“The abbess.”
“Abbess?” Thomas repeated, incredulous. “Surely you don’t mean a ghost.”
“I do. Not a real ghost, of course, but someone masquerading as one.”
“A prank, no doubt.”
Frederick shook his head. “Why would someone disguisethemselves this last week of all weeks, when murder was afoot? I shall never believe it a coincidence or harmless prank. No. Someone wished to move around the hotel without being identified. And what a ... dramatic way to sneak around a place rumored to be haunted! At first it seemed only Miss Lane saw this ‘ghost.’ But later Lady Fitzhoward’s maid admitted to seeing it as well, as did Mary Hinton.”
Thomas frowned. “But you saw how the author looked at Miss Newport. If shehadgone to his room, which I doubt, he would have let her in, no disguise needed.”
“But if she wished to leave it again, without being recognized?”
Frederick set the queens back to back. “I believe the two queens are one and the same person. In fact, Mary Hinton clearly saw Miss Newport’s face while the woman was dressed in the costume.”
His brother’s mouth fell open. He asked in alarm, “Are you saying Miss Newport killed Ambrose Oliver, while in disguise?”
The clock ticked once while the two waited—twice more while they stared at him.
Frederick huffed a sigh. “I don’t know. I feel as though I am missing something. And even if I fully suspected her, I don’t have evidence to prove she struck anyone. Masquerading as a nun or ghost may be strange, but it’s not illegal.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Well, I have kept you two long enough. I daresay it is time to dress for dinner. Thank you for obliging me. If you think of anything else, let me know. In the meantime, please keep this between us.” He sent his brother a pointed look.
Thomas scowled. “Of course I won’t repeat it. It’s all supposition—a bag of moonshine! Do you suppose I want to tell Miss Newport my pompous brother has been poking about forskeletons in her closet? And even suspects her of murder?” He stood abruptly, his chair scraping the floor, and stalked from the room.
Frederick felt his neck heat and glanced ruefully at Rebecca. “Sorry about that.”
She rose, and Frederick followed suit.
“I did not realize his feelings for her ran so deep,” Rebecca said. “He is more like you than I thought, longing to protect those he cares about.” She flushed. “Not that you ... I did not mean to imply...”
“It is all right if you did.” He held her gaze. “I do care, Miss Lane. Very much.”
He slowly leaned down and pressed a feather-soft kiss to her cheek. He heard her sharp inhale of surprise, but not, he hoped, displeasure.
After dinner that evening, Rebecca returned to her room and began packing. She would leave the next day, she decided. She had already stayed at the Swanford Abbey Hotel too long and spent too much of her meager savings. And in return? She had thought she was helping John. Instead, he was now under suspicion for murder.
The conviction grew that she could not go off again with Lady Fitzhoward with things as they were. She would move back into the lodge and try to help her brother—and Rose—through whatever came next.
With a heavy heart, Rebecca pulled her valise and bandbox from her closet. As she did so, the low rumble of voices caught her ear. She realized her closet must abut that of room twelve behind the night stair. Rebecca usually kept her closet doorclosed, and she supposed Miss Newport had little cause to talk to herself, but now, stepping farther into the dim space, Rebecca heard the rise and fall of conversation. A higher voice. A lower one. She could not identify the voices, although she assumed the higher one belonged to Selina Newport.
Was Miss Newport meeting with a lover? Or the man Rebecca had once seen disguised in nun’s attire?
Even though Sir Frederick did not seem convinced Selina was guilty, Rebecca’s suspicions mounted. Had the actress disguised herself to go to and from the author’s room without being identified, much as Rebecca had done, although with a far more malevolent intent? Had she struck him and Mr. George as well?
Rebecca strained to hear but could make out only rare words amid the muffled flow of conversation. She quietly shut the closet door and tried to think. Frederick said they had no proof. What if she could get evidence for him?
An idea came to her. She wanted to know what was going on next door, and here was an opportunity to do so.
More than curiosity drove her now. She felt or at least hoped that discovering who had killed Mr. Oliver might help to exonerate John.
Dare she?
Rebecca pulled on her deep blue pelisse and kid gloves and slipped out onto the dark balcony.
Clouds covered the moon, and the balconies to the left of hers were empty. No one would see her.
Rebecca eyed the space separating her balcony from the next. Eight feet? More? She wished she had a board or something to lay over the gap, but she had nothing. Her gaze fell to a narrow wall ledge between the two railings. Was it wide enough to cross? Was she brave enough to attempt it? For John?
