“Perhaps. Though the difficulty and thoroughness of the procedure suggest he might have been dead before it was performed.”
“I will not ask how you can make that statement with such assurance,” she murmured. “I guess it is logical, unless there were multiple killers and someone held him down.”
“Multiple killers are unlikely in crimes of passion,” he said. “And something else about this wound gives me pause.”
“The great quantity of blood.”
He looked quite carefully at her. “Yes.”
“Castration, even the removal of the male member, does not cause such a loss of blood.”
“I should imagine so,” he said. “The killer might have intentionally thrust the weapon deeper.”
“Through the iliac artery, undoubtedly. Then our question becomes how might he have subdued Mr. Walsh in order to do such a thing? Poison? Or suffocation, as I first thought?” She moved toward him at the head of the table, bent toward the waxy face of the dead man and sniffed. “His tongue is not distended nor his face blue, as the curate’s wife’s was when she choked on a piece of dried fruit in her pudding last Christmas and expired within moments.”
He cast her a curious glance. “Pudding?”
“I don’t care for it myself, which is clearly to my benefit. Also, I don’t recognize a putrid odor in his mouth.”
“Nor do I.” He nodded. “Now, Miss Caulfield, I hope your curiosity on this matter is satisfied.”
“On the contrary. It has only just peaked.”
“I was afraid of that.” He moved toward the door. “Allow me to escort you to your quarters.”
She went to him. He was nearly a head taller than she and certainly the most handsome man she had ever stood so close to, with his shirt of close-woven linen and waistcoat of brocaded silk. The whisker shadow of the night before that had scratched her chin had gone; his cheeks were smooth and high-boned, his jaw firm. “You seem remarkably comfortable with all of this.”
“I was at war, Miss Caulfield. There is little that can discomfit me now.”
But that was not the entire truth. He was not at ease as he seemed to study her features now.
“As you can see, I have knowledge that can help you find the murderer,” she said.
“What suggested to you that I have any intention of pursuing such a course?”
“Of course you have, or you would not have brought him here and bribed the servants to keep it a secret from everybody else.”
“I did not bribe them.”
“You must have. I would have. After you tell the prince, I suppose he will summon the local law to investigate. When it arrives, let me help.”
“I cannot in good conscience allow that.”
“Then allow it in bad conscience.”
“Miss Caulfield—”
“You must allow me to help.”
“And yet I will not, despite my wish to please you.”
“You don’t wish to please me. You wish to thwart me.”
“You are correct. In this at least.” His gaze slipped to her shoulder, then her arms she was hugging to her waist, passing over her breasts as though they were not there. “Your lips are blue. You must retire to the warmth of your bedchamber. I will instruct Monsieur Brazil to send up a maid to build your fire again.”
“Aren’t you concerned that the murderer might realize we have discovered the body and will know that I know about it, and will come after me?”
That muscle twitched in his jaw again, but she did not know if humor or pique inspired it. “Yes.”
“If you keep me close, he won’t be able to get to me easily.”
“Interesting choice of words from the woman who vowed not two hours ago that she would not in this life come close to me again.”
“To solve the mystery of the murderer,” she said, her tongue abruptly dry, “of course.”
“Ah.” A smile caught at the corner of his mouth, the dent peeking out. “Of course.”
“What do you know of Mr. Walsh?” she asked. “In truth?”
“At one time he served as secretary to a man of considerable status and wealth. After that he fought in Spain against Napoleon’s army. He was approximately five-and-thirty. And he was fond of dice.”
“Based upon that you are suspicious about his presence here at the prince’s party?”
“I may have other reasons.”
“I suppose a man like him has no more right to be in a prince’s castle than I do. But no matter. I have plenty to recommend me to this investigation that the local police will appreciate.”
“An expertise in deaths involving medieval armor, perhaps?”
“A female body.”
That stalled him. Again his gaze dropped but this time it more than grazed over her breasts; it lingered. “I will admit I am not seeing how that makes you an expert investigator to murder.” He lifted his eyes to hers. They were decidedly dark and not entirely focused. The night before, his eyes had looked like this when his body atop hers had become aroused.
“I can speak to the women at this party in a manner in which I suspect you cannot. In regular conversation that seems like gossip I can encourage them to reveal information that could be valuable to discovering why this man was murdered and stuffed into a suit of armor.”
The butler of Chevriot appeared in the doorway. She moved toward him.
“Monsieur Brazil, do you have a wife or a grown daughter?”
“A daughter, mademoiselle.”
“What is her name?”
“Clarice, mademoiselle.”
“If I were to speak to Clarice concerning a private matter, would she reveal more information to me than she would to a man?”
“Eh, mademoiselle, I cannot—”
“Of course she would.” She turned to Lord Vitor. “What’s more, I can at this moment subtract nearly two dozen people from the list of suspects.”
“Can you?”
“You don’t believe me. Monsieur Brazil, where were the household and guests’ servants before, during, and immediately after dinner?”
“Excepting the cook, kitchen maids, and the footmen serving dinner, they were in the servants’ hall taking dinner and reviewing procedures in the chateau.”
Lord Vitor turned his attention upon the butler. “Could you provide an accurate accounting of which individuals left the servants’ hall at any moment during those hours?”
“Oui, monseigneur.”
“Do so now, written, as well as a list of the servants who remained in the servants’ hall the entire time, with the names of the guests beside their servants’ names. Bring it to me as soon as you have finished it.”
“Oui, monseigneur.” The butler snapped a bow and hurried away, the light from his candle sparkling on the silver piping of his smart coat as it bobbed around the corner.
“How did you know to ask him that?” Lord Vitor said.
“For six years I have been a servant in a grand house whose master enjoys entertaining.”
“And now you are a lady in a castle seeking a princely groom.”
She was not, no matter what her sister wished. “I will investigate this murder whether you or the local police wish me to or not.”
There was a stillness about his contemplation of her that at once made her breathe more deeply and unnerved her.
“You have me against the wall, it seems,” he finally said.
“I do.”