The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(72)
“He watched Gerald’s hands open up,” Cecelia said, demonstrating with her own hands. “But Sebastian could never be completely certain, not certain enough to ever say anything. That branch fell on Mr. Stewart and killed him on the spot. The boys all swore they would never tell and they never did. But it ate at Sebastian and he just couldn’t take the guilt anymore, so he told me. And now…”
“They’re all dead,” Henderson said, and Mrs. Whitemore pushed a handkerchief against her mouth to stifle a sob. “Have you told anyone what you know?”
Cecelia shook her head quickly. “I’m afraid he’ll kill me. That no one will believe me and he’ll kill me.”
“Don’t tell a soul, Miss Whitemore. I’ll make certain you are not harmed, but the authorities must be told.”
“No, please don’t,” Cecelia said. “We’re the only ones who know. If you were able to determine that I might know, then surely Gerald will too.”
Henderson smiled gently. “He can’t kill everyone in St. Ives. I swear to you, no one will ever know where I got my information.”
Miss Whitemore did not look convinced, but Henderson did not know what else he could say to her to relieve her mind. What was clear to him was that Gerald very likely had knowingly killed four men to protect his terrible secret. Henderson wanted to be sure he didn’t kill again.
Once he departed the Whitemores’, Henderson went directly to Costille House to ask Lord Berkley for this advice, for he wasn’t familiar with St. Ives’ constabulary, or even if they had one. Having been the subject of a murder investigation, Lord Berkley would at the very least know with whom he should speak. He arrived at Costille in the late afternoon as the mellowing sun was hitting the large building’s fa?ade, softening it and almost making it look welcoming. The sprawling estate held little appeal to Henderson, who preferred more modern design, and he didn’t fully understand Lord Berkley’s obsession with the place. Likely it had something to do with tradition and heritage, two concepts Henderson had little experience with.
Berkley’s butler, looking more harried than usual, ushered him in hastily. Somewhere deep in the house was a terrible racket, and this was where the butler led him, practically pushing him inside the door of what appeared to be a music room. The instruments, a harp, a piano, and a row of—my God, the most beautiful violins Henderson had ever seen in one location—were untouched. But Berkley was ripping ornate paneling from the room, along with thick, floral wallpaper, swearing like a seaman.
“He doesn’t care for the décor,” the butler whispered before backing out of the room and leaving Henderson with what appeared to be a madman. Berkley was in his shirtsleeves, his hair a wild mass about his head, his shirt clinging to him from sweat. He wrenched an entire section of paneling from the wall, letting it fall with a violent bang, then stood back, his head hung low.
“Bitch!” He yelled so loudly, Henderson actually jerked back in surprise.
Henderson contemplated slowly backing from the room and pretending he’d never entered, but decided to simply let his presence be known. “My lord,” he said into the silence that followed.
Berkley started laughing, then turned, shaking his head. “I think, having seen me at my worst, we are now on a first name basis. You may call me Augustus, or Gus as my friends in America used to do.”
Henderson raised a brow. “Gus. I fear I cannot be quite that informal with you, sir. And you may call me Henderson, of course. If you don’t mind my asking, what has made you so angry?”
“There was a mural here from the fifteenth century and now it is gone. My God, she hated me.” He let out another laugh, but this one was filled with bitterness and anger. He clapped his hands loudly, as if doing so ended whatever dark mood he was in. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Henderson?”
He smiled. “I have solved a murder, actually four murders, and I need your help.”
Chapter 16
Four days after the John Knill ball, Alice was tiptoeing past her father’s door on her way out to visit with Harriet, when she stopped just outside his room. She could hear voices within, likely her father and his valet, and she slipped inside the door without knocking, for the thought that she would be turned away again was unbearable.
Indeed, it was Richard’s valet in the room, and he turned, a look of surprise on his face when he saw her standing there. Mr. Tisdale moved quickly toward her, making little shooing gestures with his hands, much to Alice’s annoyance, but was interrupted by her father. “Let her in, Mr. Tisdale,” he said, sounding weary.
The valet let out a small puff of air, so small Alice doubted her father even heard that tiny gesture of defiance, before nodding his head. “Good morning, Miss Hubbard,” he said before exiting the room.
Alice, her throat closing at the sight of her papa in bed even though he looked well and had good color, stepped to the edge of the bed and grabbed at the hand her father offered.
“I don’t want to speak of the ball, not yet. But I had to come and see you and tell you how very sorry I am that you are ill. And that I love you. And that no one should ever bar me from seeing you, no matter what I have done.” Richard opened his mouth to speak, his dear eyes full of forgiveness for his elder daughter, but she interrupted whatever it was he was going to say. “That is all I’m going to say, Papa. We’ll talk more another time and at much greater length, I assure you.” She smiled down at him impishly. “I fear what I have to say will not be what you want to hear, and I want to be certain you are much better.” Bending down to kiss his cheek, Alice saw her father’s eyes narrow in displeasure.