The Butterfly Conspiracy Page 11

  The knowledge that he also didn’t want to do it cheered Merula. Sitting up straight, she said, “Everything must be done to clear my uncle.”

  Looking at Royston, she added, “And yes, that also includes us continuing our investigation. We must have come close to something vital already. Why else would the killer feel the need to threaten us?”

  “I thought,” Galileo said, “that this butterfly conspiracy was just some fabrication from those newspapermen. But now it seems there really is such a thing. Why else would the killer refer to it? Can it mean he isn’t working alone?”

  “I hardly expect him to have put the parcel on your doorstep in person,” Royston said. “Still, I keep thinking that involving other people is a risk. There is always a chance they will talk or start pressuring you to give them money to keep silent. Why would the killer take those chances?”

  “Probably because there is a lot at stake.” Merula folded her hands in her lap to hide that they were shaking. “Lady Sophia’s fortune, for instance. If we can prove Foxwell is her killer, he will never touch any of it. That could drive him to take risks.”

  Royston nodded. “Agreed. We must concentrate on what we’ve learned so far.”

  He went into the other room, and she heard the chalk squeak on the blackboard. He must have been writing down the information they had gathered on his suspect list. Miss Knight’s revelations supported the case against Foxwell, as it seemed he had been working on some plan to isolate Lady Sophia for a long time.

  The door opened, and Bowsprit came in with an exultant expression. “Miss! I found someone who has the key to solving the murder.”

  “You did?” Merula frowned, perplexed at his certainty.

  “Well, he says he does. He wants to meet you and tell his story in person.” Bowsprit seemed ready to storm off again. “Where is his lordship?”

  “In the other room, writing down some information.” Merula rose and smoothed her dress. Her hands were still quivering. “Are you certain this man’s tale is genuine?” She gestured at the parcel on the table. “Someone sent me an empty poison bottle with a threat.”

  Bowsprit looked at it. His normally lively and florid face turned pale. “Is this the bottle from which the poison came that killed Lady Sophia?”

  Before Merula could reply, he said to Galileo, “Can you find anything on it? Doesn’t Scotland Yard search for fingerprints these days? Can you find some?”

  Galileo leaned back on his heels as if insulted by the question. “Of course I can. Unless the killer handled the bottle while wearing gloves. But what is the point? Scotland Yard has fingerprints of known criminals to compare their findings with. I have no such thing. Besides, we are thinking the killer might be Mr. Foxwell or Lord Havilock or some other member of society who has never been in touch with the police and whose fingerprints won’t be on file.”

  “But they don’t have to be,” Bowsprit enthused. His color was returning, and he waved with his hands to underline his point. “If you do find fingerprints on this bottle, I can work with members of the various households to bring you things like a drinking glass that were touched by the owners. You can then compare the fingerprints.”

  Galileo looked at Bowsprit with a whole new respect in his eyes. “That is a very clever thought. Genius, in fact. If I do find prints on the bottle, that is. I will have a look.”

  Bowsprit nodded. “Very good. Then we can go out and meet this man. I spread word among the servants that I’m willing to pay for information about Lady Sophia’s past, anything that can throw light on her sudden death. Every maid has a sister or a cousin who cleans at a boarding house or works in a shop. The butlers and footmen all know coachmen, telegram boys, and hotel clerks. Word spreads fast if a reward is at stake. The message arrived at the bookshop that I am using for our communications. This gentleman claims to have known Lady Sophia well, some years back. He is waiting for us at Charing Cross Station. He wanted a busy meeting place where we would not be spotted.”

  “Sounds as if he is afraid,” Royston said, entering. He seemed to have caught the conversation from the other room, for he stood ready to go out.

  Bowsprit nodded. “He must know something really important.”

  Royston was at the door already. “Let’s not waste another moment, then.”

  * * *

  At Charing Cross Station, the newspaper sellers were still shouting about the butterfly conspiracy, impressing with urgency upon Merula’s mind that she was at the heart of a dangerous affair and, judging by the mysterious bottle, a potential target of the killer.

  Despite the many people bustling about them, each completely absorbed in their own business, Merula felt uncomfortable, as if eyes were watching her from all sides. She stayed close to Royston and Bowsprit and was relieved when, next to a pillar, they met a short rotund man with a pale sweaty face and watery eyes. His clothes were old and often mended, his elbows almost poking through the sleeves. He looked the three of them over and whispered hurriedly, “Have you brought the money? I need the money first, else I won’t say a word.”

  Royston took Merula by the arm and moved her a few paces away from the man who waited with Bowsprit by his side.

  Royston said, “He looks as if he just waddled out of an opium den. This man is addicted, either to drugs or to alcohol. I doubt we can get anything useful out of him. He must have heard the word ‘reward’ and made up a story to earn some money to feed his addiction.”

  “Still, he could know something. We must let him speak. Just give him the money.”

  Royston sighed. “Are you sure? If he doesn’t reveal anything relevant—”

  Merula waved a hand. “He asked for a busy meeting place, so he seems to feel he is taking a risk in meeting us. He must know something.”

  “Or the ruse from his addiction makes him believe he is being pursued. Whatever he will tell us could be utter nonsense, fabrications from an overactive mind. I can’t see him as a reliable witness.”

  “Even so, we have to pursue each and every lead.”

  She leaned over to Royston and added, “Consider our position since the murder happened last night. We are on the run, the police want to find us, and the killer knows where we are. We can’t afford to waste any time or any chance for information.”

  Royston released a deep sigh. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just don’t like people who make themselves important. But perhaps he knows a great deal.”

  They returned to the man, and Royston asked him, “Who are you, anyway?”

  “I used to live next to Lady Sophia. I have important information regarding her health. It might explain why she collapsed.”

  Merula felt a rush of excitement. At last they would be able to fill in something under How on their blackboard! She nodded at Royston. He reached into his pocket.

  “Five pounds,” the man said.

  “Excuse me?” Royston asked.

  “Five pounds or you get nothing,”

  Royston made wide eyes at Merula, but he did pay. The man clutched the money to his chest and said in a rush, “I lived next to her, like I said, and three years ago there was a garden party at her house. I was also invited. Everything was very pleasant, nice people there and delicious food. Then suddenly she seemed to be choking and turned all red in the face. I thought she would die.”

  “She had some sort of attack like that last night,” Royston said eagerly. He glanced at Merula. Her heart was pounding, and she couldn’t wait to hear more. Now they were getting somewhere.

  The man said, “It turned out there was a whole almond in the pastry she was eating. It got in her throat, and she almost choked to death. She was livid at her cook, and I think she even dismissed her on the spot. The cook claimed it was not her fault, but Lady Sophia was too angry to listen.”

  “That is it?” Royston asked. “She almost choked on an almond and sent off her cook for it? That is your vital information about her health?”

  He burst into disbelieving lau
ghter. “Everybody has had such an experience at one time or another. A fish bone, a nut, seeds from an apple going down the wrong way. You cough a few times and that’s it. Unpleasant but nothing earth-shattering. Yes, powerful people might even dismiss their servants for it, but it has absolutely nothing to do with Lady Sophia’s death last night. She wasn’t eating or drinking anything as she stood there. She never ate sweets, we’ve heard, so she can’t have been sucking on something that got caught in her throat. This information is completely irrelevant.”

  He was talking louder and louder, and Bowsprit grabbed his arm to control him.

  The man shrank back, clutching his reward. “Good day to you then, sir. Miss.” He turned and vanished among the crowd of people rushing to catch a train or waiting to meet with travelers who had just alighted.

  Royston said, “An almond! Did you see any almonds last night? Or any kind of nuts or other things anybody might choke on?”

  Merula shook her head. “You can’t blame the poor man. He thought it mattered. As he started to describe her symptoms, I thought it was the same thing as well. He only wanted to help.”

  “Yes, help himself,” Royston scoffed. “He’s off now to find an inn or opium den to indulge in his addiction. And I paid for that!”

  “You did it for the case,” Merula said, patting his arm. “I encouraged you to try it. We have to do all we can. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. But I’m tired now of talking to sources. I want some real, tangible information. I’m going to send a telegram to an old friend of mine. If I remember correctly, he came home to England from India on the same ship as dear Havilock. Perhaps he will know what happened in India that Havilock used to threaten Lady Sophia.”

  “Excellent,” Merula said. “I want to meet Julia.”

  “What?” Royston said, freezing. “How do you want to contrive that?”

  “Bowsprit can contact Lamb, and she can convey a message. Julia wanted to go to the art exhibition in a gallery on Bond Street. I can meet her there. We will both pretend to be studying paintings on display while we speak. I want to know what Julia knows about Foxwell that can help. If what you told me last night is true, they must have been much closer than I ever thought they could be.”

  Royston said, “The argument between Lady Sophia and your uncle at his club did happen. I can’t be certain, of course, if her accusations were true. She might have heard of Foxwell dancing with your cousin and made more of the attachment than was necessary. She seems to have been very protective of Foxwell.”

  Merula nodded. “In any case, I want to speak to Julia.”

  She ached to talk for a few minutes to her cousin, to ascertain that she was all right, to ask about Aunt Emma and about what was being done for Uncle Rupert. She ached to feel a part of their family still, even after she had brought disaster upon them.

  Royston said to Bowsprit, “Help her set up this meeting at the gallery. And stay near her to keep an eye on her while she’s in there. That parcel has me worried.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Merula stood in front of a painting called Summer Afternoon in the Meadow and tried to determine whether the white smudge in the middle was a sheep grazing in said meadow or perhaps a young lady in a summer dress picking flowers. The pink spot on the left could have been a hand.

  She tilted her head to the right, then to the left to see better.

  “Perhaps it is hanging upside down,” a voice said softly at her ear, and there was Julia, smiling weakly, her hair neatly done up as always and her dress impeccable. She even wore a new hat, perhaps because it gave her confidence, or because it conveniently shadowed her face and changed her appearance.

  Merula resisted the urge to hug her cousin. They had to keep up the act of being strangers standing next to each other at an exhibition.

  “Yes, it is a rather mysterious affair,” she agreed and added in a whisper, “How are you? How is Aunt Emma?”

  Julia came to stand so close their shoulders touched, and she said just as softly, “Mother is in bed. She says this is the worst disaster that has ever struck us in her entire life, and for once I tend to agree with her. What on earth happened last night? We have only heard it from the police, and they had this bizarre story of a butterfly killing someone and it being Father’s fault.”

  “It was Attacus atlas,” Merula confessed. “I brought him and released him. Just to show that he was really alive. He sat on Lady Sophia’s arm. Then she collapsed and died. Sir Edward Parker, who has some medical experience from his army days, claimed it was a poisoning, and then your Foxwell cried that Uncle Rupert had done it.”

  Julia looked horrified. “Simon would never say such a thing. Not about Father.”

  “Well, he did. I was there.” Merula lowered her voice even further. “Royston suggested to me that there is something between you and Foxwell and that his aunt, Lady Sophia, didn’t agree. That is why Uncle Rupert had a grudge against her, a reason to kill her.”

  “Royston? You mean, Lord Raven Royston? How do you even know him?”

  “He was at the lecture last night. He helped me to get away before they also arrested me. He told me that Lady Sophia caused a terrible row for Uncle Rupert at his club, claiming you were far too friendly with Foxwell, and Lady Sophia wouldn’t accept that.” Merula thought it better not to repeat Royston’s words about Julia’s supposed shortcomings. Julia seemed to know Royston, if only by reputation, and her opinion of him wouldn’t be improved by hearing herself described in terms such as “not well bred enough.”

  Julia protested, “How absurd. Simon was going to introduce me to Lady Sophia. He said she’d think me perfectly charming.”

  “Lady Sophia had already told Uncle Rupert in no uncertain terms there would never be anything between you and her nephew. It was a humiliating scene, Royston assured me.”

  Merula wanted to convince Julia that the accusation of murder rested on a solid motive, but Julia scoffed, “What does Royston know? Why believe him? It is highly improper that you ran off with him. You have to come home.”

  “Hush.” Merula glanced about her, but the other visitors to the gallery didn’t seem to be paying attention to them. “I can’t come home right now. Royston is helping me solve the case. He wants to prove who did it so Uncle Rupert will be released again. Have you already engaged a solicitor for him?”

  “I think our family lawyer was going to do something. Mother won’t go see Father in prison. I just hope they will realize it is all a mistake and let him go again.” Julia fumbled with her bracelet. “This is so distressing. Guests for our musical soiree have already canceled. It’s in a week’s time, so they seem to think Father won’t be free again. Or perhaps it doesn’t even matter. Perhaps the fact that he was in prison is enough, guilty or not.”

  Her voice rose in frustration.

  Merula warned her again, “Hush. Not so loud. We must move to the next painting.”

  They went to stand in front of a mainly red canvas that was called Sunset Over a Lake.

  “I can’t see which are the skies and which is the water,” Julia complained. “I think I could make art like this. Of course, Mother would have a fit. She’d say it’s not appropriate for a young lady of my social standing. If I still have any now. What do you think?”

  On the one hand, Julia sounded anxious and on the verge of crying; on the other, she also seemed oddly excited by the situation.

  Merula said, “I need information about Foxwell, Julia. He is Lady Sophia’s sole heir. He gets it all now that she is dead.”

  “You think he could be involved in her death? How mean! He loved her. He grew up without a mother and she was…”

  “Like a mother to him? That is not what I heard. People claim he was quite manipulative toward her and only interested in her property, particularly in the zoological collection, selling off items he doesn’t own.”

  “Who said that? Miss Knight, by any chance?”

  Merula was taken aback that Jul
ia would name the companion. “You know her?”

  “Simon told me about her. It seems that when he first came to live with Lady Sophia, Miss Knight made it very clear to him that she was interested in him. In having an affair with him, you understand. Simon told me it was quite despicable because she is very plain and can’t make conversation.”

  Merula wouldn’t have called the woman with the lively brown eyes plain, but in his circles, Foxwell had his pick of much younger girls who refined their faces with makeup and changed their figure with corsets and expensive dresses. Naturally, his aunt’s companion couldn’t compete with that.

  Julia whispered, “Simon said she was pathetic, but also vengeful, and that ever since he turned her down, in the politest terms, as he is a real gentleman of course, she has tried to find ways to make him look bad with his aunt. She would tell his aunt he was seeing certain unsuitable women or … Yes! That’s it! If Lady Sophia did argue with Father about Simon and me, it must be because that horrible Miss Knight put it into her head that there was something sordid going on.”

  “So Miss Knight was manipulating Lady Sophia to turn her against Foxwell?” Merula asked. It was the exact opposite of what Miss Knight had told her and Royston, namely, that Foxwell had been trying to isolate Lady Sophia by turning her against her companion and even against her old friends. Who was telling the truth?

  “You must admit,” she said to Julia, “that when someone dies unexpectedly, the sole heir is the first suspect to come to mind. He needs the money.”

  “He doesn’t need any money,” Julia protested. “Simon has a fortune of his own. He told me in the deepest confidence because he didn’t want me to think he was after my money. He has far more.”

  “How gallant of him to point that out.” Merula wrinkled her nose.

  Julia poked her with an elbow. “Simon meant it well. He really cares for me.” She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and sighed. “I wish I could see him. I need him now. I need him more than ever.”

  Her face contorted a moment, and Merula hoped she would not start to cry. How could she act as if she were standing next to a stranger when that stranger wasn’t really a stranger and was heartbroken for a family tragedy she herself had caused?