"No. You think you're superior because you don't rely on uncle's money, because you spend your time at the pubs instead of at parties, but I tell you there's not the slightest difference. I loved mother and father too, you know. I don't miss them any less than you do because I stay here. I don't spit on their graves by wearing a fine dress or by dancing with a few rich fools, as you call them, but you very well might by living the way you do."
The words were now coming too fast to stop, and Paul made no effort to silence them. He leaned against the doorframe with his head bent down so that Louisa could no longer see his face. At one point, she thought she saw him flinch, yet this only spurred her on, making her want to hurt him more.
"You're an angry, thankless fool, Paul Everly, and a drunkard and a thief. Mother and Father would both be ashamed of you. For my part, I wouldn't care if you drank yourself into oblivion or even to death. I hope I never have to see you again."
Those were the last words she said to her brother.
CHAPTER THREE
The first sound Louisa heard the next morning was the rhythmic crunching of wet gravel.
She hadn't been asleep, not really, but she felt as though she'd been pulled from a nightmare nonetheless. The argument she'd had with Paul had turned into a cold and bitter echo in the aftermath of the fire, and sorrow was a merciless companion. She still hadn't told anyone what she had felt, for she feared she would sound as if she'd taken leave of her senses. She'd lain awake in bed all night, waiting for the front bell to ring, certain she'd soon receive word that Paul had been killed in the fire at Rosemont Abbey.
And so she wasn't the least bit surprised when she heard a motorcar pull into the drive an hour before Mrs. Hobbs would have finished laying out breakfast. Her suspicions were further confirmed when she went over to the window and, peeling the curtain back from the glass, saw a black Wolseley parked outside, the front placard starkly inscribed with one word: POLICE.
The driver had already exited the car. Louisa caught only a glimpse of his gray fedora before he was shielded by the portico beneath her. Her heartbeat throbbed in her fingertips as she snatched a dress from the cupboard, smoothed out her slept-on curls, and sprinted down the stairs. She skidded to a breathless halt at the end of the hall, attempting to compose herself, but was spotted by a footman, who tucked his chin and pretended not to have noticed her mad dash.
When pressed for information, he told her that the inspector had been shown into her uncle's study, and that her aunt and uncle had both gone in to speak with him. The door was halfway open when Louisa reached it. As she slid into the room, she glanced at the desk and felt as if she were slipping into a dream. Just yesterday, she'd found her brother sitting in that very spot. In his disheveled shirt and flat cap, he'd looked like a fallen king in a throne much too big for him.
Her uncle was a more natural fixture, the sort of man who drank brandy at all hours and hung a great deal of importance on the curve of a well-crafted mustache. He filled the space with ease, speaking down on the visitor with thinly veiled contempt: "Well, of course he did it. No doubt in my mind whatsoever that he did."
The inspector stood opposite the desk without flinching, his back to the door. There was something about his stance, the set of his shoulders. Louisa felt a pinprick of recognition a second before he turned. And there he was. Brown eyes, gray suit, right hand tucked idly in his pocket.
Malcolm Sinclair.
"Ah, Louisa." Her aunt smiled mildly, motioning her into the room. "I'm sure you remember Mr. Sinclair. He's an inspector now, can you believe it?"
"Detective Inspector," he corrected, a flash of humor lighting his dark eyes.
Louisa stared at him, too much on her guard to wonder what exactly he'd found so amusing about the situation. She hadn't known that Malcolm had become a police officer or that he'd returned to Wilbeth Green, but his sudden reappearance felt both dreadful and strange, for he and Paul had once been inseparable friends.
That was nearly twelve years ago.
Back when Louisa's family was still whole. When they lived in the brick vicarage behind the abbey. In those days, the boys were always spoiling for mischief of some kind or another. Stealing bicycles and leaving them in funny places to be found later. Smoking outside the police station in Sutherby. Once they'd caught a fish in the creek behind the abbey and left it flapping about in poor, nervous Mrs. Pennyweather's bathtub. In the face of such antics, Louisa's parents had developed an eclectic repertoire of reproofs and reprimands, yet it was clear they had a fondness for Malcolm. He ate dinner at the
vicarage at least three nights a week and was often sent home with leftovers to share with his family.
When Paul and Louisa moved into Everly Hall, Uncle Archie's first order of business was to put a stop to any unsuitable friendships. In the early days, she and Paul had received many lectures about not carrying on too closely with the wrong sort, and a boy like Malcolm Sinclair had two strikes against him.
Not only was he the son of a greengrocer, but there was Scottish blood on his mother's side, which, according to Louisa's aunt, accounted for much.
