“Ladies and gentlemen!” Stokes stepped to the middle of the room, his tone harassed. “As you’ve insisted on remaining, I must ask you all to remain mute while I question Mr. Calvin. If I wish to know anything from any of you, I will ask.”
He waited; when the ladies merely composed themselves as if settling to listen, he exhaled, and turned to Ambrose, slumped in a straight-backed chair under the central chandelier, facing the congregation before the hearth.
Blenkinsop and a sturdy footman, both standing to attention, flanked him.
“Now, Mr. Calvin—you’ve already admitted before a number of witnesses that you strangled Kitty, Mrs. Glossup. Will you please confirm how you killed her?”
Ambrose didn’t look up; his forearms on his thighs, he spoke to his bound hands. “I strangled her with the curtain cord from the window over there.” With his head, he indicated the long window closest to the desk.
“Why?”
“Because the stupid woman wouldn’t let be.”
“In what way?”
As if realizing there would be no way out, that speaking quickly and truthfully would get the ordeal over with that much faster—he couldn’t but be aware of his mother, sitting on the chaise deathly pale, a woman who’d been dealt a deadly blow, one hand gripping Lady Glossup’s, the other clutching Drusilla’s, her eyes fixed in a type of pleading horror on him—Ambrose drew in a huge breath, and rushed on, “She and I—earlier in the year, in London—we had an affair. She wasn’t my type, but she was always offering, and I needed Mr. Archer’s support. It seemed a wise move at the time—she promised to speak to Mr. Archer for me. When summer came, and we left town, we parted.” He shrugged. “Amicably enough. We’d arranged that I would attend this party, but other than that, she let go. Or so I thought.”
He paused only to draw breath. “When I got down here, she was up to her worst tricks, but she seemed to be after James. I didn’t worry, until she caught me one evening and told me she was pregnant.
“I didn’t see the problem at first, but she quickly fixed that. I was appalled!” Even now, the emotion rang in his voice. “It never entered my head that she and Henry weren’t . . . well, I never dreamed a married lady would behave as she did knowing she no longer had the protection of her marriage.”
He halted, as if stunned anew. Stokes, frowning, asked, “How did that contribute to your reasons for killing her?”
Ambrose looked up at him, then shook his head. “There are any number of tonnish ladies who bear children who are not their husband’s get. I didn’t foresee any problem until Kitty roundly informed me that under no circumstances could she, or would she, bear the child, and if I didn’t want it known it was mine—if I didn’t want her to make a fuss and tell her father—I’d have to make arrangements for her to get rid of it. That was the ultimatum she gave me that night.”
He studied his hands. “I had no idea what to do. My career—being selected for a sound seat and being elected—all I needed was Mr. Archer’s support, and while here I’d found Lord Glossup and Mr. Buckstead well-disposed as well—it was all going so swimmingly . . . except for Kitty.” His voice hardened; he kept his gaze on his hands. “I didn’t know how to help her—I honestly don’t know if I would have if I’d known. It’s not the sort of thing ladies should ask of their lovers—most women would know how to deal with it themselves. I thought all she needed to do was ask around. She’s here in the country, there’s surely plenty of maids who get in the family way . . . I was sure she could manage. Either that, or engineer a reconciliation with Henry.”
Clasping his hands tight, he went on, “I made the mistake of telling her so.” A shudder ran through him. “God—how she took on! You’d have thought I’d recommended she drink hemlock—she ranted, railed—her voice rose and rose. I tried to shut her up and she slapped me. She started to screech—
“I grabbed the curtain cord and wound it about her neck . . . and pulled.” He fell silent; the room was still—a pin dropping would have echoed. Then he tilted his head, his gaze far away, remembering . . . “It was surprisingly easy—she wasn’t at all strong. She struggled a bit, tried to reach back and scratch me, grab me, but I held her until she stopped struggling . . . when I let her go, she just crumpled to the floor.”
His voice changed. “I realized I’d killed her. I rushed out—upstairs. Away. I went to my room and poured myself a brandy—I was gulping it down when I saw my coat sleeve had been torn. The flap was gone. Then I remembered that was where Kitty had grabbed. I realized . . . then I remembered seeing the flap in Kitty’s hand when I’d looked at her lying on the floor. It was plaid—only I wore a plaid coat that day.
“I raced out of my room. I was at the top of the stairs when Portia screamed. Simon came running, then Charlie—there was nothing I could do. I stood there, waiting to be accused, but . . . nothing happened.”
Ambrose drew in a breath. “Charlie came out and closed the library door. He looked up and saw me. I could see in his face he didn’t think I was the murderer. Instead, he asked where Henry and Blenkinsop were.
“When he left, I realized there was hope—no one had noticed the flap yet. If I could get to it and retrieve it, I’d be safe.” He paused. “I had nothing to lose. I went down the stairs. Henry and Blenkinsop came rushing up and entered the library. I followed.
“Portia and Simon were at the other end of the room, Portia deeply shaken, Simon focused on her. Both saw me, but neither reacted. I was still wearing the plaid coat—they couldn’t have seen the flap.
“I followed Henry and Blenkinsop to the desk. They were shocked, stunned—they just stared. I looked at Kitty—at her right hand.” Ambrose lifted his head. “It was empty.
“I couldn’t believe it. The fingers were open, the hand lax. Then I realized both her hands and arms had been moved, her head shifted. I immediately thought of Portia coming in, finding Kitty, rushing to her, then touching her, chafing her hands—doing all those useless little things women do. The flap was narrow, only a few inches long. If it had fallen from Kitty’s hand . . .”
He looked down at the Turkish rugs spread over the library floor. “Brown, green, and red. The plaid was the same colors as the rugs. The flap could easily have caught in Portia’s skirts or petticoats, or even a man’s trouser hem. Once out of Kitty’s grasp, it could have ended anywhere, and in this room, it would have been difficult to see. I looked about the body, but it wasn’t there. I couldn’t risk openly searching. Henry and Blenkinsop were still stunned, so I seized the moment. I walked around the desk and bent as if to look closer, and snagged my sleeve on a handle of one of the desk drawers. I straightened, and it ripped. I swore, then apologized. Both Blenkinsop and Henry were dazed, but they did notice. If the flap was found later, I could say I’d lost it then.”
Ambrose’s gaze remained distant. “I felt safe. I left the library, and then it struck me—what if someone else had found Kitty before Portia, recognized the flap and taken it away? But I couldn’t imagine any of those here doing such a thing. They’d have raised the alarm, denounced me . . . all except Mama. She’d told me she was going to spend the afternoon writing letters, keeping in touch with people whose support I needed. I went up to her room. She was there
, writing. She didn’t know anything about the murder. I told her, then left.”
He paused, head slightly tilted, as if looking back on a strange time. “I returned to my room and finished the brandy. I thought about the servants. No reason any should have gone to the library at that hour, but one can never be sure what an enterprising footman or maid might think to do.
“I decided to burn the coat. No one would be surprised that I’d got rid of it after ripping it. If anyone later tried to blackmail me, with the coat destroyed, I could say the plaid of the flap was like mine but not the same. No one can ever be sure about plaids.”
He shifted on the chair. “I took the coat into the woods and burned it. The gypsy undergardener saw me, but I didn’t worry about him then. I felt sure I’d successfully covered all eventualities . . . except for the possibility that, as I’d first supposed, the flap had been in Kitty’s hand when Portia found her, but the shock had driven it from Portia’s mind.”
He looked down, lifting his bound hands to rub his forehead. “I could see the flap in Kitty’s hand—the image was so vivid in my mind. The more I thought of it the more I felt certain that Portia had to have seen it. Even with both flap and coat gone . . . she’s usually calm and collected, and very well-connected. Any suggestion from her that I was the murderer would make people step back. An accusation from her could easily ruin my career. I realized I had no guarantee that when she recovered from the shock, she wouldn’t remember.”