“Come to think of it, where is William?” Dora showed no signs of gaining her feet until she’d satisfied her curiosity. “With Mr. Ripley dead, it’s not as if Will should still be busy with the gardening. He should be back here, shouldn’t he? I mean, where else would he go?”
“Maybe he went home,” the cook suggested. “His family isn’t far from here. I’ll wager he’s there. Needed his mum, like as not.”
Eva didn’t see any reason to enlighten the women, and for all she knew, William might actually be home by now. Except then, who had knocked her down at the cottage?
* * *
The next morning, Phoebe changed gears to ease the Vauxhall around a bend and then gunned the engine to urge the motorcar up the hill that immediately followed. Beside her, Julia huffed with impatience. “Can’t you make this thing go any faster?”
“Not if you wish to arrive in Cheltenham in one piece,” she snapped in return. Despite Julia jumping at Phoebe’s suggestion of a shopping trip, she’d been rather out of sorts since they set out. “What’s your hurry? It’s only shopping. Did you see a particular hat in a magazine you can’t live another moment without?”
“Hardly.” Julia didn’t turn away from the windscreen as she spoke. “We’re not going shopping. At least, no more than we must in order to convince Grams that’s why we went to Cheltenham.”
“Grams will already be unhappy that we went without Eva, Hetta, and the chauffeur.” Phoebe wasn’t looking forward to that confrontation when they got home. Grams had made it clear she wanted Phoebe and Julia to be chaperoned on this trip, yet Julia had been equally adamant they go alone. It was either go alone, Julia had insisted, or not at all.
“Yes,” Julia said in a mocking tone, “Eva and Hetta to see we don’t get into any trouble, and the chauffeur to report back on everywhere we go.”
A lump of apprehension grew in Phoebe’s stomach. “If we’re not going shopping, what are we going to do?”
Julia’s smile spoke of forbidden secrets. “You’ll see.”
Phoebe knew better than to pester her sister for the details. Once Julia shut those lips of hers, she didn’t open them again until she was good and ready. When she had knocked on Julia’s bedroom door earlier, as per Grams’s request, she’d found her sister in another of her morose moods, exhibiting little enthusiasm for doing anything but sitting and staring out her bedroom window. That was until Phoebe suggested getting out and visiting some nearby shops. Suddenly, Julia’s entire demeanor had changed, her enthusiasm such that Phoebe hadn’t had the heart to deny her a trip to Cheltenham, despite the distance. She knew there were several shops there her sister favored, and although Julia would much prefer shopping in London, Phoebe had been elated to see how the prospect of today’s outing lifted her spirits.
More fool she.
She did, however, regret not being able to track down William before they left. According to Eva, William had reported that Foxwood Hall’s former head gardener had moved to Cheltenham to live with his sister. If only Phoebe knew where in Cheltenham to find him, she would have made good use of this opportunity to discover exactly why he left Little Barlow in such a hurry.
And whether he’d had reason to resent Stephen Ripley. That, however, would have to wait for another day.
She kept the motorcar heading north, past Gloucester to the west, until Cleeve Hill, the highest point in the Cotswolds, rose up in the distance. Soon they crossed the River Chelt, which flowed into the Severn. As they descended into the valley, Cheltenham sprawled before them, a city whose most prominent architecture dated to the Regency, when, like the town of Bath, the presence of mineral springs helped transform Cheltenham into a popular spa town. And like Bath, elegant terrace homes built of honey-golden Cotswold stone lined the streets.
Did Julia wish to take the waters? Perhaps someone had told her, or she had read somewhere, that it would be beneficial to the baby. Phoebe hoped that wasn’t Julia’s intention. Her mouth turned down in distaste. After sampling the waters in Bath years ago, she had permanently sworn off the taking of mineral waters.
“Stay to the south,” Julia said, startling Phoebe with the sudden instruction. “We’re going into Montpellier.” Julia opened her handbag and drew out a piece of paper. With a quick glance, Phoebe discerned an address. Julia pointed beyond the windscreen. “Turn onto Suffolk Square, then go to the right.”
“Where are we going?”
Julia said nothing. Her secretive little smile had vanished. Instead, shadows of apprehension darkened her eyes, and she clutched her hands over her rounded belly. Phoebe began to worry in earnest. Just as she was contemplating pulling over and demanding to know what they were doing in Cheltenham, Julia pointed again.
“There. That’s where we’re going.”
Phoebe glanced along the line of shop fronts, trying to make out the signs. Julia climbed out as soon as the motor came to a stop, and Phoebe hurried to follow her. To her utter surprise, Julia marched into a shop whose front window displayed a vast array of exotic teas, teapots, and cups.
“We came all this way for tea?”
The bell jingled when Julia went inside, then again when Phoebe opened the door to follow her in. Gas jets lit the dusky interior, bathing the shelves and counters in a soothing glow. The mingling aromas of countless packets and sacks of tea encompassed Phoebe in a sense of warmth greatly at odds with her conviction that they shouldn’t be there. Tea had, throughout her life, been more than merely a drink one had with afternoon meals. She had always looked to tea to comfort her, steady her, and fill her with fortitude. And it had always served her well. Now she wasn’t so certain.
Several customers milled about the interior. A long oaken table held a half dozen cast iron pots, wisps of steam curling from their spouts, surrounded by tiny cups for sampling. Some of the customers were doing so, and quietly discussing their opinions of this flavor or that.
Julia went to the clerk behind the main counter, a woman in a colorful, tapering frock—wide at the hips, narrow at the ankles—and a fox pelt hanging about her shoulders. A wide headband, flowered to match the frock, kept a riot of curls from falling in her aged but not unattractive face. “I called earlier.”
“Ah, yes. We’ve been expecting you, madame.” She spoke with the intonations of someone who had lived all her life in the Cotswolds. “One moment, please.” The woman slipped away behind a door, leaving it a few inches ajar. Phoebe could hear faint murmurs within.
She went to Julia’s side. “Will you please tell me what on earth is going on?”
The woman came back into the shop. “You may go in now, madame.”
Julia started to go, but Phoebe placed a hand on her shoulder to stop her. “I want to know what’s going on or I’m leaving.”
One of Julia’s eyebrows went up as she called Phoebe’s bluff. “Leave, then.”
“You know I won’t do that.”
“Then come along. I assure you nothing bad is going to happen to us. The person behind that door came highly recommended by . . . Olive Asquith.”
Phoebe studied her sister closely. Olive Asquith was a mutual friend, someone they both trusted and respected. Yet Phoebe had noticed Julia’s hesitation, as if she had used the time to search for a reply that would mollify Phoebe’s qualms and had landed on Olive’s name. Phoebe didn’t believe for a moment the practical, levelheaded Olive had sent Julia here. But the shop was admittedly full of people. What could happen?
The woman in the colorful organdy frock tapped her foot impatiently. “Madame? You may go through to the door on your right.”
Julia strode away purposefully, leaving Phoebe to hurry after her or be left behind. A small corridor led to what appeared to be a storeroom, for more tea if Phoebe’s nose was to be trusted. Julia turned into the doorway on her right, and again, Phoebe went in after her. She entered a room lit by two gas jets. There was a table, several chairs, and a bookcase that held volumes, as well as teapots, small statuettes, and other tr
inkets.
“Welcome, ladies. You must be Lady Annondale. I am Miss Lara Greenwood.” The greeting, in a cultured accent, came from another woman of middle age, but whose appearance was markedly different from the shopkeeper’s. Everything about her spoke of wealth and sophistication, from her fashionable suit to her sleek chignon, to her tasteful, subdued jewelry. No vibrant organdy, foxtail pelts, or wide headbands for her. She didn’t strike Phoebe at all as a purveyor of teas, at least not like the one presiding over the shop, but, rather, as the kind of woman who would sip tea in elegant surroundings, and who might serve on the board of directors of their church, or at the Haverleigh School for Young Ladies.
With a dignified gesture, the woman motioned them to the table around which several chairs were evenly spaced. “Please, sit.” She regarded Phoebe. “This must be . . . your sister?”
Julia gave a nod. “Yes, this is Phoebe. She drove me here.”
“Ah, good. Please.” She gestured again, this time with a hint of impatience, or so Phoebe thought. Once she and Julia seated themselves, the woman went to the two gas jets on opposite walls and lowered the flames. A dimness settled over the room. Miss Greenwood sat, folded her hands on the table in front of her, and smiled. “If I understood correctly, Lady Annondale, you wish to contact your husband today.”
Phoebe gasped and whisked a hand to her mouth. “Julia, what are you thinking? A fortune-teller?” She didn’t care if she was being rude. She only wished to collect her sister and escape with their purses intact.
“Don’t be foolish, Phoebe.” Before Julia could say more, Miss Greenwood spoke.
“I am not a fortune-teller, Lady Phoebe. I am a medium. That means I can connect with the souls of the deceased, and sometimes with the living as well.” She winked at Julia, who smiled placidly back.
“And what does that mean?” Phoebe sat stiffly upright, refusing to let her back come in contact with the chair. Refusing to relax and accept this chicanery. “You claim you can speak with the dead?”
The woman looked directly at Julia. “Perhaps your sister should wait outside. Her negativity will interfere with the spiritual channels. I might not be able to make the connection.”
Julia leaned closer to Phoebe. “If you don’t wish to be part of this, you may leave now. If you wish to stay, you must do so with an open mind and a closed mouth.”
“Julia . . .” The adamant expression on Julia’s face stifled Phoebe’s protest. As much as Julia had just ordered her to keep an open mind, Phoebe could see that Julia’s mind was quite closed in terms of being dissuaded of this folly. The best thing for Phoebe to do, then, was to remain where she was and make sure no harm came to her sister. “All right. I’ll stay, and I’ll be quiet.”
“Good. Let us begin.” Lara Greenwood unfolded her manicured hands and, after stretching out her arms, placed them palm down on the table, her fingers spread. Julia did likewise, the ends of her fingers touching Miss Greenwood’s. They both looked meaningfully at Phoebe. After a moment, she reluctantly stretched out her arms and touched her fingertips to theirs.
“It helps if everyone closes their eyes,” the woman said.
Hardly likely. Julia might go along with this sham, but Phoebe intended keeping an eye on things. Someone had to. She didn’t know what to expect next. Perhaps some kind of incantation, or that Miss Greenwood would start swaying and humming. But if she swayed toward Julia’s handbag, Phoebe would be there to intercept her.
None of those things happened. Miss Greenwood remained quite immobile, her face a serene blank. Then, her eyebrows began to rise, slowly and steadily. Her lips parted.
“Julia.”
Through their joined fingertips, Phoebe felt the jolt that went through her sister. She whispered, “Gil?”
“Yes, Julia,” the woman continued in a hushed, sibilant tone, like whispers in a cave. “What is it you wish? Why have you summoned me?”
Oh, how ridiculous. Phoebe bit down on her lips to keep from bringing this foolishness to a halt.
“Gil . . .” Julia drew a shaking breath and compressed her lips. A look of pain came over her features. “Do you blame me? Was it my fault?”
Phoebe wished to cry out that it wasn’t. That Julia didn’t need a charlatan or even a true presence from beyond the grave to tell her that. A cold-blooded murderer had been responsible for Gilbert Townsend’s death last spring.
But then, suddenly, her anger left her. It dawned on her that, if Julia truly needed this sham to convince her of the truth, so be it. Let this woman, this Lara Greenwood—if that was even her name—set Julia’s guilt to rest. It would be worth whatever Julia paid her.
“No, my dear,” came Miss Greenwood’s murmur. “Not your fault.”
“But our marriage. You know it wasn’t . . .”
“It wasn’t any different than many other marriages. You mustn’t blame yourself for that. I wished to marry you. And you?”
Julia sat more upright, pulling forward a bit. “I did wish to marry you, Gil. It was my choice. And I wanted to be a good wife to you. But my reasons for marrying you . . .”
“No longer matter, my dear.”
“Truly?” The word trembled on Julia’s lips. And Phoebe trembled, too—trembled to see her proud, haughty sister brought to such a vulnerable state. It frightened and humbled her to see a side of her sister that had been buried since their father died. Oh, there had been occasional glimpses, but nothing as blatant and powerful as this. Once again she wanted to end this; yet once again she acknowledged that it might help rather than hurt Julia.
“Truly,” said the voice that was supposed to be Gil’s. Then, abruptly, the voice changed, became Lara Greenwood’s again. “Lady Annondale, there was another you wished to know about.”
Julia gasped lightly. “Yes, yes that’s true. Can you? But how can you?”
At the woman’s mention of another, Phoebe feared Julia wished to speak with one of their parents, most likely their father. But Julia’s question—how can you?—left Phoebe mystified, and even more so when the woman spoke again.
“There are no words I can use, Lady Annondale, but I can connect nonetheless.” A frown formed between the woman’s eyebrows, and her mouth flattened with concentration. Several minutes passed. Phoebe perceived, again through their touching fingertips, Julia’s tension and eager anticipation.
Finally, the fingertips to her left, Miss Greenwood’s, broke contact, and then Julia’s pulled away, too. They opened their eyes, and Miss Greenwood beamed at Julia. “It is,” she said.
Phoebe’s gaze darted back and forth between them. “What is what?”
Julia came to her feet and opened her handbag. From it she drew several folded bills and placed them in Miss Greenwood’s outstretched hand. Neither had stopped smiling. Julia turned to Phoebe. “So then, a little shopping before we go home?”
CHAPTER 7
During their morning apart, Eva continued questioning the servants, within the guise of merely making conversation, about whether any of them had been out by the hothouses yesterday morning. With the exception of Mrs. Ellison and Dora, no one had been in the vicinity. No one had seen William since before the murder occurred. And no one knew anything about a brown tweed flat cap.
While ignoring the soreness in her hip brought on by yesterday’s attack, she had gone about her duties, tending to Lady Phoebe’s attire and shoes and sorting through Lady Amelia’s clothing that had been sent over from the Haverleigh School for washing and mending. Meanwhile, Eva had been on tenterhooks, expecting at any moment to hear from Miles that Keenan Ripley had been arrested. So far no telephone call had come, but Eva fretted all the same. And she continued to wonder about the significance of Dora hearing nothing at all when she went out to pick the dates for Mrs. Ellison’s recipe. Had the murder already occurred by then? If so, it might have happened before Keenan’s visitor arrived at his cottage. Well before. Which meant he still wouldn’t have an alibi.
When Lady Phoebe and Lady Annonda
le arrived back from their shopping excursion, Eva hurried up to Lady Phoebe’s bedroom. She hadn’t anything new to share with her, but Lady Phoebe had promised that when she came home, she would drive Eva out to her parents’ farm to give Eva a chance to speak with her sister. Eva had said she would walk, but Lady Phoebe wouldn’t hear of it, citing Eva’s injuries from the day before.
Now, though, seeing Lady Phoebe looking decidedly fatigued, she decided not to bring the matter up. Instead, she helped Lady Phoebe out of her overcoat and shoes and into more comfortable things. Then she attended to the purchases, sitting on the foot of the bed.
Peeking into the shopping bag, she frowned. “All that time and only two small packages?” She lifted them from the bag and peeled away the tissue paper from both. “Stockings and a hat pin? Was there nothing else in all of Cheltenham that struck your fancy, my lady?”
Lady Phoebe sank onto the dressing-table bench, facing Eva. “We didn’t go to Cheltenham to shop.”
Eva had already surmised that by Lady Phoebe’s listlessness. “Then what did you go for?”
Eva’s eyes widened as Lady Phoebe’s story unfolded. At the same time, indignation and anger spread burning embers through her at the notion of Lady Julia being taken advantage of by a brazen fraud.
“She said Julia’s baby is a boy,” Phoebe concluded.
“She actually claimed to have communicated with the child?” Eva’s fury burned hotter still. While her faith was strong and she believed in the possibility of unexplainable occurrences, hokum such as this was for the extremely gullible, or the extremely vulnerable. Lady Julia had never belonged to the former group, but the latter? Oh, yes. More than most people would ever guess. Especially now. “Well,” she said with bitter sarcasm, “she’s got a fifty percent chance of being right. And if she proves wrong, she’ll be long gone before your sister can demand her money back.”
“I’m very worried that Julia won’t stop here, that she’ll continue to seek out one con artist after another.” An angry pause permeated the room, before Lady Phoebe said, “The woman wasn’t at all what I would have expected. I envision fortune-tellers looking like gypsies—more like the woman who ran the tea shop. But Lara Greenwood spoke and dressed in a cultured manner. We might just as easily have encountered her at a social event.”
A Silent Stabbing Page 9
