“Are you suggesting searching the gardener’s cottage, my lady?”
Their gazes met, and all Phoebe said was, “Let’s get to it.”
* * *
Eva and Lady Phoebe hesitated outside the gardener’s cottage. “You know, Eva, I felt few qualms about entering Keenan Ripley’s home, but for some reason now, even though no one is likely to walk in on us, I don’t want to go inside.”
“Afraid of Stephen Ripley’s ghost, my lady?”
“Perhaps. I’ve got an odd sensation, as if we’re about to commit sacrilege. Is that silly of me?”
“I don’t think so. It’s a little like disturbing a grave, in a way.” Eva tightened her cardigan about her. “The cottage is full of the man’s possessions, yet he’ll never return to claim them.”
“Do you think Constable Brannock and the chief inspector already searched here?”
“I’m sure they have, my lady, but I doubt very much they will have thought to look for a second flat cap. Why would they? Everyone would assume the one found by the hedge was Stephen’s.”
“I certainly thought so. I never would have questioned it if not for you.” Lady Phoebe stepped up to the door and tried the latch. Like Keenan’s, it moved easily under the pressure of her hand, with only a faint squeak. It would have been unusual to lock a door here, on the estate, or even in the village, a place where nearly everyone knew everyone else.
The main room was draped in shadow, and somewhere, a clock ticked off the seconds. Though the house certainly felt empty, it didn’t yet hold the air of abandonment Eva expected, as if any moment Stephen Ripley would come whistling up the path after a day’s work, stride in, and make his afternoon tea.
While Lady Phoebe searched the main room, Eva went into the kitchen, such as it was. More of an alcove off the parlor, the room held a small range, an old woodstove, and a table big enough only for two. A work bench sat beside the drain-board sink, and beneath it, a small cupboard held essentials. She found nowhere a hat might be hiding.
“Find anything in here?” she asked Lady Phoebe upon returning to the parlor. Lady Phoebe was bent over a wicker basket that held a few items of clothing—a jumper, a pair of gloves, and yes, a hat, but a knitted sort, not a flat cap.
Lady Phoebe straightened. “We should have a look upstairs.”
They crept up the narrow stairwell, both of them instinctively trying to avoid the inevitable creaking step. Two rooms opened onto a small square landing, one barely larger than a linen cupboard, the other containing a dresser, a chest, and an iron bedstead. They didn’t need to search at all. A plaid flat cap hung from one of the bedposts. Lady Phoebe retrieved it. “Is this the one?”
She held up the cap, its gray, green, and black pattern bold against the white walls and cream coverlet.
“That’s it, my lady. That’s the one I saw Stephen with yesterday. Odd he didn’t wear it today.”
“Perhaps when he saw how shady it is by the hedge in the mornings, he decided he wouldn’t need it. The tweed cap could be William’s. I don’t like to think it, but it might have fallen off during a struggle between the two, and William ran off without it.”
Eva tried to remember if she had ever seen William wearing a tweed cap, but flat caps were such a common sight on working men—especially tweed ones. She had only noted Stephen’s the other morning because of its unusual plaid pattern. “Or it belongs to someone else entirely—whoever murdered Stephen Ripley.”
“I do hope it doesn’t belong to Keenan.”
Eva couldn’t agree more. “We need to get this to Miles. He can compare the sizes of the two caps, and the wear marks. He might even be able to find hairs in the fibers, and determine whether or not the two caps belonged to the same man.”
“That’s a brilliant idea, Eva.”
They went downstairs, Lady Phoebe with the flat cap in hand. At a noise from the kitchen, they both froze. A footstep thudded inside the kitchen doorway, but whoever had made it remained out of sight. Eva’s heart pounded against her ribs. Lady Phoebe sucked in a breath. All went silent in the kitchen, as if whoever was in there had heard them, and a kind of standoff ensued between adversaries unable to see one another. Lady Phoebe touched Eva’s shoulder.
“There are two of us,” she mouthed, “against one.”
Eva didn’t like even those odds. But dared they waste an opportunity to perhaps discover who had killed Stephen? A coal shovel and an iron poker leaned against the stone surround of the fireplace. After motioning firmly for Lady Phoebe to stay put, Eva tiptoed to the hearth and grasped the shovel. The handle made a slight scraping sound against the stone as she lifted it from its resting place. Did the intruder in the kitchen hear it? Was he, too, finding a weapon? A cast iron frying pan, perhaps? But she had no intention of engaging in violence. She wished only for a glimpse of this individual before she and Lady Phoebe made their escape.
Gripping the shovel in both hands, Eva moved soundlessly across to the kitchen doorway. She saw no one inside. Had she imagined the sounds? But no, Lady Phoebe had obviously heard them as well. She placed a foot over the threshold and raised the shovel, ready to strike.
A solid weight barreled into her, knocking the breath from her lungs and sending her tumbling onto the flagstone floor. Pain splintered through her as Lady Phoebe cried out, “Eva!”
CHAPTER 5
A blur of dark clothing streaked past Phoebe’s vision. The figure didn’t pause for an instant, not even after running roughshod over Eva and knocking her down. Phoebe ran to her, at the same time attempting to make out who had come charging out of the kitchen. She saw only his back before he disappeared out the front door.
Instinct nearly sent her darting after him, until Eva groaned. Besides, he was moving so fast she doubted she could have caught up to him, especially if he had dodged into the woods behind the cottage.
Crouching, she placed her hands gently beneath Eva’s shoulders, supporting her as Eva struggled to sit up. She groaned again, then winced.
“Perhaps you should lie still,” Phoebe said. “There’s a telephone here. It only connects to the main house, but I can have someone there call for a doctor.”
“No . . .” Eva gripped Phoebe’s forearm and made another effort to sit up. This time she succeeded, but not without a grimace. “If you help me to my feet, I’m sure I can make it back to the house. But take the shovel, just in case he’s still somewhere outside.”
“I doubt he’s waiting around.” Phoebe nonetheless retrieved the shovel, and also found the flat cap that she had dropped in her alarm.
Once Eva gained her feet, Phoebe slipped her free arm around her and encouraged Eva to lean against her side. The first few steps were wobbly, but Eva gained strength and steadiness as they went. Once outside, she straightened and let out a shaky sigh.
“I think I’m all right now. Mostly he knocked the wind out of me. I wish I’d gotten a look at him, but he came at me so fast. Did you see who he was?”
“I’m afraid I saw little more than you did. I know it was a man. A workman, as he wore denims and flannel. But I’m sorry to say I never saw his face. I suppose I should have gone after him.”
“No, you should not have done, my lady. You did the right thing. Let’s get home so I can telephone Miles.”
Soon, the house with its peaks and turrets came into view. Eva said, “You know, my lady, I don’t think he meant to hurt me.”
“He did a good job of it all the same.”
“He seemed more frightened than dangerous. I’m not even sure why I say that, because I saw so little of him, but it’s the impression I got. He simply wished to be gone, to get away from us.”
“Well, I certainly won’t thank him for his lack of malicious intent,” Phoebe said wryly. “He might have broken your neck the way he bowled over you.” Then she sobered and considered what Eva had said. “Someone who is afraid to be seen. Or afraid to be caught. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“That it was W
illiam? I am.” As they continued walking, Eva staggered a bit off the path, and the uneven ground sent another grimace to her face.
“I do wish you had let me call for help.”
“I’ll be fine. As for William, normally he has quarters belowstairs at the house. He shares with Josh, the hall boy.”
“Do you suppose he’s been hiding out at the cottage since Mr. Ripley’s death?”
“He might have reasoned that it was the one place no one would think to look, once the police had finished their search of the place. Since Stephen didn’t die there, they have little reason to return.”
“But is he afraid because he’s guilty, or because he’s a witness and is terrified of becoming the next victim?” Phoebe swung the shovel head at the grass beside the path. They had reached the tiered gardens and would soon be home.
“His family.” Eva came to a sudden halt. “He wants to keep his distance from his family. That’s why he hasn’t gone home. He doesn’t wish to give whoever murdered Stephen any ideas of threatening his family.”
“That’s quite possible. Maybe he’s already turned up.” She pointed toward the roofline of Foxwood Hall.
“A hunch tells me he isn’t, my lady. I intend to ask around when we get back.”
“Not until you’re feeling better, please.”
Although Eva stubbornly resisted the idea of being seen by a doctor, Phoebe went belowstairs with her to make sure Mrs. Sanders knew of her injury. The woman soon had Eva wrapped in a colorful knitted afghan on the small settee in the housekeeper’s parlor, sipping tea, while Mrs. Ellison made up an herbal poultice for her sore ribs. Phoebe also asked Mrs. Sanders to lock the plaid flat cap in her desk drawer, not to be taken out until they could hand it over to Constable Brannock.
“Do you mind if I use your telephone?” Eva asked before Mrs. Sanders left to resume her duties. The housekeeper replied with a nod and a gesture toward the device. Phoebe brought it from the desk to the settee, stretching the wire to its full length. Her cup and saucer set aside, Eva dialed the exchange girl and asked for Miles Brannock at the police station. It took several moments, but Phoebe heard his voice even from where she sat. Eva quickly informed him of everything that had happened since they had seen the constable and the chief inspector at Keenan Ripley’s house. She included the discovery of the plaid flat cap and the intruder who knocked her down.
Phoebe leaned forward in her chair and waved a hand to catch Eva’s attention. “Ask him if Mr. Ripley has been arrested.”
Eva did, nodding as the constable evidently replied. She glanced up at Phoebe. “Not yet. But he thinks it won’t be long. Keenan won’t offer an alibi and Mr. Perkins can conceive of no other suspects.”
That set Phoebe’s mind racing. As soon as Eva hung up, Phoebe said, “We need to consider what we know so far.” She counted off the facts on her fingers. “Keenan Ripley appears to have the strongest motive for wanting his brother dead because of the potential of losing his orchard and brewery. But Stephen might have been bullying William Gaff, who then killed him in a fit of rebellion. Then there is Joe Murdock of the Houndstooth Inn, who wouldn’t have wanted to lose his most popular drink.”
“Murder over perry, my lady?”
“No, murder over money. There’s no doubt the Ripley perry brings in a tidy sum for Mr. Murdock.”
“All right, then. That’s Keenan, William, and Mr. Murdock.” Eva appeared to mull over these names. Her eyebrows went up. “The Corbyns.”
Phoebe recognized the name of one of Little Barlow’s sheep farmers. Why, Mrs. Corbyn had helped with the RCVF donations. “What about them?”
“Don’t you remember when Keenan and Stephen brought the pears to the church?” In her eagerness, Eva sat up so quickly her blanket slid to the floor. “Keenan offered to drive my sister home, because he had to stop by the Corbyn farm. He said it was time to extend their grazing rights in one of Keenan’s pastures.”
Phoebe’s heart beat faster. “The northeast pasture, he said. And the Corbyns would surely lose those rights if the land sold.” She sat back, suddenly deflated. “That doesn’t seem to be enough of a reason to kill someone.”
“It does if the northeast pasture was the main source of water for the Corbyns’ sheep. A stream runs right through that parcel of land, and the Corbyns have built a dew pond that’s fed by the stream. As you said, my lady, murder because of money. The sale of Keenan’s land would put the Corbyns’ livelihood at risk.”
Phoebe stood to retrieve the fallen afghan and spread it over Eva’s legs. “I hope every one of these people has an alibi. All of them. I want Stephen Ripley’s killer to be someone who followed him from Dorset, or someone who met him along the way. He doesn’t seem to have been a very likable individual, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d made enemies everywhere he went.”
“That’s my hope, too, my lady.” Eva pulled the blanket higher, nearly to her chin, and shivered. Phoebe guessed her trembling had nothing to do with being cold. “I need to speak with my sister.”
“Mrs. Ward? About this?”
Eva’s grim nod spread foreboding through Phoebe. “It might have been Alice at Keenan’s this morning.”
“What on earth makes you think that?”
Eva let go a breath. “I didn’t want to bring attention to it, but I couldn’t help noticing how exceedingly friendly they were with each other at the church.” She pursed her lips before continuing. “They used to show an interest in each other, before Alice married. And I’m afraid that now . . .”
“But your sister is still very much married.”
Eva nodded. “But there’s something wrong with Alice’s life at home. I know there is. She showed up at my parents’ house without her children, saying she left them with their Ward grandparents. She claimed she needed a holiday, but when my mother tried to question her, Alice evaded the subject.” She met Phoebe’s gaze. “What mother goes away without her children unless she was contemplating making a drastic change to her life? I’m very worried about her. And I’m worried she is the person Keenan wished to protect this morning.”
“I’m sure you’re wrong, Eva. You’ll see. As soon as you’re able, I’ll drive you out to your parents’ farm so you can speak with your sister. Tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to it.”
Phoebe didn’t know whether Eva’s bleak look stemmed from her fears concerning her sister, or the prospect of having to ride, once again, in the Vauxhall. Phoebe always hoped Eva would eventually warm toward motorcars in general, and Phoebe’s driving in particular. So far, neither had happened.
* * *
Eva waited until she heard Lady Phoebe’s light footsteps fade away on the service staircase up to the ground floor. Then she threw off Mrs. Sanders’s afghan, came to her feet, and stretched her arms high overhead. The resulting twinges brought on a wince or two, but she saw no reason to lie about for the rest of the afternoon. Only Lady Phoebe’s concerns had induced her to put her feet up for as long as she had. But now, she had questions to ask of her fellow staff.
The first person she tracked down was Josh, the hall boy, who brought in the coal, swept the storerooms, polished the other servants’ boots, and generally performed the tasks no one else wished to do. She found him outside cleaning built-up coal dust from the chutes that brought the coal sliding down to the bins in the furnace room. It was filthy work, and poor Josh, a slight youth in his mid-teens, looked like the kind of graveyard wraith she and her childhood friends would conjure while telling ghost stories to frighten each other.
He nodded in greeting and continued the work of scrubbing the mouth of the chute with a wire brush, reaching in until nearly his entire arm disappeared. “Something you need, Miss Huntford?”
“I wish to ask you something, Josh.” His shrug gave her the permission she sought. “You room with William, yes?”
“Sure, Miss Huntford. Everyone knows that. We’re the low men on the ladder here, so we share a bunk. It’s all right by me. William’s a g
ood fellow.”
“Last night, did he say anything to you about his new supervisor, Mr. Ripley?”
Josh’s expression became shuttered. “Not to me.”
“You’ve heard what happened to Mr. Ripley this morning, didn’t you?”
“Heard he fell off his ladder right onto his shears.”
His answer surprised Eva. So the police hadn’t been forthcoming with the facts when they questioned the servants earlier. “Did William seem to get along with Mr. Ripley?”
Another shrug, this time with a show of disdain, or as much disdain as was possible to display on features that were as obscured as midnight. “It’d only been one day, but no, Will was none too happy about Mr. Ripley taking Mr. Peele’s job.”
Eva noticed how he phrased that—taking Mr. Peele’s job, as if Stephen had forced Mr. Peele’s retirement. Perhaps that wasn’t how the boy meant it, but it might be a notion worth pursuing. “What did William say?”
“He didn’t say anything, Miss Huntford. That’s just it. When Will came to bed last night, he crawled under the covers and wouldn’t talk to me. It was odd because he never comes in that late. I mean, what were they doing, trimming hedges in the dark? Anyways, when I asked him how his day went, he told me to shut up. Just like that. Shut up. Will never said that to me before, not even when I kept him awake ’cause I couldn’t sleep and wanted someone to talk to.”
“He never said a word about his day?”
“Not a peep. Just told me to shut up and turned his back to the wall.” Josh’s expression turned sheepish. He glanced about the service courtyard before adding, “I noticed something before he turned. I think—I’m not positive—but I think he had a bruise on his face.”
“A bruise?” Poor William. Had Stephen Ripley struck him? If so, that would add weight to the possibility that William retaliated against the man, perhaps killing him unintentionally. “When was the last time you saw him? Maybe very early this morning?”
“He went out before I was awake.” The hand holding the brush had gone still these several minutes past, and Josh only now seemed to remember he had a job to do and would receive an earful from Mrs. Sanders if he didn’t complete it in good time. He scrubbed the wire brush back and forth again.
A Silent Stabbing Page 7
