My delight at hearing Lydia Bennet use the word snogging was superseded by my desire to fit this new information into our theory. “Did you see him come back in that way?” I asked her.
“I did not. However, I didn’t think much of it at the time, and Mr. Grimsby and I were very much occupied. It’s possible Gerald slipped by without my notice.”
“Or perhaps he didn’t climb back out the window,” Morrie said. “If he needed to go back to the ballroom as quickly as possible in order to establish his alibi, and if he knew Lydia and her paramour were in the hallway, he may have decided to simply head straight across the antechamber and into the ballroom without going around the building.”
“That makes sense, but how did he look so clean? There were no bloody footprints on the floor around the crime scene, and apart from that one speck on Gerald’s coat, he wasn’t bloody, either. Wouldn’t the person who stabbed him have been covered with blood?”
“He must have cleaned himself up before he went back to the room,” Morrie mused. “But where did he stash whatever he used to clean himself? Hmmmm…”
“He’s not the only suspect to consider,” Heathcliff added. “We have Professor Carmichael, his bitter academic rival.”
“I can’t believe her capable of killing anyone,” I said. “Besides, she was sitting at our table all night.”
“Was she?” Morrie inquired. “We spent a great deal of the evening dancing, and Heathcliff was hiding from his future wives. Can you honestly say you watched that table through the entire evening?”
“No.” I frowned. “That means Alice Yo must be a suspect, too. She was writing that article about Hathaway that would expose his secrets. Perhaps he confronted her about it and she lost it. Jo said she was desperate for something to sell, and she said something odd to me before. She asked me not to tell the police she was investigating him. ‘Someone else’s life is on the line’, she said.”
“It’s possible, but unlikely,” Morrie said. “I think we need to look into this Gerald more carefully. And this goes without saying, but no one mention to the police that would make them suspect we’re doing their work for them. We can’t have them investigating Lydia too closely. I’ll get some records made up for her as quickly as I could. She’s your French cousin, yes? Can I make her a milkmaid—”
“Mina Wilde,” Inspector Hayes interrupted, flipping his pad open again and darting his inquisitive eyes around the members of our group. “I guess you and I aren’t done talking. If you and your suitemate could follow me.”
I grabbed Lydia’s arm and dragged her with me.
* * *
By the time Lydia and I had finished talking with Inspector Hayes and Lydia had given me seven heart attacks with all the embellishments she made to our cousin-visiting-from-France cover story (which checked out in their records, thanks to some fast hacking by Morrie), the crime scene team had photographed the door, scoured the area for fingerprints and forensic evidence, and Cynthia had her staff attempt to remove the paint with a stripper, taking half the door with it. It was now past two in the morning, and I was too tired to take a cab back to the shop, even if Lydia hadn’t refused to leave. I crawled into the bed in the guys’ room, nestling into Heathcliff’s shoulder. Behind him, Quoth lay down and touched my arm, his fingers featherlight as they moved over my skin. Morrie lay down on the opposite side of me, kissing my neck. Immediately, my body reacted, sizzling with heat. I thought about telling him to stop, that he hadn’t yet responded to my ultimatum, but I hadn’t the strength to deny him. I longed to drive out the horror I’d witnessed tonight with kisses and caresses. Morrie’s lips found mine, tipping my head back, exposing my neck to Heathcliff’s lips. Quoth’s hand trailed across my chest and brushed my erect nipple—
Lydia bounded through the connecting door and leaped on the bed. “Move over. You need to make room.”
“Ow!” Morrie leaped up, clutching his jaw. “Ah bit mah tongue!”
“What are you doing?” I murmured. Searing pain arced behind my eyes, even though I’d already taken two of Dr. Clements’ painkillers. “You’re the one who insisted on staying at the Hall. Now get back to the murder bed.”
“I cannot possibly sleep alone in there tonight, especially when you insist upon calling it ‘the murder bed’. You shall have to accommodate me in here.”
I glared at Morrie, who was too busy rubbing his tongue with ice from the Champagne bucket.You’re no bloody use.“Fine,” I sighed.
Lydia settled herself in the middle of the bed, spreading out her petticoats around her. “I feel so much better to know I have all these big, strong men around to protect me. Mina, you sleep on that edge. That way, any killer will have to stab you first in order to reach me.”
“It’s nice to know you care.” I crawled under the blanket on the other side of Quoth and pressed a pillow over my head to block out the sound of Lydia giggling.
Cock-blocked by Lydia Bennet. I cannot believe my life.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Istood in the middle of an empty ballroom. Fairy lights twinkled, pinpricks of light piercing the gloom. From somewhere in front of me, a band struck up the first notes of a jaunty Regency dance tune. It took me a moment to recognize the riff from The Clash’s ‘Guns of Brixton’.
I knew I was supposed to be dancing, but if I took a step in any direction, I’d be flailing blindly. I glanced around, hoping someone would bring the lights up. My hands grabbed at thin air.
“Hello?” I called. “I need a partner. I can’t see a thing, and I don’t know the moves.”
DRIP.
Something splashed on my shoulder. Raindrops? But I was inside. How could it be raining? I lifted my hand to wipe away the water.
DRIP DRIP DRIP.
More raindrops fell on my bare skin. I held my fingers up to my face. In the dim light, I could just discern the reddish liquid on their tips. A harsh, metallic smell hit my nostrils. Not water.
