Page 25 of In the Midnight Hour

Hypatia narrowed her eyes. The Miss Claverton she’d met was not this easily affected. In their encounters, she’d struck Hypatia as cool and aloof.

“I’m sorry to trouble you, Miss Claverton,” Mr. Sheffield said with deep concern. “I will try to keep this brief. Please tell me about your relationship with your great-uncle.”

“Uncle Radnor was very dear to me.” Her lips, which seemed almost red next to her pale skin, lifted in a tremulous smile. “And I was dear to him. He’d talked of giving me a dowry, in spite of my…age. To discover that she”—Miss Claverton turned her head toward Hypatia and thrust her hand out—“that Lady Cartwright seduced him into changing his will and ignoring us is beyond horrible. It’s absolutely devastating.” She sobbed into her handkerchief.

Her outrageous claim sparked more whispering. Hypatia clasped her hands tightly around her reticule.

“Miss Claverton, are you saying Lady Cartwright and Sir Radnor had a romantic entanglement?” Mr. Sheffield asked.

“I should think it’s obvious after all that’s been said today and seeing how Uncle Radnor made a new will. He was bewitched by Lady Cartwright.”

Hypatia had felt terrible that the Clavertons had been passed over in favor of her, but listening to Miss Claverton’s vitriol was changing her sentiment.

“That simply isn’t true,” Hypatia said loudly and clearly. “Forgive me for interrupting, but I can’t allow Miss Claverton to state such nonsense and malign my character. I had no romantic connection to her great-uncle whatsoever.” It felt good to say that in front of everyone, even if she ought to have kept quiet.

Mr. Sheffield gave her a patient look. “I must ask that you not interrupt, Lady Cartwright, but thank you for your perspective.”

Perspective? It was the bloody truth!

Furthermore, Hypatia highly doubted there’d ever been talk of a dowry, not after what Sir Radnor had said about leaving them nothing.

Mr. Sheffield concluded his questioning and excused Miss Claverton. She tossed Hypatia the barest smug look—so brief that anyone else likely missed it. However, Hypatia had not. That had been quite a performance indeed.

“Mr. Sheffield?” One of the jurors sitting toward the middle of the bench, a middle-aged gentleman with sable hair and spectacles, raised his hand. “I would like to know more about the missing walking stick. Can any of the witnesses describe it?”

Mr. Sheffield looked to the first row. “Mr. Maberly or Mr. Usher? Do one of you know what the missing walking stick looks like?”

“I do,” Usher, who apparently hadn’t fallen asleep again, replied. “I was the one who discovered it was missing when Mr. Wardingham was taking inventory.”

“I take it you mean Mr. Wadham,” the coroner gently suggested.

The valet shrugged. “If you say so.” He pointed over at Mr. Wadham. “That fellow there.”

“Please describe the walking stick, Mr. Usher,” Mr. Sheffield directed.

“It belonged to Sir Radnor’s grandfather,” Usher said. “Typical dark wood stick, but the top was a silver eagle’s head with an onyx eye. The detail of the bird’s features is astonishing. The beak could be a bit of a problem, however. It curved down slightly and had a sharp point that sometimes got caught on Sir Radnor’s clothing.” The valet lifted his hand and curved his forefinger to show the shape of the beak. “I had to stitch a pair of his trousers once.”

One of Mr. Sheffield’s brows climbed. “A sharp point?” He looked back at the juror who’d posed the question. “Why did you ask about the walking stick?”

“Since it’s missing, I wondered if it could have been used to hit Sir Radnor.”

Mr. Sheffield shifted his gaze to the physician in the front row. “Dr. Ellingham, will you please return to the table? The oath you took earlier remains binding.”

Dr. Ellingham went forward and sat down.

The coroner turned slightly toward the physician. “In your opinion, could Sir Radnor’s fatal wound have been caused by a walking stick such as described by Mr. Usher?”

“Wielded by the right person—someone capable of hitting Sir Radnor with great force—yes, such a walking stick would make an excellent weapon,” Dr. Ellingham replied.

“Which is more likely, that Sir Radnor fell and struck his head on the bedpost, or he was hit with the walking stick or something like it?” Mr. Sheffield asked. “Please take into consideration the evidence we have, including the estimated amount of blood Mrs. Babcock said she cleaned up, and the angle at which Sir Radnor, at five feet and ten inches, would have had to fall to strike his head in just the right manner.”

Again, whispers darted around the room.

Dr. Ellingham blew out a breath. “I suppose it makes slightly more sense that something besides the bedpost finial caused Sir Radnor’s mortal injury. Honestly, I expected there would be flesh or meat on the bedpost and there was not, nor did Mrs. Babcock mention cleaning any off—and I did ask.”

Mr. Sheffield’s gaze shifted to the housekeeper. “Did you clean anything like that off the bedpost?”

“I didn’t clean the bedpost at all, sir.” Mrs. Babcock’s cheeks were flushed. “I hadn’t gotten to that yet before Lord Northwood interrupted me and bade me to stop.”