Page 43 of The Meriwell Legacy
Constance was glad—even a trifle relieved—to have Alaric with her; if Mrs. Macomber revealed anything of importance, Constance wanted an unimpeachable witness. But when they reached Mrs. Macomber’s door, she paused; looking into his face—lookingupinto his face, something she rarely had to do—she felt compelled to warn him, “If you can, resist the urge to ask Mrs. Macomber questions, at least at the start. She was never what you might call a strong woman.”
She saw his lips twitch, but he merely inclined his head, reached past her, opened the door, and held it for her.
Constance swept into the room and saw Mrs. Macomber, wearing a knitted bedjacket and with her hair in a cap, propped up by a mound of pillows in the bed. Alaric stepped around Constance, lifted the dressing table stool, and set it alongside the bed. She thanked him and sat, then focused on the chaperon’s soft, lined face. Her color was still poor, and her eyes had grown round; she was staring at Alaric.
Constance reined in her impatience—barking questions at the timorous chaperon wasn’t going to get them the results they needed—and calmly stated, “Lord Carradale is here because it’s really quite urgent that we learn answers to certain questions. Please bear with us, Mrs. Macomber, but with an inspector from Scotland Yard in the house, we felt it would be easier for you if you spoke with us rather than be interrogated by him.”
Alaric only just managed to hide his grin and assume a suitably concerned mien. His Amazon clearly thought quickly on her feet and was accustomed to dealing with difficult females.
Mrs. Macomber’s old eyes had grown even rounder at the mention of Scotland Yard. At the word “interrogation,” she shivered. “Oh! I hadn’t realized things were that bad.”
Constance nodded. “Sadly, there are constables in the house. So if you can tell us what you know about Glynis, we’ll do what we can to keep the inspector from your door.”
“Oh, thank you, dear. I never imagined…”
“First,” Constance forged determinedly on, “why did Glynis accept Mr. Mandeville’s invitation? She must have known her mother and the rest of the family would be horrified.”
Mrs. Macomber blinked owlishly. “But it was because of the betrothal, of course. I thought, when Glynis told me of it, that there would be no question over her coming here…well, I thought the family would be delighted, you see.”
Alaric appreciated the control Constance exhibited in keeping her “What betrothal?” to an even tone.
“Why, the one to Mr. Mandeville. Mr. Percy Mandeville. This visit was supposed to allow Glynis to meet his people—not his parents; that was to have come later—but his close friends and his old aunt. He felt sure his aunt would support him in taking Glynis to see his parents and gaining their approval of the match.” Mrs. Macomber frowned. “Of course, when we got here, Percy told Glynis that because his meddling cousin had arrived out of the blue, that it was necessary—essential, even—to keep the betrothal a secret.”
When Constance appeared to be struck dumb, Alaric softly asked, “As you know, I’m a close friend of Percy’s, and I suspect he thought to gain my support for the match as well, and then had to conceal the betrothal instead. How long ago did Percy ask Glynis to marry him?”
Mrs. Macomber pursed her lips in thought, then replied, “At least three weeks ago. I can’t be sure without consulting my diary.”
“I see.” Alaric exchanged a glance with Constance.
She looked at Mrs. Macomber and asked, “How did Glynis react to Percy’s request to keep the betrothal a secret?”
“Well, she was put out, of course, but Percy convinced her it was only until his cousin Edward went away. Sadly, they both suspected that would mean the end of the house party, but still… As Glynis said, against spending a lifetime together, what were seven more days?”
Somewhat carefully, Alaric asked, “Miss Johnson was wearing a chain about her neck on Monday evening. Do you have any idea what she wore on it—there was a weight of some sort dangling from it.”
Mrs. Macomber’s expression grew puzzled. “I don’t know—she didn’t normally wear a chain. Indeed, I think she only put it on—the chain she had on that night—after we arrived here on Sunday.”
When neither Alaric nor Constance immediately responded, Mrs. Macomber stretched out a hand and weakly gripped Constance’s wrist. “My dear, I know I have no right to throw myself on the family’s mercy, but I had no idea that accepting Mr. Mandeville’s invitation would lead to this…” Her old eyes filled with tears. “I am truly, truly sorry.”
Constance roused and patted the chaperon’s hand. “Please—no one blames you for this. This was the fault of a dreadful murderer, and no one else is to blame.”
“Thank you for saying that,” Mrs. Macomber all but babbled, “but I know how others will see it.”
“Nonsense!” Constance’s tone switched to bracing. “I can assure you the family will not hold you in any way responsible. Now you must concentrate on regaining your strength.”
“Oh, thank you.” Mrs. Macomber produced a lace-edged handkerchief and blotted her eyes. Then she paused and said, “I really don’t know much of the details of the betrothal, just the fact of it, as it were, but you could likely learn more from Percy’s letters to Glynis. I know she kept every one.”
Constance barely dared to breathe. “Where are they?” Who knew what clues might reside in the letters?
“Glynis kept them in her hatbox. It should be in the room she shared with Mrs. Cleary.”
“Glynis and Mrs. Cleary shared a room?” That was news to Constance—and to Alaric and possibly the other investigators. She’d assumed Glynis’s belongings had been in Mrs. Macomber’s room, but in readying the room for Constance, the efficient maids had tidied Glynis’s things away, and they were being held by Mrs. Carnaby; what with everything that had been going on, Constance hadn’t seen any reason to collect them yet. She blinked. “I glimpsed a hatbox on top of the wardrobe in Mrs. Cleary’s room. I thought it was hers.” She was about to leap to her feet and race off in pursuit of the hatbox, but Alaric’s hand on her shoulder held her down.
“One last question from me, Mrs. Macomber,” Alaric said. “Have you mentioned the betrothal to anyone else—anyone at all?”
Mrs. Macomber reared back. “No—I haven’t mentioned it to a single soul! I would never break such a confidence.”
Alaric managed—how, Constance didn’t know—to produce a reassuring smile. “I would expect nothing else, but we had to ask.” He met Constance’s eyes as she looked up at him, eyes wide, then said to Mrs. Macomber, “And now, we’ll leave you to rest and recuperate.”
