“Of course,” Alice’s eyes darted to me. “Mina? You coming?”
I nodded, falling in step beside them.What had Alice been about to say? Who was the killer?
At the entrance of the orangery, Professor Carmichael was pulled aside by a Janeite asking about her book. Alice turned to me and hissed. “We can’t talk here, in case someone overhears. Can you sneak out of the party and meet me in theSacro Bosco?” She pointed to a path on the corner of the formal gardens that lead off into the wood.
“Alice, if you know who the killer is, you should talk to the police—”
“I can’t.” She gulped. “I’ll give you all the evidence you need to stop the killer before they hurt anyone else, but I can’t go to the police. Please, Mina, promise you’ll meet me?”
“Sure. I’ll meet you.”
“There’s a statue of three maenads dancing just off the path to the right. I’ll meet you there in thirty minutes. Thank you, Mina, really. I… I need to talk to someone about this.” Alice’s shoulder slumped. Her beautiful eyes were wide, terrified. Whatever was going on, I had a feeling it wasn’t just about getting her scoop anymore.
I followed Alice into the orangery, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling.What does Alice know? What’s she going to tell me?
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Agarden party on one of the coldest days of the year?” Morrie passed me a steaming cup of hot chocolate and a cream scone with a layer of ice on top. “This is the cleverest idea!”
I nodded, too cold even to voice my agreement with his sarcasm. Luckily, Morrie had scored us a seat near the glowing brazier that did little to heat the cavernous space.
In the days when Baddesley Hall was a working estate, this grand building with its irrigation slits in the floor would have been used to grow fruit trees in pots and protect them during the harsh winter months. It wasn’t exactly built with entertaining in mind. Fairy lights spilling from a hanging basket on the ceiling and long tables adorned with centerpieces of winter herbs and vegetables looked spectacular but did little to distract from the biting wind and increasingly heavy snowfall outside. Several of Cynthia’s new security detail had already been co-opted to place additional heaters around the room. The band in the corner played carols beside a towering pine tree, reminding me that I hadn’t even started my Christmas shopping yet. Outside, the patio area had been cleared of snow, and the braver among the guests were indulging in a game of croquet.
“Ah, Lydia must have forced Sir Grumpsalot downstairs.” Morrie pointed. Across the patio, Lydia dragged Heathcliff around the croquet field, explaining the rules in a loud, patronizing tone while her other suitors laughed. I noticed he wore his sword at his side. As Lydia lined up her next shot, Heathcliff met my eye and mimed hitting her over the head. I stifled a giggle.
As I sipped my chocolate, Lydia scored point after point. David came to speak to her. She took his arm and allowed him to lead her away. Heathcliff stared after them for a few minutes, then shrugged and dashed inside to join us.
“Shouldn’t you be tailing her every move?” Morrie asked, lifting his teacup to his lips. “What if David is really our murderer?”
I remembered that we’d seen David win match after match during the fencing demonstration, and how the rumor was going around that the killer was a skilled swordsperson. “Yes, maybe we shouldn’t let her out of our sight.”
“I’ve been standing outside in the snow for fifteen minutes trying to hit a stupid ball with a mallet. My balls have shriveled up into my body. I say let her be murdered,” Heathcliff growled. “It would serve her right for blackmailing us.”
“No argument.” Morrie placed the teapot in front of him. “Tea? Guaranteed to heal your soul and unshrink your testicles.”
“No thanks.” Heathcliff pulled his flask out of the top of his breeches and knocked back a deep sip.
“While you’ve been playing nursemaid, Mina might just be able to unmask our killer,” Morrie said. Heathcliff’s hand circled my thigh, and as quietly as I could, I relayed the conversation with Alice that I’d whispered to Morrie as soon as I’d entered the orangery.
“You’re not going alone,” Heathcliff growled. “Take Morrie and Quoth with you.”
“What about you?”
“I’m still warming my nuts. Besides, someone has to keep eyes on Lydia. I’m not a complete monster.”
I smiled at Heathcliff, warmed by his words. Maybe he was starting to see himself the way I saw him.
I glanced at my phone. Ten minutes until I had to meet Alice. Christina hurried in, adorned with an elegant black gown. She took her seat at a table near the front, staring at her clasped hands. Cynthia took her place beneath the Christmas tree, adjusting her solemn black hat. The band ground to a halt. Cynthia tapped the microphone. “If I could have your attention. Welcome all, to the Julius Hathaway memorial garden party. I thank you for braving the inclement weather to be here to pay your respects to this remarkable man who was taken from us in the height of his prime. He had so many more years of Austen scholarship to teach us, and I know we all hope that his daughter Christina will continue the fine tradition he established.”
I watched Christina while Cynthia spoke, admiring her composure. Beside her, David rubbed her shoulder and offered her a tea. Behind him, Lydia made a rude gesture Morrie must’ve taught her.
“Today we shall have members of our community read from some of the professor’s most popular works and relate some of their fondest memories of his antics at various Jane Austen events over the years. But first, we’ll show you clips from the recent documentary on the professor’s life and work.”
A projection screen rolled down in front of the Christmas tree. The camera flashed the name of a documentary director famous for creating sensationalist profiles of ‘misunderstood’ men. It didn’t surprise me Hathaway had been connected with him. The camera zoomed in on a younger Hathaway – his features smug as he spoke to a class filled with cheering students. With his windswept hair and military-style jacket, he looked every bit the romantic hero. Emotional music swelled, and the narrator started to list Hathaway’s accomplishments.
“Intriguing,” Morrie said, leaning forward on his elbows.
The documentary was sickening in light of what Carmichael, Gerald, and Alice had revealed about Hathaway. It spent scant minutes on Jane Austen’s life and work, focusing instead on the scholarly methods that led Hathaway to his various Austen discoveries. Interviews with the professor showed a vain man who was an expert at manipulating the conversation to make himself appear clever and humble and attractive. Gushing interviews from David and various young female students seemed sinister in context.
