“I understand, My Lord,” Smithers said. “While there are those of us on staff who might be able to prepare for one or two, trying to cook for all of us would be something of a challenge.”
“Quite so. Each to his specialty. I would scarcely expect you to bake bread or muck out the stables.”
“I am heartily glad of that, My Lord. I would not have the slightest idea of how to bake bread. I did make the acquaintance of the business end of a shovel in the days of my youth. It was the impetus for learning to be a valet.”
Percival gave his valet a wobbly grin. “That I can readily imagine, Smithers, even with my head in the state it is in. The advantage of being a valet over being a stableman is quite easy to see.”
“Now, then, My Lord, do you think you can bear for us to ease you out of your current night shirt and into a clean one?”
Both master and man were perspiring with the difficulty of the task by the time Percival was undressed, sponged clean, re-bandaged, and tucked into a fresh night shirt.
“Will you lie down or sit up, My Lord?” Smithers asked.
“I will sit,” Percival replied. “I find it easier in that way to rest myself without putting pressure on my hurts. By Jove, I do hope the villain who caused them will feel my pain ten-fold. I cannot believe that the physician sent men back into battle with similar injuries.”
“It does strain the imagination,” Smithers agreed. “But I believe that the excitement of battle lends some sort of pain deadening. Will you have some more of the tea?”
“I will. It seems to help, and it does not give me nightmares.”
Bitter though the tea was, and harsh on his stomach, Percival could feel its effect almost as soon as he finished settling into the embrace of the upholstered chair.
As he eased again into slumber, Percival’s last thoughts were of Tiffany.
I sent her away. I know I did. I must have had some good reason. I told Smithers it was for her safety, but did I suspect her of attempted murder? Was she just a little too conveniently at hand? What was I thinking? I wish I could remember!
Chapter 37
Tiffany was stitching an interminable seam around the bottom of a black bombazine gown. She was uncertain who it was for or why hemming it would create an advantage for the flock of down-at-heel humanity that Old Elizabet had collected into the abandoned manor house.
The tap that came at the door was extremely welcome, especially as Emily called out, “A tisket, a tasket.”
“A green and yellow basket,” Tiffany replied. It was a signal they had used often before Tiffany began working at Northbury Manor.
Emily poked her head in the door. “I’ve a gentleman to see you, Tiff. Are you presentable?”
“Well enough,” Tiffany replied, snipping off a thread and placing the needle into a flannel scrap that was serving as a makeshift pin cushion. “But who have you brought, Emmy? I doubt that he is my love.”
“Ho, ho,” Constable Brooks chuckled as he followed Emily into the room. “Now that is a good one, my dear. I have not been anyone’s love for many a year. But Lucas brought word that you were willing to speak with me, and I do most sincerely desire that conversation.”
“I’ll fetch a stool,” Emily said, preparing to leave the room.
“No, no. I’ll just pull up a bit of floor here by the chimney,” Constable Brooks said. “Too much going back and forth could give away Tiffany’s hiding spot.” He settled himself comfortably against the stones, and pulled out a small notebook. “Now, tell me everything you remember about the night Lord Northbury was attacked.”
The telling did not take long, even though Tiffany was careful to recount every detail.
“Hmm,” the constable said, looking over his notes. “And you brought the knife away with you?”
Tiffany nodded.
“I’d like a look at it,” Constable Brooks said. “Did you clean it?”
“I couldn’t bear to,” Tiffany replied. “In fact, I can hardly stand to look at it, let alone touch it.”
“Never mind all that. I’ll do the looking and touching.” Constable Brooks looked the knife over, paying close attention to the blood stains, and the way they coated the blade. “Has a weak clasp, does it?”
“Yes,” Tiffany said. “Really, it isn’t much of a knife. I kept it because it is the one thing that I have that belonged to my father. I have nothing of my mother.”
“I see.” Brooks turned the knife over and over in his hands. “I believe that weak catch saved Lord Northbury’s life. Instead of penetrating the skin and sliding between his ribs, the knife folded, causing it to skin along the outside of his ribs, across his back, creating a long, shallow cut. It is truly a miracle and a wonder that it was not worse.”
