5
The bobbies had done their best to search Cynthia’s suite without disrupting her belongings, but Mrs Higgins bustled about her room in high dudgeon, setting things to right. Usually, Lily would be putting her to bed, but with the lady’s maid sacked and the rest of the staff in disarray from Hubert’s death, Mrs Higgins was doing her best to keep the household running smoothly.
‘Those ruffians have no respect for a lady’s privacy, make no mistake of that,’ she fumed, tugging the blanket tight across Cynthia’s feather-stuffed mattress. ‘What were they thinking they’d find under your mattress? I tell you. There’s not an ounce of sense among the lot of them.’
‘They were merely doing their job. I’m sure they had to look through everything to ensure there was no evidence to incriminate me.’
‘As if you could ever do such a thing.’ Mrs Higgins shook her head, her tight bun loosening. Her gaze fell on the mantle where several figurines of charming spaniels in silly poses sat. They never failed to make Cynthia smile. Except for this night, when her soul felt completely wrung out.
Mrs Higgins strode to the puppies, taking each figurine off the shelf one at a time, dusting it with her apron, and then returning it carefully to its rightful place. She was a woman who handled distress with movement and productivity. Something Cynthia could admire as she seemed to handle it with endless fretting.
‘I have a right mind to march down to Scotland Yard and tell that idiot superintendent that you are more likely to fly to the moon than murder anyone.’
‘Please, don’t worry. I’m sure they’ll discover the true killer, and then we can get back to normal.’ Though, Clio’s revelations ensured normal was a thing of the past for Cynthia.
After the infuriating Miss Helena Blair and Superintendent MacDougal had taken their leave, Clio and Thomas insisted on staying with her for the remainder of the afternoon.
Clio apologised for not being honest with Cynthia from the start, then explained exactly how her magic worked. Her confessions were overwhelming, but Cynthia felt a measure of comfort knowing there were no longer any secrets between them.
Cynthia’s head still spun as she imagined Clio speaking to ghosts. It was completely untoward, and yet, she needed to start accepting that nothing she thought about life was true any more.
She wasn’t able to hide her hope that Hubert’s spirit might still remain. That she might have an opportunity to speak with him one last time before he was truly gone. There were questions she wanted to ask and things she needed to say.
But Clio carefully doused that hope. Hubert’s spirit did not linger, and she would never get to speak her mind to him.
Cynthia was both angry and unsurprised. The man avoided any attempt to fulfil her desires in life. Why would that change with his death? Yet she was unaccountably disappointed. There were grievances he deserved to hear. Pain he had caused that demanded some kind of recompense. But he wouldn’t even grant her that dignity.
The coward of a man was gone. She would never get the satisfaction of confronting him. Because she had found her own courage too late. Rage layered over her shock and vastly dominated her grief. How dare the unfaithful bastard get himself murdered before she could show him that she did, in fact, have more backbone than a jelly cream tart? Even in death, he disregarded her.
‘I can’t imagine who would want to kill Lord Burrows.’ Mrs Higgins went back to dusting the mantle.
Me, for starters. No wonder the superintendent suspects me. If I had any self-respect, I would have killed him years ago.
Cynthia raised a knowing brow. ‘You’ve been our housekeeper for ten years, Mrs Higgins. I know the staff talk below stairs. I’m sure the footmen have told stories of the gambling hells he frequents. And I’m not so naïve as to believe the laundress hasn’t applied her mixture of honey and gin to remove rouge from Hubert’s shirts. He would never host anyone less than a lord in this house, but I’m sure he kept more questionable company. He was bound to make a few enemies who wouldn’t shy away from violence.’
Mrs Higgins stopped her cleaning and plucked at the seam of her apron. ‘I only thought a lady such as yourself shouldn’t be privy to the kind of ugly rumours we hear.’
‘You’ve always behaved with the utmost propriety, Mrs Higgins. You’re a tribute to your profession.’
The housekeeper’s cheeks darkened to wine. ‘I hardly think that’s true.’
‘Oh, it is. But trust me, ladies know more than most people assume. We’re just trained to ignore the unpleasant secrets and carry on. I know my husband was no saint, but I don’t know who could have killed him.’
Firming her thin lips into a hard line, Mrs Higgins picked up another figurine, polishing it vigorously. ‘Well, it wasn’t you, and anyone who says differently is a damn fool.’ She froze, the puppy upside down in her hands. ‘I’m ever so sorry, your ladyship.’
A glimmer of humour echoed in her hollow heart. Despite everything, it was comforting to know the housekeeper believed in her innocence. Even if no one else did. ‘That’s nothing to what I said earlier. A few coarse words at a time like this seems appropriate.’
‘Shall I bring you a tray for supper?’
Cynthia couldn’t imagine eating. She shook her head. ‘Perhaps some hot chocolate.’ Then she thought of the fox. ‘No. Make that brandy.’
Mrs Higgins winked before carefully placing the figurine in the exact same position she found it, now much shinier. She turned and hurried to complete her task.
Why shouldn’t Cynthia have brandy if she wished it? Hubert wasn’t there to censor her requests. As a widow suspected of murder, drinking a snifter of brandy every evening would hardly damage a reputation already in tatters. Even when her innocence was established, her position in society would never recover from this blow.
News of Hubert’s death was already likely to be circulating throughout the beau monde. It wouldn’t take long for them to learn she was a suspect. Despite Superintendent MacDougal’s desire to move swiftly, there was as much chance of salvaging her stalwart reputation as there was of calling Hubert back from the dead.
‘Well, at least I don’t have to drink another blasted cup of tea ever again.’ Cynthia fell back onto her stuffed chair. In the chaos of the day, she hadn’t had time to think about the voice she heard in her parlour. The one not belonging to any of the people present. ‘It was the fox. I know it. Hamlet. Ridiculous name for a fox.’ Though not half as ridiculous as believing she heard a fox’s thoughts. ‘Who keeps a pet fox? A witch, I suppose.’ Which was utter lunacy. But she had seen fire flicker to life in her sister-in-law’s palm, and all the lights had glowed with a power she couldn’t attribute to the gas lines. Perhaps hearing a fox wasn’t so ridiculous in the grand scheme of outlandish things she’d seen. Then there had been the whirlpool in Helena’s hand. The water in her palm glittered the same silver grey as her eyes. Eyes Cynthia found mesmerising. Another distressing fact to ponder in a sea of troubles.
