Behind the Shattered Glass Page 3

  2

  After breakfast the following morning, I made my way through wide, painting-lined corridors and up two flights of stairs to the nursery, eager to kiss the babies before I set off for Montagu Manor with Colin. Henry and Richard, our twins, were sleeping, their round faces rosy and cherubic. Tom, six months older than they, was awake, sitting in the middle of a braided rug, banging a rattle against a wooden block, laughter bubbling from his small mouth. I picked him up, gave him a cuddle, and frowned when I noticed the sullen nursery maid in the corner of the room paying not the slightest attention to the child.

  “Fetch Nanny for me at once,” I said. She obeyed without responding or looking at me.

  Finding capable employees to assist Nanny had proven challenging, which was nothing more than Colin and I had expected. We had taken in Tom as soon as he was born at the request of his mother, Donata, a friend I had made in Venice while working on our last case. Unfortunately, she had befriended me not out of a desire for companionship, but in an attempt to hide from us her guilt. It was she who had killed the man whose murder we were investigating and therefore she who had taught me not to overlook friends as suspects. The revelation had been devastating. When Donata begged me to come see her in prison, I had known she was expecting but had no idea that she would ask Colin and me to raise her child. In the end, we found we could not deny the request. Tom’s father took no responsibility for him—he refused even to see his son—and we could not bear the thought of leaving an infant to be a ward of the state when we had ample resources to care for him.

  My husband, magnificent as always, agreed with enthusiasm when I insisted that we look after the boy as if he were our own, and he loved little Tomaso as fiercely as he did the twins. Tom was easy to adore, all chubby cheeks and smiles, with the sweetest temper a baby could have. His nurses should have been grateful to have him as their charge. Yet one after another had let us down, put off by the knowledge that his mother was a murderer. This latest in a disappointing series had assured us she did not care in the least, but seeing her attitude this morning towards the boy alarmed me.

  Waiting for Nanny, I tickled Tom’s little feet. He laughed, delighted, and as he kicked, his gown pulled up, revealing pudgy legs. My smile faded.

  “Nanny!” I shouted.

  “Very nearly there, Lady Emily,” came a small voice from the doorway. So far as I could tell, Nanny had been with the Hargreaves family since the first house at Anglemore Park had been built in the fifteenth century, but she had the vigor (if not the speed) of a much younger woman, and Colin would never have allowed anyone else the oversight of the nursery. Nanny had, after all, raised him. Given the spectacular result, who was I to argue?

  I crossed to her, holding little Tom out in front of me. “Look at his legs. Red marks all over them. She’s been pinching him.” I glared at the maid. Nanny peered down, investigating the evidence.

  “Stupid girl,” she said and soundly slapped her across the face. The maid scowled and raised her hand to her cheek but said nothing.

  “You will remove yourself from this house at once,” I said. “And you will receive no character.”

  “Wouldn’t want one, madam,” she said. “Not from anyone who harbors murderers.”

  “You felt somewhat differently when you accepted the position,” I said. “We were straightforward with you about Tom’s mother from the start.”

  “Didn’t know then what it would be like,” she said. “Evil breeds evil. It was his presence what brought that murdered man to the house last night, and mark me words it won’t be the last time you face such violence and horror.”

  “Get out.” I could not tolerate the sight of her for another moment. “You would be fortunate to ever find yourself with the charge of a baby half so good as he.” She slunk out of the room and down the servants’ narrow stairs.

  “Glad to see the back of her,” Nanny said, taking Tom from me and planting a wet kiss on his fat cheek.

  “Nanny, you must alert me at once of any problems like this. We cannot have the boys harmed.”

  “She hid it well from me, Lady Emily. You can be sure of that. I would never have stood for an ounce of nonsense from her. I think she just decided she didn’t like the job.”

  I pressed my palm against my forehead. “Will he be all right?”

  “Right as rails, madam,” Nanny said. “Don’t worry your pretty head about our Tom. He’s a good, fine boy.”

  I gave him a kiss and then went back to the twins, who were still sleeping.

  “Lady Bromley came up last night, insisting Tom should have separate quarters,” Nanny said.

  “My mother is only slightly less in need of a slap than that maid,” I said, although I knew I shouldn’t have. “Ignore her. If she gives you any trouble, send for me.”

  Nanny stifled a laugh. “Madam, if you were one of my charges I should remind you of the necessity of honoring one’s parents. As you are not, I can tell you my true feelings, and they are that our Colin did well to find you.”

  “Thank you, Nanny. I take that as the highest compliment. I’ll be back to see the boys this afternoon.”

  “Very good, Lady Emily.”

  “Mr. Hargreaves said to be sure to take them outside. It is a fine day, and he wants them to look at the horses.”

  “Only our Colin could think a baby would benefit from being around horses, but I’ll do as he asks.” She smiled. I had known within five minutes of first making her acquaintance that she viewed my husband as something only slightly short of a god. He was her greatest accomplishment, she always said. I kissed Henry and Richard, careful not to wake them, breathing in their clean, warm, buttery smell. I heard footsteps in the corridor, and then a shrill voice. My mother. “I’m off, Nanny, and going down the back, if you don’t mind.”

  *

  Having seen to the boys, I met Colin in front of the house, where he was waiting with our horses and talking to Simon, Earl Flyte, one of his dearest friends and now the twins’ godfather. Around them, Colin’s pack of foxhounds milled, sniffing the air and looking ready to run in hot pursuit of any small creature that might catch their notice. He had named them after the Argonauts—Acastus, Iphitos, Bellerophon, Leitus, Pollux, and Telamon—and they viewed him as their leader, just as their namesakes had done Jason. None of them made a move in his presence without first looking for his approval. Now that I consider the matter, I imagine the Argonauts were much more unruly.

  Colin and Simon had met on their first day at Eton, when a pack of older boys were teasing Simon about the limp he’d had since childhood, when he had fallen from a tree and broken his leg. Simon had fought back with such vigor and energy against hopeless odds that Colin, seeing his plight, stepped in and offered his fists in assistance. They were both soundly trounced by the others and put on the Bill by a Beak who spotted them from across the street. The sharp words he had for them paled next to the Head Man’s ire when they stood before him, but the incident had sealed their friendship. They were inseparable through all their days at school. Simon did not visit us often. It was difficult to pry him away from his own estate, but once he’d been persuaded to come, he was a delightful guest. He loved our grounds and woke before sunrise to take full advantage of his surroundings. A good constitutional, he had told me time and time again, helped him focus and relax so that he might better face whatever challenges the day threw at him. No doubt today he had already walked six miles by the time I saw him, or perhaps eight, given the distress on his face when Colin had called for him to come down to the library last night and see what had become of Archibald Scolfield.

  “Simon, dear, I am so sorry your visit has been marred by all this,” I said.

  “No apology necessary, Emily,” he said. “I know enough about Colin’s work to expect nothing less. Fiascos follow him.”

  I smiled, tugging at the bottom of my riding habit’s double-breasted jacket to pull it straight. “Do you think he attracts them?”

  “
I don’t see any other explanation,” Simon said. “I understand that he goes where he must in the service of the Crown, but when murder follows him to his own estate, what else is one to think?”

  “Enough of this nonsense,” Colin said, grinning. “Simon, chess when I’m back?”

  “If you are ready to face inevitable defeat.” He gave a jaunty wave and turned to go inside, taking Pollux with him as Colin and I climbed onto our horses and set off for Montagu Manor. The ride took us through vast meadows and rolling hills. The panorama we saw when we reached the top of a slope confirmed my already steadfast belief that no part of England could compete with the Peak District for natural beauty. From dark forest to almost yellow chartreuse, it was as if every shade of green imaginable fit together in perfect puzzle pieces throughout the valley, with no sign yet that soon the leaves would turn rich with autumn’s gold and crimson. Trees bordered fields, forming them into perfect rectangles, and sheep dotted the centers white. Clouds that looked as if they had been fashioned from spun sugar hung in a bright sky but did not threaten rain. It was a spectacular day. At least it would have been spectacular had our minds not been full of the grievous events of the night before.

  “Did the Yard agree to give us charge of the investigation?” I asked.

  “They did,” Colin said. “Although they hesitated, as the incident occurred on our grounds.”

  “They trust you to be impartial.”

  “They know that I would gladly hand over even you to the authorities if necessary.”

  “Heartless beast,” I said. “Only imagine the life of crime I could have if I weren’t saddled with you.” He shot me a look that was half wicked, half irresistible. I wished we could go home at once.

  “The police and I interviewed the guests at Matilda’s party last night as well as the staff,” he said. “No one stood out as an obvious suspect.”

  “Let’s see what we can turn up today. If, that is, you can catch me.” I dug my heels into my horse Bucephalus, named for Alexander the Great’s famous steed, and pulled ahead. Colin had a fine seat, but I was fearless in the saddle and had yet to meet a rider who could reliably catch me. As a result Montagu Manor loomed before me long before it did him. He claimed he was being a gentleman and had let me pull away, but the sparkle in his eyes told me he knew this was far from the case.

  Montagu was a new house, the construction finished not more than thirty years ago, when Matilda’s grandfather had pulled down the Tudor monstrosity previously on the site and had used the proceeds of his many excellent investments to build a castlelike structure in its place. His late wife had been fond of the old house, but Lord Montagu had always found the Tudors revolting and fancied himself a feudal lord. While Anglemore Park was a medieval home improved over the centuries, Montagu was the Middle Ages reimagined. The great hall, dominated by a hammer-beam ceiling and an enormous stone fireplace, stood in the center of the building, every inch of its walls covered in re-creations of medieval murals. It was here, at a table beneath an image of a monk bent over the page he was illuminating, that Matilda received Colin and me.

  She looked strained; her eyes were red-rimmed, her face pasty, any shock that had numbed her the previous evening having given way to raw grief. She was back in the mourning dress she’d only recently stopped wearing for her grandfather. Her hands shook as she poured tea for us before we started our search of Archibald’s rooms, wanting to scrutinize them more than Colin and the police had been able to the previous night. Some things are better tended to in daylight, particularly as Matilda’s grandfather had forbidden the use of gaslights on the premise. They were not medieval enough for him. I could well imagine his opinion of electricity.

  Archibald had taken over his grandfather’s rooms, a suite on the first floor whose decoration was so ornate it started to give me a headache. Mirrors, gilt, religious statues, and elaborate paneling assaulted the senses. The old man’s belongings had long since been cleared away, but Archibald had added very little of his own to replace them. In fact, he had made virtually no mark on the house. The wardrobe contained a few suits, changes of shirts, and other ordinary items of clothing, but beyond garments and toiletries, there was not much to be found. There were no books on the shelves, no letters in the desk, no personal stationery, no abandoned newspapers. Nothing about the space revealed the slightest hint of Archibald Scolfield’s personality.

  I rang for a servant. A few moments later a petite maid entered the room and greeted us with a smart bow.

  “Milady?” she asked.

  “How long did Lord Montague plan to stay at the house?”

  “I couldn’t rightly say, milady. We expected the rooms to remain his for as long as he wanted them.”

  “Lady Matilda didn’t plan to use them?” I asked.

  “Oh no, madam. She’s happy where she is. Always has been. She’s in the same rooms she moved into when she left the nursery, you know.”

  “Did you serve the new Lord Montagu while he was here?”

  “Enough to know he was the finest gentleman to be found,” she said. “It was a pleasure to tidy up for him.”

  “It doesn’t appear there was much to tidy,” Colin said. “Is his valet still here?”

  “He went back to London this morning. Is there a problem?”

  “No. I spoke to him last night and asked that Lord Montagu’s things be left here. Can you tell us anything more about him?”

  “Lord Montagu?” she asked.

  “Please,” Colin said.

  “No.” There was something in her voice, the slightest hesitation.

  “Colin, darling, could we have a moment?” I asked. He raised his eyebrows but acquiesced, pulling the door shut behind him.

  “Have I done something wrong, milady?” the maid asked, nervously tugging at her hands.

  “Not in the least,” I said. “I was not acquainted with Lord Montagu, but I have heard said he was a most handsome and affable gentleman.” She flushed as I said the words, and I suspected was exhibiting the signs of a maid enamored with her employer.

  “Oh, he was, madam. So kind and polite.”

  “And handsome?”

  She blushed darker red. “Very.”

  Now I was certain my suspicions had been correct when she had hesitated in front of Colin. “Was he … close … with any of the staff?”

  “No, madam, he was not.” She was shaking her head and speaking quickly now, in passionate defense of the gentleman. “He wasn’t like that, I’m sure of it. None of us maids have a complaint against him, if I understand your meaning.”

  I smiled. “I believe you do.”

  “To be right honest, madam, there were some who were a tad put off that he wouldn’t, well, pay any of us meaningful attention.”

  “He always behaved honorably?” I asked.

  “He did, madam, and his valet told us he gives his staff the most wonderful presents at Christmas. Not things that are useful, like cloth to make uniforms. Things that a person might actually want.”

  “I have always thought it a perfectly horrid custom to pretend uniforms are a gift,” I said, remembering the sadness I felt as a girl when each Christmas it was my duty to pass out the extremely disappointing but ever so practical presents my mother had selected for our servants.

  “So I’ve heard, madam. Everyone knows—” she stopped. “I don’t mean to speak out of turn.”

  “It is quite all right. Do go ahead.”

  “We’re all of us at Montagu envious of your servants’ balls. A dance every month! It must be like heaven in your house.”

  “Mr. Hargreaves and I do hope the staff are happy,” I said.

  “We all talk, you know.” She pursed her lips. “And I’m saying too much again.”

  “It’s perfectly fine. Is there anything else you can tell me about Lord Montagu?” I asked. “Did you see him last night after the party had started?”

  “No, madam. I was busy with work. Last I saw him was in the afternoon whe
n I brought tea for him and Lady Matilda.”

  “What was the atmosphere like in the room?”

  “Atmosphere?”

  I should have chosen a different word. “Did they seem happy and relaxed?”

  “They did, indeed. Nothing was out of the ordinary in the slightest.”

  There was a sharp rap on the door. I opened it to find my husband.

  “These were just delivered,” he said, handing me two letters addressed to Archibald. “Rather interesting reading.”

  Downstairs

  ii

  An enlightened architect who believed in natural light, high ceilings, and pleasant workspaces had designed the facilities below stairs at Anglemore. There were no dingy rooms, dimly lit corridors, or cramped quarters to be found. The servants’ hall with its high ceiling was so tall it reached above the ground, and it had large windows, a smooth stone floor, and a fireplace with clean lines and the ability to kick out an enormous amount of heat. Mr. Hargreaves had ordered electric lights installed through the whole house the previous year, so it was always bright no matter what the time or the weather. The new lights had caused an awful upheaval, and Cook still wasn’t convinced of their safety. She was always telling tales about people blinded by them, but even she had to admit they worked like magic.

  “I don’t care what the lot of you think, she shouldn’t have been let go like that.” Pru had only worked as a kitchen maid in the house for a handful of months, but she had always been free with her opinions. She had not been close with this latest in the string of ill-fated nursery maids—the nursery staff kept to themselves for the most part—but like the nursery maid, Pru had been horrified that a murderer’s baby lived under the same roof as all of them. It wasn’t decent.

  “You have no right to speak that way,” Lily said. They—the lower five, all of the junior servants on staff, called that regardless of their actual number—were sitting around the large, smooth table in the servants’ hall, having just finished eating. “We’re lucky to be in a household like this.”