Addie hoped she didn’t break any bones; bricks were unforgiving. Her own mother, the Dowager Marchioness of Broughton, taught Addie how to faint with grace, and it appeared that Evelyn went to the same etiquette school. Mrs. Lewis hopped up as quickly as she was able, and being an old-fashioned sort of housekeeper, waved a vinaigrette from her chatelaine under her employer’s nose.
Evelyn was unresponsive. Addie allowed as to how the woman should probably not be moved until the doctor checked her out as well.
“Mr. Cassidy, perhaps you can man the conservatory doors against any other comers. Margie, Mandy, Mrs. Lewis, you might be more comfortable waiting somewhere else.”
Addie was left with the two bodies and a blinding headache about to get worse.
“Told you so. Poor Pam. I hoped against hope it was someone we didn’t know.” Rupert inspected the buffet tea table. “Profiteroles, my favorite.” He popped one in his mouth.
“How can you eat at a time like this?” Addie kept her voice down in case Evelyn woke up.
“I can’t let a spread like this go to waste. It isn’t every day I get to indulge. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I had a decent meal.”
“But…but you’re dead,” Addie sputtered.
“Exactly. All the more reason to have some fun while I can.” He sniffed a tiny triangle. “Curried chicken. I say, that reminds me of your Indian policeman. You’d best give him a call, or they’ll send out some idiot with ugly boots who’ll probably arrest you.”
“Me!”
“Why not? True, you have Beckett as an alibi for some of the time—and me too, not that I can count. Best to keep me under wraps unless it’s an absolute emergency.”
Addie wouldn’t reveal Rupert’s existence to anyone.
“Who did it?”
“Damned if I know. You know how it is with me; the glass is only half full. And I wouldn’t want to deprive Inspector Hunter of apprehending the culprit after a very thorough investigation. The man lives for that kind of thing. Puzzles. Conundrums. Impossible missions. He’s racking up more commendations than one can shake a stick at, although I don’t see why one would shake a stick at anything.”
Addie could. A stick would have come in very handy dealing with Rupert for the five years of their marriage.
“I heard that. You’ve turned quite violent in your old age.”
A very big stick.
Chapter Four
Monday
What were the odds? Pretty much incalculable. Dev was not a betting man anyway. When the call was patched through to his flat from the Cirencester constabulary late yesterday afternoon, he knew the news wouldn’t be good. But he hadn’t anticipated Lady Adelaide Compton being smack in the middle of another suspicious death investigation.
In a few minutes, he would see her again, so he steeled what was left of his heart.
Dev tried to put her out of his mind. He was highly unsuccessful, but he couldn’t go around kissing marquesses’ daughters and live with the consequences. The caste system in the United Kingdom was as strict and as real as in his mother’s native India. If Lady Adelaide temporarily suspended society’s rules, he could not. In his experience, the rich could get away with literal murder. She could afford to skirt propriety, experiment, and be daring.
Not he.
He never should have accepted her invitation to visit Compton Chase in April in the first place, but a month had passed since their collaboration, and he missed her. He also wanted to reassure her that he didn’t hold her responsible for his own brush with death.
Dev worked through his discomfort until the pain receded. His superiors offered him leave, which he refused. One didn’t take unnecessary time off and hope to be promoted; his father taught him that. Harry Hunter was renowned for never taking a sick day either in the army or at the Yard, and he expected his son to follow in his footsteps. They were big shoes to fill, but so far Dev had managed.
He did not speak to either of his parents about his infatuation with Lady Adelaide. He didn’t want to hear the practical lecture from his father or see the sympathy in his mother’s eyes. So he spent what little free time he had lately reading and studying the Ancients, trying his best to ignore the modern world around him.
A car from Fernald Hall was sent to meet the first train. Dev’s sergeant, Bob Wells, sat up front, chatting with the chauffeur in hopes of gleaning any servants’ gossip. Bob was good at that, leaving the posh people to Dev. Over the past ten months, he met more exalted folks than in his previous thirty-four years and was still figuring out how they ticked.
Dev read through his notes. Hugh Fernald was a baronet badly wounded in what turned out to be a hopeless battle, saving the lives of all his men bar one. Fernald’s Fury. The newspapers heralded the man’s bravery through gassing and grievous wounding. Dev remembered the headlines as he recuperated in a field hospital from his own less-publicized fury. The man was a national hero.
His wife, Pamela, was found on the floor of their conservatory by the housekeeper, still warm to the touch and showing no physical signs of any violent attack. The laboratory had not yet determined the cause of death, but poison was suspected.
There was a young son, John; the victim’s mother-in-law, the “other” Lady Fernald; an aunt-in-law who lived in a cottage on the estate; eight houseguests; and a full complement of staff on the premises. Unlike many other country houses since the war ended, Fernald Hall was not run on a shoestring. Dev had yet to work a case where “the butler did it,” so he concentrated on the guests but did not rule anything or anyone out.
Except for Lady Adelaide. Unless she’d undergone a massive personality shift, he did not expect to add her to the list of suspects. According to the Cirencester police, she attempted to protect the scene, forbade anyone from leaving the property, and asked pertinent questions of the other people at the house party before the police had a chance. The word “interfering” was used, and Dev could easily picture her ruffling feathers with her usual charm and determination.
And she asked for his help specifically. He wasn’t sure if he should feel flattered or foolish. One thing he was sure of—he would not kiss her again, no matter how much he wanted to.
The Bentley turned down a long drive lined with evergreens. Despite the morning’s sunshine, the car was enveloped in darkness for a bit, then emerged onto a circular drive. The impressive Tudor house was mostly stucco with elaborately patterned black beams, massive chimneys, and the odd architectural brick and Cotswold stone element denoting “improvements” over the centuries. A butler and two footmen stood on the steps. In the open doorway, a man in a Bath chair and his attendant awaited their arrival.
“There’s Sir Hugh,” the chauffeur said, pulling up directly in front of the house. “Poor bloke’s had enough trouble. We all hope you get to the bottom of this quick.”