A Brazen Curiosity, page 18
part #1 of Beatrice Hyde-Clare Series
Now all she had to do was find one.
It was shocking, really, how quiet the courtyard was, for she knew the care and upkeep of horses required much effort on the part of many people. Perhaps the problem was the hour, for it was the middle of the day, when a busy underling might break briefly to consume a quick meal.
Over the stables were the living quarters for the grooms and other stable staff, and she wondered how one of the men would react if she knocked on his door requesting an interview. Recalling the awkwardness of the scene in the kitchen, she decided it would most probably not lead to the acquisition of useful information. Additionally, such scandalous behavior was sure to get back to her aunt, and she would have no satisfying answer. To explain to Aunt Vera that she was on the trail of a murderer would be to ensure her confinement to a mental institution.
Bea sighed and decided to keep looking for a stableboy or a groom not currently engaged in training a horse to question. Behind the stables was a trio of buildings that looked promising and she examined each one for occupants. She found shovels, rakes, harnesses, saddles, whips and boots but no people. Discouraged, she crossed the field to another shed, opened the door and looked around.
It, too, was—
Suddenly, Beatrice pitched forward and dropped to the ground, her knees slamming into a wooden plank and her head bashing against the side of a washbasin. Dumbfounded, she lay there, stunned by the pain that coursed through her and by the inexplicable force that had propelled her forward.
Was she pushed?
She had to have been pushed, for nothing else could explain how quickly her circumstance changed. One moment she had been standing at the entrance observing the empty room and the next she was lying with dirt on her chin and blood—she reached up to confirm that the substance was warm and sticky—trickling down her forehead.
It hurt to move, so she stopped moving and put her head down.
Only for a minute, she told herself.
Beatrice didn’t know how long she stayed there, in the dirt of the shed, waiting for the pounding in her head to subside. It could have been a minute; it could have been an hour. Time felt like a small boat on the rough sea, bobbly and wobbly. She might have fallen asleep, although she rather thought she did not, for every moment she was aware of the pain in her head. When it became clear the throbbing would not abate no matter how long she waited, she forced herself to stand up. At first she was dizzy, but soon her body adjusted to the change in position and the world steadied.
“Very good,” she said softly, surprised to discover she found the sound of her own voice comforting. “Now to assess the situation.”
The assessment took almost no time at all, for the shed was small and it required very little effort to take its account. The most important aspect of the room was its door, which she promptly tried to open. It didn’t move.
“It is merely stuck,” she said and pressed her shoulder against it. She heaved with all her might, but the door remained stubbornly shut. She tried again and again, throwing her full weight behind each push. It made no difference.
Now she began to panic.
Fear intensified the ache in her head, which had already been made worse by the exertion of trying to force open the door. She rested her head in her hand and watched for a full minute as drops of blood appeared on her dress. She knew she had to bandage her wound, but she simply did not have the wherewithal.
Not yet, at least.
A few minutes more and she began to feel stronger. She ripped the hem of her grown to create a dressing and wrapped it around her injury to stem the bleeding. The absurdity of the act—like a heroine in a Gothic—made her laugh. Gallows humor, of course, but she was nevertheless grateful for it.
Once the bandage was in place, she turned her attention to the next pressing matter: her situation. That someone had pushed her into the shed was a fact readily understood even by a woman who had suffered a knock on the head. What baffled her was the question of who had done it.
An answer presented itself immediately, but she was determined to remain objective and not let prejudice tip the scales in favor of the obvious. Could it have been a random stranger who just happened to be walking around the Skeffington property when she crossed his path? Perhaps someone who was afraid of getting in trouble for trespassing and overreacted by attacking an unaccompanied woman? If he had performed another crime in the village, this reaction might make sense.
She considered the theory, which struck her as plausible but unlikely, as it relied too much on coincidence. It was too improbable that she would be assaulted by a random stranger on the same day she was hunting for a killer.
No, her captivity in the shed meant only one thing: Mr. Wilson was near and knew she was looking for him.
The groom, she thought with sudden fervor. The one in the enclosure training the horse. She had dismissed him as too familiar and competent to be Otley’s associate from India, but that assumption seemed stupid now. How else would he have been able secure the position if not by demonstrating a sure hand with horses?
What a fool she was! Only a few yards from the killer and she walked in the opposite direction.
And now she was trapped in an abandoned shed well out in a field. If this was Mr. Wilson’s plan to dispose of her too, she considered it rather inadequate, for it would take her days to die of thirst, which only increased her chances of being rescued. The dilapidated shack looked unused, yes, but it was still on the grounds in a busy area of the park. If the grooms didn’t come out there to fetch tools, they certainly rode by on the horses. She imagined the Skeffingtons did as well, for the scenery was quite magnificent and the hill with the folly was over the next crest. If she wasn’t discovered by chance, sooner or later her aunt or Flora would notice she was missing and mount a search. Every corner of the property would be scoured and eventually someone would remember the forlorn shed in the field.
Mr. Wilson would be as dumb as a rotted turnip to believe locking her in there would remove her and the threat she represented once and for all.
That meant he must have a more wicked plan in mind.
Having realized his true intention, she did not lack for possibilities, for in the small space her imagination worked overtime, coming up with different scenarios. He would light the shack on fire and let her burn to death like a heretic during the reign of Henry VIII. He would come back with a knife to stab her in the gut and watch her bleed to death. He would wait until the cover of darkness and drag her to the lake to drown her.
Well, she thought, looking around the neglected shed for something she could wield as a weapon, when he did come back, she would be ready.
The pickings were slim, with the largest item in the room—the basin for washing—also the least useful. If she grasped it by its handles, she could raise it up, but its size made lifting awkward and she doubted she could hurl it more than a few inches. It might afford her some protection as a shield if Mr. Wilson were to level a gun at her, but other than that, it had limited utility. Far better was the wooden plank she’d banged her knees against when she fell, for it had exposed nails at one end that could do a fair amount of damage when brought into direct contact with skin.
Yes, she thought, testing its weight. It would do quite nicely.
Having a plan made Bea feel steadier, and she flipped over the basin to use as a stool while she waited for Mr. Wilson’s return. Her whole body stiff with anticipation, she clutched the plank in both hands, felt the ache in her head and stared at the door with every ounce of her focus. She held this pose for several minutes, her muscles clenched and ready, but the strain of staying still was oddly draining and the silence struck her as strangely menacing.
Why was it so quiet? Beatrice thought suddenly. More to the point: Why was she so quiet? She was trapped in a derelict shed on the edge of a field. Rather than docilely waiting for her opponent to make his next move, shouldn’t she be screaming her head off until somebody heard? Why was she sitting on the metal basin instead of banging on it with her wooden plank? If she had any chance of being rescued before Mr. Wilson came back, then she had to create a racket. As Aunt Vera would be the first to observe, she excelled of late at making inappropriate noise.
Bea stood up, raised the wooden plank over her head and brought it down on the basin with all her strength. The clang reverberated off the walls as she yelled, “Help! Help! Somebody help!”
She banged on the tub again and again, her energy suddenly returned as the clamor filled the small structure and, surely, hopefully, the countryside surrounding it. Swinging wildly, she hit the side of the shed with the plank, which made an unimpressive thud, but no matter, her screams remained thunderous. Raising the plank again, she noticed that her strike had splintered the weathered board that formed the wall.
“By all that is holy,” she said in wondrous surprise, examining the crack through which she could see daylight and the stables off in the distance.
Of course! It was a dilapidated shack. A shack that was dilapidated.
How long had it stood in the field, battered by the elements—pummeled by rain, weakened by snow—and rotted by age, storing a washbasin nobody needed anymore? It looked like years, perhaps even decades. As the other structures were repaired and replaced, this shed had been allowed to crumble.
God bless the Skeffingtons’ frugality.
With renewed vigor, she attacked the wall, aiming for the middle of the board that had already separated.
“Take that, Mr. Wilson,” she said with each strike. “Take that, you miscreant of Satan. Take that, you wart on the face of decency. Take that, you insult to goodness and righteousness. Take that, you pus-filled carbuncle of veniality.”
With each blow, a shard or a sliver or a chip broke off until the decrepit wooden board cracked entirely in half.
“Well done, Bea,” she said in satisfaction. “Escape is imminent.”
Escape, in fact, was still a full forty-five minutes away, but she was encouraged by her early success and didn’t care how much time it took. For long stretches, she bashed the side of the shed with all her strength, and when her palms began to bleed from blisters and splinters, she tore off another portion of her dress and made a comfortable handle.
There, she thought, impressed with her own innovation, before redoubling her efforts to destroy the wall.
A second board split down the center, and, Beatrice, seeing the beginnings of a human-woman-sized hole, kicked the wood, which was hanging by a rusty nail. It fell to the ground, and sunlight, which had crept through the cracks, poured in through the opening. It was just big enough for her to stick her head through. Shoulders next!
By the time the third board fractured and fell, the fabric protecting her hands was almost entirely worn away and the long plank with which she’d begun the endeavor had been whittled to half its original size. The muscles in her arms throbbed, her throat longed for a cool refreshment, and the pain in her head continued to pound unabated. She was filthy, exhausted, achy and relieved.
Silently, she let the plank drop to the ground, clutched what remained of the wall with both hands, threw her right leg over the craggy wood and pulled her body through the opening. The fit was tight—there would be more splinters and scratches—but she was free. She was saved. She would walk away from the ramshackle shed. She would not be fodder for some murderous monster.
At least not today.
Grateful beyond measure, she sank to her knees for a moment, savoring her success and the cool air on her heated skin, but only for the briefest span. A moment later, she stood up straight and tall. Then she took a deep breath, tidied her dress—what was left of it anyway—and turned to walk back to the house. As soon as she did, her eyes met the angry gaze of Andrew Skeffington, who was walking toward her with a determined stride, the entire house party at his heels as he raised his right arm and pointed his finger directly at her.
“There,” he said, his voice strong with conviction. “There’s your murderer.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mr. Skeffington’s announcement was so astonishing, it was impossible to say who was more shocked: his mother, Aunt Vera, Miss Otley, the Duke of Kesgrave or Beatrice herself.
No, Bea thought with a quick shake of her head, as if trying to clear it of all distractions, it is I. I’m the most surprised one. Me. The person who just battered her way out of a death trap to find herself the target of a murder accusation.
I’m the victim here, she wanted to scream.
But screaming wasn’t a viable option, for, despite all her outlandish behavior, which her aunt deemed insupportable, she rarely did anything more indecorous than speak out of turn. Raising her voice in mixed company, even to proclaim her innocence, was more outrageous than she could countenance.
It made no difference that Bea did not speak, for Lady Skeffington captured everyone’s attention by gasping at her son in horror and shrieking, “Dear God, Andrew, have you become unbalanced? What murder?”
Mr. Skeffington paid his mother no heed and continued to advance on Beatrice. He stopped only when he was mere inches from her nose, “I caught you,” he said triumphantly. “I caught you. You were trying to make it seem as if I were the villain, but you were the one who killed him and I have caught you in the act.”
Despite the young man’s intense focus on Bea, the company continued to stare at him as if he’d lost his mind. Nobody had yet to notice her wretched condition—the bloody field dressing on her forehead, the scrapes on her arms, the dirt and tears marring almost every inch of her gown.
The stunned silence stretched into seconds as Lady Skeffington stared at her son in horror. Her face pale, she turned to Bea and stammered out an apology for Andrew’s inexplicable and despicable rudeness. “I cannot conceive of why he would do such a thing. To accuse an honored guest of something so wicked and depraved is beyond anything I’ve ever—” She broke her speech off abruptly and narrowed her eyes as if struck by something baffling. “I say, dear, why are you dressed like that?”
Now they noticed—all of them.
Eleven pairs of eyes looked at her at once and scrutinized her disheveled appearance, determined, it seemed, to comprehend why she would select such an unusual costume to wear at an elegant house party. Their response baffled Bea, for surely the hairstyle alone—strands everywhere, locks more down than up, the torn hem sweeping across her forehead—communicated some of the ordeal she’d suffered.
Kesgrave figured it out first, for when he saw the blood on her head, he blanched and took three aggressive steps toward her, stopping only when he seemed to realize how untoward it would look if he made physical contact. She and the duke had spent a fair amount of time together, yes, but none of the other guests knew that. As far as they were aware, the two had a passing acquaintance consisting of a few barbed exchanges for which the girl was immediately chastised by her aunt.
The strength of the duke’s concern startled Bea, who looked up to find his eyes boring into hers and his mouth compressed into a hard line as if suppressing a very great rage. His gaze was intense—powerful and penetrating—and she felt herself at once sinking under its weight and rising with its force. In an afternoon of strange experiences, it was the strangest one yet, and as much as she wanted to turn away, she couldn’t bring herself to move an inch.
How very strange indeed.
The moment might have stretched on indefinitely, with neither party breaking the contact, if her aunt, perceiving her niece’s eccentric fashion choice to actually be the result of an injury, hadn’t screeched. Aunt Vera rushed to her side and encapsulated her in a hug, an act that seemed to indicate genuine affection. Moved by the unexpected show of sincerity, Bea felt her throat clog up.
Shocked anew, she swallowed rapidly, determined to keep her emotions in check. After all she had gone through in the shed, she would not break down now.
While Aunt Vera tightened her embrace and murmured concern, Flora tugged on her sleeve and Russell admired her bravery.
“That cut on your head must be deep to have produced so much blood,” he observed before adding with a touch of envy, “It will most likely leave a scar that will give your appearance an endearingly raffish look.”
As far as she could remember, it was the first kind thing Russell had ever said to her.
Bea enjoyed the warmth of her family’s concern and ignored the calls for an explanation, which grew more pressing as the moments passed. She expected Kesgrave to take command of the situation, as the uproar seemed particularly suited to his fondness for imposing order, but he remained silent. The cacophony grew louder and louder until finally Mr. Skeffington’s petulance rose above the chaos.
“She’s a murderess!” he yelled, stomping his foot in peevish displeasure. “Stop coddling her and listen to me!”
His sullen cry had the desired effect, for everyone stopped talking at once. His father, his face a mask of concern, stepped toward him and laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Nobody was murdered, son,” he explained gently.
Mr. Skeffington shrugged off his father and sneered, “Mr. Otley! Mr. Otley was murdered.”
As concerned as his lordship was for his son’s apparently fragile mental state, he had no patience for his recalcitrance. “Don’t be absurd. He died by his own hand.”
Mr. Skeffington laughed without humor. “The only absurd thing is that you believe such a blatant plumper,” Mr. Skeffington insisted, his voice dripping with scorn. “It was obviously murder, for it’s impossible for a man to kill himself by bashing his own head with a candlestick.”
Bea’s eyes swung to the duke to see if he was as surprised as she that the Skeffington heir had deciphered the truth, but his eyes were firmly fixed on the scene playing out before them. Their host opened his mouth several times, as if unsure how to respond, before saying, “But the constable. He himself declared it to be so.”
