Read Online The Vital Principle by Amy Corwin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Amy Corwin
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you can rest. Perhaps your friend, Lady Howard, could sit with you?”
Lady Crowley drank briefly and nibbled on a roll before turning to stare at her. “Why would anyone hurt my son?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps it was an accident. Or his heart.” Lies were easier than declaring Lord Crowley had been murdered. Deep hatred lay behind that foul act, and neither of them wanted to face that dreadful fact. Pru felt sick considering it.
“That man said he was poisoned,” the dowager whispered.
That man . Mr. Gaunt. Odd how she knew precisely who Lady Crowley referred to, despite the presence of four other male guests at Rosecrest. Socially, he was beneath notice, and yet it was his words and his opinion that mattered most to everyone.
“I’m sure he didn’t mean to say that. It was just the shock.”
“Who would want to poison Henry? Why ?”
“No one. I’m sure it was a mistake. An accident.” Pru couldn’t bear to answer the plaintive question with the cruel truth.
While Lord Crowley had been a mean-spirited, autocratic man, England had no shortage of males just like him. For the most part, they weren’t routinely murdered no matter what their families and acquaintances thought of them.
Pru refilled the delicate cup and pushed it forward to catch the dowager’s attention. “Here’s a bit more chocolate, and the other half of your roll is getting cold. Why don’t you finish it? If there’s anything you require, ring for me. Just rest for now. And I’ll ask Lady Howard to visit you this afternoon.”
“But who? Who could it be? I trust you, Miss Barnard. You wouldn’t hurt my Henry, would you?”
“No. No, I wouldn’t.”
“I saw you, last night. You stayed right by my side, so you couldn’t have—could you?”
“No. I couldn’t have done anything, Lady Crowley. And I wouldn’t.” Her stomach twisted. Did even her hostess have doubts? If she lost Lady Crowley’s support, then she had no one to count on to help prove her innocence.
Except Mr. Denham and his idiocy about vengeful spirits. His blind, dogged assistance was hardly helpful under the circumstances.
Shivering, Pru stood. She glanced through the window at the pale, autumn sunlight, wishing it were still night. Exhaustion dragged at her, making her limbs feel encased in cold marble. She had been unable to sleep during the empty, quiet hours of darkness, and now she could barely resist the lure of her bed.
In the distance, she heard the floor creak as the guests and servants moved about. She couldn’t stop the minutes from spinning into mid-day. She could not stop the inevitable.
The constable would return today.
What was she going to tell him?
Chapter Eight
There is no more trusting women . —Homer, c. 700 B.C.
Knighton arose early enough to sit by the window and watch the sun break over the horizon in brilliant hues of rose-red while he sipped his coffee. The events of last night remained a tangled mess in his mind without any obvious solution.
Who had stood where during the critical few seconds required to slip Prussic acid into Lord Crowley’s brandy ? It was difficult to construct a precise picture. There had been too much screaming and hysteria over nothing except a few drafts. He had been distracted at the crucial time.
They all had.
Bloody women.
Except for Miss Barnard, who had kept her head remarkably well throughout the entire ordeal. Evidence of a singularly strong-minded woman. To his dismay, he had to admit he admired the trait. Few women exhibited it, but in this case, it only served to increase his suspicions of her. Whoever had murdered Lord Crowley shared that same cool-headed trait.
The killer had sufficient daring to poison a man while surrounded by a roomful of guests. Few men, and fewer women, had that level of boldness. And one could argue that a charlatan had to possess a great deal of composure to perform her tricks. So Miss Barnard remained a logical suspect.
However, instinct warned him
Lady Crowley drank briefly and nibbled on a roll before turning to stare at her. “Why would anyone hurt my son?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps it was an accident. Or his heart.” Lies were easier than declaring Lord Crowley had been murdered. Deep hatred lay behind that foul act, and neither of them wanted to face that dreadful fact. Pru felt sick considering it.
“That man said he was poisoned,” the dowager whispered.
That man . Mr. Gaunt. Odd how she knew precisely who Lady Crowley referred to, despite the presence of four other male guests at Rosecrest. Socially, he was beneath notice, and yet it was his words and his opinion that mattered most to everyone.
“I’m sure he didn’t mean to say that. It was just the shock.”
“Who would want to poison Henry? Why ?”
“No one. I’m sure it was a mistake. An accident.” Pru couldn’t bear to answer the plaintive question with the cruel truth.
While Lord Crowley had been a mean-spirited, autocratic man, England had no shortage of males just like him. For the most part, they weren’t routinely murdered no matter what their families and acquaintances thought of them.
Pru refilled the delicate cup and pushed it forward to catch the dowager’s attention. “Here’s a bit more chocolate, and the other half of your roll is getting cold. Why don’t you finish it? If there’s anything you require, ring for me. Just rest for now. And I’ll ask Lady Howard to visit you this afternoon.”
“But who? Who could it be? I trust you, Miss Barnard. You wouldn’t hurt my Henry, would you?”
“No. No, I wouldn’t.”
“I saw you, last night. You stayed right by my side, so you couldn’t have—could you?”
“No. I couldn’t have done anything, Lady Crowley. And I wouldn’t.” Her stomach twisted. Did even her hostess have doubts? If she lost Lady Crowley’s support, then she had no one to count on to help prove her innocence.
Except Mr. Denham and his idiocy about vengeful spirits. His blind, dogged assistance was hardly helpful under the circumstances.
Shivering, Pru stood. She glanced through the window at the pale, autumn sunlight, wishing it were still night. Exhaustion dragged at her, making her limbs feel encased in cold marble. She had been unable to sleep during the empty, quiet hours of darkness, and now she could barely resist the lure of her bed.
In the distance, she heard the floor creak as the guests and servants moved about. She couldn’t stop the minutes from spinning into mid-day. She could not stop the inevitable.
The constable would return today.
What was she going to tell him?
Chapter Eight
There is no more trusting women . —Homer, c. 700 B.C.
Knighton arose early enough to sit by the window and watch the sun break over the horizon in brilliant hues of rose-red while he sipped his coffee. The events of last night remained a tangled mess in his mind without any obvious solution.
Who had stood where during the critical few seconds required to slip Prussic acid into Lord Crowley’s brandy ? It was difficult to construct a precise picture. There had been too much screaming and hysteria over nothing except a few drafts. He had been distracted at the crucial time.
They all had.
Bloody women.
Except for Miss Barnard, who had kept her head remarkably well throughout the entire ordeal. Evidence of a singularly strong-minded woman. To his dismay, he had to admit he admired the trait. Few women exhibited it, but in this case, it only served to increase his suspicions of her. Whoever had murdered Lord Crowley shared that same cool-headed trait.
The killer had sufficient daring to poison a man while surrounded by a roomful of guests. Few men, and fewer women, had that level of boldness. And one could argue that a charlatan had to possess a great deal of composure to perform her tricks. So Miss Barnard remained a logical suspect.
However, instinct warned him
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