‘Good day, Grey.’ Not waiting for him to return her goodbye, she turned smartly on her heel and strode down the street.
The sky opened, and rain fell in earnest. Though it was difficult to see through such a heavy curtain of water, he guessed Miss Blair would arrive at her home completely dry.
Clio didn’t immediately return home. She waited for Grey to climb into his carriage before looping back to Viscount Beachley’s mansion and knocking smartly on the servants’ door.
Miss Sanders answered, her eyes again growing large. Perhaps she needed spectacles. ‘Miss Blair. I thought you were done with your interviews.’
Clio nodded. ‘Yes. I am. But I wondered if I might take another tour of the house. I wish to examine Lady Beachley’s sitting room. The last place they were together before he was found in the main hall.’
The maid’s brow lowered in confusion. ‘Is Lieutenant Grey not with you?’
‘Lieutenant General,’ she corrected. Not that it mattered. The maid could call him whatever she liked.
‘Er, yes. Well. Is he not?—’
‘He had other business to attend. I shan’t be long, I promise.’ Clio stepped inside, forcing the girl to step back. Thank goodness it wasn’t the butler or Mrs Coggins who’d answered the door. She would have had a much harder time brushing past them. Nodding to the maid, she quickly made her way up the dark staircase that opened to the entrance of the home. The last time she had been in the house alone, Sir Robin was on her shoulder. She felt oddly vulnerable standing in the entry without his comforting weight. But if she wanted to solve this case, she needed to convince Viscount Beachley that she was here to help him. The only way to do that was finding the ghost. She might not have any other opportunities, so she couldn’t squander this one.
‘Come on, Clio. Be brave,’ she whispered as she walked down the hall to the room where she had her first and only vision of the viscount. Stepping back inside, she looked around. The sitting roomwas much as it had been before. Walking to the couch covered in a delicate rose print, it was clear this space had been decorated with a feminine view. She sat and ran her hands over the material. Nothing.
Standing, she walked to the corner where an easel was positioned to take advantage of the light from the window behind it. Leaning closer, linseed oil and turpentine tickled her nose. It was a portrait of what had to be Miss Anna. Clio didn’t realise the viscountess was such a talented painter. She had completed the eyes and soft curls, but the girl’s nose and cheeks were only faint sketches in charcoal.
Before she could reach out to touch the canvas, a vase fell from the mantel, crashing to the floor and shattering. She straightened and focused her gaze on the hearth. In the gloomy, late-morning light, there was a faint shimmer.
‘Viscount Beachley. Were you trying to get my attention?’ She moved away from the painting, slowly approaching the cold hearth. A thrill ran through her. Something sharper than excitement. ‘I was hoping you might pay me a visit.’
The shimmer grew darker, shadows and light playing off it until a hazy image appeared. The viscount was taller than she expected. His eye colour was impossible to discern as every feature was painted in varying hues of silver and grey, but they sparked with intelligence. He had a strong jawline and thin lips. Even in death, his hair was meticulously combed. Phantoms presented themselves the way they wished to be seen in life. Beachley clearly cared about his appearance as every stitch of translucent clothing was pristine and neatly tucked, buttoned, and tied. ‘I’m here to help you, Lord Beachley. To find your killer and bring them to justice.’
He reached out a ghostly hand. As Clio extended her own, their fingers brushed. It was like slipping one’s hand into a cold, rushing stream. The vision hit harder than she expected.
‘I don’t want him to come again. He isn’t helping her. Anna is getting worse.’ Clio’s voice was once again the low timbre of Viscount Beachley. Anger and fear rippled through him in equal measure. She was standing in the centre of Lady Beachley’s bedroom. The woman sat at her dressing table to Clio’s right, a hairbrush in her hand. She wore a nightgown of cotton that buttoned all the way up to her throat. Lamplight illuminated the spacious room decorated in green and gold. Powder and peonies, a sickeningly sweet combination, had Clio’s belly roiling in an uneasy wave.
‘He’s highly regarded in the medical field. I won’t send him away because of your baseless accusations.’ Violet’s voice shook.
Clio strode closer to Lady Beachley, and the woman’s knuckles whitened around the silver brush handle. For a moment, Clio feared the viscountess might strike out and hit her husband with the makeshift weapon. It would leave more than just a red mark if she did.
‘My accusations come from your blatant disregard of our vows. I know what I saw when I walked into Anna’s room.’ Fear and anger churned in Clio’s belly as Viscount Beachley leaned closer to his wife. He wanted her to hit him. Wanted to feel the sharp bite of the silver brush cracking into his cheek. Because it would remind him what was at stake.
Violet stood, her chest expanding and contracting with rapid breaths. ‘You saw a worried mother consulting with a talented physician about the health of her child. Nothing more.’
Viscount Beachley’s laugh nearly scorched Clio’s throat. ‘Do not play me the fool, Violet.’
‘Get out.’ Violet reached blindly behind her, grabbing a bottle and throwing it at Clio. Viscount Beachley ducked, and the glass shattered against the wall. Powder and peonies flooded the room. ‘Get out!’ Violet screamed again, this time finding a hatpin and wielding it like a dagger.
Clio stumbled back. Viscount Beachley kept a careful eye on the sharp tip of the hatpin, but his voice was steady. ‘He will not come into this house again. I will instruct the staff to bar his entrance. They will inform me if you try to subject our daughter to his dangerous medical experiments.’Turning, Clio stiffened as the hatpin flew over her shoulder, clattering to the ground.
‘I hate you.’
Violet’s words echoed in her head as Clio slumped to the floor, nausea forcing her to curl into a ball.
‘Miss Blair!’
Blast!
It was the last possible voice she wanted to hear.
Lieutenant General Grey.
9
