Page 8 of The Meriwell Legacy
She was distinctly stiff, a managing female with a strong line in condescension, yet Alaric was grateful she wasn’t the swooning, weeping, helpless sort. Monty would be in his element soothing the weeping chaperon, but Alaric had never had that skill; distraught ladies made him want to run—far away.
After a second’s thought, he crouched by the body and, once again, gently lifted the same arm he’d earlier moved.
Constance studied him, then she walked to the body and crouched on the opposite side. “What are you doing?”
He glanced at her. His hazel eyes were sharp, their expression shrewd as he studied her face. On the evidence thus far, he seemed decidedly more intelligent—more direct and straightforward—than any of the others she’d met at Mandeville Hall.
Eventually, he said, “If her limbs are stiffening, and they are, then she was killed at least four hours ago. Given it was cool overnight—and that delays the stiffening—it seems likely she was killed more like eight hours ago.”
She frowned. “It’s just after nine o’clock now, so possibly an hour or so after midnight.”
He nodded and gently set Glynis’s arm down.
She hesitated, then reached for Glynis’s other arm, the one closer to her. As soon as she raised it, she felt what he had; it was as if the muscles were locking in place. Carefully, she set the arm down. She debated, then looked at him. “You said you were attending the house party. As you knew what Glynis was wearing last evening, I assume you attended the same event. Did you happen to notice if she went outside with any man?”
Carradale met her eyes—and she knew he was deciding whether to tell her something. Then his lips—lean and mobile and curiously visually magnetic, at least for her—twisted, and he said, “Glynis strolled the terrace with me—that was at her suggestion, which others overheard. But that wasn’t that late, and I returned her to the drawing room. I left her with a group of others—including Mandeville and Monty—then I quit the house and rode home.”
Constance tried to imagine how and why Glynis was where they’d found her. “She must have gone outside later, with some other man.”
“Possibly.” Carradale rose, hesitated for a heartbeat, then offered her his hand. She gripped it—feeling the strength in both hand and arm as he closed his fingers around hers and drew her to her feet.
She almost felt flustered and inwardly scoffed; no man had ever rattled her senses. What she felt had to be a lingering effect of shock. Then his reply registered, and she frowned and looked at him. “Why ‘possibly’?”
He met her gaze, held it for an instant, then replied, “Did she leave the house before or after the gathering broke up? If after, then it’s possible she ventured out on her own, either to meet someone else—man or woman—or simply to get some air.”
She looked down at the necklace of bruises marring the white column of Glynis’s throat. “No woman did that.”
“No—it was a man. But depending on when and why she left the house, it’s possible that the only person who knew she was outside was”—he followed her gaze and rather grimly concluded—“whoever did that to her.”
Constance continued to look down at Glynis’s body, and the responsibility that habitually weighed on her shoulders seemed to grow heavier. She’d come there to rescue Glynis…only to find her already dead. Anger and more rose within her. “I swear I will not rest until your murderer is caught. And hanged.”
She felt Carradale’s sharp gaze touch her face and linger, then he said, quite simply, “Indeed.”
The single word carried a full measure of lethal promise. In pursuing justice for Glynis, evidently Constance wasn’t—and wouldn’t be—alone.
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Chapter 2
Along with the stony-faced Miss Whittaker, Alaric paced toward the house in the wake of the footmen carrying the door on which they’d placed Glynis Johnson’s body.
The Amazon had waited with him until the footmen had arrived, then had overseen the lifting and transferring of her cousin’s lifeless form with a stoic calm Alaric had had to admire.
Now, however, as they paced side by side across the forecourt and up the porch steps, he sensed grim determination overtake her—visible in the adamantine set of her features and the steely light that infused her eyes.
He recognized the sentiment because he shared it. Glynis Johnson had been a blameless soul who had not deserved to have her life cut short. The murder might not have occurred on Radleigh land, yet it was close enough—in some strange way, it seemed to fall within his purlieu—and as such, a degree of responsibility to see justice done and Glynis avenged fell on his shoulders.
Carnaby, looking more rattled than Alaric had ever seen him, met them in the front hall. “Ah…” The normally unflappable butler looked helpless. He stared at the body, decently shrouded in an old curtain.
Miss Whittaker drew herself up. “Do you have an ice house?” Her delivery was even and commendably assured.
Carnaby blinked and faced her. “No, ma’am. But we have a cool store beyond the wash house, if you think that would do?”
She seemed to consider, then nodded. “That will probably be an acceptable alternative. If there’s a table…?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Carnaby had regained some of his composure. “We’ll place the poor young lady there.” He gave brisk directions to the footmen. As they moved off, going deeper into the house, Carnaby faced Alaric and Miss Whittaker. “If you would, my lord, the master and all the other guests have gathered in the drawing room. They’re waiting for you and Miss Whittaker to discuss what next to do.”
Alaric hid a frown; what needed to be done next should have been obvious.
