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“You were with Edward when he died?” Ambrose leans forward excitedly. “Did you see him fall out the window?”
“Alas, no. We had finished our liaisons and Edward had fallen into an opium-laced stupor. I tucked him into bed and went to rejoin the revelry downstairs. Edward and I had shared the last bottle of wine, you see, and I wanted to see what other delectable treats awaited me downstairs…” Her dreamy eyes rolled back in her head as she went to someplace in her memories.
“Who else was present during these…revels?” We have the list of names Mina dug out of the history books, but several of the guests may have already fallen into opium stupors of their own at that stage. My heart races at the realisation that this woman might have been Edward’s murderer, or that she might have seen something that could help.
The countess ticks them off on her fingers. “The naughty Earl of Bainbridge. Caroline of Bexley, some French tart whose name I can’t recall, the artist Cavendish, the occultist Thronsden – and Hugh – Eddie’s best friend, of course. He brought a case of French absinthe, which was just as well because we drank all the wine.”
“Did anyone leave the party after you joined?”
“But of course! Caroline and the Earl of Bainbridge went out into the back garden to serenade the moon. Hugh went out to chop more firewood, Cavendish, Bainbridge and Thronsden fornicated in the downstairs bathtub—”
I’m never using that tub again.
“So any one of them could have snuck upstairs and pushed Edward out the window?”
“I suppose so.” The countess shrugs. “But they all loved Eddie dearly. He put on the most delightful parties, and he threw money at them all so they could concentrate on their artwork. You can’t possibly think one of them could have done it.”
“Actually,” Ambrose cuts in. “We think you might have done it.”
“What?” she recoils, horrified. “You think I could have hurt my Eddie?”
“Yes, that’s precisely what we think,” I growl. I’m sick of her referring tomyEdward asher Eddie. “You could be lying to us about leaving the room and rejoining the party. After all, from what you’ve described, everyone was far too inebriated to know if you were there or not. You could easily have pushed him out the window.”
“What possible reason would I have to murder him?”
“Because he refused to marry you.” I remember Edward’s memory, her clinging to him and begging him. “I believe that you told him that if you can’t have him, no one could.”
She pales. “I didn’t mean that I wished to kill him. Why, and deprive the world of that man’s extraordinary tongue? No, I was hysterical, drunk, I only wanted him to be mine…and besides, how would I have killed him? I am but a delicate flower and Edward is a strong oak.”
“Hmph,” Pax glowers. “I disagree with this description, although I suppose Edward does have arms like little twigs.”
“You could have waited for him to fall into his opium stupor and then dragged him to the window,” I say. “He has a little bruise on his neck from where someone held him. There’s always a way available to a determined murderess.”
“But I didn’t murder him!” the countess sobs. “I won’t tolerate this slander in my own house, upon the scene of my own murder!”
I wince, because it is cruel to confront her here. But if she killed Edward…
“I don’t have to stand for this!” The countess hurls herself at the wall, but the moldavite I’m still carrying means that instead of falling through it into the room beyond, she crashes into it and drops to a heap on the floor.
“H-h-how did you do that?” She glares up at me, rubbing her side.
“I have powers you cannot fathom,” I growl. “I am a human who can reach you beyond the Veil, which means that I can fuck with you. I can even make you cross over, so you won’t be able to haunt this place any longer.”
It’s a bluff, but I’m hoping she won’t call me on it.
“No, I don’t want to cross over,” she moans, throwing herself dramatically to the floor. “I like it here. This is my home. I like meeting all the people and seeing their eyes bug out when I surprise them in the bathtub.”
“You’ll never again tickle a guest in the bathtub.” I rub my hands together. “Unless you tell us the truth about that night.”
“I—I—I—am, I swear it on my Eddie’s virile member!” she trembles, wrapping her arms around herself. “I couldn’t hurt him. I love him. I was going to leave my husband for him. I would become his permanent muse. We would run off to France together after the party was over. Why would I want to kill him?”
Edward was going to run away with this woman?
That hits me harder than I expect. Edward has always talked about the Countess de Rothschild in the same way he speaks of all his other exploits – as a knock between the sheets and nothing more. But was there something deeper between them? Why has he never mentioned it?
I slump back on the bed. The countess could still be lying, but she certainly sounded distressed. I believed her, which meant that if she wasn’t the murderer, she might be able to help us figure out who it is.
But then I recall the rest of the foggy, opium-laced memory I fell into when Edward was inside me, when he told her that he wouldn’t go away with them. What she’s saying doesn’t mesh with that memory. “Edward was going to run awaywithyou?”
