Chapter 5 Detective Greyson

Beatrice

I watched from the upper corridor as a man crossed the entrance hall below, his coat dark against the pale marble. He was young for the role, close to thirty, with a clean jaw and the kind of face that suggested patience rather than genius. Lady Odessa met him at the door with cool cordiality.

"Detective Greyson," she said. "Thank you for coming so quickly."

"Of course, my lady."

He spoke softly, his voice measured and unhurried. I disliked him at once. There was something too controlled in his manner, too practiced, as if he had walked into this house many times and knew exactly which corners to avoid.

I stepped back from the railing before either of them could look up.

My hands had not stopped trembling since morning. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the body on the stones, the bent leg, the dark stain at the temple. Sleep had not returned to me. I had not eaten. Mary had brought a tray, and I had let it sit until the tea grew cold and the toast turned stale.

What worried me more than the detective was the servant from last night.

He had seen me. That night in the corridor, when I had slipped past him in my robe on my way to the terrace, he had looked at me. He had asked if I was well. He had stepped aside. And now he knew I had been outside, alone, on the same night a man died below that very terrace.

If he told the detective, even in passing, I did not know how I would explain it.

I dressed with care. Plain blue muslin. Long sleeves. The bruise on my wrist had darkened overnight into a violet stain shaped like a man's grip. I bound a ribbon above it and pulled my gloves on over both hands. No one would see. No one would think to look.

When I came downstairs, the household had gathered in the morning room under the pretense of normal routine. Tea was poured. Voices were low. The curtains had been drawn against the gray light. A death had occurred in their house, yet the Fitzgeralds carried themselves with the practiced grace of people who understood that grief, like everything else, could be managed.

Lady Odessa sat near the window, speaking in low tones with a woman I did not recognize. Julia sat in the corner with her hands folded in her lap, unusually silent.

Abel found me before I could choose a seat.

With the pounding in my heart, I almost told him about what happened last night. About his uncle. About the terrace. The words sat at the back of my throat, ready to spill. Yet I swallowed them. What would I even say? That a dead man had grabbed me hours before his body hit the stones? That I had kicked him and run? Would anyone believe I had nothing to do with his death after hearing that?

I could not.

"You should eat something," Abel said.

"I am not hungry."

"Eat anyway."

I looked at him. His face gave away nothing, but his eyes moved once toward the door where the detective had been taken.

"He will want to speak with us," Abel said. "Both of us." I asked 

"I assumed he would."

"Say as little as possible. Answer only what is asked."

"You offer such excellent advice."

He did not respond to that. He only watched me until I took a small piece of bread from the nearest plate, more to end his scrutiny than to satisfy any hunger.

The morning stretched on.

I caught sight of the servant through the doorway. He carried a tray of papers toward the library, his head lowered, his movements quick. He passed within a few feet of me. For one terrible second, our eyes met.

He looked away at once. I had seen something in his face. Recognition. Restraint. The quiet of a man holding a secret that did not belong to him.

A short while later, Detective Greyson emerged from the library. The servant followed behind him, his expression unreadable as he returned to his duties. The detective glanced once around the morning room, then toward me.

"Mrs. Fitzgerald?"

Heat rushed to my face so fast I thought my skin might burn. The servant had walked out of that library right behind the detective. They had been alone together. He must have said something. He must have told him I was on the terrace that night. Why else would the detective call for me so quickly?

My hands gripped the edge of my chair. The room felt too warm, too close. A cup of water appeared before me.

Abel.

He said nothing. He only placed it in my hand and closed my fingers around it. I drank, though my throat felt so tight I could barely swallow. The coolness steadied me enough to rise.

"Yes?" I managed.

"May I have a word?"

I followed him into the smaller parlor. It was a plain room by Fitzgerald standards, hung with dark green paper and furnished in heavy oak. He closed the door gently and gestured toward a chair.

"Please sit."

I sat.

He did not sit at once. He remained standing for a moment, watching me with that careful patience I had noticed earlier. Then he drew a chair across from me and lowered himself into it.

"First," he said, "welcome to your new home."

I blinked.

The words were so unexpected that for a moment I could not think of an answer. He smiled. It was small, brief, almost kind.

"I understand this is hardly the welcome you might have hoped for. A death in the family only days after a wedding. I am sorry for it."

"Thank you," I managed.

"I have served the Fitzgeralds for some years now," he went on. "Discreet matters. Difficult matters. Things that require a steady hand rather than public attention."

His gaze held mine.

"I imagine you would prefer as little of this touching you as possible."

"Very much so."I answered 

He nodded slowly.

"Then I think we shall get along well, Mrs. Fitzgerald."

A breath escaped me. I had not realized how tightly I had been holding myself until that moment. The fear of what I thought the servant must have said drained from me in one slow wave.

Greyson leaned back in his chair.

"I have spoken with the household. The matter is straightforward. Mr. Rupert Fitzgerald was a man known for his fondness of drink. He had been seen in his cups the evening before. The terrace is high, the stones below are hard, the night was dark. A tragic fall. Nothing more."

He tilted his head, and something lighter came into his voice.

"There is nothing to worry about, Mrs. Fitzgerald. Your new home is safe. No one is coming to murder you in the middle of the night."

The remark was strange. Too casual for the occasion. Too forward for a man I had met minutes ago.

Yet a laugh escaped me. Small, weak, almost involuntary. It sounded foreign in my own ears, but it loosened something in my chest.

So he really did fall. I had been terrified for nothing.

I studied Greyson's face again. The controlled patience I had disliked from the upper corridor now read differently. He was calm. Reassuring. The sort of man who could walk into a house full of death and still make you feel it would all be handled. I had expected to dread this conversation. Instead, I found myself almost grateful for it.

"An accident," I said.

"An accident," he confirmed.

"I am grateful for your discretion," I said.

"It is my work." He rose. "I should also mention that I am a good friend of Abel's. Have been for years. So you need not feel you are speaking to a stranger in any of this."

That explained the ease between him and the family. The familiarity. The sense that he belonged here.

"I will keep that in mind," I said.

He inclined his head and left the room. I remained seated for a long moment after the door closed. My hands had steadied. My breathing had slowed. The worst had not come.

The detective had called it an accident. The bruise was hidden beneath my glove. I should have felt safe.

Instead, as I rose and stepped back into the corridor, I saw the servant again. He stood at the far end, near the service door, his arms full of folded linens. He did not look at me this time.

Yet I felt his attention all the same.

He had not been questioned. I was certain of that now. Whatever had passed between him and the detective in the library had been brief, formal, ordinary. He had no reason to mention me, and the detective had no reason to ask.

So why did he still look at me that way?

I told myself I was overthinking it. The detective had ruled the death an accident. The matter was closed. The servant had no proof I had done anything wrong, because I had not done anything wrong.

Yet his face stayed with me long after I returned to my room.

He had seen me that night. He knew I had been on the terrace. And whether he believed I had a hand in what followed or simply held the memory in silence, I could not say.

I told myself it did not matter. I was almost sure I believed it.