A Silent Stabbing

by Alyssa Maxwell

  He nodded. “I did a little research, and I know who your grandfather is and the kind of influence he has hereabouts. It’s feudal and downright ridiculous, but the old guard can make quite a lot of trouble when they want.”

  “I see what you mean. I don’t think you need to worry about that.” Phoebe crossed her fingers beneath the table and avoided looking at Amelia for fear they’d both burst out in triumphant laughter. “I can’t help but wonder, Mr. Walker, how you found your way to Little Barlow in the first place. I mean, in all of England, why here?”

  “I like the look of the Cotswolds. It’s brimming with that English charm, you know. The rolling hills, the quaint villages, the sheep dotting the fields. American tourists will eat it up. And there’s land for sale here.” Having consumed the first lamb chop, he cut into the second. “The orchard and the countryside around it are perfect.”

  “But how did you know?”

  “I’d put out feelers all over the Cotswolds. Had an agent looking into available real estate.” His tone became boastful, a man explaining business matters to two young, flighty-minded females. But he wasn’t answering the question in a way that satisfied Phoebe.

  “I suppose someone at the bank contacted your agent,” she suggested, hoping to prompt him into an admission.

  The man replied while chewing a mouthful of potatoes. “Nope. That man Evers is as tight as a corked bottle when it comes to his customers’ business. No, I can thank one of your local people for the tip.”

  “Who?” Phoebe and Amelia said as one, and perhaps a shade too eagerly.

  Mr. Walker stopped chewing and put down his fork. He studied them, and Phoebe resisted the urge to shrink in her chair. They had been too obvious, and Mr. Walker was on to them. A thin-lipped smile dawned, and he shook his head. “I don’t know what you two hope to gain from this line of questioning, but I think I’m going to adopt Mr. Evers’s policy and seal my lips.” He glanced down at his plate and chuckled. “Except to finish this excellent lunch. Good day to you both.”

  * * *

  Before Eva and Miles could seek out Josh the previous day, Miles had been called away on police business. Something about a dispute between two farmers over a ewe and her lamb. Ordinarily Eva might have questioned Josh on her own, but under the circumstances she recognized the wisdom of waiting for Miles to return to Foxwood Hall. The authority of a police constable would surely put fear into the boy’s heart, making him more compliant and less likely to avoid telling the truth.

  Miles arrived after the servants had their lunch. He and Eva found Josh sweeping the rear corridor, which led out to the servants’ courtyard. This time of year especially, it was at least a thrice-daily task to keep the floors free of old, dried leaves tracked in by all the comings and goings of the servants and delivery men.

  Eva had already obtained permission from both Mrs. Sanders and Mr. Giles to interrupt Josh’s work and question him in Mrs. Sanders’s parlor. The housekeeper had looked eager to sit in on the interrogation, and didn’t understand why she should be excluded but Eva included. Miles merely thanked her for the use of her parlor and quietly closed the door behind her—and her scowls.

  Eva told Josh to take a seat and make himself comfortable; he complied with the former but apparently found the latter impossible. With a wary gaze, he sat at the edge of the wooden settle and twiddled his fingers between his knees. The hobnailed heel of his boot tapped incessantly against the floor. “Did I do anything wrong?” he asked when the silence became too much for him.

  Eva took a seat at the other end of the settle and offered him a reassuring smile. But as she and Miles had previously agreed, for now she said nothing.

  Miles had taken his time closing the door and choosing a place to sit. He finally eased into Mrs. Sanders’s favorite overstuffed chair, after he’d dragged it closer to the settle. With a kind of meticulous deliberation that had even Eva holding her breath, he took his pad and pencil from an inner coat pocket, tested the pencil point on a fresh page, compressed his lips, and finally, at long last, made eye contact with Josh.

  “Where is William?”

  Poor Josh went as white as Mrs. Ellison’s freshly whipped cream. His fingers twisted, and the drum beat of his boot heel increased in speed and volume. “I . . . I . . . er . . . What?”

  Eva sat forward and turned partly toward him. “It’s all right, Josh. Better if you come clean with Constable Brannock.”

  “I don’t know where Will is. Honest, Miss Huntford. Honest, Constable.”

  Miles regarded him a lengthy moment meant to increase the boy’s discomfort. “How long have you worked here?”

  The abrupt change in subject seemed to take Josh aback. Then his expression cleared. Here was a question he wasn’t afraid to answer. “Since before the war ended. I took over for Arnold when he enlisted.”

  Miles nodded and made a note on his pad. “And in all that time, have you ever stolen food before?”

  “I didn’t . . . I . . .” Josh’s eyes filled with tears, reminding Eva of another of the servants accused of such thievery nearly two years ago. Now, as then, she suspected Josh had good reason for committing his crime.

  She leaned toward him again and patted his shoulder. “Did William ask you to bring him food?”

  Josh nodded and hid his face in his hands.

  Miles took on a stern tone. “How have you been getting into locked pantries?”

  His face still buried in his palms, Josh shrugged. “I don’t.”

  “No more lying, my boy.”

  Josh peeked out from between his fingers. “I’m not lying, Constable. The pantries were never locked when I went in. No one pays any attention to me. Most times they don’t even see me.” Here, Eva cast a knowing glance at Miles. Then Josh went on. “I just go in with an empty wash bucket, fill it quick, cover it with some rags, and go about my business. Nobody notices.”

  Miles narrowed his eyes. “That easy?”

  “That easy, sir.”

  “Josh, has William been threatening you?” Eva asked him. “Is that why you stole food for him?”

  Josh blew out a breath. “I wish I could blame it all on him. He did ask me to do it, but no, he ain’t threatened me.” His head dipped a moment, then came up, his expression defiant. “I couldn’t just let him starve, could I?”

  “You knew everyone was looking for him. And you know why. A man has been murdered.” Miles let that sink in. “You should have said something.”

  “I don’t know where he’s been hiding. He won’t tell me.”

  “Are you sure?” Miles persisted.

  “I’m sure.” Josh wiped his sleeve across his eyes and cheeks. “Besides, he didn’t kill the new gardener. Although I wouldn’t ’a blamed him if he had.”

  Eva remembered something Josh had told her. “You said William had a bruise on his face after his first day working with Stephen Ripley.”

  Josh nodded.

  Miles asked, “Do you know if Stephen Ripley gave him that bruise?”

  “He wouldn’t say. But yeah, who else woulda done it?”

  “So it’s safe to say Mr. Ripley bullied William?” Eva spoke gently, a softer touch to Miles’s harsher manner. Between the two of them, they were getting their answers. All except one.

  “You saw how Ripley practically dragged Will out of the servants’ hall that morning,” Josh said to Eva. “You think a nice bloke does that?”

  “No, I don’t,” Eva admitted.

  “But Will didn’t kill ’em.”

  “What makes you so sure?” Miles tapped his pencil against his pad. “Just the fact that William is hiding out makes him appear guilty.”

  “Look, I know Will. He’d never kill nobody. But that don’t mean he won’t get tossed in jail, or worse. We both remember when that happened to Vernon. He barely got off. Will’s afraid the same’ll happen to him. Even though he’s innocent,” Josh added emphatically.

  “He’s your friend,” Eva said.

  “Y
eah.”

  “And friends stick up for each other.” Miles tapped his pencil again, his gaze riveted on Josh.

  “Yeah . . . so?” Josh trailed off, suddenly wary again.

  Very quietly, Miles asked, “Are you covering for your friend, Josh?”

  Josh shook his head vehemently. “No. I wouldn’t help him if I thought he killed someone. I swear on all that’s holy, I don’t know where Will’s been hiding, but I know he didn’t kill Stephen Ripley.”

  Miles absorbed this without a change in his expression. “Where do you meet him, when you bring him food?”

  With a sigh, Josh slouched against the high wooden back of the settle. “Out beyond the hothouses. At night.”

  “Near the yew hedge?” Miles asked. Josh nodded.

  “You’ve been sneaking out to meet him.” Eva was well aware of the curfew for the lower servants. They were not allowed to leave the house after sundown without permission. “Are you supposed to meet him tonight?”

  Will shook his head. “Not tonight. Tomorrow night.”

  Eva and Miles exchanged a look. Miles said, “That’s all for now. You can go. But if you remember anything else or you hear from William, you’re to let me or Miss Huntford know straightaway. Understood?”

  Josh had already come to his feet. He nodded and wasted no time in vacating the room.

  “So all we have to do is wait until tomorrow night, when William comes back for more food,” Eva said as soon as the door had closed.

  “Something tells me our William is too clever to be caught that way. He’ll sense a trap a mile away. Still, it may be our only chance to try.”

  “Do you think William has Josh fooled?”

  “I hope not.”

  “The hothouses are not only near the hedge where Stephen died, they’re also near the path that leads through the woods to the Haverleigh School.” Eva thought a moment, then shook her head. “But no, I don’t think William would be coming from that direction. There would be nowhere at a girls’ school for him to hide.”

  “Once in the cover of the woods, who knows what direction he takes? But he’s probably been staying somewhere on the property. We’ve been checking the head gardener’s cottage periodically. But if it was William who knocked you down that day you and Lady Phoebe were there, it isn’t likely he’d risk going back. There are so many other places on this estate a man could hide, and nothing says he’s been staying in the same location every night.”

  Eva gave a little gasp. “Your mention of the gardener’s cottage just reminded me of the flat cap found near Stephen’s body. Have you been able to determine if it belonged to him?”

  Miles’s lips turned up in a little smile. “It didn’t. Not a blond hair to be found anywhere on it.”

  “I knew it couldn’t have been Stephen’s cap. Did you find any hair on it at all?”

  “We did, but it’s inconclusive.”

  “What on earth does that mean? What color is it? Is it wavy or straight?”

  “It’s rather a chestnut color. Neither quite red nor brown but a shade in between.”

  “Auburn,” Eva suggested.

  Miles nodded. “With a bit of a wave, but too short to show if it could be called curly. Whereas the plaid cap you found at the gardener’s cottage clearly belonged to Stephen. Straight blond hairs were found inside and around the sweatband.”

  “I see. So the only conclusion to be drawn with any accuracy is that the cap found near the hedge didn’t belong to Stephen, or any other man with blond hair. Or black or gray hair, for that matter. But it did belong to a man, since the hair is short. I suppose that’s something, though not much.”

  “No, and it’s not enough to clear Keenan. And to give the chief inspector his due, he brought Keenan out into the bright light to compare his hair to the one found in the cap. And what he discovered was that Keenan’s hair is a close match, but there’s room for doubt because no one’s hair is completely one color or another, but a subtle variation of shades. And since Keenan lives alone, there is no one to vouch for whether the cap is his or not.”

  Eva nodded, having made a similar observation years ago when she first began dressing hair as a lady’s maid. “Have you had a chance yet to question Joe Murdock? His hair is brown, but probably has some tones of auburn in it as well. Most brown-haired people do. And he stood to gain from Stephen’s death, didn’t he?”

  “I have, as a matter of fact. He says he was at the pub that morning, taking deliveries.”

  “Are you sure? Have you been able to talk to the deliveryman?”

  “No, but there were several other witnesses. Other business owners preparing their shops for morning customers.”

  “So, other villagers.” Eva skewed her lips to one side.

  “Yes. So? Why that cynical look?”

  “Did I tell you what I saw when I walked by the Ripley orchard the other day? People from all over Little Barlow helping harvest the pears before they overripen.”

  “Isn’t that what neighbors do?”

  “Miles, don’t you see? These people not only flock to the aid of their own, they also love their perry cider. It’s possible they were trying to shield Joe from suspicion.”

  “Ah, yes. Like when all those men gathered at the police station to offer alibis for Keenan.”

  “Exactly,” Eva said.

  “But at some point, even the people of Little Barlow will want to see a murderer caught and punished, perry or no perry.”

  Eva’s thoughts strayed back to the tweed cap, and what Miles had discovered about it so far. “I’d so hoped the cap could be used as evidence to help Keenan.”

  Miles was quiet a moment, looking as though he had something on his mind he’d rather not reveal. But reveal it he did. “Have you considered the possibility that Keenan did murder Stephen? He had the strongest motive of anyone. One almost couldn’t blame him if he did it.”

  “How can you think such a thing?” she snapped, and then realized she knew the answer well enough. Miles hadn’t grown up in Little Barlow. He was a relative newcomer, and as such had few sentiments attached to the people who lived here. He could be objective where she could not. “I’m sorry. I do understand why you have to explore every avenue. Nothing but my intuition tells me Keenan is innocent. But, Miles, I’m going to go on believing he’s innocent, and that he will be exonerated.”

  He took her hand in his. “I wish I could reassure you. But I’m afraid it’s not looking good for Keenan Ripley.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Phoebe returned home after dropping off Amelia—and the Eccles cakes—back at school. Leaving the Vauxhall out front for one of the footmen to bring to the garage, she relinquished her coat to Mr. Giles and made her way into the library. A low fire burned in the grate, and Phoebe hesitated. A fire meant someone, probably her grandfather, would be using the room soon. She had effectively avoided being alone with her grandparents since yesterday’s debacle at the bank. Should she make her escape, run upstairs to her room like a coward?

  But no, even if the footsteps in the Great Hall—heavy ones that suggested a man’s oxfords—hadn’t alerted her to an imminent arrival, she would not have sneaked off. She settled into one of the armchairs that faced her grandfather’s favorite wing chair. If he wished to take her to task, better to have it over with sooner rather than later.

  The footsteps came closer, were nearly to the doorway. Perhaps she should have slipped a book from one of the shelves and buried her nose in it, pretend to be terribly busy.

  “Phoebe. I didn’t know you were home.” Grampapa strolled in with a book of his own, a dark, leather-covered tome with gold embossing. He walked to her chair and leaned down to kiss her forehead. “Did you and Amelia enjoy your lunch?”

  A fresh wave of guilt washed over her, and she was glad of the dim lighting and the fire glow that hid her flushing cheeks. That was, until Grampapa switched on the electric lamp beside his chair. The leather creaked as he lowered himself onto the cushion. He
had no idea of the true purpose of Phoebe’s and Amelia’s lunch today. Should she tell him? She couldn’t imagine that he would approve. But then, Grampapa, and Grams for that matter, had very little idea of the kinds of activities she and Eva had gotten up to these past couple of years.

  “Lunch was lovely,” she said. “I don’t see enough of Amelia during the school term.”

  He smiled. “It does my heart good to see how well you two get on.” His mouth closed with a regretful slant. Phoebe could guess at his thoughts: that he wished she and Julia would get on equally as well. She wished that, too, for his sake as much as any other reason. She waited for him to bring up the bank. He looked down at his book, his thumb running lightly over the gilded edges of the pages. This took her aback. Grampapa might be a soft-spoken gentleman, but only on the rarest of occasions had he ever been at a loss for words. The silence became awkward.

  “Grampapa, I—”

  “Phoebe, I wish to apologize.”

  She blinked and pulled back. She had been about to say the same thing. “For what? I can’t think of a single transgression you’ve ever committed.”

  His smile returned, accompanied by a quiet chuckle. “You think too highly of me, my dear. Not that I’m complaining. No, indeed. But I’m sorry I didn’t go to the bank sooner. I’m sorry you felt forced into initiating something I should have looked into the moment we learned Keenan Ripley was being coerced off his land.”

  She regarded him closely. His once robust frame had diminished over the past year, and his hair, once thick and golden auburn like Phoebe’s, had thinned considerably. Unlike Grams, who recovered from physical and emotional setbacks like a seasoned foot soldier, Grampapa bore the brunt of each foray, and there had been some significant ones in recent months. She looked into eyes very much like her own, and like her father’s. “Did you know Julia and I had gone to the bank?”

  “No, I didn’t. I simply came to my senses, and when I mentioned my plan to your grandmother, she agreed wholeheartedly.”

  That surprised Phoebe, and she couldn’t help showing it in her expression. Again, Grampapa chuckled.