“Wouldn’t he have rung for a servant to tend a blow to the head?” Lady Stanton asked from just behind her daughter. “I would’ve done so.”
“A fine suggestion,” Gavin said. He gazed at Miss Pemberton, willing her to look at him. She did not. “They shall all be questioned first thing in the morning.”
A silence fell. No one seemed eager to exchange glances with each other, much less look too long at the corpse upon the bed. Even Miss Pemberton was not scrutinizing the earl’s body as she’d first suggested—not that Gavin blamed her—and was instead biting her lip and gazing at the carpeted floor as if she’d rather be anywhere than where she currently stood.
“I heard you, by the way,” Edmund slurred from his perch against a wardrobe. “I heard you apologize to your sister for killing him.”
“No,” Gavin said. “You heard me apologize for killing someone else.”
His clarification failed to ease the tension.
Perhaps impatient with Miss Pemberton’s reluctant perusal of the lifeless earl, Benedict at last strode forward and tugged the pile of blankets from Heatherbrook’s still form.
Two things became quickly apparent. One was a mottled bruise surrounding the left side of Heatherbrook’s throat, matching the shape of Gavin’s left hand. The other was a corresponding bruise covering the other side, matching the shape of Gavin’s right.
Benedict gasped. A surplus of air sent him off into another vicious coughing streak.
No one spoke.
Miss Pemberton’s eyes dipped closed for a long moment before reopening. “I’d have to wager,” she said at last, “Lord Heatherbrook did not strangle himself with his bare hands after settling into bed.”
Lady Stanton sucked in a shocked breath. “Strangled,” she repeated, clutching her bespectacled daughter by the shoulders. “We need to call for the constabulary. Immediately.”
Gavin tried very hard not to react. The last thing he needed was the constabulary. Given his questionable past and his outburst at the dining table, they’d have him condemned to the gallows within a week. Unfortunately, he could think of no good reason to deny Lady Stanton’s request. Devil take it.
Careful to keep his expression neutral, Gavin slid his gaze about the roomful of onlookers and waited for their response.
They said nothing.
The Stanton chit and her mother exchanged an indecipherable look. Edmund stared into the bottom of his empty glass as though hoping more whisky would magically reappear. Benedict dropped the blankets he’d yanked from Heatherbrook’s body, as if the woven wool had scalded him. Francine clutched her belly with both hands, giving the impression she was a moment away from vomiting. Teasdale fidgeted with his cane, eyes downcast.
“Well?” Lady Stanton demanded. “Is someone calling for the constabulary or not?”
“Apparently,” Edmund said as he slammed his empty glass atop a dressing table, “not.”
“Useless,” Francine put in, the dip of the orange plume atop her coiffed head garish and out-of-place.
Her husband Benedict dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief. “Fools, every one of them.”
Teasdale examined his cane as if he had just noticed its presence in his hand. Conversation strangled to a halt.
“What time is it?” Miss Pemberton asked after another excruciating lull. Everyone stared at her as though she’d spoken in tongues.
Gavin fumbled for his fob. “Half past two.”
“Then it’s late.” She squared her shoulders. “We’re all tired, we’ve had a shock, and none of us are thinking clearly. Now is not the time to make accusations.” She took a deep breath. “Why don’t we reconvene in the morning, as planned?”
“For breakfast?” came Lady Stanton’s cold, incredulous voice. “Who can eat at a time like this?”
“Hell, I can. Drink, too.” Edmund jerked his head toward Heatherbrook’s motionless body. “Just because he’s dead doesn’t mean I am. Breakfast sounds like a fine time to make accusations.”
The Stanton chit tittered hysterically and clapped both hands across her mouth.
Teasdale waved his cane toward the bed. “What are you going to do with Heatherbrook in the meantime? Seeing as how we’re not penning a note to the local constabulary.”
“I’ll pen one to the rectory instead.” Gavin ran a hand through his hair too harshly, pulling a few strands from his scalp. “We’ll still need a funeral.”
God help him, not a funeral. He hadn’t attended one since he was seventeen.
