Though he had not yet seen the murder weapon with his own eyes, the inspector had described it as a stone at least twice the size of a man’s fist and rough to the touch. Those details had sent his stomach plummeting. How could it be any other but Victoria’s, the one his sister had stolen?
That Gwendolyn could be involved in these hideous murders iced his soul. For now, he shoved the thought away. His sister might be brash and prone to histrionics, but she was never depraved. Never cruel.
“Ah, Gwennie . . . where are you?”
The door opened; his pulse lurched and his body tensed, ready to grasp any opportunity that might gain him his freedom. His lean-faced guard peered in at him, and then stepped aside as Ivy appeared at his shoulder. At the sight of her sweet face, every bit of Simon’s readiness drained from his limbs. For the span of a heartbeat she simply stared across at him, unshed tears magnifying her eyes. Then she hurried to him.
The chamber door remained open, the constable watching. Ivy stopped abruptly a foot or two away and grasped Simon’s hand in both of hers. Blinking, she gave it a masculine shake for their observer’s benefit.
“I know you are innocent,” she said without preamble.
“Do you, my dearest?” he whispered. The constable narrowed his eyes in an apparent attempt to read his lips, but the man remained where he was on the far side of the threshold. “I would understand if you doubted me. But upon my honor, I don’t know how the stone came to be in my clothespress.”
“Someone obviously put it there.” A ghost of remorse flitted across her features. So she had entertained a doubt or two. He couldn’t blame her. But now she squared her shoulders in a show of resolve that made his throat constrict. “I promise I shall not abandon you.”
The sentiment filled his heart with equal measures of joy and fear. “Ivy, please let the authorities handle this. I won’t have you running full throttle into danger.”
“I have an idea that may reveal the killer. We must set a trap—”
“
We
mustn’t do anything.” He started to reach for her, wanting to seize her shoulders and give her a good shake. The constable’s presence forbade it. Simon lowered his voice to a stiff-jawed murmur. “Damn it, I want you gone from here today. Surely Inspector Scott has given everyone permission to leave.”
“He has not. Despite the evidence of the stone, I don’t believe he’s entirely convinced he found his man. And that is why—”
“No!” Frustration raised his voice above a whisper.
The constable cleared his throat. “I don’t know what the two of you are yammering about, but I’m breaking the rules in allowing you this much time to prattle.” He jerked his chin at Ivy. “Collect your things, and be on your way.”
She treated him to an impatient wave and set off into the dressing room. When she returned, hastily bundled clothing spilled from her gaping valise. That earnest, studious little crease Simon loved formed above her nose. “I
will
work this out.”
Her conviction had him believing her. Despite his pleas to the contrary, Ivy Sutherland would do as she damned well pleased. Cradling her bag in her arms, she started to turn away. Again Simon nearly reached for her, loath to let her go so soon. She caught the sudden movement of his hand, for she stopped and questioned him with a look.
“How is your friend?” he asked.
A smile lit her expression. “Much better. Jasper sustained little more than a flesh wound and is fussing to be up, though the doctor insists he must keep to his bed for now.”
“Good advice, I’m sure. Mr. Lowbry is a lucky young man.”
“Ahem.” The constable’s signal could not be any clearer. Still, Ivy lingered.
“Please be careful out there, my dearest Ned.” Simon mouthed the endearment. She nodded, blinking away a tear that undid him. He grasped her shoulder and pulled her closer, not as a lover would, but as a master wishing to convey instructions to his protégé. “I will not remain idle much longer,” he whispered.
Her eyes widened with comprehension and fear, and an imminent appeal that he do nothing rash.
It was an appeal he could not satisfy, not when she and the others here were still in danger. “Windgate Priory is as familiar to me as Harrowood,” he said in a rush. “If I can break free of this room, I’ll head straight for the attic. They’ll never find me there.”
A thousand questions burned in her eyes, but she gave a single nod. Gently Simon pushed her away, and with a last look back at him she turned into the corridor. The constable reached in to shut the door.
“Not so fast,” a voice commanded. “I need to speak with both of them.”
Chapter 23
I
vy was ushered back into the room by Inspector Scott, followed by her brother-in-law, who shut the door on the constable’s curious gaze.
In his hands, Scott held an object slightly smaller than Ben’s illumination globes, swaddled in gray flannel. He set it on the bed and pulled the wrapping free. A black stone, pitted and speckled with silver, rolled onto the coverlet. “This, sir, is the murder weapon we found in this very room earlier today, and which presently stands as evidence against you.”
“Dear heavens.” Ivy dropped her valise onto the nearest chair and crossed to the bed. Simon moved beside her, and together they beheld the stone that had caused such turmoil, which possessed the power to disrupt the new queen’s reign.
Simon found the unassuming hunk of rubble absurdly anticlimactic. Reaching out, he touched a finger to the rough surface, expecting to feel . . . something. A charge. A waft of energy. Ivy had described the stone as powerfully electromagnetic.
He felt nothing other than bits of ore and sediment. A certainty filled him and he shot a glance at Ivy. “Go ahead,” he urged. “Touch it.”
As he had, she pressed a fingertip to the stone, then cupped her palm over the lopsided orb. Her brow puckered as she shook her head. “This can’t be it....” Then, more firmly, “This most assuredly is not it.”
Inspector Scott reached around her and with a nudge sent the stone for a half roll. “Not what, precisely?”
“The electromagnetic hunk of meteorite recently stolen from the queen,” Barensforth explained in a bland tone. He met Ivy’s indignant expression with a haughty lift of an eyebrow. “The time for secrets is over.”
Scott regarded him quizzically. “Is
that
what was taken from Her Majesty’s apartments? The papers said it was a jewel.”
No one bothered to reply to the rhetorical question. Simon burned to ask a few questions of his own, such as what Scott and Barensforth were doing here. Had they merely come to discuss the nature of the stone, or had they discovered some new evidence that pointed to the real killer? Dared he hope?
Whatever their reasons, he drew on his reserves of patience and supposed they would reveal their purpose in their own good time. His reading spectacles sat on the nightstand; he placed them on his nose and bent over the stone to examine the surface more closely. Dull, rust-colored sediment clung congealed in its crevices. “Blood.”
“Correct, Lord Harrow.” With a sniff, the inspector reached into his coat pocket for his writing tablet and a whittled-down stub of a pencil. “Now, would one of you be so kind as to explain fully to me what Her Majesty’s stone is, and why this object cannot be it?”
Clearly dismayed at having to divulge the queen’s secrets, Ivy launched into the details she had once confided to Simon. She ended by thrusting a finger at the stone, conspicuously ugly against the satin coverlet. “That, as we can plainly discern, possesses no electromagnetic properties whatsoever. It is obviously a decoy, placed among Lord Harrow’s effects in a deplorable attempt to incriminate him.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Ivers, but this is most assuredly the murder weapon.” Scott held his pencil aloft and studied Ivy with a shrewd expression. “Or shall I call you
miss
?”
A flush of indignation flooded her cheeks. “Aidan, how could you?”
“Lord Barensforth didn’t tell me a thing,” the inspector said with a chuckle in his voice. “I might not work out of a posh Scotland Yard office, but neither am I a bumbling country bumpkin. Ah, but not to worry, miss. You aren’t the only individual in this house to make that mistake.” He made a notation in his tablet. “I’ll need the name of the lady-in-waiting who made off with the queen’s property.”
“She is my sister,” Simon offered up, rather than burden Ivy with the guilt of throwing further suspicion upon him. He removed his spectacles and returned them to the bedside table. “Lady Gwendolyn de Burgh.”
Leaning against a tall bureau, the Earl of Barensforth crossed his arms over his chest and regarded Simon from beneath the jut of his brow. “And did your sister steal this stone for your benefit, sir?”
“That is a question I cannot answer, sir.”
“Cannot or will not?”
Barensforth’s manner toward him had changed since the last time they’d spoken. Then, Simon had managed to convince the earl that nothing untoward had occurred during Ivy’s stay at Harrowood, but this new show of disdain suggested the man had guessed at the truth. Hardly able to blame Barensforth for his hostility, Simon forcibly uncurled the fists that had formed at his sides. It would solve nothing if the two of them fell to brawling, especially since the friction between them had little to do with the murders, and everything to do with Ivy.
Marginally calmer, Simon replied, “I have not seen my sister since she first entered the queen’s household. Whatever her motives, she has not shared them with me. And while we believed she would turn up here at Windgate Priory, thus far we’ve not glimpsed a trace of her.” His attention returned to the stone. “Until now, that is, because whoever thought to use this decoy as the murder weapon either possesses or knows about the true stone.”
Barensforth and Inspector Scott exchanged glances, the former filled with a message of caution and doubt, the latter with the authority of a man who would reach his own conclusions and didn’t give a fig what anyone else thought.
Scott nibbled the end of his pencil, then said, “It may surprise you to learn, Lord Harrow, that I have undergone a change of heart concerning your alleged guilt. Whether or not you had opportunity or the murder weapon, neither I nor my constables nor even Lord Barensforth here can conceive of a motive for you to have committed these murders.”
“And believe me,” Barensforth said in a low growl, “I wanted to.”
“Oh, thank goodness you are a man of sound reasoning, Inspector.” Ivy sank into the wing chair beside the hearth. The strain of the morning showed in how pallid she’d become, in the sheen of sweat across her brow. “You will declare Lord Harrow innocent, then?”
“Innocent?” Her brother-in-law’s upper lip curled. “Hardly.”
The inspector held up a pudgy hand. “Not just yet, I’m afraid.”
“But—”
“At the moment, miss, it appears as though someone set up Lord Harrow to appear the guilty party. I believe it best to convince the culprit that we are satisfied with our suspect. Lord Harrow, since you are well versed in the scientific community, perhaps you can help us determine a motive, not only for the murders, but also for why the killer would wish to frame you specifically.”
“I can’t think of a reason why anyone would do such a thing.”
“Then I must be blunt and ask if your sister holds a grudge against you.”
“She ...” Simon trailed off. Surely their last words had been angry ones, filled with blame and spite on Gwendolyn’s part, many regrets on his. In truth, if he had blamed anyone for her behavior, it was himself. He should have been watching more closely, should have been more involved in Gwen’s life.
She had resented his interference, yes, but did she hate him for it? Enough to commit murder and splatter his hands with the blood?
Chapter 24
“N
o, Inspector,” Simon concluded. “My sister could not be responsible for murder.”
“You are certain beyond all doubt, my lord?”
Simon hesitated again. Was he judging his sister with a clear eye, or with the heart of a brother who wished he’d done a better job of looking after her? He glanced over at Ivy for . . . He didn’t quite know what. She had never met Gwendolyn, could in no way vouch for her character. Yet in her dark eyes and solemn nod he found the confidence to answer the inspector’s question.
“Beyond all doubt,” he said.
“Very well, then. Perhaps if I were to enlighten you as to the suspects we are considering thus far, you might be able to suggest a possible motive.” Scott consulted his writing tablet. “Benjamin Rivers, Errol Quincy, Colin Ashworth, Jasper Lowbry—”
“Jasper!” Ivy’s jaw dropped. “He was a victim.”
“Or an exceedingly clever actor,” Scott said with a waggle of his forefinger. “Thus far, he is the only victim to escape death. He may have staged his own attack, perhaps knowing you were on your way to the library this morning. You never did see a trace of the culprit.”
“But Jasper wouldn’t lie.” Her last word ended abruptly. “At least I don’t think he would....” She gave her head an adamant shake. “Jasper would not lie, nor could he ever commit an act of violence. It simply isn’t in him.”
A streak of possessiveness nearly prompted Simon to question how she could be so certain of the young whelp, but on second thought he held his tongue. This was no time for petty jealousies.
“And you can think of no strife among the students,” Scott asked her, “that might have led to acts of vengeance?”
Again, Ivy shook her head. “None. They are . . . were ...” Her head went down. “An affable lot.”
Scott pushed his spectacles higher on his nose. “And Mr. Lowbry would have no cause to feel jealousy toward Lord Harrow?”
“Jealousy . . . ?” Ivy trailed off as the inspector’s meaning apparently sank in. Her cheeks flamed, but her jaw jutted self-righteously forward. “Jasper has no inkling of my identity. He believes me to be one of his mates.”