With a Little Bit of Blood Page 9

  “Thank you, no. Coffee will do just fine.”

  “There you are, Miss Doolittle,” Lily sang out. “Freddy and I worried you might miss breakfast.” She seemed especially animated this morning: eyes sparkling, cheeks rosy, lipstick expertly applied to her bow-shaped mouth. And the turquoise bandeau wound through her dark curls matched the color of her day dress. She looked even prettier than she had yesterday. Eliza wanted to strangle her with that bandeau. Then do the same to Freddy.

  Eliza chose a seat as far away from them as possible. “The maid informed me this was an informal breakfast. And that we didn’t need to all eat at the same time.”

  “Seems rather a neat excuse for everyone to be lazy.” Freddy chuckled. “We thought you’d never get yourself out of bed.”

  Eliza rolled her eyes at the “we” both of them were using. A cozy couple already. Would wedding banns be read next? She felt irritated and disappointed. Most of all, she felt jealous. Only she didn’t know if her feelings were hurt – or her pride.

  “I don’t understand your concern. It’s barely half past nine.” Eliza unfurled her linen napkin with a snap, then placed it on her lap. “Besides, I’m sure the married ladies won’t stir from their beds until after ten. Knowing Clara, it could be much later than that.”

  “Oh, but you’re mistaken, Miss Doolittle.” Lily flashed a dimpled smile. “The countess left for the hunt this morning with the men. At a gruesome hour, too. I heard her in the hallway outside my room asking that guns for both her and the count be readied. She also yelled at some poor servant for not polishing her walking boots. What a battle-axe.”

  “Lady Annabel went hunting, too,” Freddy added.

  “Lady Annabel decided to take part in the hunt?” Eliza asked. If true, Higgins might end up turning a gun on himself.

  “Yes, she came down to the breakfast room for coffee and a tea cake,” Lily said. “All dressed up in the sweetest gray walking suit. Said she felt cooped up in the house and thought the hunt might amuse her.”

  “She mentioned she’d like to try her hand at shooting. But I think she was joking. The lady doesn’t seem the sporting type.” Freddy sliced the kipper on his plate in half.

  “I think she prefers stalking men, not rabbits,” Lily announced. “That woman is a born flirt. I saw how she kept looking at Professor Higgins during dinner last night. A bit scandalous, with her husband right there.”

  “Haven’t you heard the tales about English country house parties?” Freddy winked at her. “People love to sneak into each other’s beds at night. Like a game of musical chairs. And who knows where everyone ends up once the music stops?” He took Lily’s hand. “I know where I plan to be when that happens, Lily.”

  “And what if my door is locked?” she teased.

  “I shall break it down of course.” He kissed her hand.

  Eliza considered sticking a fork in Freddy’s back. “From what I witnessed at dinner, it looks like Freddy might have competition from Mr. Pentwater.” Actually, Pentwater had shown Lily little attention last night, but anything that upset Freddy seemed worth the effort.

  Freddy turned to her, puzzled. “Mr. Pentwater?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Lily said. “He and I barely know each other.”

  Eliza spread butter on her muffin. “You’re both American, both from New York City. He also told us that he helped finance several of your films.”

  “That means nothing,” she protested. “You heard him brag about his business ventures at dinner. He invests in lots of things. As for my motion pictures, Dwight is simply one of many investors in Vitograph Studios.”

  “Dwight?” Eliza raised an eyebrow. “You’re on a first name basis?”

  Freddy asked, “Lily, are you and Mr. Pentwater an item?”

  “Don’t be silly. I’ve met him a few times when he visited the studio in Brooklyn. And why shouldn’t I call him by his first name? Americans aren’t as stuffy as you Brits. Besides, he’s not anyone important like D.W. Griffith. Dwight is just another money grubbing American. My country is filled with them.” Lily’s laugh sounded mocking.

  “I’m relieved to hear you and Pentwater aren’t involved romantically,” Freddy said.

  “Don’t be crazy. The man is married with two children. Or is it three?” Lily shrugged. “Even if he were single, I wouldn’t find him attractive. He’s short and skinny, his nose is too long, and he needs to trim his hair. It hangs past his collar. Makes him look like a Bowery hobo.” She stroked Freddy’s smooth cheek. “I prefer tall, blond, muscular men with blue eyes and dreamy English accents.”

  “You darling girl,” he murmured.

  But Eliza wasn’t done upsetting their apple cart. “If you and Mr. Pentwater are little more than acquaintances, why did the countess invite both of you to the house party?”

  “What do you mean?” There was an edge in Lily’s voice now.

  Eliza ate a roasted mushroom before replying. “I’d understand Clara asking a cinema star to the party. She’s young and modern and enjoys someone exciting to liven things up. But she and Richard told me that his sister handled the invitations, except for Madame Evangeline. So why did the countess ask you and Mr. Pentwater?”

  Her expression remained innocent. “Didn’t the count mention that he had business dealings with Mr. Pentwater?”

  “That doesn’t explain why the countess invited you. After all, there are lots of English cinema actresses she might have asked instead.”

  “I say, Eliza, what is this all about?” Freddy asked.

  “I’m curious about how the guest list was compiled.”

  “I don’t think curiosity has anything to do with it. I believe you’re jealous.” Lily cocked her head. “Freddy led me to believe that you and he were friends, nothing more. However, given how you’ve acted towards me, I’m guessing it was more than friendship.”

  “On his part, certainly. Or hasn’t he told you how many times he’s asked me to marry him?” Eliza looked at Freddy, who scowled. “And that I turned down each proposal.”

  She could see this surprised Lily. “Is that true, Freddy?”

  “I admit I lost my head over Eliza for a time. When she wants to, she can be a charmer,” he said, clearly exasperated. “But she cares far more about playing detective and being an independent woman. I believe she cares about a certain Scotland Yard detective as well. A chap she’s known a lot less time than she’s known me.”

  “Colin Ramsey and I are nothing more than friends.” Eliza felt her cheeks burn.

  “As Lily and I are,” Freddy shot back.

  Eliza and Freddy glared at each other for a tense moment. The only sound in the breakfast room was the crackling of the fire.

  Lily stood up. “I’m going upstairs to change. Lady Annabel had the right idea. I also need a bit of fresh air. I know we’re supposed to wait to join the men for an outdoor luncheon, but listening to gunfire would be more fun than listening to the two of you bicker.”

  Freddy scrambled to his feet as she swept out the door. “Lily, wait!”

  Eliza watched him run after her. The footman stepped to the table and cleared away the plates left by Lily and Freddy. She realized with a start that he had overheard the entire conversation. What secrets the servants must know. A pity the footman she recognized last night at dinner wasn’t in the breakfast room with her. She’d love a chance to catch up on old times without the rest of the guests around.

  “Excuse me,” she said while he stacked empty cups. “Do you know where the footman called Charlie Kenton is? He and I are old friends.”

  The footman looked surprised. “Charlie is serving as valet to the American who arrived last night, miss. Mr. Pentwater did not bring a servant, and Lord Ashmore assigned Charlie the task of waiting upon the gentleman. I can inform Charlie that you’d like to speak with him, but he may be busy with his duties at the moment.”

  She smiled at him. “Please don’t bother. I’m sure we’ll find a chance to ta
lk. Thank you.”

  “Of course, miss.” After placing the plates and cups on a tray, he soundlessly left the room. She wondered if servants wore especially quiet shoes. Eliza also wondered why both Pentwater and Lily Marlowe were invited to this country house party. The count had business dealings with Pentwater, but no one brought up the reason for Lily’s invitation. And Lily had avoided answering the question when Eliza asked her.

  Eliza mused over this as she finished breakfast. Unlike the rest of Banfield Manor, the breakfast room felt warm and cozy. She could almost pretend she was mistress here. The sound of distant gunfire prompted her to look out the window. The stained glass prevented her from seeing anything but the mist shrouded outlines of shrubbery. A shame there was no sun today to make the colorful window glow.

  A rustle of silk skirts broke her reverie as Madame Evangeline entered the breakfast room. She looked striking in a high neck dress of deep purple. She again wore her hair pulled back in a style more suited to Queen Victoria’s time, but its severity was softened by an intricate amber comb.

  “Good morning, Miss Doolittle. I hope I am not disturbing you.”

  “Not at all. Although I’m surprised to see you. I thought married women were served breakfast in bed.”

  “A foolish custom. The only people who should take meals in bed are invalids.” Madame Evangeline inspected the sideboard before placing an apple and one slice of toast on a plate.

  Since Eliza often woke up ravenous, she marveled that the spiritualist had so little appetite. The woman also required neither cream nor sugar in her coffee.

  After Madame Evangeline took a seat across from her, she devoted her attention to peeling her apple with a paring knife. Eliza grew uncomfortable with the silence, but what did one talk about with a woman who spoke to the dead? If not for the occasional log falling in the dying fire, the room would be as silent as a tomb. A thought that sent a chill through Eliza.

  Scrambling for a topic of conversation, Eliza finally spoke. “This is my favorite room at Banfield Manor. It’s smaller than the others, with a much lower ceiling. Cozy for a manor house. I wonder why it’s different that the others.”

  “I believe it is one of the few rooms that hasn’t been tampered with since it was first built.” Madame Evangeline waved her paring knife at the oak panel walls, leaded glass windows, and white plaster ceiling. “The style is known as Jacobean.”

  “Jacobean,” Eliza repeated. “What does that mean?”

  The woman turned her full attention on her now. Eliza felt nervous under the scrutiny of those unblinking slate blue eyes. “An era named after the Scottish King James, who later ruled England in the seventeenth century. My father schooled his children in history. Because he was Scottish, we were also instructed in the lives of the Stuarts.” Madame Evangeline frowned. “Such an unlucky family. Ill-starred, every last one of them.”

  Eliza knew about the Stuarts. Colonel Pickering had given her a number of books about British history; she’d been especially moved by the tragic story of Mary, Queen of Scots.

  “You don’t sound Scottish.”

  “I’m not Scottish. My father is.” Finished paring her apple, Madame Evangeline now cut it into crescent shaped slices. “Or was. He died a decade ago.”

  “Last night, Professor Higgins said you spoke like a woman who’d lived in a number of countries. You never mentioned which ones.”

  She nibbled at an apple slice. “Too many to name.”

  “France, for certain.” Eliza might not be as expert as Higgins at gleaning a person’s background from their speech, but she recognized the woman’s hint of a French accent.

  “I am often in Paris. And my mother was born and raised in North Africa. French Algiers. I spend a great deal of time there since I am fond of the desert. There are fewer spirits in the Sahara. It is why I feel at peace amid the shifting sands.”

  “My friend Colonel Pickering says the Sahara is positively scorching.”

  “It is. But I enjoy the sun and heat. I don’t know how you live in such a cold country as England. The cold makes me uneasy.”

  Eliza grinned. “It only makes me want to put on a warmer dress.”

  “You don’t understand. When the spirits of the dead are near, they chill the air with their presence. If one is sensitive to them – as I am – that makes it difficult to stay warm.”

  Although the fireplace had turned the room toasty, Eliza had felt chilled in every room in the house since last night. “When we feel cold, it’s because a spirit is present?”

  “Sometimes. But most people are not aware of the spirits who surround us.” Madame Evangeline allowed herself a tiny smile. “If you feel cold this morning, I daresay it is due to the hoarfrost, and not a melancholy ghost.”

  “Are all ghosts melancholy?”

  “Oh, no. Some are irritated. A few are convulsed with rage. Most spirits are confused because they do not understand how to get to the Other Side. I try to help them.”

  Eliza lowered her voice. “Are there any spirits in the room with us right now?”

  Madame Evangeline shook her head. “We are quite alone for the moment. However, the ghost of a woman woke me last night. From her clothing I guessed she had lived during the time of the Prince Regent. She seemed unhappy to find me asleep in her bed. It took almost an hour to convince her to leave.”

  Eliza’s mouth fell open. “I would have screamed my blooming head off. How did you not die of fright?”

  She shrugged. “I am accustomed to it. On my way to the breakfast room just now, the spirit of a former servant walked past me. He seemed bent on still performing his duties and paid me no attention at all. It is possible he was not aware that I could see him. But I could, even down to his straw blond hair and crooked teeth.”

  “Blimey.” Eliza sat back in dismay. She’d be looking over her shoulder every minute until she left Banfield Manor. And she’d never get to sleep tonight, not with the prospect of an annoyed spirit standing over her.

  “Don’t look so frightened, Miss Doolittle. If you have not yet encountered a visitor from the Great Beyond, it is unlikely you will start seeing them now.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Maybe I’ve never been in a place as haunted as Banfield Manor.”

  “Spirits are everywhere. Even at your London residence. On Wimpole Street, is it?”

  Eliza got to her feet. “Please don’t say that. And you’ve made me nervous to stay indoors. Especially with everyone at the shoot. I may walk out to the woods and join them.”

  Madame Evangeline’s calm expression turned troubled. “That would be unwise.”

  “Why? Are there even more spirits in the forest?”

  “No. But I sense danger.” She closed her eyes. “Anger is in the air around us.” Her voice dropped several octaves, almost as if a man were speaking, not her. “More than anger. A dark fury which ends in death. That fury lies waiting in the forest. A murderer awaits in the forest.”

  “Who’s in danger?” Eliza grabbed Madame Evangeline by the shoulders. “And who is the murderer?”

  The spiritualist’s eyes fluttered, then opened. She looked at Eliza with a surprised expression. “Why are you shaking me, Miss Doolittle?”

  “You told me someone will be murdered in the forest! Who is it?”

  “I said that?”

  “Yes. Just now. How can you not remember?”

  Madame Evangeline’s gaze grew even sadder. “It is as I said at dinner. Professor Higgins asked why I announced that only you and he could prevent death and disaster from visiting this place. I don’t recall saying that. Nor do I remember saying there is a murderer in the forest. My trances come upon me unexpectedly. I can neither control nor explain them.”

  “These things you say in your trances, do they ever come true?”

  She paused. “Always.”

  “I need to tell Higgins. He might be the one in danger. Or perhaps Richard.” Eliza bit her lip. “Or Freddy. He’s out there now,
too. I must warn them.”

  “It’s too late, Miss Doolittle,” she called after her.

  Eliza paused in the doorway. “Has someone already been killed? Please tell me!”

  “It is written.”

  “What? What is written?”

  “Some events cannot be stopped. It is fate. Destiny.” Madame Evangeline’s severe expression and dark purple gown gave her the appearance of an angel of death.

  “Of course we can stop it.”

  “No. Fate cannot be changed. Someone will be murdered in the forest.”

  In the four hours he’d been tramping about the forest, Higgins learned that hunting was even stupider than he guessed. The weather had turned cold and damp; it felt more like early winter than mid-October. And because the day began on a frosty note, a mist wafted among the trees, making it nearly impossible to discern a hare from a tree stump. Luckily, the gamekeeper, beaters, and loaders spotted the animals for them and instructed the gentlemen where to shoot. Otherwise the shooting party would likely have shot each other. Or one of the hunting dogs.

  He was also grateful to the gamekeeper and his men since their speech patterns were the only ones of interest out here. The broad vowels and West Country cadence of one young fellow revealed that he hailed from the Forest of Dean. Higgins regretted not being able to spend more time conversing with him. Instead, he had to listen to Count von Weisinger order everyone about as if he were a Hapsburg general. Even worse, the countess had joined the party. Both never stopped complaining or shooting. Even with the gamekeeper’s help, they had only bagged a dozen hares. But it had taken about two hundred shots to accomplish even that. Richard Ashmore seemed resigned to paying second fiddle to his sister and her husband, wandering off on his own like a young boy eager to run away from home.

  Higgins felt no compunction to stay near either Ashmore or his dreadful relatives. He did enjoy an amusing hour with Philippe Corbet, who spoke in equally admiring terms of aeroplanes and a certain mademoiselle from Trieste.

  Sir Anthony also proved an interesting companion – until Lady Annabel showed up unexpectedly. Higgins would have preferred to see Medusa emerge out of the mist to that woman, and he quickly took his leave.