Cecilia’s thoughts went into a whirl. While the other men might find the idea of Mr. Montgomery’s playacting persona allowing this woman to believe hischaracterwould bed her, Cecilia knew the Archie inside Mr. Montgomery could well act upon baser instincts. None of these people knew Mr. Montgomery’s true turmoil. They would likely think of him as some monster if they did know. What had been Miss Dorn’s experience with Archie? And if she couldn’t get Archie to come out, could she have killed him in a fit of anger? She was a sturdily built woman. Did she have the physicality to do that? Or could she have acquired another lover—a jealous lover—here at the sanatorium? Cecilia didn’t know, but she would like to talk to Miss Dorn about Mr. Montgomery and Archie. Did she see him again after their discussion? Did she see or hear anything that could provide clues as to how he died?
“Did you see Mr. Montgomery often, Liddy?” Cecilia asked, her voice cracking around another threatening cough.
“Oh, yes! He was teaching me maths. I saw him every day in the library or outside if the weather was nice—unless he had appointments with Dr. Worcham.”
Another paroxysm of coughing gripped Cecilia, try as she might to hold it back. Matron Mildred heard her and came over.
“Lady Branstoke, I am concerned to hear you cough so. Too much excitement for your first day. I heard from Mrs. Worcham how you were in the village today, too. Best you return to your room now and have an early night. That is why you are here, after all. Lots of rest. I’ll have a floor maid bring you a tisane to help you sleep.”
The others at the table chorused in solicitous comments, encouraging her to retire. Cecilia had no choice but to acquiesce. She had so many questions to ask about Mr. Montgomery andwho he associated with! But she acknowledged she was tired, and her chest and throat hurt from her coughing. She really thought she had been getting better. Perhaps an early sleep would help her. She could be of no help to Soothcoor if her sickness relapsed. Time for bed. She rose from her chair and bid the others good night.
CHAPTER 13
THE MAGISTRATE
James had left Cecilia at Camden House with misgivings. He trusted Cecilia to be circumspect in her investigation. What he wasn’t certain about was her strength, and would she do too much, ignoring any signs of weakness her body put forth in her enthusiasm to discover the truth of Mr. Montgomery’s death? He’d said nearly as much to Dr. Worcham before he left—leaving out the investigation into Mr. Montgomery—and the man said he understood. The good doctor had no knowledge of Cecilia’s tenacious manner, he thought, smiling to himself.
His beautiful wife had certainly changed him in the year they’d been married. He’d always been considered a rather phlegmatic man within society, languid, reserved, and bored with everything. A mere observer of society and its machinations. His observation habit was what had drawn him to Cecilia to begin with, and his appreciation for her tenacious manner. He doubted she would have survived that first investigation she undertook if he hadn’t played curious bodyguard to what she’d been doing.
And he'd feared for her life during her recent influenza. Now the lingering cough she endured chilled him whenever he heardit. He loved her to distraction and couldn’t imagine being with any other woman.
He inhaled deeply as he considered his next move in the investigation. He needed to meet the local magistrate and find out how he came to quickly determine Soothcoor to be the murderer. Something—or someone—had to have pushed him in that direction for the arrest to have happened as swiftly as Alastair said it had. Before breakfast yet! That screamed suspicion.
He’d learned the magistrate’s direction before leaving the inn. It was three miles further on toward Stamford. He’d sent along a letter of introduction and hoped he’d worded it noncommittally enough to convey an open attitude. The magistrate was the local gentry, Squire Eccleston. Mr. Price said he was a fair man though a bit touchy about his position in society. James would have to ensure his London manners were tucked discreetly out of sight for this visit. Many people outside of London frowned on Londoners—not that James considered himself a Londoner though another might.
Squire Eccleston’s white-washed Georgian-style manor house looked austere, rising up as it did from the flat landscape around it. More land recovered from drainage, James assumed. Sheep grazed in the distant fields, and nearby fields were planted, though whatever grew there appeared to struggle to gain growth just as they did near Summerworth Park due to the cold weather.
The squire came out to meet him as he drove up.
“Sir James,” he greeted as James stepped out of the carriage.
“Magistrate,” James responded.
“Come in, come in,” he said, leading the way inside. “You said in your note that Mrs. Montgomery sent you up here.”
James nodded, “She requested I investigate her husband’s death,” he said. “Were you aware that Mrs. Montgomery believed her husband to be dead these two years past?”
The magistrate frowned as he pushed open the door to his office on the ground floor of the manor. “No, I wasn’t. Strange. Why was that?”
“It is my understanding that it was at Mr. Montgomery’s request. Are you aware of the nature of Mr. Montgomery’s illness that had him residing at Camden House?”
“I was told something about a spontaneous violent nature,” he said, waving at him to take a seat across from his desk.
“Mrs. Montgomery told me he had at least three different personalities,” James said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his chair arms, “one of whom she said was violent. He was called ‘Archie’ and is the reason Mr. Montgomery had himself committed, first in Scotland and later here at Camden House. He arranged to have himself declared dead with only his father, his cousin, the family vicar, Dr. Worcham, and Mrs. Montgomery’s father knowing this was not true.”
Squire Eccleston frowned. “I think there is something illegal about all that. I shall have to consult a barrister.”
James’s hands shrugged. “For the most part, the estate trustee—his cousin—has treated her fairly, keeping the property for her son. What all parties failed to consider was whether Mrs. Montgomery should choose to remarry. My wife is of the opinion this is a typical gentleman’s failure to consider their wives,” he said with a small smile.
Squire Eccleston smiled slightly in return. “In my time as a magistrate, I have seen other instances of wives not being properly accounted for in wills, assuming the executors would do the right thing, causing all manner of grief for families.”
“Yes. In this instance, there was no thought to Mrs. Montgomery wishing to remarry and now she does.”
Eccleston frowned. “And so, the gentleman she wished to marry traveled here and killed Mr. Montgomery.”
“Did he? Did someone see it happen? That’s what Mrs. Montgomery wishes to know. What exactly happened?”
Eccleston leaned back in his chair, interlacing his lands together where they rested on his stomach. “Stands to reason what happened. In a fit of anger, her lover fought with Mr. Montgomery and held him underwater until he drowned.”
