Free Death Comes to Kurland Hall by Catherine Lloyd Page A

Penelope had taken charge of it.
    All was still quiet, so Lucy moved across to her mother’s old desk, where a large leather writing case lay open. An inkpot and a pen were balanced precariously on top of a pile of letters. It appeared as if Mrs. Chingford had been an avid correspondent. Lucy closed the inkpot and laid the pen down on the blotter, her gaze caught by a half-finished letter in what she assumed was Mrs. Chingford’s hand. The names Miss Stanford and Mrs. Fairfax were quite legible. Holding her breath, Lucy leaned closer and put on her reading glasses.
    â€œCan I help you with something, Miss Harrington?”
    Concealing her start of surprise, Lucy picked up the inkpot and turned toward Miss Chingford. Her old nemesis didn’t look very well, her skin pale and her eyes shadowed. She was dressed in a black dress she had borrowed from Anna.
    â€œGood afternoon, Miss Chingford. I do hope you slept well.” Lucy slipped the letter into her pocket and placed the inkpot and the pen in one of the desk’s pigeonholes. “I came to strip the bed.”
    â€œAnd pry?”
    Lucy raised her eyebrows. “Into what, exactly?”
    â€œIntimate details of my mother’s life to share with your village friends?”
    â€œI would never to do that,” Lucy replied as gently as she could.
    â€œThen did your father ask you to come up here?” Miss Chingford sank down into the nearest chair, her expression hard. “He and my mother were arguing at the wedding.”
    Lucy took the seat opposite her. “What were they arguing about?”
    â€œMy mother didn’t appreciate him sharing the news of their supposed betrothal to the masses.”
    â€œI did wonder about the wisdom of that,” Lucy admitted.
    Miss Chingford dabbed at her eyes with one of Lucy’s handkerchiefs. “I don’t think she had any intention of marrying him. She just wanted to return to London with that news to use as a threat to ensnare the man she really wanted.”
    â€œI assume she didn’t tell my father that.”
    Miss Chingford snorted. “Who knows? Perhaps she did. She had a sharp tongue. She called it being honest. I often suspected her ‘honesty’ came with a healthy dose of malice. Your father was very angry with her.”
    â€œHe hates being embarrassed.” Lucy collected her thoughts. “When did they fight?”
    â€œI told you, at the wedding, just before she—” Miss Chingford pressed the handkerchief to her lips. “I disliked her intensely, Miss Harrington, but I can’t seem to stop crying.”
    â€œShe was your mother. It is quite understandable.” Lucy handed over her last clean handkerchief. “How is Dorothea bearing up?”
    â€œI can’t get a word of sense out of her. She didn’t like our mother, either, and was arguing with her about the intended marriage at the wedding.” Miss Chingford sighed. “ Everyone was arguing with her about something, and she seemed to be enjoying it. She loved being at the center of things. After my father’s death she lost her social position and would try anything to reclaim it.”
    She paused and shot Lucy a suspicious look. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
    â€œBecause you and your sister have just suffered a grievous loss,” Lucy said. “I lost my own mother eight years ago. I know how hard it was.”
    â€œBy all accounts, your mother was a saint.” Miss Chingford blew her nose with great force. “My mother was immensely disliked, and for very good reason.”
    Lucy rose. “I made a start at packing up your mother’s things, but you might wish to finish the task yourself. I do hope you have your mother’s jewelry case?”
    â€œYes. I took in into my room last night to put the rubies back in their box.”
    â€œDid she own a locket?” Lucy asked. “I found one at the wedding, and