Shivering, she forced herself to look down, even as her hand reached out to clutch Lady Phoebe’s. Her mistress’s fingers shook. Side by side, they stared down at what Eva could only call an act of carnage. A man lay sprawled on his back at Fred Corbyn’s feet, his coat open, his vest torn aside, his shirt soaked in a luminous pool of scarlet.
“My lady,” she whispered again, deep and throaty. She wished to spare her mistress this horrible sight, but she said no more. Lady Phoebe wouldn’t leave the barn any more than she herself would.
“Mr. Corbyn,” Miles said quietly, and when the sheep farmer didn’t respond, Miles spoke again, louder. But Fred Corbyn didn’t look up, didn’t move, didn’t respond. With his head bowed until his chin nearly rested on his chest, he stared down at what none of them wished to see, and which none of them could tear their gazes away from.
“It’s Mr. Walker.” Lady Phoebe breathed this pronouncement, and Eva, taking in the wide nose and stony chin, could only nod once in agreement.
Miles didn’t take his eyes off Fred Corbyn, nor the sickle-shaped scythe the farmer held aloft in his right hand. Only now did Eva see the blood that had dripped from the blade onto its handle, and from there onto Fred’s hand and down into his sleeve. Still clutching Lady Phoebe’s hand, she backed away from the farmer, this time silently insisting Lady Phoebe move with her.
Miles placed the hand still holding the flat cap on Fred’s shoulder and reached to dislodge the scythe from his grip. Fred didn’t resist. Once Miles had it firmly in his possession, he quickly walked to the tractor and laid it on the seat. He returned to Fred and grasped his upper arm.
“Come along. To the house,” he said. Fred moved as if in a dream, with a shuffling gait, his vision unfocused, the bloodied hand held away from his side. He appeared to be in shock, and it was clear to Eva he had little sense of what was happening.
In the house, Miles walked him through the parlor and into the kitchen, where he sat him down at the table. Miles sat close beside him, keeping the flat cap out of sight on his lap. With a flick of his gaze he indicated the tea kettle to Eva. She nodded and lit a burner on the enameled iron range. Lady Phoebe rummaged through a cupboard until she found a tin of tea. Eva brewed it dark and strong.
Miles made no accusations, but once Fred cradled his earthenware mug in his two hands, Miles said, “Tell me what happened.”
Eva wished he had begun by asking where Elaina Corbyn was. Had she returned from the village? Did she know . . . ? Had she been harmed?
“Gaff came by . . .” Fred stopped short, his eyebrows rising. An edge of hysteria creeped into his voice as he continued. “Gaff did it. He must have done.”
Miles held his own voice steady. “What do you mean?”
“He was here.” Fred’s expression implied the answer was obvious. “Came looking for work, but I told him I didn’t have any right now. I’m a sheep farmer; I’ve got nothing to harvest this time of year. I thought he left, but he must not have.”
“We saw him walking toward the village minutes ago,” Eva quietly reminded Miles.
He gave a faint nod in acknowledgment, his attention never wavering from Fred. “And then? Why were you in the barn with Mr. Walker? Why was he here?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t the first idea why he was here.”
“You’ve never spoken with him before?”
“No . . . that’s not true either. We’ve spoken about the pasture. He was going to let me keep grazing my sheep there.”
Miles compressed his lips a moment in thought. “Why would he do that? Doesn’t he want the land for his resort?”
“He said keeping sheep there would be picturesque, and Americans on holiday would like that.”
“And you’re sure he didn’t change his mind?”
“And what? I killed him?” Fred started to come to his feet, but Miles stopped him with a decisive hand on his shoulder. Fred stayed put, but his control seemed more and more tenuous. “For a sheep pasture?”
“You tell me.” Miles eyed him steadily, until Fred squirmed. But when the farmer said nothing more, Miles spoke again. “All right. Again, tell me what happened. Everything you remember.”
“Like I said, Gaff was here, but I sent him away. Then I walked out to the south enclosure beyond the barns and spread some feed in the troughs. When I came back, I saw that gray motorcar near the house. But there was no one about, leastwise no one that I saw. So I went into the barn and . . .” His breath rushed out of him. He leaned forward, head in his hands. “And I found Walker like . . . like that.”
“You were standing over him, holding the apparent murder weapon when we found you.”
Fred ran both hands through his hair before lifting his head. “Look, I was shocked by what I saw. Who wouldn’t be? I wasn’t thinking straight. I know I shouldn’t have touched anything, but I did. By God . . . I did.” His face burrowed into his palms and his shoulders folded inward.
Miles lifted the flat cap from his lap and placed it on the table in front of Fred. “Is this yours?”
Frowning, Fred lifted his head to peer at it. “Where’d you find it?”
“Is it yours?”
“Yeah. But I lost it somewhere. Thought maybe I left it down at the pub, but when I asked Joe he said he hadn’t seen it.”
“It was found lying beside Stephen Ripley’s body. Where were you the morning he was killed?”
Fred leapt to his feet, the backs of his knees sending his ladder-back chair scraping backward. “I was here. Working. Like always.”
“Can your wife confirm that?”
“She made my breakfast and saw me off.”
“Off to where?”
“To the pastures. To tend the sheep. Where else?”
Miles let a heavy pause fall, then asked, “Were you anywhere in the vicinity of the Haverleigh School?”
The question clearly confused Fred, but Eva understood that Miles referred to the forest path that connected the school property with the grounds of Foxwood Hall. Fred denied being there—ever being there—adamantly.
“And where is your wife now?” Miles asked.
“I . . . I don’t know. She always walks our boys back to school after lunch. Then she comes home, or does a bit of shopping first. But she should be home by now.” He reached out and stroked the herringbone weave of the flat cap with one finger.
“Your wife made that cap for you, didn’t she,” Eva said rather than asked.
Fred nodded.
“Why would she deny having done so?” At this question, both Fred and Miles looked up at her, clearly surprised. Eva explained, “Lady Phoebe and I noticed the caps your sons were wearing, and Elaina’s own jacket, all made of the same tweed. We asked if she made a cap for you, but she said she hadn’t had time yet.”
When Fred could offer no explanation, a grim silence fell over the room, broken only when Miles came to his feet. “I’m sorry, Mr. Corbyn. I’m going to have to take you in.”
* * *
“Eva and I will stay and wait for Mrs. Corbyn,” Phoebe said to the constable as she and Eva followed him into the parlor. Upon his pronouncement that he’d be taking Mr. Corbyn into custody, the farmer had gone silent, accepting his fate without protest. Indeed, Constable Brannock didn’t need to drag him out of the house. By all appearances, Fred Corbyn went docilely, if not quite willingly.
Did that mean he couldn’t deny the charges, that he murdered not only Mr. Walker, but Stephen Ripley, too? Or was he still too much in shock over Mr. Walker’s demise that he couldn’t work up the fortitude to protest?
Phoebe hoped he was telling the truth when he claimed he didn’t know where his wife was. She told him they would wait for her, meaning she and Eva would be on hand to help calm her when she learned of her husband’s arrest. But as soon as Constable Brannock drove off with Mr. Corbyn, she turned to Eva.
“We’ve got to search for her. I don’t believe she’s been shopping all this time.”
“Nor do
I, my lady. I’ve got an awful feeling.”
“Let’s not expect the worst. Where should we start? We know she’s not in the main barn.” And thank goodness; Mr. Walker still lay inside, and would until the constable arranged to have his body collected.
Eva frowned in thought. “There’s the smaller barn and the sheds. And beyond that, acres of pastureland bordered by small tracts of forest.”
Phoebe blew out a breath. “Let’s start with the smaller barn.”
They trudged out past the kitchen garden and the coop for the egg layers the Corbyns kept. The smaller barn stood halfway between the house and the first enclosed pasture. It looked shut up tight, even its windows shuttered.
Phoebe stood out of the way as Eva tried the door, which resisted her tugs at first but finally gave a sudden judder and swung open. “I didn’t think it would be locked,” Eva said. “Just swollen from the weather.”
“Why two barns?” Phoebe wondered aloud.
“My guess is this one is for the lambing.” Eva cautiously stepped inside, going only a few inches over the threshold. “Is anyone in here?”
No one answered. Again, as when they’d entered the large barn earlier, they blinked to become accustomed to the darkness. Phoebe could now make out several pens in a row, each lined with straw, confirming Eva’s guess as to the purpose of the building. Above them, a loft yawned into darkness. They both gazed up into it.
“I’ll go.” Eva went to the ladder and hiked her skirts above her knees.
“Be careful.” Phoebe went to the foot of the ladder and watched Eva’s progress, ready to break her fall if necessary. Thank goodness it wasn’t, and soon Eva came backing down the rungs.
“Empty.”
They tried each outbuilding in turn. One turned out to be empty. The others were used for storage. Mrs. Corbyn continued to elude them.
“We can be grateful she wasn’t hurt and tied up in one of these sheds,” Phoebe said. “She must be in the village after all.”
Eva appeared not to be listening. Not ignoring Phoebe exactly, but concentrating on something. Phoebe let her go on contemplating whatever it was, knowing full well Eva would explain the moment she reached a conclusion. Phoebe wasn’t wrong.
“There’s somewhere else she could be, my lady.” Eva pointed into the pasture. “Unless I’m remembering wrong, there’s an old enclosed water pump. The kind with a little shed around it. It would have been used for filling the water troughs before the Corbyns gained access to Keenan’s stream. I doubt it’s even working anymore, and not many people would know it’s there.”
“But Mrs. Corbyn would. And her husband.”
Eva nodded, and they set off through the gate in the low rock wall, into the first of the pastures. They walked up the hill to its crest, where the land sprawled out before them. Phoebe could make out nothing resembling a pump house. They plodded on, up, then down and back up again, scattering sheep as they went. Finally, in what looked to Phoebe to be a very far distance, a weathered gray structure stood stark and plain against the dull brown and green autumn grasses.
She pointed. “Is that it?”
Eva squinted into the distance. “It must be.”
They walked for what seemed an eternity, but Phoebe realized this was merely the result of there being so few points of reference in the rolling fields. Still, her knees began to ache and her thighs to burn, and she drew in sharp breaths while her heart pattered from the exertion. She pretended otherwise, keeping up with Eva, who strode on as if this were nothing more than a short walk from one end of Foxwood Hall to the other. But then, Phoebe hadn’t grown up on a farm, walking everywhere on a daily basis. She had grown up riding in Grams’s carriage or Grampapa’s Rolls-Royce, or sitting on horseback. When she and her family did walk, it was mainly on well-tended garden paths and city pavements.
She made a mental note to include rigorous walking as part of her daily routine from now on.
“My lady, are you all right?” Eva slowed the pace. “If you wish, you could wait here while I continue on.”
“No, I’m fine.” She made another mental note not to breathe so laboriously until they’d completed their trek, which they did a few minutes later. The pump house was clothed in Cotswold stone, its golden hue grayed from years of wind-borne dirt and neglect.
A sound reached their ears at the same time, and their gazes instantly connected. It wasn’t the breeze shirring over the grasses, nor birdsong, nor the bleating of sheep.
“Crying,” Phoebe said, fighting the urge to bend over to catch her breath. “Weeping. Coming from inside.”
Eva nodded and put her hand on the door latch. Phoebe bit down on her bottom lip. What would they discover inside? A beaten and bloodied Mrs. Corbyn?
“Elaina,” Eva called out. “It’s Eva Huntford. I’m coming in.” As the door squeaked open, the weeping increased to sobs and whimpers of fear. “It’s all right, you’re safe now.” Easing into the shadowy interior, Eva crouched near the cistern pump. Mrs. Corbyn knelt on the ground half behind it.
“I’m not safe. You don’t understand.” The woman pushed her bobbed bangs away from her eyes. Her forehead glistened with perspiration. “How did you find me?”
“We’ve been searching for you,” Eva told her.
“Where is my husband? Oh, Miss Huntford, it was awful.”
Phoebe wondered what those two utterances signified. Had Mrs. Corbyn found Mr. Walker in the barn, and feared for her husband’s life? Or had she witnessed her husband murdering the American? She yearned to ask outright but held her tongue and let Eva handle matters for now.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Corbyn, he’s been . . . he’s gone to the police station. For questioning,” Eva added quickly. She glanced over her shoulder at Phoebe. “It’s quite safe to come out.”
Eva coaxed her by grasping the woman’s arms.
“My boys . . .” Mrs. Corbyn began to ease out from between the pump and the wall. Tiny threads ripped as her skirt caught on the rough rocks and mortar.
“They’re safe at school. You needn’t worry. That’s right, just a little more and then you can stand. I’ll help you.”
Phoebe held her breath as Mrs. Corbyn slowly stood up on wobbly legs. She leaned against Eva as she took a step, and then another, until finally coming to the threshold of the pump house. Though shaking, she seemed physically unharmed; at least she bore no bruises that Phoebe could see. Her eyes, large and dark, held Phoebe’s a moment, and then she reached out her hand as if seeking Phoebe’s assistance. Phoebe took the hand firmly in her own and helped Mrs. Corbyn step out onto the grass, whereupon the woman collapsed in a dead faint.
CHAPTER 18
Of all the times for a well to have gone dry, Eva thought as she worked the pump handle vigorously up and down in hopes of being able to wet a handkerchief to help revive Mrs. Corbyn. Not a drop issued from the spout and only rusty squeaks rewarded her efforts. Outside, she could hear the light taps of Lady Phoebe’s fingertips against Elaina Corbyn’s cheeks and the backs of her hands. To Eva’s relief, the woman whimpered. Eva hurried back outside.
Mrs. Corbyn was sitting up with Lady Phoebe’s help. Bits of grass clung to her hair and the back of her cardigan. Eva sank to the ground at her other side. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t know.” Hatless, the woman shaded her eyes with the flat of her hand. “What happened?”
“You fainted,” Lady Phoebe said.
Mrs. Corbyn gazed all around her. “In this field? How did I get here?”
“You’re at the old pump house,” Eva said. “We found you inside. Do you remember nothing?” She and Lady Phoebe exchanged alarmed glances around Mrs. Corbyn’s shoulders.
“I dropped the boys off at school . . . and then I came home and . . .” Her eyes became as large as goose eggs. “Oh. I’m beginning to remember. . . .”
Eva and Lady Phoebe granted her the time to collect her thoughts. Presently she said, “I was in the house getting ready to do some m
ending. I had my sewing basket ready, and I happened to glance out the window. That Mr. Walker—the American—drove up in his motorcar.”
“What did he want?” Eva asked.
“I don’t know. He didn’t come to the house. He started to, but then he turned and set out toward the pastures. I assumed he saw Fred . . . er . . . my husband . . . and went to speak with him. I was in one of the front rooms and couldn’t see them, but I assumed my husband had just come back from mending one of our stone walls.”
“Yes,” Lady Phoebe said, “he mentioned that.”
Mrs. Corbyn flashed a quizzical look. “Did he? When?” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I could hear voices, but not what they were discussing.” She paused, crinkling her forehead. “Some time passed. I mended a pair of trousers each for the boys. Goodness, you don’t know how quickly boys can wear out their clothes.”
Here she paused again, seeming to have lost herself in thoughts that had nothing to do with her husband and Horace Walker. Eva prodded gently. “Did the men return to the house?”
“No, not the house.” Mrs. Corbyn patted her skirts into place over her bent legs. “They must have gone into the barn together.” Her breathing increased; her forehead knotted tighter. “I could hear yelling coming from inside the barn. Shouting. They sounded frightfully angry. I wanted to go see what the matter was, but I didn’t dare. Fred doesn’t like me to interfere, you see.”
“What happened then?” Lady Phoebe asked. “What made you run away and hide?”
Mrs. Corbyn stared at the ground for a long moment. Her eyes filled, but she held her voice steady. “Finally, it went quiet outside. I thought Mr. Walker must have left, that I hadn’t noticed the motorcar leaving. I can be like that sometimes, not noticing things. I was intent on my sewing, after all.”
“Yes.” Eva patted her shoulder. “Go on.”
“I decided to go find my husband and ask him what all the commotion was about. Fred doesn’t mind my asking after the fact. Yet when I went outside, I saw that Mr. Walker’s motorcar was still by the house. I didn’t see anyone outside, so I thought perhaps they were still in the barn. I decided to peek inside . . . and I saw him. On the ground. Bleeding . . .”
A Silent Stabbing Page 23
