Page 34 of Death at the Dower House
“She’s in your mistress’s chamber,” Christopher said, holding out the key. “Dead on the bed.”
Cook, a round-faced woman who looked to be in her fifties, squeaked, and the kitchen-maid, who was surely younger than I was, turned pale.
“We locked the door,” Christopher added, “so no one else can go in while we wait for the police. You should phone them.”
Cook squeaked again, and pressed the flat of her hand against her chest.
Dawson reached out slowly and took the key. “How?” He had to clear his throat before he could get the single word out.
“It looks like she was strangled,” I said, “but we’re hardly professionals. That’s why you need the police. And probably the local doctor.”
He nodded. “Lady Iris—”
“My mother is at Sutherland Hall,” Christopher said. “Lady Herbert Astley. I propose I call her once you’ve arranged everything with the police, and let her break the news to your employer. Then Lady Peckham can decide whether to come home today, or not.”
“The mistress will want to come home,” Cook said. “Loved the young miss, she did.”
It had certainly seemed so. That didn’t mean she’d want to drive home to a murder investigation that centered on the dead body of her ward discovered in her own bed.
“We haven’t told any of the others,” Christopher said to Dawson, “but I don’t see any way around that. That’s why I want you to have the key. If Peckham—Gilbert—comes and asks you for it—or anyone else, for that matter—don’t give it to them. The police will want the crime scene preserved.”
Dawson nodded. “I’ll ring them up right now. The village isn’t far. Someone should be along shortly.”
“We’ll go back to the dining room,” I said. “We’ll break the news and then keep everyone there while we wait. If you could bring the bar cart over from the parlor after you’ve phoned the police, I think we would all appreciate it.”
Dawson nodded, and excused himself to go over to the kitchen extension to ring up the local constabulary while Christopher and I made the climb back up to the ground floor. It was surprisingly difficult, and took more effort than a dozen steps of a staircase ought to take.
“Well?” Peckham asked, a bit belligerently, when we came back through the door. “Connie and Mr. Astley searched the entire ground floor, and there was no sign of her. Dawson hasn’t come back upstairs, so I assume she wasn’t below.”
I glanced at Christopher. He looked at me, visibly ceding the responsibility. I sighed, but did my duty. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Mr. Peckham, but I’m afraid Miss de Vos has met with an accident.”
Gilbert opened his mouth, but no words came out. Constance, however, made a little noise that caused Francis to glance at her and then scoot his chair closer. Meanwhile, Laetitia looked politely unfazed, or perhaps just disbelieving. In the time we’d been gone, she had seated herself next to Crispin, whose eyes were fastened on my face with a mixture of dread and a horrible certainty.
“An accident?” Marsden said, and when I looked at him, I saw that his brows were drawn together in what looked like confusion. They were exquisite brows, just like the rest of him, and he looked marvelous even when he was nonplussed by something that should have been quite obvious.
“She’s dead,” I said plainly. “And no, it didn’t appear to have been an accident. That was what we call a polite euphemism.”
Marsden gaped. “Did you say she’s dead?”
If he was guilty, it was a masterful display of dumbfounded ignorance.
“She’s dead,” I confirmed. “Strangled. In Lady Peckham’s bedroom. We took the liberty of locking the door and giving the key to Dawson. He’s phoning the police as we speak.”
Gilbert blinked. Cleared his throat and tried again. “I want to see her.”
“The police will want the crime scene to be as undisturbed as possible,” Christopher told him.
Everyone winced at the mention of a crime scene, although I would have assumed the word ‘strangled’ would have given adequate warning that this was a crime. Peckham didn’t relent, however. “With Mother gone, I’m—”
“A suspect,” I said bluntly. “We all are. None of us can go back into that room. That’s why we gave Dawson the key.”
“Well, I never!” Laetitia sniffed. “How can you possibly suggest that I would do anything to harm dear Johanna?”
It was so blatantly disingenuous that we all just stared at her.
“Letty…” her brother said, pained.
Laetitia tossed her head. “Fine. But if she was strangled… I’m not strong enough to strangle anyone.”
