Suspicion

  The world moves in slow motion as the officers tackle Sebastian, cuffing his wrists.

  “You can’t do this!” I hear myself scream. “This is my house—you shouldn’t be here! He’s done nothing wrong, let him go!”

  But the officers pay me no attention, and as I look at Sebastian in terror, it strikes me that he doesn’t look surprised. What could he have done?

  “Sebastian Stanhope, you are under arrest for the murder of Lucia Rockford.”

  “What?” I scream. “What?”

  Sebastian stares at me, shaking his head.

  “Ginny, I can explain—”

  “It was an accident!” I shriek to the officers. “She wasn’t murdered.”

  “I’m afraid we have new information that proves otherwise,” the first officer says, before turning back to Sebastian. “Anything you do or say may be given in evidence—”

  And suddenly my vision blurs, my legs buckle, as Sebastian cries out my name.”

  THE SUNDAY TELEGRAPH

  The dark side of the British peerage was exposed tonight. At half-past eight, Lord Sebastian Stanhope of Great Milton, was arrested for the murder of his girlfriend, the late Marchioness of Wickersham, Lucia Rockford. Stanhope was taken to the Oxford County Jail, and it is unclear whether he will be allowed bail. Said arrest took place amidst the Rockford Fireworks Concert, causing the hostess, Duchess Imogen Rockford, to fall into a shock.

  A spokesman for the Stanhope family insists, “This has been a grievous mistake. Sebastian Stanhope is innocent and will most certainly be proven so.” Meanwhile, the Rockford spokesperson simply states, “The Duchess of Wickersham and her staff are cooperating with the investigation.”

  This is a terrible and disturbing business for all involved. One can only wonder how the seventeen-year-old duchess—rumored to have grown close to Stanhope—is coping with the revelation about her cousin’s deadly end.

  XIII

  Your Grace? I spoke to the police officer. He agreed to return for your statement tomorrow.”

  Oscar’s voice draws me out of my thoughts and back into the present.

  “How—how long were you gone?” I ask, my voice dry from lack of use.

  “Only twenty minutes, Your Grace.”

  I shake my head. It seems impossible that he only just left the drawing room, when my mind has relived days, months, and years in the short time he’s been away.

  I turn to glance out the window. Members of the household staff are outside clearing the gardens, removing all traces of the party that was so suddenly halted by Sebastian’s arrest. But two key figures are missing.

  “Are you sure I shouldn’t call the doctor?” Oscar watches me with concern. “You seem to be in an awful state.”

  “I don’t need a doctor—I need to know why this is happening.” I look up at Oscar in dismay. “He didn’t kill her. He couldn’t have. Why would they pin this on him? Why do they even think she was murdered, when everyone knows it was an accident?”

  Oscar takes a deep breath, lowering his eyes to the floor.

  “If you know something, Oscar, you have to tell me,” I plead. “Now. Please.”

  He slumps onto the seat beside me, his face ashen.

  “It all happened so fast. One minute we were enjoying the concert, and the next thing I knew, the two officers were there, banging at the gates. They had a warrant out for Sebastian’s arrest, and I had no choice but to let them in. Apparently …” He clears his throat. “An anonymous witness came forward—someone who was too frightened to say anything before, who claimed family pressure kept them from speaking up. The witness recalled seeing Lucia walking to the Maze the night she died—but someone was with her. Sebastian Stanhope. And they appeared to be fighting.

  “The autopsy report determined that Lady Lucia was killed by the force of a blunt object to the head and the assumption before tonight was that she hit her head on the stone pillar, since her blood was found on the stone,” Oscar continues grimly. “But in light of the new information that Sebastian was reportedly seen with Lucia that night, the police obtained a warrant to search Stanhope Abbey earlier this afternoon. In the Stanhopes’ garden shed, they found a polo stick with traces of Lucia’s blood, and Sebastian’s own fingerprints.”

  I begin to shake violently, my knees knocking together. His words earlier tonight, so welcome at the time, now come back to haunt me. “I didn’t love her. … I never did.”

  “There has to be another explanation. There’s no way he did it. Sebastian is good. He could never hurt anyone—”

  I break off as I remember the force with which he smashed the porcelain statuette weeks ago, the way his temper exploded out of nowhere. And his interest in helping me through the Maze … Could he have been looking for something himself? Like evidence that pointed to him being Lucia’s killer?

  Have I misjudged Sebastian completely—and fallen in love with a monster?

  Against my will, images from tonight whir together in my mind with scenes from the past, set to the music we danced to at the bar. “Since you went away, the days grow long …”

  I close my eyes, remembering Sebastian kissing my cheek as a child, and kissing me passionately on the lips this evening. Playing together in the gardens as kids, and dancing together in Windsor all these years later. His hand on my waist in the Maze, his gaze full of warmth. “But I miss you most of all, my darling, when autumn leaves start to fall.”

  I rise to my feet, emboldened by my memories. Sebastian is no cold-blooded killer. There’s more to this story. I know it. And just like he believed in me all those years ago when I trusted him with my secret … it’s my turn to believe in him.

  “I’m going to my room,” I tell Oscar. “I need to be alone.”

  Without giving him a chance to reply, I turn and hurry out the door. As I reach the Marble Hall, I freeze at the sight of Mrs. Mulgrave descending the grand staircase. Her usually pallid face is splotched with red, her eyes grotesquely swollen. She’s been crying.

  I slip behind a statue so I can watch Mrs. Mulgrave unseen. Surely there’s only one thing that could have caused this formidable woman to break: the news that Lucia might have been murdered. I’m torn as I watch her, part of me sympathizing with her attachment to my cousin, while the other part of me shudders at the sight of this possessed-looking woman, her expression dark enough to kill. And then a thought occurs to me.

  I’ve never once seen Mrs. Mulgrave behave in such a devoted, attached manner to her actual daughter. I rack my brain, trying to remember an instance of warmth between them, a hug or a kind word—but nothing comes to mind. Mrs. Mulgrave seems almost indifferent to her. Is Maisie a disappointment to her mother, for some reason? Did Mrs. Mulgrave love Lucia more? And did Maisie know she was second in her mother’s heart?

  My stomach lurches as I wonder … Is it possible Maisie could be the one who had it in for Lucia all along?

  I wait for Mrs. Mulgrave to cross the hall into the next room, before thundering up the stairs to my bedroom. I am certain the Mulgraves played some sort of role in what happened to Lucia—and now it’s up to me to find out what.

  Instead of going to bed that night, I sit at my desk, waiting for all the household sounds to quiet and till I’m sure no one else could still be awake. Finally, at three a.m., I tiptoe out of my bedroom and steal through the halls, crossing over to the west wing when I reach the stairs.

  My heart hammers in my chest as I slowly make my way toward Lucia’s bedroom; I feel as frightened as if I’m opening the lid to her coffin. I almost expect to find her ghost there, sitting in plain sight on the bed, or gazing into the mirror. But when I finally step into her room and my shaking fingers switch on the light, it’s empty. The bedroom looks serene and utterly normal, as if its owner is simply away on vacation and will return any day now.

  Her bed stands in the center of the room, perfectly made up, with crisp linens and monogrammed pillowcases. A white nightgown and matching satin robe are folded on he
r pillow, with a pair of slippers on the floor beside the bed. Every indication points to the person who inhabited this room still being among the living. Fresh flowers spill out of crystal vases on Lucia’s bedside table, above the fireplace, and on the corner of her desk. I shudder at the realization that Mrs. Mulgrave must be changing her flowers every day. What a macabre ritual.

  Lucia’s hairbrush, perfume, and makeup are arranged in orderly fashion on her vanity, and it’s then that I recognize the jasmine scent that has been wafting in and out of my bedroom over the past weeks. The scent is her perfume.

  I look around the beautiful but creepy bedroom, my legs trembling as I wonder where to begin my search. Thanks to Oscar, I know Mrs. Mulgrave keeps Lucia’s room exactly as it was before she died, and I’m certain she hasn’t thrown anything out. So the question is, where will I find the smoking gun?

  I check the desk drawers first, but they are surprisingly low on anything personal, filled instead with all of her Oxford textbooks and binders. I try her walk-in closet next, but all I find are hangers upon hangers of stale-smelling, expensive-looking clothes.

  Think, Imogen, I instruct myself. Where would I choose to hide my most personal possessions?

  And with a flash, I remember. Eleven-year-old Lucia in summer 2006, honoring me with the knowledge of where she kept her diary as she pulled it from its hiding place to read me the bit about the boy who chased her in the schoolyard for a kiss.

  I race back to the bed, digging my hand between the mattress and bed frame. There is no longer a diary tucked away, but my fingers close around a small, cold object. Just as I’m about to consider my mission complete, my hand hits a wad of papers. Adrenaline floods my veins as I pull the items out from under the mattress.

  The cold object turns out to be a bronze locket. I pry it open, and what I see inside causes me to let out a cry of shock.

  I know the couple in the photo. The man is Lucia’s father, my uncle Charles. But instead of Aunt Philippa, the woman leaning in to kiss his cheek in the photo is none other than—Mrs. Mulgrave. She is a much younger, far better-looking Mrs. Mulgrave, but there’s no denying that it’s her.

  I can’t look away from the photo; I’m struck by how different she is. This isn’t the ghoulish, sullen Mrs. Mulgrave I’m used to, but an attractive young woman with bright eyes and flushed cheeks.

  What changed her so terribly? Could she have been in love with my uncle Charles? Did his death destroy her? And why would Lucia have kept this incriminating photo of her father’s affair tucked in a locket? Unless … ? I gasp at the thought but just as quickly dismiss it. There’s no way Lucia could have been the product of the affair. When we were little she was the spitting image of Aunt Philippa, and my aunt adored her the way any mother would love their firstborn. So had Lucia held on to the locket as some kind of ammunition against her father? None of it makes any sense.

  I set the locket down in confusion and pick up the stack of papers. Looking closer, I see that they’re letters, all bearing the same handwriting. I begin reading the letter at the top of the stack, dated one year ago—two days before Lucia died.

  October 23, 2013

  Dear Lucia,

  I’m going bloody mad over what you put me through yesterday. I don’t think I can stand it any longer. I can’t pretend anymore. I’m going to tell the truth.

  You asked me to prove my love for you, and I have, over and over again. I would do anything to

  be with you. Whatever it takes. Now it’s your turn.

  Yours,

  Theo

  “Theo?” I yelp.

  That can’t be right. I frantically skim the rest of the letters, all of them from the year of her death, and each one more obsessive than the next. They all end with the same signature, marked by a swooping T.

  My thoughts race, the pieces coming together in my mind. Lucia and Theo were seeing each other behind Sebastian’s back. Theo sent her a series of pleading, lovesick letters. And suddenly, Maisie no longer seems like a prime suspect.

  If someone did kill Lucia … was it Theo? Were these letters some sort of threat? Or could Sebastian have found out that his girlfriend was cheating on him with his own brother, and flown into a deadly rage?

  An icy fist closes around my heart as I realize that the odds are pointing to one of them—the boy I love, the friend I cherish. One of them is guilty. And I owe it to my cousin to find out the truth.

  I wake up in the morning with a jolt, roused from my sleep by the loud ringing of my cell. Theo’s letters to Lucia are strewn across my bed, and I’m still wearing my formal dress from the ill-fated party. I don’t even remember having fallen asleep.

  “Hello?” I answer, groggily.

  “Imogen, darling!” comes Carole’s panicked voice. “Thank God you’re all right!”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “It’s been all over the news here—your cousin’s murderer arrested at your party!” Carole sobs. “I knew I should never have let you go back to Rockford. Keith and I just booked our flight. We’ll be there tomorrow to bring you home.”

  “You what?” I sit upright. “Wait—you’ve got it all wrong. Sebastian didn’t kill anyone. At least, we don’t know for sure. I need to be here, I don’t want to go back.”

  “Well, the police changed their ruling on Lucia’s death to homicide. So if Sebastian didn’t do it, then that means there’s a murderer at large. Either way, how could you want to stay there?” Carole frets.

  “Because—because—” I grasp for the words to explain that I’m tied to all three of the players in this mess, that I’m tied to the manor, and I can’t leave until I know what really happened and why. “I can’t explain everything now, but I promise you I’m safe. You don’t need to worry.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that when I see you tomorrow. Our flight gets in at ten a.m.”

  “Oh … okay.”

  I close my eyes and lean against the headboard. I do miss Carole and Keith, but now couldn’t be a worse time for them to visit. Figuring out how to solve the mystery of Lucia’s death is going to be hard enough, but doing so under their watchful eyes will be next to impossible.

  “After all you’ve been through, this was the last thing you needed,” Carole continues. “Lauren’s mother gave me the name of a new therapist who she’s heard wonderful things about, and I’d really like for you to give her a chance—”

  “Please, no more therapists,” I moan. And then I gasp, remembering the clue I’ve completely forgotten about.

  Lucia had seen a psychiatrist. What was his name? Something about a bird … Dr. … Dr. Heron! She might have gone to him until the very end. And if so, he could hold the answer.

  “I have to go,” I tell Carole breathlessly. “I’ll see you when you get here.”

  As soon as I hang up, I race to my computer and Google “Dr. Heron, London psychiatrist.” I hold my breath as I dial the number that pops up on the screen.

  “Dr. Heron’s office,” a woman’s voice answers briskly.

  “Can I speak to him please?” I burst out. “It’s urgent. Seriously urgent.”

  This time when she speaks, her voice takes on a slow and sweet “I’m talking to a mental patient” tone.

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “It’s Imogen Rockford.” Then, realizing I might need to call in the big guns, I add, “The Duchess of Wickersham.”

  “Is that so?” she asks skeptically.

  “I swear. You can call the listed number on the Rockford Manor website and someone on the staff will come get me, if you need proof.”

  “That won’t be necessary … Your Grace,” she allows. “But I’m afraid Dr. Heron is with a patient now.”

  I want to scream.

  “Please, can’t you do something to—to get his attention? I’m telling you, it’s urgent. Surely you must have read about my cousin in the papers.”

  “I did,” she says soberly. “I’m very sorry for your loss. But I’m under n
o circumstances allowed to interrupt the doctor during a session. He should be wrapping up in ten minutes, however, and I’ll do my best to see that he calls you back immediately.”

  I spend the next fifteen minutes pacing back and forth, returning to my old nail-biting habit, until my cell phone rings with an unfamiliar UK number.

  “Hello?” I practically yell into the phone.

  “Is this Her Grace, Imogen Rockford?” a pleasant man’s voice responds.

  “Yes! Are you Dr. Heron?”

  “I am. How can I help you, Your Grace?”

  There’s no smooth intro for a conversation like this. I have to just come right out with it.

  “I know my cousin Lucia used to be a patient of yours. And now the police are saying she was murdered, which I—I just can’t wrap my head around. Please, can you tell me … everything you know? Did she have any secrets, any enemies?”

  Dr. Heron clears his throat.

  “Your cousin is protected by the doctor-patient confidentiality agreement. I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything about my sessions with her.”

  “But—but—someone is being charged with murder!” I sputter. “Isn’t there a rule that you have to speak out when it comes to life and death?”

  “If I knew anything, I assure you I would have called the police long ago,” Dr. Heron says. “But the fact is, I haven’t seen Lucia in seven years. I don’t think any information I have would be of any use at this point.”

  I freeze.

  “You stopped seeing her the year of the fire? Wasn’t that when she needed you the most?”

  “I would agree with you on that point, Your Grace, but she chose to end her sessions after the fire. And without her parents to insist on her continuing treatment, there was no way to force her.”

  “But what about my grandfather?” I ask, perplexed. “Wouldn’t he have encouraged her to keep seeing you?”

  Dr. Heron sighs heavily.

  “Your poor grandfather was overwhelmed by his own grief. He chose to ship Lucia off to boarding school in Switzerland.”