“Strange that the murderer left you alive,” Sinclair said, and Portia jumped, startled he was thinking the exact thing as her. “That the killer did not ensure the attack was successful.”
The cook sucked in a deep, desperate breath. Suddenly she made a loud, keening wail. She got up off the stool, rushed blindly toward the door, crashing into the silver-laded table.
Portia rushed after her and got her to halt. She put her hands on the woman’s shoulders to soothe her. “Please calm down. That didn’t happen, thank heaven. You are perfectly safe now.”
“With a killer on the loose? I’m about as safe as a lobster dangled over a boiling pot,” the cook cried.
“We intend to keep you safer than that,” Sinclair said. But he was still frowning and he shook his head. “Our villain has been damned clever up until now. Why has he made a mistake?”
The poor cook looked ready to swoon. Portia held on to the woman, to keep her from slumping to the floor. The woman stared wildly at Portia, and cried, “Perhaps the fiend intended to strike again, but ran off. Or thought ’e’d done the job when I fell. Or Ellie saw ’im and ’e went after ’er instead. ’E must ’ave thought ’e’d done me in. Oh—oh my Lord, if ’e ’ad checked, I’d be dead.”
“Your ideas could be right,” the duke said thoughtfully. Portia wished he was not doing this in front of the cook. It was frightening the woman. “Perhaps Ellie did walk in and the killer had to attend to her. The murderer could have assumed one strong blow to Mrs. Kent’s head was enough to kill her.”
The woman made a helpless scream of fear.
Portia wished he would realize he was frightening the woman.
“Well, you are not dead, thank heaven,” Portia said firmly. “And that is what matters. There’s no point in dwelling on this. She’s told us what she knows.”
But Sinclair bent to be eye level with Mrs. Kent. “Why do you say ‘he’?” he asked softly. “You said you did not see anything. What makes you think it was a man?”
“I . . . I don’t know. I don’t know who it was. I just thought it must be a man. Who else would be so vicious and evil?” The cook peered at him, looking up from the stool. “Ye think it’s me, don’t ye? Ye think I did these ’orrible things? Why would I? I’m innocent! What about ’umphries, always creeping about! If there’s anyone mad, it’s ’im! Or that Reggie. ’E’s a strong one.”
“And both men were down here. So why haven’t they come out now, to find out what all this noise is about?”
The cook clamped her hand to her mouth.
“Stay here,” Sinclair instructed. “Wait for my return.”
The cook moved her hand. “I’m not staying ’ere with a lunatic on the loose!”
“Bring her with us, P—Miss Love. Let me go first. If there’s anyone waiting to attack, I’d rather be the one he—or she—strikes.”
Portia helped the cook to her feet and put her arm around the woman’s waist to help her walk. “Do you think someone is waiting?” She glanced around.
“It’s too damn quiet,” he muttered.
Five minutes later, they found the butler. Sprawled on the floor of his pantry. He’d been struck over the head by a silver candlestick.
“One blow,” Sinclair muttered. “One blow killed him. The killer’s strong. Knows what he—or she—is doing.”
The cook gave out a cry of horror. She clutched the table on which lay all the silver, half-gleaming, freshly polished. “’Im too! I could’ve been dead. It was just by luck that I survived. That footman was down ’ere with us. ’E’s strong. He must be mad. Utterly mad.”
Then she spotted it. A swash of color. Sinclair saw it too and he bent and picked it up off the floor.
“The little ribbon clue,” Portia said softly. “But there had been no ribbon near you,” she said to Mrs. Kent.
Portia realized Sinclair had left the room. Hard footsteps on the flags made Portia jump. Someone was coming and she and the cook were alone. She grasped a heavy silver serving dish with two hands. She wielded it over her shoulder, ready to protect Mrs. Kent and herself—
Sinclair came back in. “The rear door that leads out to the kitchen gardens was open.”
“You didn’t go out, did you? It could have been a trap!”
“I was careful, love. I saw a fresh-looking footprint in the earth. Then spotted a set of white gloves tossed to the ground at the base of a shrub. White and stained with rust-red blood.” These he tossed onto the butler’s table.