“No.”
“There you are. Passing fancy.” Susan strode to the doorway, nudged open the door, and peered through the crack. “He’s long gone.”
“What if he hadn’t been? What if he’d slipped inside my room and killed me? You weren’t concerned about my safety?”
“I’d hear you scream.”
Evangeline crossed her arms. “Not if I was smothered in my sleep like Lord Heatherbrook.”
“Well, I’d know Lioncroft was the villain because I saw him around. He’d be sure to hang. But you’re still alive, and guests are waiting for you in the Green Salon. At least, they were.” Susan pushed the door completely open, then glanced over her shoulder at Evangeline “Are you feeling up to an appearance?”
“No.”
But she headed out into the corridor anyway.
When she entered the Green Salon, she discovered it much as Susan had described it. Stark gray walls. Mold-colored chairs. Fluttering white tapers that failed to cast enough light on the half dozen or so framed paintings to determine their subjects.
Lady Stanton sat on the edge of a tattered chair. Mr. Teasdale slept on the sofa, his head lolling to one side, his cane taking up most of the cushion. Mr. Lioncroft leaned against a tall bookcase. For all Evangeline knew, it was another façade for his network of secret passageways.
“At last.” The small black mole shivered above Lady Stanton’s pursed lips. “You kept us waiting, Miss Pemberton.”
“Mother, don’t—”
“She’s feeling much improved,” Mr. Lioncroft interrupted, his voice low and lazy but his eyes dangerous. “How thoughtful of you to inquire.”
Frost coated Lady Stanton’s voice. “You dare to correct my manners?”
“You dare to sling accusations of murder while imposing on my hospitality?”
“Evangeline,” Susan interjected loudly, causing Mr. Teasdale to start. “Why don’t you explain what happened in Heatherbrook’s chamber?”
“Yes, do.” Lady Stanton fixed her colorless eyes on Evangeline. “Did ‘God’ tell you anything?”
“Just that Lord Heatherbrook was, er, smothered. With a pillow.”
“Eh? What’s that?” Mr. Teasdale struggled to his feet, relying heavily on his cane. “Smothered with a pillow, you say?”
One of Lady Stanton’s pale eyebrows arched. “Butwhosmothered him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then that’s useless. Your mother could often—”
Evangeline’s spine stiffened. “Lady Stanton—”
“Can’t you strive for more accuracy in your—”
“Lady Stanton, honestly—”
“We’re no better off than we were before!”
“We do know how, if not whom,” Susan interjected with an encouraging smile toward Evangeline.
“Useless. If ‘God’ spoke to her through Lord Heatherbrook, why doesn’t she know the killer’s identity?”
“Eh,” Mr. Teasdale grunted, one pinkie digging in his hairy ear. “Because dead men tell no tales.”
Susan straightened her spectacles. “Might the fact that he is dead be a factor, Evangeline?”
