A Silent Stabbing

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “Wait a moment,” Eva said. “Then you never went inside the cottage?”

  “Never.”

  “And you didn’t see anyone else coming to see Keenan that morning?”

  “No, no one. Oh, Eva, do you think I’m horrible?”

  Eva shook her head and reached her arms around her sister. “Never. I just wished you’d told me all this sooner. But I suppose I understand why you didn’t.”

  “And now I suppose I should let poor Mum in on my secrets. I know she’s been worried, too.”

  “She has. And I think it would be best for the two of you to speak alone.”

  Alice’s eyes went wide with alarm. “Don’t leave me.”

  “Just tell Mum what you told me. And then maybe a trip to the post office to use the telephone might be in order, so you can speak to Oliver.”

  Eva left shortly after that, feeling a good deal lighter at heart than she had in days. Along the road back toward Foxwood Hall, she met up with Elaina Corbyn and her two stepsons on their way to the village. Mrs. Corbyn said she was walking the boys back to school for their afternoon lessons.

  The woman greeted her with a friendly hullo and prompted her boys to do the same. They obliged in shy mumbles, which both endeared them to Eva and made her throat tighten. She remembered encouraging her much younger brother, Danny, to return neighbors’ greetings rather than hide his face in her skirts as toddlers tended to do. He hadn’t been a shy boy for long; at school he’d been a leader among his friends and quick to raise his hand in class. If Eva was grateful for one thing, it was having told Danny how proud she was of him right before he shipped off to the Continent in his ill-fitting soldier’s uniform....

  “Have you been to see your parents, Miss Huntford?”

  Eva blinked away the memories. “I had lunch with my mother and sister. How are things at the Ripley orchard? Do you know?”

  “Coming along, one supposes. My husband went to see Keenan in jail for a quick lesson on how to use the pear press. The juices must be extracted before the pears overripen.”

  “It’s splendid of your husband to be of so much help. I’m sure Keenan will be forever in your husband’s debt.”

  “Mr. Corbyn doesn’t want anyone in his debt.” The words themselves were generous ones, yet Eva heard a cynical note in them. Mrs. Corbyn reached down to adjust one of the boys’ caps, which had slipped askew. The child eased away with a shake of his shoulder, as little boys will do when they don’t want their mother fussing over them. His older brother snickered and increased his pace along the dusty road.

  Speaking of dust, a motorcar approaching them from the direction of the village raised a golden haze. Eva and the others moved off onto the weedy verge along the roadside. Her hand went up in greeting when she recognized Lady Phoebe’s Vauxhall. The vehicle not only came to a stop beside them, but Lady Phoebe switched off the motor, opened the door, and hopped out.

  * * *

  An odd sensation gripped Phoebe as she came upon Eva and Mrs. Corbyn. The woman’s two young sons had been walking ahead in that funny way boys have of half stumbling—because their feet were growing faster than the rest of them—while picking up pebbles and making a game of seeing how far they could toss them into the field beside the road, or running circles around each other until their mother admonished them to stop.

  For reasons she could not have explained, Phoebe climbed out of the motorcar, eliciting puzzled looks from Eva and Mrs. Corbyn. “Hello, Eva. Hello, Mrs. Corbyn. How is everything by you?”

  “Quite well, Lady Phoebe, thank you.”

  “I heard how your husband and nearly all the men of Little Barlow are helping bring in the pear harvest.”

  “Yes, they’re glad to do it. I’m sure if we needed help they’d all be out at our place, too.”

  “I’m sure they would.”

  “Is anything wrong at home, my lady?” Eva looked worried, and puzzled by Phoebe’s unexpected appearance.

  “No, no. I have . . . an errand I’d like your help with.” Their gazes held for an instant or two, just enough time for Eva’s comprehension to flash in her eyes. She asked no further questions, and instead made ready to leave.

  “We should be getting to it, then,” she said. “Mrs. Corbyn, it was lovely walking with you. Boys, nice to see you again.” They again mumbled their polite though incomprehensible responses, and Eva started toward the motorcar.

  Phoebe remained where she was, on the edge of the road with Mrs. Corbyn and the boys. What was it that rooted her to the spot, that had compelled her to leave the motorcar at all when all she’d had to do was pull over and allow Eva to climb inside?

  The boys, having lost interest in the adults, resumed walking. They chattered in a way that suggested some form of dispute between them. Phoebe heard words such as “am too . . . are not” and “I could do it . . . just try me.” The older laughed at this claim, reached down, and flicked his brother’s cap down over his eyes.

  Mrs. Corbyn sighed. “Boys! Stop it now.” Turning back to Phoebe, she said, “If you’ll excuse me. If I don’t watch them like a hawk and herd them as though they’re sheep, they’ll never make it back to school for afternoon lessons.”

  Phoebe hardly heard her. She had realized what had made her get out of the Vauxhall. “That’s a very nice jacket you’re wearing, Mrs. Corbyn.”

  The woman blushed slightly. “Thank you. I made it myself.”

  “And I see your boys are wearing caps from the same fabric.” A brown tweed. “Did you make those as well?”

  “I did, actually.”

  “My goodness, you’re quite a seamstress, not to mention hat maker.”

  “Thank you, Lady Phoebe.” Mrs. Corbyn’s blush increased, and she smiled with pride. “The fabric came at a reasonable price, so I purchased enough to make good use of it for the whole family.”

  Phoebe sensed rather than saw Eva’s growing confusion over why Phoebe would take such an interest in the attire of a local farming family. She said to Mrs. Corbyn, “I suppose you even made a cap for your husband.”

  “Oh, er . . . I haven’t, actually. I haven’t had time to make another. And I’m not sure there’s even enough of the fabric left, you see. And anyway, he has a cap he’s fond of. You know how men are. They never like change.” A fluttering laugh escaped the woman’s lips. Perhaps she feared she’d spoken in too familiar a way to Lord Wroxly’s granddaughter.

  Phoebe decided to put her at ease. “The only reason I ask, Mrs. Corbyn, is because the RCVF could use your skills. We have some donated fabric. Could I possibly persuade you to help fashion some simple garments for our needy families?”

  “Oh, yes, Lady Phoebe, I’d be more than happy to help.” The woman’s relief was palpable. And Phoebe heard a murmured “Oh” from Eva behind her.

  “Good. I’ll be in touch. You mentioned the boys needing to get back to school. I won’t keep you another moment.”

  After saying their good-byes, Phoebe and Eva got into the Vauxhall. Eva turned to her with a smile. “A splendid idea, asking her to help sew for the RCVF.”

  Phoebe, on the other hand, frowned. “She seemed ill at ease, didn’t she?”

  “Well, most people are when they encounter you or another member of the family.”

  “Yes, but I don’t mean that. Eva, her jacket. The boys’ caps. It’s the same fabric.”

  “As what?” Eva’s mouth dropped open as she realized the answer to her own question. “As the cap left by Stephen’s body?”

  Phoebe nodded. “I’d almost swear to it. It’s a common pattern, so I’ll need to see the cap again, but I’m nearly certain it’s the same tweed. And when Mrs. Corbyn denied having made a cap for her husband, she sounded terribly nervous to me.”

  “You think it’s Fred Corbyn’s cap, and . . .” Eva trailed off, facing front as Phoebe pressed the accelerator. “Do you think she believes her husband murdered Stephen Ripley and is trying to protect him?”

  “Either trying to prot
ect him,” Phoebe replied grimly, “or she’s afraid of him and trying to protect herself and the boys.”

  “I’d seen her jacket before and didn’t think anything of it. I haven’t thought of it again since.” Eva pressed her palm to her forehead. “How could I have been so dim-witted?”

  “You never saw the flat cap on the lawn by Stephen Ripley’s body, so you couldn’t have known. And it’s not as if tweed is an uncommon commodity hereabouts. I’d say everyone owns something in tweed, myself included. In fact, I could be entirely wrong about this, but the only way to know for sure is to go to the police station and ask to see the cap again.”

  “The Corbyn family’s tweed will be fresh in our minds,” Eva agreed. “But, my lady, if Elaina sees us pulling up at the police station, she might become suspicious and warn her husband.”

  “You’re right.” Rather than turn into the village, Phoebe passed the gates and kept going toward Foxwood Hall. They circled the countryside for a good half hour before doubling back. Phoebe might have gone by the church on pretense of tending to the donations, but she didn’t want to risk Elaina Corbyn volunteering to help. She wanted the woman to go home so she wouldn’t see them entering the police station.

  Phoebe’s and Eva’s anticipation tightened further when they discovered Chief Inspector Perkins in—his feet up on his deck, a newspaper open in front of him—and Miles Brannock out. “I’ll tell him you were looking for him,” the man said with a yawn and without gazing up from the newspaper.

  Not about to be dismissed so easily, Phoebe stepped up to the desk and forcibly lowered the newspaper to reveal Mr. Perkins’s bloodshot eyes and pocked nose. “Chief Inspector, this is very important. Might we see the flat cap found near Stephen Ripley’s body?”

  “Why ever would you wish to do that?”

  “Because we might know whom the cap belongs to. We need to see if we recognize the color and pattern of the tweed.”

  The man snickered. “It’s tweed, Lady Phoebe. Looks like every other bit of tweed in the world.”

  “Mr. Perkins, please.” Phoebe employed her most authoritative tone, honed from years of hearing it in her grandmother. Eva’s eyes twinkled in recognition of the fact. “I’m afraid we’re not leaving until you oblige us.”

  “Very well. I suppose it’s the only way you’ll leave me in peace to read my paper. I’ll have you know this isn’t idleness on my part. It pays for a chief inspector to be well-informed on events near and far.”

  Phoebe indulged him by nodding in acquiescence. “I’ve no doubt of that, Chief Inspector.”

  With a deep and long-suffering sigh, the man thrust the newspaper to the desk, heaved himself forward in his chair, and unlocked a drawer in front of him. A moment later he handed the cap to Phoebe. She turned to show it to Eva.

  “What do you think?”

  “The very same, my lady. I’d stake my life on it.”

  Phoebe turned back to the chief inspector. “We believe this cap belongs to Fred Corbyn. It would behoove you to take a ride out to the Corbyn farm and question him.”

  The street door swung open and Miles Brannock entered the building. Catching sight of Phoebe and Eva, he stopped short, his surprise evident. “What’s going on?”

  They explained their findings while the chief inspector rolled his eyes, made circular motions with his forefinger beside his ear, and smirked in condescension. But then he said, “To humor them, Brannock, why don’t you go and ask Fred Corbyn a few more questions. It shan’t amount to a thing, except to prove me right. We already have our killer.”

  CHAPTER 17

  “My lady, that’s Ezra Gaff.” Eva pointed beyond the motorcar window to the man in tattered work clothes lumbering along the side of the road. He was headed in the opposite direction of the Vauxhall. Up ahead, Miles’s police vehicle slowed as it approached the Corbyns’ farm. He had agreed to let Eva and Lady Phoebe follow him to the house once they had pointed out that they could be useful in keeping Mrs. Corbyn calm should her husband be arrested.

  Lady Phoebe craned her neck to see around Eva’s shoulder. Like William, the man making his way toward the village was brown-haired, noticeably thin, and walked with stooped shoulders and a shuffling gait. “Is it? I don’t know him well.”

  “No, nor me, either, but I’m certain that’s him. That slight limp he has is the result of a fall he had some years back from a hayloft. William has spoken about it. What a strange coincidence to pass him now. I wonder what he’s doing out this way.”

  “I wish I knew.” Lady Phoebe refocused her attention on the black police sedan ahead of them, just now turning in at the Corbyns’ farm. While they had driven around earlier, waiting for Elaina Corbyn to leave the village, Lady Phoebe had filled Eva in on her concerns regarding William and his father. What damaging information could Stephen Ripley have had on Mr. Gaff? And could it exonerate both Keenan and Fred Corbyn?

  “Do you think the constable noticed him?”

  “He must have done, my lady. But in light of what we told him, he probably wants to speak with Fred Corbyn before he goes off on another lead.”

  Lady Phoebe maneuvered the Vauxhall onto the Corbyns’ property beside the house and parked next to Miles’s vehicle. A third vehicle, a gray sedan, sat parked nearby. Eva had a sneaking suspicion of whose it might be.

  Holding the tweed flat cap in one hand, Miles shaded his eyes from the sun and glanced around. Lady Phoebe and Eva did likewise. They saw no one, and while the area seemed uncommonly quiet, it wasn’t particularly odd for that time of day. With the boys back at school, Mrs. Corbyn was probably baking or doing household chores, while her husband might be anywhere on the property. But what about the owner of the third motorcar? The threesome headed for the house first.

  “Unless I’m mistaken, that’s Mr. Walker’s motor,” she said. “I wonder what on earth he’s doing here.”

  Miles led the way to the door and raised his hand to knock. He hesitated, and Eva perceived him pricking his ears to listen. The utter quiet continued. He knocked loudly and received no response. After several more tries, he simply tried the latch.

  Like most other doors in Little Barlow, this one wasn’t locked. All three stepped into a parlor. Braided oval and rectangular rugs of various designs lay scattered over a wide-board floor, while matching throw pillows decorated a settee and several overstuffed chairs. Mrs. Corbyn’s sewing talents also showed in the neat curtains hanging over the windows and the bright runner gracing the mantel. Miles called out her name. Eva and Lady Phoebe exchanged puzzled glances.

  “Perhaps she lingered in the village after all,” Eva said.

  “Or went visiting,” Lady Phoebe suggested. “She might even have gone to the Ripley orchard to help out.”

  Eva’s doubts about that raised a slight frown. “The morning I met Mrs. Corbyn in the sheep pasture, she hadn’t seemed inclined to help harvest the pears. But perhaps she’d been too busy attending to their boys and the farm while her husband was at the orchard.”

  “Would a man who had just committed murder offer his help to his victim’s own brother?” Lady Phoebe mused aloud.

  “He would if he wanted to make himself look innocent.” Miles peeked into each of several rooms that opened onto the parlor and called out Mrs. Corbyn’s name again. “Well, it’s safe to say she isn’t here and neither is that Walker fellow. I’m going to look in the main barn.”

  “We’ll come with you.” Lady Phoebe scrambled out the door after him, Eva taking up the rear. “Mrs. Corbyn might be with him.”

  “Stay behind me,” he told them.

  The main barn stood some fifty yards behind the house, a stone structure whose honey-golden walls reflected the afternoon sun. Another, smaller barn and a few outbuildings were spread over the property until the land rose and a stone wall marked the first of the enclosures. Sheep meandered over the hillside, some in groups, others singly, still others disappearing over the verdant crest where the land again dipped.

&nb
sp; One of the barn’s double doors stood a few inches ajar, enough to warrant Miles pushing it wider and stepping inside. Immediately his arm came up, the hand holding the flat cap angling behind him in a warning for Eva and Lady Phoebe to stop where they were. That didn’t discourage Eva from rising on her toes to peer over his shoulder. What had prompted the warning?

  The brightness of the day rendered the barn’s interior too dark to see. Eva blinked away the dazzle, and as Miles moved farther inside, forms began to take shape. The usual tools hung along the walls. Buckets of various sizes and a stack of feed troughs occupied a corner. An old horse-pulled tractor sat near them, rusting, its paint long since peeled away. On the opposite wall were enclosed pens where Eva assumed the shearing was done.

  Her gaze swept from the perimeter walls to the center of the space, where Miles headed with a determined stride. For the most part he blocked her view, but she thought she saw someone standing in shadow.

  A gasp drew her attention to Lady Phoebe, who had come up beside her. Lady Phoebe pushed the door open wider still, allowing beams of sunlight to pour in and illuminate a dusty rectangle on the hard-packed earth floor. Tiny, dancing motes filtered through the air to gently shroud the interior in swirling, golden light. Miles subtly shifted his course, and the scene before Eva opened to her view. Fred Corbyn stood at the center of the barn. In his right hand he held something long and thin and curved and gleaming. At his feet . . .

  “Good Lord,” Eva uttered. Feeling the gorge begin to rise in her throat, she swallowed and turned her face aside. Then she felt Lady Phoebe’s arm brush hers. “My lady, don’t . . .” Lady Phoebe kept going and Eva hurried after her, until they both came to stand beside Miles. A metallic stench reached Eva’s nose, warning her to retreat, to seek the fresh air outside. The cleanness of grass. The warmth of the sun.