Page 18 of The Meriwell Legacy
Constance looked down on the distant cousin she’d been sent to fetch safely home and, again, the sense of failure—of failing in that task—swamped her.
Focusing on Glynis’s face, taking in the sweetness still apparent, Constance murmured, “Our poor Glynis—who did this to you?”
Two seconds later, a light tap on the door drew her from her unhappy thoughts. The door opened to reveal one of the upstairs maids.
Halting just inside the room, the maid bobbed a curtsy. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, I’m to report that your maid and groom have arrived with your things, and as you requested, we’ve set you up to share the poor young lady’s chaperon’s room.”
“Thank you.” Earlier, on hearing that Constance had put up at the village inn, Percy had invited her to stay at the Hall; while Constance valued the privacy and anonymity of staying at an inn, if she was to find Glynis’s killer, being on site was surely preferable, and she’d accepted Percy’s offer.
The maid went on, “And Mrs. Carnaby wanted me to ask if you’d like one of us to spell your girl while she’s watching over Mrs. Macomber, ma’am.”
Constance thought, then replied, “My thanks to Mrs. Carnaby and the staff. Until Mrs. Macomber wakes, if one of you could spell Pearl whenever she requires it, that would be helpful.” She should remember to tell Pearl she was referred to as a girl; that would make the middle-aged lady’s maid laugh.
The maid—a girl in truth—bobbed again. “I’ll let Mrs. Carnaby know, ma’am.”
The girl turned, then stepped back and held the door—allowing Carradale to enter.
He directed a vague smile and a nod at the girl. “Milly.”
Milly bobbed again. “Your lordship.”
For an instant, Constance wondered if there was anything between the pair, if Carradale and the maid had…
Constance blinked. Carradale was a local; of course, he would know the maid’s name. And while it was impossible to miss his rakish side, all she’d seen suggested he wasn’t the type to be constantly on the prowl, sniffing after anything in skirts. He was a reserved and aloof wolf, if there was such a thing—picky and needing a challenge to stir him. Where she got such an assurance from, she had no idea, but whatever prey he settled on, she felt certain it would be no relatively helpless maid.
Indeed, despite the exchange, he seemed to have barely registered Milly’s presence; his gaze had swung to Constance all but immediately, and there it remained as he crossed the small room to stand on the opposite side of the table.
Only then did he lower his gaze to Glynis’s face.
Alaric was battling surprise and had to own to being curious as to why, despite the dead body between them, the primary focus of his senses was the Amazon facing him. He’d been informed by Mrs. Carnaby—who had known him since he’d been in short-coats—that in the staff’s estimation, Miss Whittaker was “a proper lady” and sane and sensible to boot. The latter assessment was high praise, indeed; Mrs. Carnaby did not bear fools gladly and usually sniffed and tipped up her nose at the foibles of the tonnish ladies Percy invited to stay.
Aware that he wasn’t the only one subject to the prods of curiosity, he glanced briefly at the Amazon’s strikingly attractive face. “I remembered something from last night, and I wanted to check.”
That, of course, guaranteed him her full attention; the mystery was that he craved it.
“Oh?” She stepped closer to the table and looked down at her dead cousin. “What did you remember?”
He reached for the high ruffle that largely concealed Glynis Johnson’s slender throat. “I need to see the base of her neck. Do you mind if I undo the collar?”
She frowned, but waved at him to proceed. “Not if it gets us any closer to identifying who did this.”
He slipped the top two buttons of the nightgown free, then spread the halves of the collar, exposing Glynis’s throat to the collarbones. He bent closer, examining the purple blotches left on the fine white skin. He pushed the cotton ruffle farther back, with his eyes following a line toward Glynis’s nape, and found, all but hidden beneath the heavy bruising, what he’d thought might be there.
Feeling a spark of elation, he pointed to the side of the throat, just above the point where neck met shoulder. “There. Can you see it?” He eased back a little to allow her to lean closer and examine the area. “The mark left by a chain.”
He looked and confirmed, “It’s repeated here, on the other side.” He straightened and looked at the Amazon; head bent, she was minutely examining the tiny marks left on the side of Glynis’s throat. “When I saw your cousin yesterday evening, when we strolled on the terrace and then when I left her with Percy and the others, she was wearing a gold chain with some pendant—some weight—on it.”
Slowly, frowning more definitely, the Amazon straightened. “So presumably she was still wearing the chain when she met the murderer.”
“So one would think.”
“The chain’s been ripped off—that’s what left those marks.” She met his gaze. “What was the pendant—the thing she had on the chain?”
“I don’t know. She wore it beneath her bodice.”
For a second, they stared at each other, then she said, “I suspect this is—or at least might be—new evidence to lay before Sir Godfrey tomorrow.”
“Possibly.” He glanced at the body, then looked at the Amazon. “If you’ve finished here, perhaps we might take a stroll.”
