Anger flared in Lara’s chest, but she maintained a calm composure. Those who lose their temper lose the battle, Montague always said. “Are you all so concerned with your petty squabbles that you have forgotten a man is dead?”
“Precisely,” Miss Pardue countered. “And where might we find Mr Bellham so we may pay our respects?”
“Are you at all related to the deceased, Miss Pardue?” Lara found it odd that someone would want to gaze upon the victim of a murder if they had no familial connection. That said, Miss Pardue seemed most eager to prove herself as worthy as any man.
“It seems the right thing to do under the circumstances,” the lady retorted.
“The right thing to do is eat our soup and discuss this in the drawing room after dinner.” Lady Denham swallowed a mouthful and then pushed the china away. “With such gruesome talk, one no longer has an appetite. I feel the need to rest upstairs. This whole business has shattered my nerves.”
Lord Denham arched a brow. “And where were you, Mother, after you left my study?”
The matron blanched. She clasped her strand of pearls as if her son might throttle her with the necklace. “Me, Hugo? Surely you don’t think I saw anything frightful outdoors?”
“Everyone must give an account of their whereabouts. You know what a devil Sir Ellis is for detail.” The earl cast the viscount a hard stare. “If anyone saw anything, I imagine it would be you, Northcott. Did you not arrive a few minutes before we stumbled upon the body?”
Evidently intrigued by this line of questioning, Lady Denham instructed the footmen to remove the soup plates and then fixed her attention on Lord Northcott.
The viscount relaxed back in the chair. “Had Bellham not been so impatient to get here, he would be dining with us now. We stayed together at the Swan in Amesbury last night. He wanted to reach Wollaston as a matter of urgency and complained endlessly about problems with the weather. He did everything possible to make journeying together difficult, and so I left him to go on ahead.”
“Then by your account, Bellham arrived later than expected,” the earl said as he motioned for a footman to carve and serve from the silver platters. Others followed his lead, hunger banishing all morbid thoughts.
“Much later,” Northcott eventually replied. “It’s but a ten-mile ride, and he left at three. Granted, the weather doubled the time it took to get here. Where he went or what he did during those remaining two hours is a mystery to me.”
Famished after the ride out in the cold, Lara tucked into roasted pheasant and raised game pie with cranberry confit. While she ate, she watched those seated around the table inform Lord Denham of their whereabouts. All the ladies insisted they were washing and dressing during the time Mr Bellham drew his last breath. Consequently, they had kept the bedchamber curtains closed and heard nothing of any significance outside.
The viscount was the only person with both the time and the opportunity to attack Mr Bellham. But a man capable of cold-blooded murder wasn’t likely to confess at the dinner table. No. They must make him feel comfortable, partake in a few games. Hope he contradicted some part of his story.
That said, Mr Bellham had muttered a few other words whilst he lay dying. Words Lara had dismissed as those of a man who’d lost control of his faculties. Now, she wondered if they might be clues.
The first had sounded very much like strawberry. And as she glanced around the table, it struck her that earlier Miss Harper had worn a pretty ruby brooch in the shape of the fruit to secure her fichu. Miss Pardue had a small red birthmark on her cheek. Might that be what Mr Bellham meant? Miss Venables’ dress had tiny red flowers that looked very much like strawberries from a distance.
Was it just a case of Lara’s imagination running wild? Or was Lord Denham right? Had one of the prim ladies seated at the table taken a blade and thrust it into Mr Bellham’s chest?
Chapter Five
The melancholic mood in the drawing room after dinner made it impossible for Hugo to probe the guests about their relationship with Bertie Bellham. Society knew the fellow as a charming cad who few took seriously. During their fifteen-year acquaintance, Bertie had been embroiled in various scrapes and scandals. So much so, the countess had insisted Hugo withdraw his invitation. But Hugo had needed an ally, someone to save him from making a disastrous mistake. And Bertie had no problem speaking the truth or causing offence.
Did that have something to do with why Bellham lay dead in the bothy? Surely not.
And so, when all hope of making further investigations proved fruitless, he sought out Miss Bennett’s company, eager to discuss art and her father’s love of Italy. But Miss Mason-Jones had not stopped crying since learning of poor Bertie’s fate, and so the only woman in the room with anything interesting to say escorted Miss Mason-Jones up to her bedchamber in the hope of settling the girl’s nerves.
Bored, Hugo made his excuses and retired early.
Christmas Eve morning brought another deluge of snow. The maids scurried about clearing and lighting fires. Most guests requested breakfast in their warm beds. Miss Harper had insisted on having another hot bath, and the footmen were forever back and forth with silver trays and steaming buckets.
Hugo found Miss Bennett alone in the library, curled up on the window seat with a book, though she seemed more taken with the topiary trees in the garden standing to attention like little white soldiers.
“Good morning, Miss Bennett. Do you know you’re the only person brave enoug
h to slip out from under the bedsheets and venture downstairs?”
She turned to look at him, her keen gaze perusing the cut of his sombre black coat, worn out of respect for his friend. “Not the only person. You’re here. If last night proved anything, it’s that we both have hardy constitutions.”
“And both have a fondness for the winter weather.” He crossed the room. It was unlike him to look for things he had in common with a woman. “I’m glad I found you alone.”
“Oh?” She closed the book, placed it on the seat next to her and gave him her undivided attention. “Is there something you wish to discuss with me?”
Hugo drank in the sight of her eager brown eyes and pursed lips. Did she embrace every task with the same lively passion? Would she kiss him in the confident way she tackled every other task? Curiosity burned. He imagined a wild temptress beneath the composed exterior.