The thrum of an engine on the front drive made her glance up. Hugh Fernald’s Bentley glided over the crushed stone once more. Gracious, she hoped another disaster had not occurred at Fernald Hall. She went to the two-story, multipaned window and peered out.
Rupert was right behind her. “Oh. I forgot to tell you he was on his way.”
Detective Inspector Hunter stepped out of the car and adjusted his hat. She hadn’t expected to see him until tomorrow and wasn’t sure she wanted to now. Addie needed to firmly crush her crush for him—although he was friendly, he made it plain he had no interest in a friendship.
Well, friendship was probably the wrong word.
Look at the state of her! That rat Rupert knew all along Mr. Hunter was coming, and he let her wallow in her disarray. Not that she was especially vain—if she was, she’d never wear her eyeglasses. But her current clothes were suitable for hacking about on a horse—not that she was going to do that again anytime soon—or raking a hayfield or cleaning out a cellar.
It was too late to run upstairs, but her heart raced as if she had. She went back to her chair and household bills, ran her grimy fingers through her disordered bobbed hair (had she even combed it this morning?), and tried to appear relaxed.
Which might work if Rupert left.
“I take it you’d like me to…how did you put it the other day? Scram?”
“Yes, please.”
Rupert huffed. “And I bet you’ll tell Forbes to fetch tea and all the trimmings. Cucumber sandwiches. Almond crescents. Fruitcake. I’m awfully fond of Cook’s fruitcake.”
“Maybe.”
“You are a coldhearted woman, Addie.”
“If I am, you made me that way.”
“Very well. I know when I’m not wanted. You behave.” He waggled that annoying finger and scrammed.
As if she had a choice to misbehave.
When Forbes entered the room, she didn’t even wait for him to ask if she was receiving.
“Yes, yes. Send Mr. Hunter in and have Cook make up a tea tray. It doesn’t need to be anything too elaborate.”
Forbes raised a silver eyebrow. “Cook wouldn’t hear of such a thing. The inspector certainly enjoyed her offerings yesterday. She likes a man with a good appetite. I believe she’s very fond of him.”
Who wasn’t?
Probably all those he’d put behind bars.
Addie rose when Mr. Hunter came through the open vaulted door and managed a smile. Fitz woke up and did his usual dance around the detective’s feet, for which he was rewarded with a scratch behind his floppy ears.
“I hope I’m not intruding, Lady Adelaide. I know it’s the second day in a row I’ve arrived uninvited and unannounced.”
She might have washed her hands and put on proper clothing, no doubt changing three or four times in the process trying to look presentable. No, more than that. Alluring.
Or at least brushed her teeth.
“Don’t be silly—you’re always welcome. Do sit down. Forbes will bring in tea shortly.”
“That’s good news. I didn’t have time for lunch after the inquest.” He waited for her to sit back down and followed suit. Fitz made an attempt to crawl into his lap but was gently rebuffed.
Tucking the bills inside, Addie shut the ledger. “How did it go?”
A pained look crossed Mr. Hunter’s face. “Accidental death for the women, death by misadventure for Ainsley.”
Addie was stunned at the latter. “Really?”
“Don’t ask. The coroner couldn’t preside, and the magistrate who stepped in is an idiot who would have signed anything put in front of him if he could close up shop.”
“Was the idiot Sir Alfred Winton? My father always thought the man’s horses were smarter.”
“Yes. He was more concerned about the Fernalds’ reputations than getting to the truth.”
“And what is the truth?”
“Damned if I know. It’s officially over. I should leave it alone, but I can’t. That’s why I’m here.”
Addie felt absurdly flattered. “How can I help?”
“I know you and Pamela Fernald were not especially close.”
“That’s true. Hugh was my childhood friend. You don’t still think he had something to do with her death, do you?”
“I can’t be sure. I’m going out on a limb here, but I trust you not to break my confidence.” He drew a breath. “Pamela Fernald was pregnant.”
Addie pretended to be surprised. To cement the effect, she dropped her empty teacup to the carpet. It wasn’t part of her best set, but she was glad it didn’t break anyhow. “Gosh!”
“No one seemed to know except for Mrs. Lewis, and possibly the maid, Murray, who’s left the estate, so I can’t ask her. And maybe the murderer. I had the hideous task of telling Sir Hugh myself last evening, thinking it might come out in the open courtroom, and I could swear from his reaction he hadn’t known beforehand. He was…devastated.”
“Oh, how awful for both of you! Was her condition made public?”
“No. Winton was good for something, I guess. I’ll bet my eyeteeth someone from the Hall got to him before the inquest to hush it up.”
Addie nodded. “That kind of thing does happen here.” For example, when Rupert died, the presence of Miss Labelle was pretty much swept under the rug.
“I feel I’m losing my touch. There’s something I’m overlooking.”
Addie felt guilty for her teacup business, but how could she explain she was aware of Pamela’s pregnancy?
“I certainly didn’t know last weekend. Never suspected. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have told you about Lucas, that is, Lord Waring,” she said truthfully. “He can’t be the father though. They broke it off months ago.”
“The timing is still within the range of possibility, and he’s still missing. You haven’t heard from him?”
“I haven’t, and I’m worried. It’s not like him to run away from trouble, honestly it isn’t. And what about Mr. Cassidy?”
Mr. Hunter gave her a sharp look. “What about him?”
Uh, she wasn’t supposed to know about his disappearance either. “No one really knows him. He lied about Lieutenant Ainsley, or at least omitted their relationship. What did you find out yesterday?”
“Absolutely nothing. He was not on the train, any of them. He could still be in London, but we’ve inquired at his usual haunts when he’s in Town with no luck—he left behind a very organized appointment book. He had an engagement he never kept. You didn’t see him before you left?”
“It was barely light when Beckett and I flew the coop, and we didn’t stop down to breakfast.” Addie was so anxious to get home—it was almost as if she knew disaster was going to strike again.
Poor Juliet, even if she did sleep with Rupert.
“Mrs. Lewis said he asked for a tray in his room before he was driven to the first train. The chauffeur watched him board with just minutes to spare, but that’s as far as we’ve traced him.”
“He couldn’t have known about Juliet then.”
“Unless he shoved her down the stairs and then went back to bed.”
Addie contemplated that as Forbes rolled in an absurdly well-stocked tea tray. If Cook was trying to spoil Inspector Hunter, she was succeeding, and Addie might outgrow the jodhpurs yet.
Between bites, he outlined what he knew of all the details, starting from last Sunday, requiring nothing of Addie but her attention. Once he had eaten a rather amazing amount, albeit sharing crusts and corners with the wiggly beggar Fitz, he sat back in his chair. Addie realized she rarely saw him with the tension out of his shoulders.
“You’ve been very useful lending your ear. It helps to line up the ducks, as it were. Quack out loud. Bob’s a capital fellow, but he tends to see things in black or white. The world is, as you know, gray. A rather dark gray, in my line of work. What jumps out at you from all this?”
“The baby business, honestly. But no one knew?”
“According to Mrs. Lewis, Pamela Fernald’s maid surely did. But someone else in the household might have too. A woman would know what signs to look for, if she was looking.”
Addie frowned. “Pamela was very close with Simon Davies. Could she have confided in him?”
“He’d never tell me if she had. He’s a gentleman of the old school.”
“You know how some of them turn out!” Addie reminded him.
“Indeed, I do, to my everlasting regret.” He picked up the last raisin biscuit. “Also, according to Mrs. Lewis, Sir Hugh and his wife occasionally shared a bed. So, it’s conceivable”—Here he cleared his throat at his own modest joke—“that the baby was legitimate.”
“Which makes Pamela’s death all the worse.” How truly horrible for Hugh. “Where does Juliet fit in?”
“Could she have suspected about the pregnancy? Discovered who killed Pamela?”
“She doesn’t—didn’t—really mix much with the inhabitants of Fernald Hall—she was devoted to John and spent nearly all her time upstairs with him, or they rode out together. If she knew something, why wouldn’t she tell you when you spoke to her?” Addie asked.
“Blackmail? Perhaps she thought she could get the upper hand.”
Addie cleared her own throat, trotting out Rupert’s theory. “What if Juliet poisoned Pamela, then committed suicide?”
“No note. It’s highly unusual for those who kill themselves not to reach out one last time and explain why. In addition, there was no evidence of drink or drugs in Juliet Barlow’s system. As I said, throwing oneself downstairs is an iffy plan if one is absolutely determined to commit suicide.”
“Well, maybe her death was an accident!”
“Who brought up the gin bottle and poured it all over the poor girl?”
Addie put her hand to her temple. “You are giving me a headache. I don’t know how you do this day after day, and we haven’t even gotten to Lieutenant Ainsley yet.”
“Three suspicious deaths are excessive, I grant you. All very different. Possibly unrelated. And a full complement of innocent-appearing people up to the roof trusses of Fernald Hall. That is, those who are still there and haven’t disappeared. Waring and Cassidy both had motive and opportunity, at least for Pamela’s death.”
Addie objected immediately. “Not this again. I’ve told you and told you, Lucas is innocent.”
“Why not? His mistress was pregnant, and he was about to finally be a bridegroom. He had to protect his reputation. What if Pamela Fernald wanted to make trouble for him?”
“Why would she do that? She’d only bring trouble on her own head.”
“People aren’t exactly logical under stress,” Mr. Hunter said, which was very true.
“All right. Suppose Lucas slipped Pamela the poison somehow. He was gone when Juliet fell.”
“But present on occasions when Ainsley was a guest at Fernald Hall. Two out of three, Lady Adelaide.”
“You’ll never convince me. I know him too well.”
Mr. Hunter lifted a dark brow. “Then where is he?”
He had her there, so she shifted to Patrick Cassidy. “Let’s agree to disagree. What motive does Mr. Cassidy have? He couldn’t have killed his own brother.”
“Revenge for his death. Perhaps he found out Pamela Fernald killed him nine years ago.”
Addie snorted. “Now you’re being ridiculous.”
“Didn’t she know how to use a gun? I was under the impression she was quite a sportswoman.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Everyone here shoots. At birds, not people. Even my own mother.” Although her eyesight was so bad, she usually missed. “Look, Mr. Cassidy is the type more likely to take a woman to bed than kill her. But I don’t think he was at Fernald Hall long enough to accomplish that.”
He was pretty skillful though, turning his considerable charm on Addie every time they met. Maybe she was underestimating him.
Did Pamela turn him down, and he slipped something into that silver flask he carried, telling her it was brandy?
Addie hoped he rinsed it out afterwards.