At Rhodes’s revelation, Langham swore eloquently. “Surely you don’t believe my family has anything to do with Lovell’s murder.”
“Of course not, Your Grace,” said Rhodes with alacrity. “But it does harken back to a dark time for the area, doesn’t it? Especially what with Lovell being killed at the old chapel. It makes one wonder if someone has revived the Lucifer Society.”
“It seems more likely to me,” Poppy said, with a sympathetic glance at Langham, “that someone either had the knife in their possession and purposely used it in Lovell’s murder in order to tie the crime to Langham, or they came upon it by chance and used it, having no notion of the crest’s significance. Any suggestion that the Lucifer Society has been re-formed seems premature at best.”
At her chiding, the constable’s ears reddened a little. But Poppy had had quite enough talk of mysterious societies for one morning. Her sister stood accused of murder, and Rhodes seemed more interested in tying the crime to a defunct club for debauched noblemen than finding the real culprit.
Leaving Langham to soothe the constable’s ruffled feathers, she set out at a brisk pace through the wooded area that bordered the stone façade of St. Lucy’s and approached the chapel itself. Alongside, she noted the cemetery Langham had spoken of. She tried to imagine him as a boy, climbing over the stones and chasing Stannings and other friends through the headstones.
“It’s much the worse for wear since I was here last.” Langham’s voice just behind her gave Poppy a start.
“Easy,” he said taking her arm in his. “You’re meant to be the more level-headed of us.”
She gave him a speaking look. It was all well and good for him to tease, but it would take some time for her heartbeat to slow. “The graves may not be real, but the atmosphere is no less eerie for it.”
“Thaddeus was nothing if not attentive to detail,” Langham said pointing toward a small grave that was clearly meant to be that of an infant.
Poppy suppressed a shudder and turned away from the tiny grave. “Yes, it’s very realistic. Though I’ve never felt this unsettled by a real cemetery.”
“I suspect some of that is due to the isolated location,” Langham said, surveying the area. “The trees and undergrowth have grown up around it so that it seems like its own little world.”
Rhodes, who had trailed them at a bit of a distance, now followed Poppy and Langham past the cemetery and toward the cobblestone expanse that jutted out from the entrance of the chapel. “Over there, on the stones, is where we found your brother-in-law’s body, Miss Delamere,” he said in a somber tone, as if recalling the gruesome sight. “Mr. Jarvis had come searching for one of the sheep from the estate—the fool creature got itself tangled up in a bramble over by the mausoleum—and found more than he bargained for. Jarvis turned the dead man over, of course, to determine who he was, and that’s when he found the knife wound.”
Poppy stared at the irregularly shaped dark spot on the rocks where it was clear that blood, or some other fluid she didn’t wish to contemplate, had stained the surface.
She had been no admirer of Alistair Lovell, but it was unspeakable to think that the man had lost his life in such a ghastly manner mere steps from where she now stood.
Trying to turn her mind away from the horror of the man’s death and toward unraveling who might have caused it, she asked, “Were you able to determine if he was stabbed before or after he fell? I should imagine the depth of the wound would be an indicator. The amount of force a person—even a very strong one—can wield is no match for the power of gravity from that height.”
Langham gave a soft laugh. “Why does it not surprise me you are familiar with Newton’s second law as it pertains to falling objects?”
“I am a lady, Langham,” Poppy said with a roll of her eyes, “not an ignoramus.”
“No, Miss Delamere,” Rhodes said, ignoring their little exchange altogether. “It makes no sense for the killer to stab him after. The fall would have killed him, so there’d be no need to use the knife. No, it’s clear that Lovell was attacked up there”—he pointed toward the bell tower looming above them—“and fell from the tower after he was stabbed.”
“But wouldn’t that mean he’d have fallen on his back?” Poppy asked, not bothering to keep her frustration from her voice. “It makes no sense for him to be stabbed in the chest, then spun around by the killer so that he’d fall to land on his front.”
“Now, Miss Delamere,” the constable said in a condescending tone, “I know you’re a clever lady, but there are some matters that are best left to those of us who investigate such things for a living.”
Poppy was about to explain to the man that the rules of logic were the same no matter the profession, but Langham’s hand on her arm silenced her.
“Let’s make our way up to the tower,” he said, his eyes indicating that the argument with Rhodes wouldn’t be worth the trouble. To Rhodes he said in a hearty voice, “Perhaps you can remain down here, constable, and stand where Lovell’s body was discovered. That way we can determine the most likely spot from which he fell.”
The relief in Rhodes’s face was not feigned, Poppy noted. Whether it was because he was weary of her questioning his methods or thankful to avoid the steep climb, she didn’t know. But whichever the case, she was grateful for the chance to be away from him for a time.
“Of course, Your Grace,” the constable said with a nod. “A sensible plan.”
Leaving Rhodes at the base of the path, Poppy and Langham approached the gate separating the yard from the few steps going up to the door. To her surprise, when Langham pushed the gate open, it made no sound at all. “Someone has been maintaining the chapel, if not the cemetery,” she said, glancing up at him with a raised brow.
“Indeed. Likely the same person who cleared the way to the yard. I’ve made a note to ask Ned about it when we’re back at the abbey,” the duke said as he let the gate clang shut behind them. He had a difficult time imagining a reason for his cousin to order that sort of upkeep for an area of the estate that he’d ordered be left alone.
“Is it possible Mr. Jarvis planned to reopen St. Lucy’s?” Poppy asked, peering into the interior of the chapel once Langham had pulled open the heavy door by its iron ring.
“I doubt it,” Langham said, following her inside and fumbling at the base of a torchiere along the wall. “Ned would have asked me before entertaining such an idea. He knows as well as anyone how poorly this place reflects on the family. For all that we found it thrilling as boys, I made myself clear about how it was to be left to nature after I had the caves and the connected tunnels blocked off.”
Poppy heard the strike of a match, and with the illumination of a large lamp that Langham had lit, she was soon able to see that, rather than being an actual chapel, with pews, altar and the like, the interior of St. Lucy’s was simply a vast empty room with several small alcoves.
“It truly is nothing more than a chapel folly,” she said in wonder as she scanned the area, from the stone floors to the stained-glass windows through which sunlight streamed, giving the space an otherworldly glow.
“In his diaries, Thaddeus called it an anti-church,” Langham said as he stepped farther inside. “But the stained-glass windows rather ruin that idea. Grotesque as their subjects might be, the effect is far more Church of England or Roman Catholic than I suspect he wished.”
Poppy studied the windows one by one and realized that Langham was right. Though the depiction of St. Sebastian, who according to legend had been shot through with countless arrows, was far more gruesome than Poppy had seen before, the blood pouring from his eyes, mouth, and various other places in his body did follow the story. As did another one showing, by Poppy’s guess, St. Stephen, who had been stoned to death.
She was unable to place the subject of the third window, however. It showed a man writhing on the ground while what looked eerily like small demons pierced him with knives.
When Langham noticed her puzzled expression, he told her, “St. Cassian. He was a teacher hacked to death by his students.”
“Heavens,” Poppy said with a shake of her head. “Thaddeus must have had a particularly disturbing aesthetic sensibility.”
“Or a particularly disturbing sense of humor,” Langham replied. “It’s said St. Cassian bears a striking resemblance to one of my great-grandfather’s most hated tutors at Eton.”
Poppy shuddered, even though the sunlight that had been trapped inside the building for hours had kept it somewhat warm.
“The last,” Langham said as they stepped toward the fourth window, “is the chapel’s namesake, St. Lucifer.”
It was not, Poppy noted, the iconic image of St. Michael expelling Lucifer from heaven that had been painted time and again by the Old Masters. No, this depiction of Satan was before his fall. He stood proudly, surrounded by long, narrow white strips of glass, which were, she knew, meant to denote sunbeams.
“Lucifer. Light bringer,” she said and felt an unexpected poignance at knowing the brightest of God’s angels had met his downfall.
“I’m really rather surprised no one has ever come to tear the place down stone by stone,” Langham said wryly. “Though I suppose, technically, it is merely celebrating an angel and a saint. But in another time, this is the sort of thing that would get one burned at the stake.”
“Even dukes?” Poppy asked, with a sideways glance.
“Perhaps not dukes,” he conceded with a laugh, then his expression turned pensive. “I’ll need to revisit the notion of having this place torn down when I’ve got a family of my own. As much as I enjoyed my rambles around here as a boy, I don’t like the idea of perpetuating this history on another generation.”
Poppy was assailed by an unexpected pang of jealousy for that nameless, faceless lady who would one day be his wife. Determined to distract herself, she glanced around the large room. “How do we get to the bell tower from here?” There didn’t seem to be any stairs or doorways through which they could access a flight leading up to the cupola.
“The stairs are over here,” Langham said, taking her by the hand to lead her to the other side of the room.
He might only have intended to hurry her along, but the warmth of his hand on hers sent a frisson of awareness through her. Between their near kiss earlier and the demonstration for Rhodes’s benefit, Poppy was as taut as a bowstring.
As he reached the far-right corner of the room, he pressed a stone that from all appearances was the same as all the others. But when a whole section of wall swung outward to reveal an interior room, Poppy knew the stone in question had hidden a mechanism of some sort.
“One amusing aspect of Thaddeus’s machinations,” Langham said as he set the lantern on a hook inside the recess, “is that he had secret doors and passageways installed all over the estate. As a boy I found them particularly useful when I wished to annoy my sisters or avoid punishments.”
“I can imagine,” she said, though she noticed that despite his attempt at humor, there were lines of tension around his mouth.
“Are you sure you wish to go into the tower with me?” she asked. “I can climb up and look around, try to determine where Lovell was when he fell. There’s really no need for both of us to go.”
Langham bit back a curse. “I most heartily wish you would forget I said anything about my problem with enclosed spaces.”
“You told me less than an hour ago,” she said dryly. “I’m hardly likely to forget it.”
Without meeting her gaze, he simply went ahead of her into the shadowed stairwell.
“Very well,” she said, following him into the inky darkness. “But I would like to state for posterity’s sake that you are an exceedingly stubborn man.”
* * *
Langham hadn’t set foot on these winding stairs since he’d been trapped here over two decades ago. And yet the passage of time had done little to expand the breathing space in the blasted stairwell that seemed narrower still now that he was a grown man.
“Is it much farther?” she asked, as they came to a recess in the wall that held a skull gleaming in the lamplight. “I don’t much care for the style of the décor here.”
“We’re almost there,” he said to Poppy, glancing back to see that she was pink cheeked and a little winded. “We should see sunlight around one of the next turns.”
And indeed, in moments they saw a ray of light that made them both cry out in pain as their eyes adjusted to the change.
“I never realized how grateful I could be for the sight of the sky,” Poppy said as they emerged in a square cupola, in the center of which hung a bell with a rope running through a chimney-like opening that went all the way down to the lower level of the chapel.
“Nor I,” said Langham, and as if by instinctive agreement, they grasped hands and moved to stand against the stone wall that ran along the edges of the cupola. The wind was strong up here, and though he knew they were likely in no danger of being carried off by it, he felt a need to hold on to her nonetheless.
He didn’t wish to examine the reasons for that feeling too closely.
They peered down at the ground below and saw Rhodes waving up at them. “Ho, Your Grace,” Rhodes shouted. “This is where Lovell’s body was found. Can you tell where he might have been standing when he fell?”
Langham moved to stand directly above where Rhodes had indicated Lovell had landed and glanced around at the floor surrounding the area. There was an accumulation of leaves and other natural debris that had likely been blown onto the platform by the wind. “What do you think?” he asked Poppy. “Was he standing somewhere near this spot?”
She moved to stare down at the ground below, and to Langham’s alarm, she began to sway on her feet.
“Oh!” she gasped and he pulled her against him, his own heart thundering in his chest as his mind leapt ahead to the thought of what might have happened if she fell. He held her against him for a moment, and the warm scent of her reminded him once again of that unfulfilled kiss. “I have you. I won’t let you fall.”
“I hadn’t realized just how disturbing it would be to look down,” she said, pulling away from him, and reluctantly he let her go. “There’s no possible way Violet would be able to maintain her composure up here, much less stab her husband and push him over the edge.”
“And that’s what we’ll remind Rhodes of when we return to the ground,” Langham said as he turned to lead her back down the stairs. He had no desire to tarry up here longer than necessary.
“Let’s wait a moment before we go back down,” Poppy said, a determined expression on her face. “I want to look around a bit more to see if there is any trace of who might have been up here with Lovell.”
“As you wish,” Langham said, admonishing himself silently for not thinking of that himself. His desire to be away from this place was clearly overriding his thinking.
They explored the tower in silence for several moments, and Langham was almost ready to declare the task a failure when he noticed a light-colored bit of cloth peeking from a crevice between the stones that made up the floor.
Frowning, he grasped the fabric and pulled on it gently so as not to tear it. Ever so slowly, he realized it was a lady’s handkerchief. A knot formed in his gut as he unraveled it to reveal initials neatly embroidered in the corner. VSL. Violet Short Lovell.
Damn it.
He was about to show Poppy what he’d found when she gave a cry. “I’ve found something,” she said with excitement. “It’s a pipe.”
Langham tucked the handkerchief in his coat and turned to examine the pipe she held out to him. He would allow her this moment of triumph before telling her of the handkerchief.
“Do you recognize it?” she asked, holding the silver filigreed men’s tobacco pipe in the palm of her hand so that he could examine it. “I know it didn’t belong to Lovell. He was rather adamantly against the use of tobacco of any kind. Claimed it was a filthy habit.”
Langham removed his quizzing glass from an inner pocket and used it to look more closely at the decorations on the pipe. It was finely made, the sort of item that could be purchased at a high-end haberdasher.
“I’ve never seen it before,” he said thoughtfully before handing it back to her. “It could very well have belonged to whoever killed Lovell.”
Would it matter, he wondered, if Rhodes saw the handkerchief? He had to tell Poppy about it before they reached the other man.
But Poppy was already halfway down the stairs before he caught up to her. “We have to show this to Rhodes,” she called to him over her shoulder. “It proves there was someone else here. A man!”
“Poppy wait.” Langham followed at her heels, trying not to send them both tumbling downward in his haste.
“I thought you’d be more enthusiastic,” she said, pausing halfway down and turning to scowl at him. “If we can trace this back to the shop it came from, it can lead to the real killer. It could clear Violet’s name.”
Crushing her hope was the last thing he wanted to do, but she needed to know the truth, before they reached Rhodes.
“I need to show you something,” he said in a low voice.
“Why are you whispering?” she asked in an answering hiss, her brows lowered.
Wordlessly, he pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.
She stared down at the delicately embroidered square of cotton in confusion for a moment, then her eyes widened. “No,” she said, looking up at him with such misery that he wanted more than anything to tell her it was a jest.
But it was all too real.
“She didn’t do this, Langham.”
“It may not mean she did it,” he said gently, “but it very likely means she was here.”
“Rhodes won’t make that distinction,” she spat out. “He’ll use this to prove her guilt whether it’s warranted or not.”
“I’ll use every ounce of my power to make sure every avenue of inquiry is explored,” he said. “We’ll send for Eversham. He can see to it that the real story comes out, not whatever tale Rhodes concocts. We’ll make it right.”
“It can’t be made right,” she said in a voice that made him want to gather her in his arms and protect her from this darkness. “Detective Inspector Eversham’s opinions might wield influence in London, but he holds no such regard in Little Kidding, where the villagers have already painted Violet as a murderess. They are the ones who will serve on the jury after all. Even you, with all your horses and all your men, cannot repair this da—”
“Your Grace,” Rhodes’s voice was suddenly there at the foot of the stairs, and from the sound of it, he was on his way up.
“He cannot see this,” Poppy hissed, squeezing up against him in the small space as she reached out to pluck the handkerchief from his hand.
Just then Rhodes’s ruddy face appeared in the stairwell, and his eyes darted back and forth between Poppy and Langham, suspicion clouding his face.
Poppy, resourceful as ever, threw her arms about his neck.
“Kiss me,” she breathed, and lifting her face she pressed her mouth to his.
