Gerrard felt his face harden; Barnaby’s was grim as he rose.
“What is it?” Jacqueline asked, looking from one to the other.
Gerrard pressed her arm. “Wait here.”
Quickly, he went down the steps, and turned into the Garden of Night. Barnaby was on his heels.
Jacqueline froze. In her head, a voice screamed, No! It was a battle to get her limbs to work, to move. Gripping the balustrade, she forced herself forward; step by step, she followed the men down.
Her gaze locked on the entrance to the Garden of Night, not the one Gerrard had painted, but the upper one. The entrance she’d stood at over a year ago, and seen her mother lying dead, flung like a broken bird, her legs trailing in the pool, her back broken on the stone coping.
The archway drew nearer. Nearer. Then she was standing in it, within the cool touch of the garden’s shadows.
Gerrard and Barnaby were bending over the body of her aunt. As with her mother, her aunt lay half across the coping. White as death. One hand trailed, fingers lax, on the gravel.
A choked sound escaped her. She wanted to scream, to call for help, but she couldn’t get her throat to work. Her lungs felt as if they were caving in.
Gerrard heard; he turned and saw her. He said something to Barnaby, then rose and swiftly came to her.
She pressed both hands to her lips. Couldn’t form the words to ask. Asked with her eyes instead.
“She’s alive.” Gerrard gathered her to him, hugged her reassuringly. “Unconscious, but alive.” He lifted his head, yelled, “Treadle!”
An instant later, the butler appeared at the top of the steps. “Sir? Miss? What…?”
“Send for the doctor, then send some footmen down here with a door.”
Alive. Millicent was alive. Jacqueline’s legs gave way.
Gerrard swore, and tightened his arms about her.
She rested her head against his chest, forced her lungs to work, dragged in a huge breath. Gulped. “I’m sorry.” She hauled in another breath, then locked her legs and lifted her head. “Go back and stay with her. She’s badly hurt. I’ll wait here.” She sensed his hesitation. “I’ll be all right. Truly. The best help you can give me is to help her—I can’t. I can’t go in there.”
He understood; she saw it in his eyes. He steadied her against the end of the balustrade. “Stay there—don’t move.”
She nodded. He turned and plunged back into the Garden of Night.
Millicent was carried up to her room and laid on her bed.
Lord Tregonning was informed; Sir Godfrey was summoned.
The doctor arrived. He was taken straight up to Millicent. When he entered the drawing room half an hour later, he looked grave.
“She’s unconscious, but she was lucky. A branch broke her fall. It broke off beneath her and prevented her spine or skull from cracking. Her arm’s broken, but will mend well enough. However, she did hit her head. How long she’ll be unconscious I can’t say.”
“But she’ll live?” Jacqueline leaned forward, hands clasped in her lap.
“God willing, I believe so. But we can’t take that for granted, I’m afraid. She’s still with us, but we’ll need to take one day at a time—she’s not young, and the fall was—”
“Horrific.” Lord Tregonning was pale, stunned; his knuckles showed white as he gripped his cane.
“I’ve made her as comfortable as I can. Mrs. Carpenter knows what to do. I’ll call again this afternoon to see if there’s any change, but it may well be a day or more before she regains consciousness.”
Barnaby shifted; he spoke in an undertone to Lord Tregonning. His lordship nodded, then focused on the doctor. “I’d appreciate it, Manning, if you kept this entire episode under your hat. At least until we know more.”
The doctor hesitated, then nodded; his gaze flicked to Jacqueline for the briefest of moments, then he bowed and left.
Barnaby stared, all but openmouthed, after him; the instant the door shut, he flatly stated, “I don’t believe it.”
Gerrard forced his hands to relax from the fists they’d curled into. “Believe it.” His growl sounded feral. “But this time, that’s not how things are going to be.”
He turned to Jacqueline; he didn’t like the empty look in her eyes. “When she regains consciousness, Millicent will tell us who flung her over the balustrade, but we can’t sit and wait until then.” He looked at Lord Tregonning. “The murderer thinks Millicent’s dead—if he realizes she isn’t, but is unconscious, he’ll be desperate to silence her. We need to keep her safe.”
Lord Tregonning’s eyes widened. He had Barnaby summon Treadle, and they quickly conferred. Footmen would guard Millicent night and day. Barnaby suggested and all agreed that the most useful way forward was to behave as if nothing untoward had occurred. Treadle assured them the staff would keep mum; he withdrew to ensure it.
“It’ll confuse the blackguard, and the portrait is bait enough.” Barnaby looked at Gerrard.
Who nodded. “Indeed. But nevertheless, we need to piece together what happened.”
Barnaby met Gerrard’s eyes, then turned to Lord Tregonning. “With your permission, sir, I’d like to interview the staff before Sir Godfrey arrives.”
Lord Tregonning met his gaze, then nodded. His jaw setting, he looked at Jacqueline. “Whatever permission you need, consider it given.” He moved to sit beside Jacqueline, awkwardly taking her hand and patting it. “My dear, do you think we might go up and sit with Millicent? When she wakes, I think she’d like us to be there.”
To Gerrard’s relief, Jacqueline focused on her father, then nodded. They both rose. He escorted them to Millicent’s room, saw them settled, then returned to Barnaby, still standing in the drawing room, a determined frown on his face.
Barnaby glanced up as he shut the door. “We are not going to allow this incident to be obscured by people trying to protect others.”
“My thoughts precisely. What do you suggest?”
“That we take charge. That we gather all the facts, then present them to Sir Godfrey so there’s no chance of him sidestepping logic.”
Gerrard nodded. “What’s first?”
Barnaby raised a brow at him. “Establishing when Millicent went outside, and if we can, why, and then making sure we can, if need be, prove Jacqueline was elsewhere between that time and dawn.”
Gerrard held his friend’s gaze, then said, “She was with me.”
Barnaby grinned. “I know. I met her leaving your room this morning—I heard the door and thought it was you, so I came out…but it was her. And she must have been seen by others. So—when did she arrive?”
“About half past eleven.”
“Good—so we have that fixed. Now let’s see what that maid can tell us.”
Shocked, but now growing angry on her mistress’s behalf, Gemma was very ready to tell them all she knew. “She always fussed over getting ready for bed—creams, potions, and I had to put her hair in curling rags every night. It was after midnight that I left her room, and she wasn’t in bed even then. She was restless—old ladies often are, you know. They don’t settle easy, so they often walk about. If it was clear, she’d go down to the terrace—since we’ve been back here anyways—I’ve seen her walking there in the moonlight.”
Gemma was very clear on all the details; she could list the various duties she performed every night for Millicent.
“It’s obvious Millicent couldn’t have left her room under an hour after she retired,” Barnaby concluded, “and at eleven, she was going up the stairs with the rest of us.”
Next they spoke with Treadle; expression bland, he confirmed that he and two maids had seen Jacqueline on her way to her room at close to seven o’clock that morning. He added, staring at the wall, that Jacqueline’s maid could also confirm that Jacqueline’s bed hadn’t been slept in.
When Treadle departed, Barnaby glanced at Gerrard. “I didn’t think to ask, but you are intending to marry her, aren’t you?”
Gerrard stared at him as if he’d grown two heads. “Of course!” Then he waved. “No, no, I understand why you asked. Yes, I’ve asked her to marry me, but she wanted to put off any formal acceptance until after this matter was resolved, and she was free of suspicion and the murderer caught.”
Barnaby nodded. “Entirely understandable. Now, let’s take another look at those marks on the terrace.”
They were hunkered down, studying the streaks where they ended by the balustrade, when Treadle escorted Sir Godfrey out.
The man looked thoroughly shaken. “What’s this? Millicent pushed over the edge, too?” His color was high; he was almost gabbling. “Well, I—”
Rising, Barnaby held up a hand. “No, wait. Just listen to what we can prove so far.” Concisely, Barnaby outlined Millicent’s movements from the time she went upstairs until she was walking on the terrace. “Then, for some reason, she went down the steps and into the Garden of Night. How far in we don’t know, but at least as far as the archway. That’s where she got mud on her slippers.
“But then”—dramatically Barnaby pointed to the streaks—“some man grabbed her, and while keeping her from screaming, dragged her back up the steps, and flung her—not pushed, but flung her—down into the Garden of Night. There was a branch beneath her when we found her; the doctor confirmed it had broken off beneath her and saved her from death. If you go into the garden and look up, you can see where the branch broke off—it’s plain as daylight Millicent wasn’t pushed, but flung. By some man.”
Sir Godfrey had paled, but he’d followed all Barnaby had said. “Man?” he asked.
“Indubitably,” Barnaby replied. “No woman could possibly have done it.”
At Gerrard’s suggestion, they retired to Lord Tregonning’s study and poured Sir Godfrey a brandy. He’d been deeply shocked, but now rallied.
Gerrard, watching him, picked his moment. “Sir Godfrey, you’re a man of the world—I know we can rely on your discretion. Miss Tregonning and I intend to wed once this affair is settled. Consequently, she was with me throughout the night, from before Millicent’s maid left her in her room, until seven o’clock this morning. Quite aside from my word on the matter, there are a number of staff who can verify that.”
Sir Godfrey blinked at him, then waved his hand. “Complete discretion, I assure you. Anyway…” His tone hardened, his grip tightened on the brandy glass and he drained it. “This wasn’t Jacqueline, but some man—some bounder, some blackguard who’s been leading us a merry dance through murder after murder, and laughing up his sleeve because we’ve been afraid it was Jacqueline. That’s not going to happen this time—this time, we’re going to catch the devil.”
“Indeed!” Barnaby sat forward. “We need to investigate what could possibly have drawn Millicent down into the garden. Her maid is certain she normally only strolled on the terrace, and it had rained.”
“Millicent isn’t all that fond of the gardens, y’know.” Sir Godfrey nodded. “She must have heard or seen something.”
Barnaby suddenly straightened; his gaze grew distant. “Ring for Treadle.”
Gerrard did; when the butler appeared, Barnaby put one question.
“Indeed, sir,” Treadle said. “Lady Tregonning often strolled on the terrace of a night. She had trouble sleeping.”
“Just like the elder Miss Tregonning?”
Treadle bowed. “Their habits were well-known belowstairs, sir—and, of course, I always know when the terrace door has been opened after I’ve locked up.”
Barnaby eyed him. “You don’t, by any chance, recall if the door had been opened on the night before Lady Tregonning died?”
“I do recall, as it happens, sir. I distinctly remember thinking, when she appeared so haggard at the breakfast table the next morning—the morning of the day she died—that the poor lady must have walked all night. She certainly hadn’t slept, and the terrace door had been opened.”
Barnaby thanked Treadle, who bowed and withdrew.
Sir Godfrey looked at Barnaby, horrified comprehension dawning. “You think Miribelle heard something, too?”
Lips set, Barnaby nodded. “I think she heard or saw something, but went back into the house…. Whatever it was, she knew what it meant, but she thought whoever was involved—the murderer, let’s say—hadn’t seen her.”
“But he had,” Gerrard said.
“Possibly. Whoever it was knew he’d been seen by someone at least—later that day, probably because of something Miribelle said or did, perhaps simply because she looked so uncommonly haggard, he guessed it was she.” Barnaby sat back. “So he killed her.”
“Which means,” Gerrard said, “that whatever Miribelle and presumably now Millicent saw or heard was dangerous, very dangerous, to the murderer.”
Barnaby nodded. “So dangerous he killed without the slightest compunction to prevent them telling…”
“Why didn’t Miribelle tell anyone, then?” Sir Godfrey asked. “If she knew what she’d seen enough to be so upset by it, why didn’t she say?”
After a moment, Barnaby admitted, “I don’t know. There’ll be a reason, but until we know what it was they both saw, we won’t be able to guess it.”
“Regardless,” Gerrard persisted, “everything hinges on what they saw. That’s the critical thing. What could it have been?”
“Who could it have been?” Sir Godfrey put in. “Who the devil wanders the gardens at night?”
Gerrard knew. “Eleanor Fritham, for one.” He met Sir Godfrey’s eyes. “There’s a telescope in my bedchamber—I’ve seen her on a number of nights, together with a gentleman I didn’t see well enough to identify.” Gerrard hesitated for a heartbeat, a remembered vision swimming before his eyes. “In addition to that, there’s a lover’s bower in the Garden of Night, well concealed, and someone is currently using it.”
Sir Godfrey’s brows rose high. “Is that so?” But then he frowned; after a moment he said, “Neither Miribelle nor Millicent would be likely to get hysterical over stumbling on a pair of lovers in the garden, so it won’t be that per se. However”—his tone hardened; he looked at Gerrard and Barnaby—“I propose we ask Miss Fritham just who she’s been meeting in the gardens at night, and see if either she or her beau can shed light on what Millicent saw.”
At Barnaby’s suggestion, Sir Godfrey sent to Tresdale Manor, requesting Eleanor’s presence at the Hall. She arrived an hour later, with Lady Fritham, who led the way into the drawing room.
“I’m sure I don’t know why you need Eleanor, Godfrey, but of course I brought her straightaway. All the ladies at my at-home are agog to know what’s afoot.” Lady Fritham smiled in pleasant query at Sir Godfrey.
The magistrate looked blank, then cleared his throat. “Ah—just a little matter I need to clear up, Maria. Perhaps…” He glanced at Barnaby. “If Mr. Adair and I could have a quiet word with Eleanor in the study, while you remain here with Marcus and Jacqueline and Mr. Debbington…”
Smiling easily at Eleanor, Barnaby offered his arm. She took it; she cast an uncertain glance at her mother, but Barnaby irresistibly led her from the room, with Sir Godfrey making haste in their wake.
“Well!” Lady Fritham looked nonplussed. “How strange.”
Seated on the chaise, Jacqueline drew in a breath, strengthened her smile, and patted the cushions beside her. “Do sit down, ma’am. Whom did you leave at the manor? I know Aunt Millicent would love to know.”
Frowning, Lady Fritham sank to the chaise. “Where is Millicent?”
“She’s a trifle indisposed,” Lord Tregonning said.
“Oh.” Lady Fritham accepted that without a blink. “Well, let me see. There’s Mrs. Elcott, of course…”
She ran through her guests; Jacqueline was racking her brains over how to spin out the conversation—but then Eleanor reappeared in the doorway.
An Eleanor transformed—her color was high, her eyes flashing. She gave every sign of being highly offended. “Come, Mama! It’s time we left.”
Lady Fritham blinked uncomprehendingly. “But my dear—”
“Now, Mama! I wish to leave immediately.” Eleanor narrowed her eyes at Barnaby, who came to stand just back from the doorway. “I have nothing more to say to Sir Godfrey, or Mr. Adair. So if you please…”
Eleanor didn’t wait for a reply, but swung on her heel and stalked off.
Lady Fritham looked stunned. “Good gracious! Well! I’m sure I don’t know…” Her hand at her throat, she rose. “Do excuse us, Marcus—I have no idea what’s got into her.”
“Of course, Maria.” Lord Tregonning and Gerrard rose, bowing as Lady Fritham, agitated, fluttered toward the door.
“Maria?” Lord Tregonning waited until Lady Fritham looked back. “Just one thing—I would appreciate it if you would inform your family and household that the Hellebore Hall gardens are to be considered out of bounds. It seems they’ve grown too dangerous.”
“Dear me! Yes, of course I’ll tell everyone, Marcus. Do tell Millicent I’ll call later to see how she is.” With a wave, Lady Fritham hurried out into the hall in the wake of her wayward daughter.
Barnaby walked in; an instant later Sir Godfrey joined them. They all waited for the front door to shut, then Gerrard asked, “What did you learn?”
“Very little.” Barnaby dropped into a chair. “She flatly denied ever being in the gardens at night. She was lying through her teeth.”
“Indeed.” Sir Godfrey sank heavily into an armchair. “Never seen her like that before—all bold as brass and spit in your eye.”
“She panicked,” Barnaby said. “And took a high tone to conceal it.”
Sir Godfrey humphed. “What I want to know is who she’s lying to protect. Someone must know.” He looked at Jacqueline. “Who’s she interested in, heh? Anyone she’s been seen with?”
Jacqueline opened her lips to say she had no idea, then paused. The four men all noticed her hesitation, and waited. She felt color rise to her cheeks; she briefly debated the question of loyalty to a friend, then remembered her aunt lying upstairs, silent and still. She drew in a deep breath. “Eleanor has a lover. I don’t know who, but…” She gestured vaguely. “She’s been seeing him for years.”