Quite a lot is wrong! My husband is dead in the other room.
Which concerned her deeply. But perhaps not enough. Maybe that is why Superintendent MacDougal was looking at her in such an odd manner. She was no actress. She couldn’t possibly mimic the response of a heartbroken, devastated woman. Those were not the emotions presently filling her.
Shock? Certainly.
Dismay? Of course.
Relief? Well. That’s hardly something one would admit.
Yet, as the horror of his death started to diminish, a new understanding sank into her like water into thirsty soil.
She was free.
Cynthia didn’t love her husband. Nor did Hubert ever love Cynthia. She had entertained the possibility of friendship during their brief courtship. But even that mild emotion died days after their wedding when his true nature emerged.
If she did feel a breath of liberation at his demise, it was only because she no longer had to pretend her society marriage was whole and happy. Or that she was whole and happy, for that matter.
Which didn’t mean she wished ill upon Hubert. A mild malaise, perhaps. Boils on his willy for all his philandering. A burning case of gout. Some sense of humiliation for his horrific behaviour. But bleeding to death on the rug in his study seemed rather more than necessary.
‘The man was prone to excess,’ Cynthia murmured. It occurred to her she might not be in her right mind. ‘Probably the shock.’
‘What was that?’ Superintendent MacDougal leaned closer, and the vines around her ribs tightened once more.
‘Nothing.’
Cynthia had never experienced a premonition. But the cold fingers of fate stroked along her neck as Superintendent MacDougal’s gaze shifted away from her. She shivered as a draught blew over her skin.
Something wicked this way comes.
She shook her head. This was hardly the time for Shakespeare.
‘Have you any suspects in Hubert’s murder?’ She feared she knew the superintendent’s answer. ‘It’s clear he didn’t die from natural causes.’
Superintendent MacDougal swallowed, his gaze resolute on the fresh fire crackling in the grate. Mrs Higgins must have lit it, which was mad for mid-July. Cynthia resisted the urge to move closer. Usually, the parlour was sweltering in the afternoon heat, but today she was shivering.
‘Lady Burrows, it gives me no pleasure to ask, but I must. Is there any reason you might want your husband dead?’
Oh dear.
Because she could think of hundreds of reasons.
2
Helena Blair looked from the very dead Marquess of Kentmore to her cousin, Clio.
Hamlet, her familiar and constant companion, twitched his fluffy copper tail. His left ear flicked back, and he tipped up his head, his black nose twitching. The strange clicking growl, indicative of foxes, never ceased to charm Helena. She could read his noises as easily as she read other people’s minds.
He was not a fan of all the blood. Sticky and quite stale.
Hamlet was incredibly fastidious. He didn’t appreciate the mess the marquess left when he departed. That is, if Lord Hubert Burrows had actually departed. Determining whether his ghost lingered was a task her cousin was here to accomplish.
‘Does his spirit remain?’ Helena watched carefully as Clio Blair crouched in a daring leather corset and bright-green silk skirt to touch the edge of Lord Burrows’ jacket.
Helena had never seen the dress Clio was wearing. Once, she knew every outfit in her cousin’s closet. But this new ensemble highlighted Helena’s fear. Now Clio was married, she was slowly drifting away. It felt like Helena hadn’t seen her in at least a fortnight, though it had only been two days since they worked together at their aunt’s apothecary shop – All Things Bright and Beautiful.
Clio’s spells and potions created the coveted beauty products they sold: lotions, cosmetics, and creams crafted from fresh herbs, essential oils, empowered crystals, and good old-fashioned magic. Helena worked the counter while Clio conjured miracles in the cellar. When the store was quiet, Clio would sit at the counter and gossip with Helena, which was grand. But their friendship had shifted since Clio left Blair House to live with her husband.
Helena was used to walking down the hallway of their Mayfair townhouse and jumping on Clio’s bed every night. Eleanor would join them, and they would giggle over shared jokes, commiserate about some of the insipid beau monde to whom they catered, or perhaps discuss new spells they were practising.
