Free Rules of Murder by Julianna Deering

and a steaming cup of tea.
    “Mrs. Devon’s made your favorite, sir, and she’s sent up some honey for your toast, fresh from Mr. Cranston’s hives, as you like it. For your tea as well, of course.”
    Drew only stared at him, very stupidly, he was sure, and then he managed a nod.
    “That was good of her, Denny.”
    He struggled into a sitting position, and Denny set the tray across his lap.
    “And may I,” Denny continued, “on behalf of all of us belowstairs, sir, express our deepest sympathies regarding Mrs. Parker.”
    Drew closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about Constance, not quite yet, but it would have to be dealt with sooner or later. He managed another nod. “Yes, thank them all for me if you would, Denny.”
    “Will there be anything else, sir?”
    “Not at the moment, no,” Drew replied, expecting Denny’s usual very good, sir and circumspect departure. It was not forthcoming.
    Drew looked up at him and saw something more behind the impersonal correctness of his demeanor.
    “I’m all right, Denny,” Drew told him, surprised at the thickness in his own voice. “Really.”
    “Very good, sir,” Denny said. “I’ll just lay out your morning things and draw your bath.”
    Shortly before nine, Drew was groomed and dressed and in his stepfather’s study.
    Mason looked weary. Inexpressibly weary. It came as something of a surprise to Drew that there was nothing more in his stepfather’s expression. But neither was there anything more in his own. Constance was dead. The idea seemed strange yet.
    “Did you sleep?” Drew asked.
    Mason shrugged slightly. “Off and on. I don’t much remember.”
    “Has the chief inspector been in yet?”
    “Not yet. I’m sure he’ll be here and asking for me anytime now, though.” Mason sighed. “More questions.”
    “I can get them put off a day or so if you like, I expect,” Drew offered, and Mason patted his arm.
    “No, best have it over at once.” Mason sighed again and stared into the little fire that had been laid to take the Sunday morning chill from the room. “Not that I can tell them much of anything.”
    “You could talk to them about the blackmail.”
    There was a long, thick silence, absolute but for the crackling of the flames. Then the French clock whirred and began tolling the hour in delicate little pings. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. For a moment afterward, the sound still resonated in the room. When there was again perfect silence, Mason lifted his eyes to Drew’s.
    “Blackmail?”
    His voice was bland and quiet, almost studiedly nonchalant.
    “I see you’re not surprised by that, sir,” Drew said. “Perhaps you arranged to have it paid for her. I’ve known some while, so there’s no need to shield her now. Especially not from me.”
    “You’ve known what some while?”
    “Well, not about the blackmail, not till now, but about the reason for it.”
    His stepfather’s dispassionate expression did not change. “You mean you’ve assumed you know the reason for it.”
    “Come, sir, I’m no longer a child. I know what I’ve seen and, if I didn’t, I’ve had enough people point it out to me over the past two years.”
    “People who know no more of the truth of the matter than you, I’m afraid, Drew.”
    “You mean people not hiding from the truth, don’t you, sir?” Drew asked, his words sounding sharper than he meant them to.
    “No. People who don’t know the truth.”
    “Then they should be made to know the truth,” Drew insisted. “I, at the very least, have the right to know it.”
    “There are some things she did not wish to have brought up. They are in the past and digging them up now could not benefit anyone. Trust me, son, they have no bearing on this case. She did not wish to have them discussed, and I mean to abide by that now she’s gone.”
    “But she is gone! How can it hurt her now?”
    “You’re a Farthering, Drew. The name means something. Surely you can