“Were you expecting Mr Bellham?” Miss Bennett asked as Flanders rode off up the drive.
“He was to spend the festive season at Wollaston. When he failed to arrive with the other guests three days ago, I presumed he’d changed his mind.” He gripped Bellham’s outstretched hand though struggled to decipher his mumbled words. “Rest now.”
Miss Bennett was right. He’d lost too much blood. His face was grey, his lips blue. One could sense his life slowly ebbing away.
“I think he is trying to tell you something.” She leaned closer and whispered, “I doubt he has long left. Perhaps he knows who did this.”
Bertie responded with another groan. He reached for Hugo’s lapel and tugged with the strength of a newborn babe. The weak mutterings failed to penetrate his addled mind.
“Might I try?” Miss Bennett did not wait for his reply. She took Bertie’s hand and leaned over his blood-soaked body. “Sir, I promise you we will seek justice for this crime, but you must help us.”
Bertie murmured something about his boots.
Miss Bennett yanked down her hood, gathered her hair to one side and pressed her ear to Bertie’s mouth. His friend’s faint mutterings drifted through the frigid air like ghostly whispers.
A hundred questions flooded Hugo’s mind while he waited. How would they reach the coroner and magistrate? How the hell would he tell his guests? Terrified ladies were hard to console. More so when trapped in a house with no means of escape.
Miss Bennett raised her head. She cupped Bertie’s cheek and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Rest now, sir.”
And with that, Bertie Bellham drew his last breath.
Chapter Four
Should a man’s dying message not carry an air of finality? Should he not whisper words of love for a sister or mother? Should he not convey fear as darkness approached? So why did Mr Bellham’s offerings sound so utterly peculiar?
“I don’t suppose you heard what he said.” The earl drew a gloved hand over his friend’s eyes to close them, brushed snow off the rim of his hat, icy flakes off Mr Bellham’s cold cheeks. “We met at school,” he added. Loss hung heavily in his grave tone and slumped bearing. “Most men liked him unless they had a sister or daughter of marriageable age.”
Lara knew how grief ripped at the heart, tore it to shreds. She took the earl’s hand and drew him to his feet before their legs were too numb to stand. For some reason, she found herself brushing snow off the shoulders and arms of his greatcoat.
“I heard some of what Mr Bellham said, though it made little sense.”
Lord Denham looked to the mass of grey storm clouds and then at her. “We should take shelter, discuss this in the house. We’ve been outdoors for too long.” He reached out and raised the hood of her cloak, tucked a stray lock of hair inside. “You cannot risk catching a chill.” The intimate gesture did not shock or come as a surprise. When sadness lived in the heart, people looked for ways to ease the crippling ache.
She gripped the lord’s arm again. “Mr Bellham said the murderer came from the house.” Well, he hadn’t put it quite so succinctly.
“The house?” The earl jerked his head. “My house?”
“Yes, and he said something about protecting his boots.”
Lord Denham frowned. “Bellham believed a member of my household staff took his life so viciously? Who else would want to steal a dead man’s hessians?”
“I haven’t the faintest notion.” The gentleman had said a few other things, all too ridiculous to repeat. “Confusion blurs the mind as life slips away. But he kept repeating that the murderer is in the house.” She pointed to the multitude of footprints leading to Wollaston Hall. “Any number of people might have made those tracks.”
The earl fell silent.
The only signs of his inner turmoil were the puffs of white mist bursting from his lips whenever he exhaled a ragged breath. Oh, she wished her grandfather were here to assist in these alarming matters.
The earl glanced at the spattering of blood, closed his eyes and shook his head. After a moment, he looked towards the lane. “Bellham didn’t arrive via West Chisenbury else we’d have seen him. And from the prints in the snow, only one horse approached on the lane from Upavon. So where is Bellham’s mount?”
Lara shrugged. “Perhaps the murderer spooked the horse. With luck, the animal will find its way back.”
Muttering a curse, he turned to look at the grand house sitting amidst the snowy splendour. “Do you think Bellham spoke in earnest? I cannot conceive how any of the guests are capable of committing such a heinous crime.” He rubbed his jaw and sighed.
/> Lara’s attention moved to the blood he’d unwittingly smeared on his cheek and chin. Mr Bellham’s blood. Despite the extremities, she pulled off her glove. “My lord, allow me a certain liberty.”
He seemed confused, more so when she rubbed gently back and forth across his firm jaw. Suspicion flashed in his eyes. He captured her wrist and held it in a tight grip. “Tell me. Did my mother invite you here? Was your late arrival a ploy to gain my attention? Is this all some part of a devious plot to see me wed?”
“This?” She glanced at the lifeless body of poor Mr Bellham. “Please say you are not speaking of murder.” Good Lord! Did he think his mother would stoop so low? Did he think Mr Bellham would rise imminently from the dead and laugh at the joke?