show was just the ticket to take their minds off the nasty weather and the fact that we were all confined to the house, at least, for the duration of the blizzard. Each actor would perform a scene, or snippet of a scene, from a favorite play. A good bit of laughter ensued as Mr. Edgerton, the playwright, was prevailed upon, despite his protests, to play a part in a farce that he had actually written. He continued to declare that he was not an accomplished actor. The silver-haired gentleman even addressed me and suggested that I also play a part, a suggestion to which I politely declined.
“My mother was the actress, sir, not I.” Moments later, however, as the half-dozen or so Montford Hall footmen began to mutely place our dessert plates before us, I boldly spoke up, “However I daresay a proper Playbill for our theatrical production might be in order. Since I possess no talent to act, I hereby offer to compose and produce the Playbill.”
“Why, what a lovely notion,” enthused Lady Montford. “I knew you would think of some manner in which to take part, Miss Abbott. You are as clever as your mother was.”
“Hear, hear!” cried several of the others. A few even applauded.
“I will be glad to assist you,” Helen surprised me by saying.
I aimed a smile her way. “Thank you, Helen. However,” I again addressed the group, “since I am . . . woefully unfamiliar with everyone’s accomplishments, I can see no other way than to personally interview each one of you in order to gather as much information as possible for the biography portion of the Playbill. Therefore,” I concluded on a smile, “in the coming days, you may each expect a tap on the shoulder from me.”
Amidst additional exclamations of delight, I caught Lady Montford’s gaze and noted the small gleam of pleasure shining from her eyes. On the way from the room, she caught up to me and murmured, “You are, indeed, quite clever, Miss Abbott. To interview everyone for a commemorative Playbill is the perfect ploy.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” I returned her smile. “I should like to begin by interviewing you.”
“Very well. Any time you like will be splendid.” I noted the twitch of a smile playing about her mouth. “Tomorrow morning will suit. I shall have paper and pens at the ready.”
* * *
AS TILDA AND I WERE preparing for bed that night, I told her what the houseguests had decided to do to relieve their boredom throughout the following fortnight. Earlier I had told her a bit about Lady Montford’s concerns regarding her beautiful sister who had gone missing some years ago.
“Therefore,” I went on, “if you should happen to overhear anything amongst the servants that pertains to either mystery, the missing dancer or Lady Westcott’s maid, do pay close attention and relay the information to me at once. I would especially like you to keep your ears open for any sort of details, no matter how minor, that might help uncover who took the life of Ardeth Myer’s maid.” A fretful sigh escaped me. “I confess I am a bit concerned that the killer might still be on the premises, actually present here at Montford Hall, lurking amongst us for . . . whatever vile reason.”
I heard Tilda’s startled intake of breath. “Oh, dear, miss. Do you truly believe he is still here, or that he could even be one of the guests?”
Turning down the bedcovers, I said, “I fear it is quite possible. Until I am able to determine exactly when each guest arrived at Montford Hall, it is possible the killer could have lain in wait for the Westcott carriage to arrive, then, without realizing that Lady Westcott had already arrived, and upon spotting the small coach turn onto the lane that led up to the house, and assuming she was within, the killer unknowingly took the life of the wrong woman. My task at present is to determine who amongst the guests might have had a reason to do away with Ardeth Myers.”
“So, are ye’ saying, you do not believe the maid was the . . .?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I rather believe that, for whatever reason, Lady Westcott was the intended target, not her maid.” After another pause, I added, “Which means, that since the killer murdered the wrong woman, he, or she, will, no doubt, strike again.”
“Oh, I don’t like the sound o’ that, miss!” Standing before the clothespress hanging up the gown I had worn to dinner, Tilda glanced back at me, a worried expression replacing her usual cheerful countenance. “If it helps, miss, I did overhear the housekeeper sayin’ that because Lady Westcott’s stepson is a scoundrel of the first order, she was hopin’ he don’t turn up here. He ain’t here now, is he?”
“Not to my knowledge. Did the woman elaborate?”
Tilda’s face puckered. “’L-laborate, miss? Hmm. No, I can’t say as she was . . . doin’ any ‘l-laberatin’. She was ‘jes . . . talkin’. Well, actually I don’t believe she meant for ever’one to hear what she was sayin’, I ‘jes overheard her tellin’ Lady Montford’s dresser, don’t recall that woman’s name neither, at any rate, she said she hoped Mr. Charles . . .” Tilda paused to chew on her lower lip, the expression on her face now telling me she was deliberating . . . that is, thinking, hard. (Do forgive me, dear reader; I am quite certain you do not require any degree of simplification or explanation of overlong words. It’s just that I have come to expect it of Tilda, with whom, as you know, I do speak frequently.)
At length, I asked, “What is it, Tilda?”
“I can’t rightly recall the fella’s surname, miss. Somethin’ short. I mean, it weren’t a long name. Sounded a bit like ‘even’.”
“Evan, perhaps?”
She shook her head, her brows still pulled together. “I dinna’ know at the time, miss, that you was wantin’ me to remember ever’ little thing I heard ever’one sayin’.”
I reached to fluff my pillow. “I am sorry that things have come to this pass, Tilda. I, as well, believed we were coming here for a pleasant interlude. I had no idea that trouble would find us so quickly, or at all. We’d not even reached our destination before . . . well, I fear I have no choice now but to sift through the lives of every one of the houseguests and hope something of import turns up.” After another pause, I added, “However, Lady Montford’s missing sister is rather an ancient puzzle, one in which no one knows for certain where all the players in the mystery might fit, or have got off to now.” I reached for Tilda’s pillow in order to fluff it. “On the other hand, it is fortunate that the facts surrounding the death of Ardeth Myer’s maid have not yet had time to gather dust.”
Tilda removed her dark frock and hung it in the clothespress. “His nibs dispatched two of the burliest footmen to cart the maid’s body to a chamber on the opposite side of the house and lay her out there,” she said.
I looked up. “Is there a chapel somewhere on the premises, then?”
“Don’t know nothin’ ‘bout no chapel, miss.” Tilda shrugged as she stepped into her nightrail. “They jes’ can’t bury her yet, what with the ground being frozen. Can’t dig no grave til’ the ground thaws out, don’t ye’ know? Guess they jes’ means to keep the body cold in a cold room til’ then. Plenty o’ freezin’ rooms in this old house, make no mistake.”
“I confess I had not thought of that.”
As I lay in bed that night waiting for sleep to overtake me, my churning thoughts continued of their own accord to churn. Over and over I reminded myself that for all intents and purposes, I truly only had the one opportunity that I, myself, had finagled, to ferret out everything I needed to know from each of the houseguests. Meaning that when I interviewed each of them for the Playbill, I’d best be prepared to ask all the questions I could think of regarding both mysteries. At least asking about and learning of their accomplishments should not pose a problem. Most people liked to talk about themselves, most especially those who dedicated their lives to seeking out the limelight, as did actors and actresses. The difficult part would be how to also probe for answers to less obvious questions such as had they been acquainted with Lady Montford’s sister Theodora many years ago and what, if anything, might they know of her disappearance, plus how well-acquainted they were with Ardeth Myers, and did they have any idea who might wish her harm today?
Of course, I did not intend to probe too deeply about Lady Westcott; for instance, I had no desire to learn who amongst the gentlemen present here now had been that lady’s former lovers. That sort of intimate knowledge was rather off-putting to me. On the other hand, I did need to know a few such intimate details, for a former lover might be the very person who continued to carry a grudge against the lady and wished to visit revenge upon her now for spurning him then.
At that instant, I realized that I truly was convinced that Ardeth’s maid’s death was not a random killing. A highwayman who brazenly plied his trade during daylight hours and who found that the traveler within the carriage had nothing of value to steal, would have simply jumped from the coach and vanished, or perhaps lain in wait behind a stand of trees until the next carriage came along. Surely, he would not take another’s life simply for . . . sport.
And, what of the coach driver? What had the supposed gypsy-killer done with the driver? That man’s body was nowhere to be seen, unless the driver had fallen, as had the footman this afternoon, into a deceptively deep snowdrift, and could therefore not be seen, dead or alive. But, yesterday afternoon, the snow was not yet terribly deep. The drifts only became treacherous following last night’s thickly falling snow and the fierce blizzard winds that accompanied the heavy snowfall overnight.
When my wandering thoughts hit upon the possibility of incriminating tracks or footmarks that might have been left at the scene, I quickly told myself that the snow was, indeed, coming down hard enough yesterday to obscure any footfalls that might have been left by the assailant, or even those of the driver who, upon realizing that his passenger was being robbed, might have simply fled in a terrified run for his own life. Unless . . . and I suppose this was a viable possibility, the coach driver was also the killer. In which case, he would have fled the scene for several reasons, one: to cover up his crime, and two: to protect his identity.
I mulled this possibility over a bit longer and next wondered if it were possible that Ardeth Myers might actually know the identity of the driver of her maid’s coach? That thought had no sooner formed in my mind than I very nearly laughed aloud. No, she would absolutely not know. Ardeth Myers was now a titled lady and had been for . . . well, I did not know how long she had been a ‘lady’, but I did know that regardless of her station in life, she would not care a fig who drove her maid’s coach!
Still, I clung to the belief that my theory had merit. The driver of the maid’s coach, at least at the time of her death, could have very well also been the maid’s killer . . . so, did that mean the coach had been overtaken at some earlier point along the journey, perhaps at the inn where they stopped, as did we, for a quick bite of luncheon, and the original coach driver lured from his post, and the killer instead took his place?
With no eyewitnesses to the crime from which to seek factual answers, the sad truth was that I might never uncover the answers to any of my questions. Still . . . I had to try. My safety and that of everyone now here at Montford Hall could very well depend upon it.