“You imagine that the incident with the guard in the armory had something to do with his assistance in killing Walsh, perhaps?” he said.
“Or in seeking to harm you. And Lord Case was brought into it by accident simply because he was present when the guard attacked you.” She spoke with outward calm but her eyes glittered with distress. “One of the guards might have killed Mr. Walsh, or both of them that have now disappeared. But why would they have? His traveling bag seemed intact.”
“Seemed.”
“But if they had stolen something of his, why wouldn’t they have run away then?”
“A foot o’ snow upon the ground might o’ stayed them,” Lady Iona said.
“I don’t believe it,” Ravenna insisted. “The guards had no reason to imagine we would consider them suspects until after I found the man with Lady Grace in the armory. Everybody has known all along that you and I were investigating the murder. Monsieur Sepic himself said he’d heard it from the others, and I haven’t made a secret of it that I dislike the Whitebarrow twins.” She twisted her hands in her skirts. “Perhaps whichever of them did it—or both—imagined I disliked them because I suspected them of the murder.”
“It seems unlikely,” Lady Iona said.
“Yet not impossible.” He wanted to wrap his arms around Ravenna and assure her that she had not caused any of the violence, that she was blameless. “Why do you imagine either Lady Grace or Lady Penelope would wish to murder Oliver Walsh?”
“I don’t know. But I don’t know why anybody else would wish to either, other than the most obvious person,” she added, “and we know it was not him.”
Lady Iona’s eyes went wide. “Who?”
“He might have done it to divert our attention from him,” Vitor said.
“You don’t believe that. I don’t believe that. He was shot. You were both—” Her voice broke. “And he told me why he came to the stable that night.”
“Ye met Lord Case in the stable, lass? But—”
“What did he say to you?”
Ravenna shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. He didn’t do it. I don’t believe he likes me but I also don’t believe he wished to harm either of us.”
“I showed the bottle to Monsieur Brazil. He himself had placed it in Lord and Lady Whitebarrow’s chambers before guests began to arrive last week.”
“He did? Lord and Lady Whitebarrow’s chambers? Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“I learned of it only this morning.” Then he’d taken a moment in the chapel to prepare to see her. But she had fled into the sunshine, throwing into disarray his carefully rehearsed speech.
“Then the murderer must be Grace, for a reason as yet hidden to us. Or . . .” A new spark lit her eyes. “Penelope. Yes! Have you observed her? Grace, that is? The day everyone arrived here, and the next in the drawing room that evening and at dinner, she was the shadow to her sister’s practiced nastiness. You saw it with Ann. There was cool disdain in her face then. But that changed the next morning after the prince announced the murder. After that, she grew entirely silent, almost grim.”
“But, lass, all o’ us were stunned by the news o’ the poor man’s murder, an’ frightened that we might be next.”
“Of course. But Grace’s shock has seemed to me so . . . so . . . personal. As though she were . . . grieving,” she uttered as if she were only at this moment understanding, and understanding too well.
Vitor moved a step closer to her. “You believe that when she realized that her sister murdered Walsh, her fear for what might happen to Lady Penelope if her crime was discovered—”
“Or the horror o’ it.”
“—might have shocked her beyond her ability to dissemble?”
“Twins have a particular bond. Everybody knows that. Grace is clearly the weaker of the two, the follower to her sister’s lead.”
“But why would Penelope wish a man dead?” Lady Iona said.
Ravenna chewed her lip. “And if she did do it, how could we prove it?”
“Gather ev’rybody together an’ accuse Penelope. Mebbe ithers have evidence o’ her guilt but havena yet thought o’ it as evidence. Then make her remove those silly gloves an’ inspect her fingertips.”
Ravenna looked to him. He nodded. She started for the door, Lady Iona following.
Vitor caught Ravenna’s arm. “You will not speak,” he said quietly, firmly. “I will.”
“I don’t understand. I must.”
“You will not place yourself in further danger by revealing that you know every detail of the murder.”
“But—”
“You will not.” He could not bear it.
Without assenting, she drew out of his grasp and followed Iona.
THE PRINCE SUMMONED his guests to the chamber in which he had announced Mr. Walsh’s death. Only Lord Case remained absent.
Standing at the door and flanked by two of his largest and most loyal guards, Prince Sebastiao cleared his throat. “As yesterday’s harrowing events proved to us, Monsieur Sepic was mistaken in assigning the murder of Mr. Walsh to his nephew. We celebrated too precipitously. Monsieur Paul did not do the deed. My good friend Courtenay, however, has discovered the truth and will now reveal the murderer’s identity.”
As theatrical announcements went, it served its purpose. Guests gasped. Cheeks went pale. Lady Grace’s gloved fingers clenched in her maidenly white skirt. But Ravenna’s mind still sped. Why would Penelope have killed Oliver Walsh? What had she hoped to gain from it? Or had it been an accident? An accidental castration? Impossible.
“This is preposterous,” Lord Whitebarrow protested. “How can Courtenay know any more than the rest of us about Walsh’s death?”
“Because,” came a weak voice from the doorway, “my brother spent years in France during the war as an agent of the crown, unearthing secrets of Napoleon’s tactics which would no doubt turn all our hair white if we knew them but which benefitted England enormously.” Lord Case leaned against the doorpost, his clothing immaculate but his breathing labored and his face ruddy with fever.
Ravenna went to him. “You must return to bed at once.”
“Ah, the lovely nurse. Will you threaten me now too, or am I never to be so fortunate again?”
“Do as she says, Wes,” his brother said.
“I’ve no doubt she would make me suffer for it if I did not. And Franklin too, though he of course would deserve it.” His fevered gaze sought across the room for Arielle. He put a hand to his waistcoat, offered her a bow, and then clapped his brother on the arm. “Trust me, my lords and ladies, if this man speaks, it is because he has excellent information. Good day.”
Mr. Franklin assisted the earl away.
“Who was it, then, Courtenay?” Sir Henry said. “In the name of Zeus, it’s about time we got to the bottom of this mystery.”
“The note found in Walsh’s pocket bears a wax seal that was effected with a fingertip rather than a stamp,” Lord Vitor said. “The author of that note may bear a scar on her finger from the wax.”
“Her finger?”
“The seal is small. Though this does not rule out a man entirely, other evidence suggests it was a woman. Lady Penelope, would you be so good as to remove your gloves?”