And so it went. She questioned all the footmen and other manservants, the housemaids, the chambermaids, the kitchen staff, and everyone in the stables and on the grounds. Over and over she heard the same answers, the same insistence on everyone's innocence. Four hours later, the pile of gingerbread cakes had dwindled, and there were only the upper servants left to interview.
"Good afternoon, my lady," Peggy said when Hastings ushered her in. She had put aside her maid's uniform and wore a clean but very outdated dress. "I've been wondering when I might be summoned."
"This is nothing for you to fret about," Alexandra assured her, thinking she'd fetch a few dresses for her the next time she went home to Cainewood. Lady's maids generally expected to wear their mistresses' cast-off clothing. She poured tea and set the cup and saucer on the low table between them, along with a gingerbread cake. "Please make yourself comfortable. I just have a few questions, that's all."
Peggy sat and fluffed her skirts. "You're looking for evidence to clear Lord Hawkridge's name."
"Yes. Word does get around." Peggy had done an excellent job unpacking and arranging Alexandra's things last night—even pressing her wrinkled clothing before putting it away—and this morning she'd worked wonders with her often unruly hair. So far, Tris's opinion notwithstanding, Alexandra was very pleased with her. "Do you recollect anyone visiting the evening or morning of my husband's uncle's death?"
"No, my lady. No one." Peggy calmly sipped her tea. "And I know what you're going to ask next," she added, setting her cup back on the saucer. "I don't believe anyone here had any reason to harm Lord Hawkridge, either. He was well liked and respected, and we had all known him a long time—many of us all of our lives."
"I'm aware of that." Alexandra sipped a bit of her own tea to be polite, although she'd long ago had quite enough. "Is no one new ever hired here at Hawkridge?"
"There are rarely any openings and usually young people waiting to fill them." Peggy bit into a gingerbread cake, chewed, swallowed, and smiled. "Delicious, my lady."
"Thank you. It's an old family recipe." But the "good gossip" the cakes were purported to inspire wasn't netting her much in the way of results. "So you don't remember anyone who might have been new at the time? Anyone who could possibly have been less than loyal to the last Lord Hawkridge?"
"No, we're all here from way back." Peggy reached for her cup again, then stopped. "Wait." She frowned, narrowing her pale green eyes. "There was Vincent, of course. He'd recently arrived with your husband." She shook her head, her mop of brown curls bouncing. "But Vincent is a big sweetheart. He'd never kill a fly, let alone a man."
"I'm sure you're right," Alexandra said, hiding her surprise that she hadn't thought of Vincent herself. It was obvious that at the time he'd have been a new arrival. "Thank you, Peggy. I'll be calling on you to help me change before dinner. Would you inform Hastings that I'm ready for Mrs. Oliver?"
"Of course, my lady." Peggy smiled and left.
While Alexandra waited for Mrs. Oliver, she stared blankly out a window toward the peaceful river, her mind racing. Could Vincent have killed Tris's uncle? He didn't seem the type; she had liked him on sight. But Uncle Harold, after all, had owned Vincent when he was a slave. It was certainly possible for resentment to build under those circumstances. And Vincent had to bear Tris a strong loyalty, considering Tris had bought and freed him.
Seeing the man to whom he owed his freedom destitute and desperate, might Vincent have been willing to kill his former owner in order to see Tris inherit?
She didn't think so. But she owed it to Tris—and her sisters—to at least consider the possibility.
When Mrs. Oliver arrived, she brought news. "Lord Hawkridge has sent word, my lady. He's been detained at the gasworks and may not make it home until after dinner."
"Thank you, Mrs. Oliver." Alexandra forced a smile. The news was disappointing, but not altogether unexpected. And if this was to be her life, she might as well get used to it. "Please do take a seat. I hope you won't mind answering a few questions."
But although they had a nice conversation, Mrs. Oliver had nothing new to add to Alexandra's investigation.
And at long last, she had only one servant left to speak with: Vincent.
Vincent wore an impeccable black suit, a crisply tied cravat, and a wide, bright smile. He entered the room with such an easy manner that she couldn't imagine he was afraid of anything, much less worried he'd be arrested for murder.
"My lady," he greeted her in that musical voice that made her picture faraway islands. "I've never seen your husband as happy as he was this morning. I can only thank you for entering his life."
"Surely you exaggerate." How could she suspect such a charmer? "Have a seat, please, and tell me what you remember of the night my husband's uncle died."
"The man was feeling poorly, and one morning he failed to wake up." He seated himself, seeming to take up the whole sofa across from her. "I saw nothing to suggest there was foul play involved and nothing to rule it out, either. However," he added, his deep voice brooking no argument, "Lord Hawkridge had no part in his uncle's death. I'll hear nothing of that nonsense."
"I agree with you entirely." When she handed him a cup and saucer, they looked like toys in his big hands. "I hope to find the real culprit, to clear my husband's name and restore his place in society."
"He's aware of your investigation?"
Was it her imagination, or did he know Tris would disapprove? "I've told him of my intentions."
He sipped, regarding her over the cup's rim. "Most here think there was no culprit.
