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Bryony had shoved her hands behind her back, acting on pure instinct, and she could only hope the shadows in the room hid what was likely her greenish pallor. “No need,” she managed to say in a relatively brisk tone. “I’ll finish up in here by myself.”
“Are you certain, Mrs. Greaves? Because I could—”
“Absolutely certain,” she said, unable to keep a note of grimness out of her voice. “I’m sure you have other things that will keep you busy.”
If her tone surprised Emma she didn’t show it. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, and a moment later she was gone. Bryony sank to her knees then, holding on to the wide sill of the window for balance, then snatched her hands back when she saw the bloody marks she was leaving. She sat back on her heels, shuddering.
What had Kilmartyn said? Nothing would please me more than if she’d simply fall off the face of the earth, never to be seen or heard from again. And in Bertie’s drugged-like stupor he’d heard what he called a tremendous row. Had Kilmartyn fought with his wife one last time? Had he lost his temper?
She shivered in the cool, damp room. The thought was abhorrent, so bizarre she couldn’t believe she was even considering the possibility. And yet, she was already wondering whether he’d killed her father in cold blood. Just what kind of monster was he?
Had he killed his wife, disposed of her body, and then taken to his bed only to end up with Bryony in his arms? Surely if he’d killed his wife he would have gotten rid of all evidence. He was a very thorough man. And what about Lady Kilmartyn’s French maid? Where had she gone during all this?
She should leave the room as she’d found it and send word to Scotland Yard. They’d flatly ignored her suspicions about her father’s death, refusing to look into it, but if the Earl of Kilmartyn was suspected in a second death then the first one would be more likely to come to light. If he was a cold-blooded killer then this time he would have signed his own death warrant. All she had to do was lay charges against him and take off, waiting for the wheels of justice to grind.
But could she trust Scotland Yard? No one had her motivation, and as far as she could see the only one who’d care about Lady Kilmartyn’s demise would be her handsome cousin. Given the circumstances he could scarcely come forward.
She pushed herself to her feet. Her legs were stronger now, and her hands weren’t shaking as much. Her stomach still felt a bit queasy, and she glanced over at the dark, viscous stain. What else could it be? One of Mrs. Harkins’s rapacious rats? She had no sense of how much blood a human or a rodent contained—the mess might simply be the result of someone dispatching a rat with a fire poker. The elegant mademoiselle might be willing to wield the weapon—she was French, after all—but soaking up blood might be a little too much to ask. It was a reasonable scenario. A revolting rat appears in the countess’s bedroom, she shrieks, and her maid does battle, leaving the room in a shambles and covered in blood, and the two of them take off rather than deal with the mess.
Reasonable enough. She could convince herself that was what happened, couldn’t she? Except what kind of rat had that much blood in him?
She wasn’t going to consider any other possibility, at least, not at the moment. Lady Kilmartyn would show up in a week or two, that smug smile on her perfect mouth. If Bryony were to make a fuss over a little blood it would simply distract from what she was here to accomplish.
There was simply no way that Kilmartyn could have had anything to do with this. The wickedly playful man she’d tumbled into bed with hadn’t come from a scene of carnage or a violent crime, nor would he have arisen in the predawn hours to go commit such a heinous act. It was impossible, unless he was far greater a villain than even she could imagine. And he wasn’t. He was a great deal of dangerous talk, but beneath it she doubted he could ever hurt something weaker than he was, even his despised wife.
She’d never been so grateful for the wonders of hot, plumbed water. She’d found an empty ewer and climbed the stair to fill it from the bathing room on the third floor, then carried it back down to the ruined bedroom. It took four trips to get the majority of the blood up, and even then the ominous brownish stain lingered on the edge of the pale pink carpet.
She’d ended up using some of Lady Kilmartyn’s white lawn chemises, then wrapped them all in a dark wool cape and tucked the whole thing into the middle of the second pile of discards. The weave of the wool was tight enough that the drying blood shouldn’t leak through, and all this should end up in the ocean or the Thames by day’s end. There would be nothing to tie all that blood with the countess of Kilmartyn. She pulled the curtains again, plunging the room back into darkness, and at the last minute found a small, woven rug on the floor of the dressing room. It would look odd, pushed up against the windows and covering part of the Aubusson, but it would be better than nothing.
She would have given anything to go upstairs to bathe and change. The smell of blood seemed to cling to her, and her stomach was still unsteady after the day’s work, but she didn’t dare. Instead she managed to sneak into the bathing room, strip down to her waist and scrub most of the blood off her. Some lingered in the cracked skin around her fingers, beneath her short nails, and she was so ruthless in scrubbing that she caused her own damaged skin to bleed. She dried her hands on her own petticoats, dropping the dark skirts back down over them, and pulled her clothes back around her before splashing water in her face.
There was a large mirror opposite the huge copper tub, which struck Bryony as odd. There would be no way to avoid looking at one’s unclothed body, and she couldn’t think of any possible benefit to such an embarrassing encounter. It was one thing to check one’s reflection to ensure that one’s clothes fit correctly, one’s hair was neat. There was absolutely no reason to look at an unclothed body. Was there?
She glanced back at the huge tub. The house on Curzon Street hadn’t yet been fitted with hot water—her father had always held a deep mistrust of excessive bathing, and there were always plenty of servants to lug hot water for her and her sisters. If it had been up to her this would have been the first improvement she would have made to their London house, the house that was now a burned-out shell. If they ever regained ownership of Renwick she would have hot water piped all the way up to the servants’ quarters—these past few days had reinforced her love for the incredible luxury of a hot bath.
She still looked a little chalky, and she reached up and pinched her cheeks, forcing color back into them. Her hair had come loose, and she pinned it back in place. It was going to be just fine, she told herself. Everything would be just fine.
The huge bundles she’d left in the hallway were gone by the time she opened the bathroom door, and the gaslights had been lit against the increasing gloom of the day. The noise overhead was silenced, and she moved up the inner staircase to the third floor and poked her head into Kilmartyn’s bedroom.
The progress was impressive. The walls had been stripped of their gloomy fabric, the curtains were down, and the woodwork had a fresh coat of paint. If Mr. Peach’s men could replace the wall coverings by tomorrow Kilmartyn would be able to return to his room by the following day. She moved through the inner doorway, peering into the adjoining room. That was even further along, with two of the four walls already covered in the gray-blue damask that brightened the area. The late spring afternoon was beginning to settle down, and she moved to the window, staring out into the gathering dusk. Where in the world had the day gone? Scrubbing the blood of a murdered woman, or cleaning up after a dead rat? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.
“I got rid of them parcels, Mrs. Greaves,” Bertie announced when she made her way into the kitchen. “Mr. Collins thought we ought to go through things, see what we might save, but I told him her ladyship don’t like to keep things around and she don’t like other people using her things. Dustman’s already taken everything up on his cart as well as piles from three other houses, so I’m hoping you haven’t changed your mind about it. There won’t be getting any of it back.”
She considered feigning a look of disappointment, then decided not to bother. “Thank you, Bertie. We’re well rid of it all.”
“I still say it’s a Christian shame,” Mr. Collins announced. “Such good things going to waste.”
“It’s not our place to question our employe
rs,” Bryony said in a reproving tone. She’d almost used the more common phrase, “our betters,” but something stopped her at the last minute. There was no way she could reasonably refer to a reprobate like the Earl of Kilmartyn as her better—she’d choke on the very words.
She didn’t want time to stop and think, nor did she want the other servants to start wondering. The more she thought about it the more convinced she was. Blood had been everywhere in that room. No one could lose that much blood and survive. She had never been prone to dramatics—she left that up to her younger sisters. Common sense had always seemed to serve her best, but she couldn’t rid herself of the hideous certainty that someone had died in that room. Was there any possible alternative?
Lady Kilmartyn had disappeared, leaving everything, her jewels included, behind. Leaving nothing but blood-splattered clothes and sheets. Her maid was gone as well. There had been stories, of course, of servants driven mad who’d turned on their employer, and even this short taste of life belowstairs made it seem more than reasonable. Not that she was tempted to take a butcher knife to Kilmartyn. A good solid broom against the side of his head, however, might knock some sense into him.
But if someone had murdered either Lady Kilmartyn or her maid or both, then where were the bodies? The blood was telltale enough.
Like a moth drawn to a flame she’d been pulled back to the room, over and over again, checking to make certain there was no sign of violence, of bloodshed left to the casual eye.
