Page 35 of A Silence in Belgrave Square (Below Stairs #8)

The sound of Fagan’s weeping filled the silence of the upper hall. His entire body shook, and I reached out a tenuous hand to touch his great arm.

“I am so sorry,” I said, scarcely knowing what to tell him. “It was an accident, the police said. Nothing you could have done.”

Fagan jerked from my touch. “I should have been with him. I left him alone because he sent me to bed. If I’d been here, he’d still be alive.”

He broke down, his chest heaving, his choked sobs pathetic to witness.

“You can’t blame yourself,” I tried. “You had to have slept sometime. His lordship would know that, else he’d not have sent you to bed.”

“I don’t know why he did. It was late, but I could have stayed with him all night. He needed me.” Fagan’s breath wheezed, tears streaming down his large face.

“You have no idea why he was at the top of the staircase?” I asked.

“None at all.”

I gazed past the weeping Fagan down the steep flight we’d just ascended. The window gave an excellent view along the mews, all the way to the corner I’d peeked around when I’d walked the road with Grace.

We were directly over the back door, I realized, the one that had the entrance between the walls. James had been correct that no one in the house could actually see that door. Once a visitor passed between the walls below, they’d vanish from sight.

I studied the scene for a time, while Fagan’s sobs slowly faded to a soft gasping.

A door opened somewhere behind me. “Where are they?” a woman’s stentorian voice demanded. “Go and find them. I want to make a start.”

I turned as a maid in a black frock with a white pinafore glided from a room at the far end of the hall. She had dark hair in a smooth bun and a neatly starched cap pinned securely atop her head.

I’d never have recognized Hannah if I hadn’t known it was she. Her face was impassive, and her eyes took in her surroundings and revealed nothing.

“This way, madam,” she said to me. “That will be all, Fagan.”

Hannah gave the last command in perfect imitation of a maid at the end of her patience with a manservant who at present was, in her opinion, shirking his duties.

Fagan turned and lumbered down the stairs, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. Hannah stood unmoving by the door she’d opened, waiting for me to enter.

I moved quietly toward her, reminding myself I was here as a guest, not a domestic. I had no need to scuttle inside in obedience, no need to curtsy to the reedy woman—Lady Fontaine, I assumed—who waited for me there.

The chamber I entered was a drawing room filled with furniture in the same style as that of the reception room.

This room was still formal but more comfortable, with pillows strewn about, books waiting on low shelves, gas lamps lending a glow even on this sunny afternoon.

Apparently Lady Fontaine did not share Mrs.Bywater’s alarm at the expense of lighting.

Hannah followed me in and gave Lady Fontaine a precise maid’s curtsy that would do whoever had trained her proud. “Mrs.Crowe, your ladyship.”

The thin woman in black looked me up and down.

Her gown was simple in style, no bustle or stiff skirts, with a ruffle-trimmed bodice the only extravagance.

Her iron-gray hair was likewise dressed in an uncomplicated braided coil.

Lady Fontaine’s face was sharp, her nose beaked, her eyes brown and watchful.

At the moment, that assessing gaze ran over me, not liking what it saw.

“She doesn’t look like much,” Lady Fontaine said to Hannah.

Hannah bobbed another curtsy. “Lady Mortimer swore by her, your ladyship. Said she did wonders to ease her mind about her late husband.”

I hoped Hannah had not laid on her praise too thick. As Lady Mortimer had passed on, Lady Fontaine would not be able to check Hannah’s claim, but Lady Fontaine could presumably quiz Lady Mortimer’s acquaintances about the fictitious Mrs.Crowe.

“Lady Rankin as well,” Hannah went on.

I hid my unease, as a reference to Lady Rankin was literally closer to home.

But then, of those who’d worked for Cynthia’s sister, besides myself, only Mr.Davis, Sara, and Elsie remained.

Mrs.Bywater would have no idea if Lady Rankin had employed “Mrs.Crowe,” and Cynthia would go along with the ruse once she learned of it.

Lady Fontaine sniffed. “Lady Rankin was a tart. Behaved as though she couldn’t lift a finger but kept as many trysts as she pleased. Does her sister still run about in trousers?”

“I believe so, your ladyship,” I said with feigned sorrow.

“That whole family is scandalous,” Lady Fontaine answered decidedly. “I have nothing to do with them. But I suppose if Lady Mortimer approved of you, you’ll have to do.”

I contrived to look modest. “Thank you, your ladyship.”

Hannah must have won Lady Fontaine’s complete trust, because despite her apparent misgivings, the woman gave me a nod.

“Why were you lingering in the hall?” Lady Fontaine asked abruptly. “Fagan has become a useless lout. He’ll have to go, if indeed he didn’t murder my brother. That is what you are here to tell us, Mrs.Crowe.”

“It wasn’t Fagan’s fault I remained in the hall.” I felt sorry for the man now that I’d seen his true grief, and it was easy to come to his defense. “I wished to stand in the precise spot your brother met his unkind fate. To absorb the vibrations, you see.”

“Ah, yes.” Lady Fontaine’s eyes softened the slightest bit. “I shiver mightily whenever I have to pass the staircase. I’ve barely been able to go downstairs since it happened.”

“I’ll fetch tea.” Hannah snapped off another perfect curtsy and glided from the room.

Lady Fontaine continued to study me. “I suppose you will need candles and other accoutrements. We’ll have to draw the draperies for the candles to even be noticed.”

“Not at all,” I said with feigned confidence. “The spirits are here, whether it is midnight or broad daylight.” I gestured at the windows, through which May sunlight poured. As the days had warmed, the coal-smoke pall which usually coated the city had lessened.

Lady Fontaine gave me a minute smile of satisfaction. “Exactly what I always say. You don’t need a crystal ball and black cloths to impress the departed. They float freely in the ether and are beyond caring about such things.”

“Indeed,” I managed.

“Well, make yourself comfortable, Mrs.Crowe. Marjory will return with tea, and we can make a start.”

I gave her a nod and wandered about the drawing room, as though looking it over for the best place to contact the departed Lord Peyton.

I had to wonder again about the curtains, which were as wide open as the ones on the landing. Had Lord Peyton been the one who liked the drapes closed, and now that he was gone, Lady Fontaine preferred to see out?

This chamber was in the front of the house, and a glance from its two tall windows showed me the road that encircled Belgrave Square and the iron railings enclosing the park across that street. Trees and shrubbery promised tranquil walks in the green space, an oasis in busy London.

I turned from the windows and examined the rest of the room. It was fashionable these days to load mantelpieces and tables with photographs of family, but there weren’t many photographs in here.

One of the few I saw was of Lord Peyton, standing stiffly upright. It must have been taken in his younger days, the picture now faded as many from the early era of photography did. A photograph of a slender young woman stood next to it, and I realized with a start that she was Lady Fontaine.

The younger woman had been pretty, if not lavishly beautiful. I wondered if Lady Fontaine’s marriage and her ailment of stealing everything in sight had etched the lines of bitterness now on her face.

I noted that as she watched me, she remained in the center of the room, far from the few knickknacks on the tables near the walls. I wondered if Lady Fontaine had learned to do so to keep her compulsion under some control.

Hannah skimmed back inside, balancing a full tea tray in her hands. I curbed my instinct to help her, as an invited guest would expect the servants to do any heavy work.

Hannah carried the loaded silver tray as though it weighed nothing and placed it in the middle of the table. She began to set out cups, three of them.

“Lord Downes will not be joining us,” Lady Fontaine said to her.

“I invited him, as I told you, but he declined. Womanly nonsense, he said.” Her voice took on a tender note.

“Lord Downes has been like a rock. He lives next door, you see. Has been holding my hand through it all. Well, not literally.” Lady Fontaine barely stopped herself from giggling.

If Lord Downes, the gruff and blustering neighbor Mr.Fielding had sent his man to work for as groom, had lived in Belgrave Square long, he’d have come to know Lady Fontaine through her visits to her brother.

Perhaps he’d grown fond of her and she of him.

Marrying him might solve her financial dilemma for now, though I wondered if Lord Downes would carry his fondness that far.

Hannah showed no annoyance that she’d brought an extra cup and tea cakes for nothing. “Will that be all, your ladyship?” she asked with faultless courtesy.

“ You will stay with us, Marjory,” Lady Fontaine announced.

“I wanted Lord Downes to make a third party—the spirits prefer more of the living to interact with. Mrs.Proctor—she’s our housekeeper—said she’d not have any truck with ghosts, and Fagan would be useless.

So you will stay. You are not afraid, are you?

” Lady Fontaine sent Hannah a piercing gaze, as though ready to mock her if she betrayed any fear.

“Not at all, your ladyship,” Hannah answered without changing expression.

“Good girl. Now pour out the tea. Mrs.Crowe and I will drink, and then she will read my leaves.”

I started. “No, your ladyship. I cannot.”

Hannah flicked a glare at me, which Lady Fontaine did not notice. “Why ever not?” Lady Fontaine demanded.